She has reached no commanding
point of view from which she may give orders to the advanced corps.
She is still at work with others in the breach, though she works with
more force than almost any.
In power, indeed, Sand bears the palm above all other French
novelists. She is vigorous in conception, often great in the
apprehension and the contrast of characters. She knows passion, as has
been hinted, at a _white_ heat, when all the lower particles are
remoulded by its power. Her descriptive talent is very great, and her
poetic feeling exquisite. She wants but little of being a poet, but
that little is indispensable. Yet she keeps us always hovering on the
borders of enchanted fields. She has, to a signal degree, that power
of exact transcript from her own mind, in which almost all writers
fail. There is no veil, no half-plastic integument between us and the
thought; we vibrate perfectly with it.
This is her chief charm, and next to it is one in which we know no
French writer that resembles her, except Rousseau, though he, indeed,
is vastly her superior in it; that is, of concentrated glow. Her
nature glows beneath the words, like fire beneath ashes,--deep, deep!
Her best works are unequal; in many parts written hastily, or
carelessly, or with flagging spirits.
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