For George Sand is no longer read as she formerly was, her fashion having already to a great extent passed away. It is a common testimony that, as she wrote like one improvising, so her writing is to be read once and not returned to. Her "Consuelo," in its time such a rage, and still often spoken of as her masterpiece, is now even a little hard to get through. You yawn, you feel like skipping, you do skip, and you finally shut up the book wondering why such bright writing should make such dull reading. There occurred a sharp, decisive change, a change, however, not consistently maintained, in George Sand's quality of production. From producing novels of social ferment, she turned to producing the quietest, most quieting, idyllic little stories in the world. There is a long list of such. "La Petite Fadette," "Francois le Champi," "Les Maitres Sonneurs," are among the best of them. From this last, consummately well translated by our countrywoman, Miss Katharine Prescott Wormeley, who has Messrs. Roberts Brothers for her publishers, we shall offer a very short extract in specimen. But first a short passage from one of her earlier books, in order that our readers may get a sense of the change that she underwent, or rather--for no doubt the change was voluntary and calculated on her part--the change that she chose to make, in her manner. It is simply her two contrasted manners that we aim to illustrate--not at all, in either case, the matter or doctrine set forth. To illustrate this last we should have no room, had we the inclination. From "Lelia," we translate a passage descriptive of Alpine scenery, or rather of the effect on the mind of Alpine scenery. After lighting upon this passage for our choice we found that Mr. Saintsbury too, in his "Specimens of French Literature," had made the same selection, at double length, for his sole exemplification of George Sand. We are thus confirmed in trusting that we shall show our author, if far too briefly, still at her best: