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Gabriel, he combined the grace of the nymphs with the poetic soul of Orpheus. Less austere than the Christian God, and more spiritual than those of Homer, he was clothed with every attribute of loveliness and strength that forms the ideal of humanity. At times, even, he appeared in the shape of a woman. wished," says she, "to love him as a friend, as a sister, while I adored him as a god." To complete the enchantment, it was necessary that he should not be entirely free from human errors and weaknesses. Hence, she clothed him with an excess of kindness and indulgence. His existence presented a series of trials, of sufferings, of persecutions, of martyrdoms. Each of the phases of his human existence formed the subject of a book or canto of her imaginary poem. In touching the earth, he became man or woman, and sometimes the supreme God, of whom, after all, he was only the heavenly messenger, placed over the moral government of our planet, would prolong his exile in the world as a punishment for his too great love and pity towards men. Without a line being written, this poem extended to more than a thousand cantos, and finally took complete possession of the young enthusiast, removing her from the sphere of the real world by its sweet hallucinations.

While in this state of poetic excitement, the mystic dreamer was placed in a convent in Paris, for the purpose of finishing her education, and gaining those accomplishments which were incompatible with her life of rural and almost wild freedom at Nohant. The English convent, a religious house established by the Catholic exiles from England during the commonwealth, was the institution selected for her temporary residence, and in due time she was installed as a boarding-scholar within its dusky walls. Everything was new to the young country-girl. She did not recover from her astonishment for several days. The superior of the convent was an English lady, between fifty and sixty years of age, but still preserving her good looks, although the amplitude of her person was in singular contrast with the delicacy of her mind. She had reason to pride herself on being a woman of the world, her manners were dignified and elegant, she spoke French gracefully, though not without an accent, and in her eye

there was a more decided expression of self-satisfaction and sarcasm than of holy contemplation. Her deportment was gentle and conciliatory, both towards the nuns and the pupils, and she thus acquired their confidence and regard.

In this novel scene, the young Aurore soon found herself at home, and was happier than she had ever been before. The confinement of the school, however, did not agree with her health. She suffered for want of the free air and woodland rambles at Nohant. The pupils were subject to the strictest rules of the cloister. They were allowed to go out but twice a month, and could not pass a night away from the convent except at new-year's. They heard mass in the chapel, received visits in the parlor, where, also, they took their special lessons-the teacher on one side of the bars, and the pupils on the other. All the windows of the convent, which looked upon the street, were not only grated, but furnished with heavy curtains. It was really a prison, but a prison with a large garden, and a numerous society. Aurore remained in the convent for three years, during which time, her moral nature underwent several marked changes. The first year, she was more the spoiled child than ever; the second year, she suddenly passed to an ardent and troubled devotion, while, the third year, she joined to this state of mind a feeling of calmness, repose, and serene joy. The transition from comparative religious indifference, to a deep sense of spiritual things, which took place in her fifteenth year, is what she calls her conversion, and forms the subject of one of the most curious episodes in her autobiography. Her soul was plunged into the depths of mysticism. The formulas of the Church, though rigidly observed, gave her no satisfaction. She would pass hours before the altar in the ecstasy of devotion. Her whole nature was absorbed in a sublime dream of eternal love. No subsequent intellectual delight could compare with the rapt sense of the Infinite which pervaded her being. The year thus passed away, leaving her in the most complete beatitude. Every Sunday she received the communion, and, sometimes, two days in succession. With unquestioning enthusiasm, she embraced the Catholic doctrine of identification with God in

this sacrament. She was taught that "God is in you-he palpitates in your heart-he fills your whole being with his divinity-grace circulates in you with the blood in your veins." She felt that the miracle was performed in herself. Like St. Therese, she glowed with a holy fire, she neither eat, nor slept, and was scarcely conscious of the motion of her body as she walked. No austerity was a trial. She was conscious of nothing in herself to sacrifice, or to change. She experienced no weakness from fasting. The rosary, which she wore round her neck, drew blood, but it gave her an agreeable sensation rather than pain. She was lost to the consciousness of the body-it no longer existed for her. She was discreet, obedient, laborious without an effort. It cost her nothing to bring her actions into accordance with her faith.

The hour of disenchantment arrived before she left the convent. After passing through many scenes which tended to destroy illusions, she found herself in a state of perturbation and uncertainty. One evening, upon entering the church, she could not pray. Her bodily health had begun to fail in consequence of protracted austerities. For several days she felt no access of her wonted fervor. She became a prey to lassitude and sadness. For the first time, since her conversion, she experienced a doubt, not of religion but of herself. She feared that the divine grace had abandoned her. Her ears rung with the fearful words, "Many are called, but few are chosen." She thought that God had ceased to love her because she had not loved him sufficiently. She thus fell into a state of gloomy despair. Tranquillity was at length restored, and she recovered her health both of mind and body. She had now become so much attached to convent life, that she wished to be received into the order, and take forever the veil of a nun. But this plan was entirely opposed to the views of her grandmother, who decided to remove her from the convent, and, much against her will, to take her back to Nohant.

Aurore had now arrived at the age of sixteen, and the failing health of her grandmother led her to wish the marriage of her child, before her own death, which she believed could not be far distant.

Upon consulting the blushing girl in relation to the subject, the pro

posal was received with aversion-almost with horror. Several persons were named as the happy claimants of her hand, but they were all rejected with so much disgust, that the whole project was postponed, at least for another year.

It was early in the spring of 1820 that she returned to Nohant. The trees were in full bloom, the fields were vocal with the song of the nightingale, the chant of the laborers was heard in the distance, full of tranquil poetical associations, and for the first time, in three years, she awoke in the morning, without the sound of the " angelus" bell. She felt a new sense of freedom, but it was not unmingled with melancholy thoughts. The unknown future, which opened before her, gave her a vague uneasiness, by no means in harmony with the fresh and confiding character of her age. But, after shedding some natural tears, for which she could never satisfactorily account, she began to enter upon the enjoyment of her new-born freedom. She was delighted with the gay rose-colored robe which was brought to her by the handsome chamber-maid, instead of the sombre uniform of brown serge. She could arrange her hair to suit herself without hearing the remark of a prudish nun, that it was indecent to expose the temples. The dinner consisted of all the delicacies which her grandmother was fond of, served with proper liberality. The garden was one immense bouquet. All the domestics, all the peasants, celebrated the return of the heiress. She embraced all the good women of the village, who thought she had greatly improved in her looks by growing more stout. The provincial dialect sounded in her ears like delicious music. Even the big dogs, with which she had been on the most friendly terms, but which had barked at her on the evening of her arrival, now recognized her again, and loaded her with caresses, which, by their frank and intelligent air, seemed to apologize for their momentary forgetfulness. wards night, the immortal Deschartres, who had been absent on some distant visit, made his appearance, with his immense gaiters and his traveling-cap. The dear man had entirely forgotten that his little friend, from whom he had been parted for three years, must have grown in the interval, and while she

To

sprang upon his neck, quietly asked where Aurore was. He called her mademoiselle, and, like the dogs, did not begin to recognize her until after about a quarter of an hour.

For the first few days, she gave herself up to the physical delight of running in the fields, and revisiting the river, the wild plants, and the meadows in flower. The exercise of walking in the country, of which she had lost the habit, and the vernal air produced such an intoxication of her spirits, that she was unable to think. Such mental inaction, however, soon became burdensome, and she sought for means to occupy the abundant leisure which she enjoyed through the doting indulgence of her grandmother. She, accordingly, marked out a plan for the employment of the days, from which she did not depart as long as she was alone, and mistress of her own time. One hour was devoted to history, another to drawing, another to music, another to English, Italian, and so forth. But the moment for real self-instruction had not yet arrived.

The return of her brother, who had become an officer of hussars, gave a new variety to her life at Nohant. They had not met during her residence at the convent, and, at first, were a little afraid of each other. Their ancient friendship, however, revived in a few days, and they became almost inseparable companions. Hippolyte was a great lover of horses, and delighted in taming refractory specimens. From him, his sister acquired the taste for riding, which exercised no small influence, both on her physical health, and her mental habits. She gives an amusing account of his lessons in the art equestrian. The first time she mounted a horse, he impressed on her docile mind that the whole secret of riding was comprised in two things-"to fall or not to fall"-the rest would follow, of course. He naturally expected that, on her first attempt, she would fall, and, therefore, was desirous to select a place where she would not be much hurt by the catastrophe. The scene of the experiment was accordingly laid in a broad meadow, covered with thick grass. A little mare, named Calette, which had never been mounted, and fresh from the pasture, was destined to be the partner of her novitiate. After having led her around the meadow several times, Hippolyte

found her so gentle, that he thought she would behave well, and placed his sister on her back. Calette started off in a furious gallop, performing all sorts of astonishing but good-natured antics. Hippolyte called out: "Hold fast-cling to the mane if you will, but don't let go the bridle, and don't fall. Think of nothing but to fall or not to fall.'" The fair chevalier followed his advice, and resolved to stick to the saddle at all hazards. Five or six times she was nearly unhorsed; but, thanks to the Providence that takes care of crazy people and children, she was not thrown. At the end of an hour, lame in every joint, with disheveled hair, and in a state of glorious intoxication with the exercise, she completed the lesson, having gained the confidence and presence of mind necessary to her future exploits as a rider. Calette and she, from that time, became the best of friends, and lived and galloped in company for many years.

The health of her grandmother, which had been precarious for some time, now experienced an important crisis. A severe attack of apoplexy brought her to death's door, and left her mind enfeebled, and her body paralyzed. She continued in this state, with intervals of convalescence, for nearly a year, and died on Christmas-day, 1821. During the illness of Madame Dupin, Aurore was left, for the most part, entirely to herself. Her mother remained at Paris, occupied with the care of her other daughter, and declined the request of the family to come to Nohant. Deschartres gave up everything into the hands of Aurore. He made every effort to keep up her spirits, and prevent her from feeling too much the burden of her new anxieties. He encouraged her to continue her rides on horseback, which she had dropped since the afflictions of her geandmother. He accompanied her himself, and at the expense of many falls, until he was obliged to confess that she was the best rider of the two, in practice, though he still plumed himself on his superior theoretical knowledge of the art. Unable to stand the fatigue and danger of the athletic exercise, he surrendered his post, and intrusted Aurore to the escort of a little imp called André, who was as firm in his seat as a monkey on the back of a pony. Not a morning passed without scouring the country for leagues.

The boy André would not open his mouth during the ride, leaving her to the free indulgence of her favorite reveries. They would explore places usually deemed impossible, to the wonder of the admiring peasants. Sometimes the horses would stop at the roadside and browse, while Aurore was lost in thought-the perpetual change of the scenery; the absence of every object; the casual sight of flocks and birds; the picturesque or sombre features of the landscape; the sweet murmur of the brooks which flowed at the horses' feet -everything which met the eye or soothed the soul in these solitary excursions took absolute possession of her spirit, and awakened the unconscious sentiment of poetry.

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At this period, the perusal of Chateaubriand's Genius of Christianity," and Gerson's Imitation of Christ" (Thomas à Kempis), produced a significant effect on her religious feelings. She was already acquainted with the latter work. Its lessons of humility, of renunciation of the intellect, of absorption in God, and contempt for human knowledge, had been eagerly studied and absorbed. She now read Chateaubriand for the first time. His book rekindled the pious ardor which had become somewhat chilled since her retirement into the country. It surrounded her faith with the prestige of romance. No longer a blind passion, it was felt as a centre of radiant light. The Imitation of Christ" ceased to be her guide, and she yielded her whole soul to Chateaubriand as the high-priest of sentiment and enthusiasm. But this experience opened to her, for the first time, the path of free inquiry. She entered it, not like Dante, in the evening of life, but in the blossom of her days, and in the lucid splendor of an intellectual dawn. Perceiving the inconsistency between the doctrines of the Imitation" and the views of Chateaubriand, her mind was thrown into a state of doubt and fermentation. On the one hand, she was taught the absolute annihilation of the intellect and heart in the pursuit of personal salvation; and, on the other, the development of feeling and sentiment in devotion to the common religion. She, accordingly, reperused the "Imitation" with trembling anxiety. It appeared to her like an entirely new book. She perceived the terrible consequences of its doc

trines in their application to life. They urged the forgetfulness of every earthly affection, the extinction of every emotion of the heart, the disruption of the ties of family and kindred, and the complete absorption of one's nature in striving for the salvation of the soul. Her conscience was stung with remorse. She felt that she had done wrong in leaving the convent. She should have forsaken her family, and devoted herself to the religious life. She had made unworthy concessions, and was devoured with a sense of guilt. Everything seemed criminal in her conscience and her life. This must be the case, or her cherished manual of devotion was false. The choice was now between Gerson and Chateaubriand. On one side, the sacrifice of everything but the immediate contemplation of God; on the other, to glorify God by the assimilation of everything in the universe which can give force and beauty to the soul. The alpha and omega of the doctrine was "let us be dust and ashes," or let us be light and flame." "Examine nothing if you wish to believe," or "in order to believe everything, we must examine everything." Here was the dilemma. One of the books was absolutely heretical. Were there, then, two contradictory truths in the bosom of the Church? Chateaubriand proclaimed relative truth. Gerson declared it absolute. The young theologian was in great perplexity. Galloping on Calette, she was wholly with Chateaubriand. Seated by her lamp, she was wholly with Gerson. The evening reproached her thoughts of the morning.

But she could find no repose except in the enjoyment of entire mental freedom. Her spiritual director-a good Jesuit father named Prémord-made no attempt to restrict the exercise of her mind. He even advised her to pursue a liberal course of reading. For this she found abundant materials in the choice library of her philosophic grandmother. She plunged, at once, into an ocean of history and metaphysics. Mably, Locke, Condillac, Montesquieu, Bacon, Bossuet, Aristotle, Leibnitz, Pascal, Montaigne were grappled with in succession. Then came the poets and moralists, La Bruyere, Pope, Milton, Dante, Virgil, Shakespeare, and the rest. All without order or method, as they happened to fall into her hands.

She comprehended them with a facility of intuition, which she subsequently lost, as she was not naturally of quick perceptions. But everything was a question with her of life and death, as on the result of her inquiries it literally depended whether she should go into the life of the world, or the voluntary death of the cloister. Her decision can easily be anticipated. She lost her interest in the Catholic ceremonies, and her tendencies to an ascetic lifealthough the religious sentiment maintained its supremacy over her heart. A new horizon opened before her. She was filled with a sense of the divine love, animated by an enlightened faith, and combined with true freedom of mind. She experienced an interior confidence and security, and, from that day to this, as she declared, her soul has rested on an immovable foundation of faith.

A little episode, at this time, diversified the monotony of her life, and presents a curious illustration of her devotion to intellectual pursuits. She formed a friendship with a young man of the neighborhood whom she calls Claudius, and they were soon united by a taste for similar studies. His family belonged to the nobility of the country, and had once possessed a large fortune. The education of ten children had ruined his parents. Some of them had tarnished their escutcheon by a disorderly life and a tragic end. Claudius was the youngest of the family. He had a handsome face, and was not wanting in knowledge, talent, or vivacity. He intended to devote himself to the sciences, in which he afterwards obtained a certain celebrity. His poverty, at this time, which was caused by the sordid avarice of his mother still more than by his position, decided him to study medicine. Great privations and excessive toil had injured his health. He was thought to be in a consumption; but he recovered from it, and died of some other disease in mature age.

Deschartres, who had been intimate with his father, and who was interested in a nobleman devoted to study, had introduced him to the family, and even engaged him to give Aurore some lessons in physical science. With a view to aiding Deschartres, if necessary, in his surgical operations on the poor of the village, she had commenced the study of anatomy. He had often called

in her assistance in cutting off arms and fingers, setting dislocated joints, and dressing broken heads, and always found her prompt and skillful, in spite of the pain and disgust which she experienced. He early habituated her to suppress her tears, and abstain from fainting at the sight of wounds.

Claudius supplied the amateur surgeons with specimens for demonstration in the shape of heads, arms, and legs; and a physician of the village lent them the skeleton of a little girl, which was kept for some time in one of the drawers of Aurore's bureau. This skeleton, by-the-by, was guilty of certain mischievous pranks, which could hardly have been expected of so young a subject. One night Aurore dreamed that the skeleton had arisen, and was drawing the curtains of her bed. She awoke, and, finding it in the place where it had been left, went quietly to sleep again. But the dream continued, and the little dried-up girl performed so many extravagances, that she became quite intolerable. Once more getting up, Aurore placed her at the door, after which she slept very well. The next night, the same follies were repeated; but, as she was only treated with contempt, she made up her mind to behave discreetly for the rest of the winter in the bureau. Claudius was not so facetious as the skeleton, and, for a long time, his conversation turned only on the lessons. On making a visit to Paris, he was commissioned to purchase a considerable number of books, which led to a correspondence in regard to the choice of editions, and other matters of taste. His letters were sufficiently commonplace, until, at last, one arrived, commencing thus: "O, truly, philosophic soul, you are, indeed, right; but you are the truth which kills." Aurore was entirely nonplussed at this odd exordium, and, showing the letter to Deschartres, asked him what it could mean. After puzzling over it a great while, and reading it again and again, the ancient pedant naïvely replied: "I believe that this must be a declaration of love. What have you written to the lad?" Upon further reflection, they both decided that the expression referred to a previous conversation, in which Aurore had defended the doctrine of self-sacrifice and renunciation of the world. In other letters, Claudius frankly explained the resolution he had formed