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Whose joy is so transporting, great, that when he comes into the grave cabal, he must betray the story of his heart, and, in lieu of the mighty business there in hand, be raving still on Sylvia, telling his joy to all the amazed listeners, and answering questions that concern our great affair, with something of my love; all which will pass for madness, and undo me: no, give me leave to rave in silence, and unseen among the trees, they'll humour my disease, answer my murmuring joy, and echoes flatter it, repeat thy name, repeat that Sylvia's mine! and never hurt her fame; while the cabals, business and noisy town will add confusion to my present transport, and make me mad indeed: no, let me alone, thou sacred lovely creature, let me be calm and quiet here, and tell all the insensibles I meet in the woods what Sylvia has this happy minute destined me: oh, let me record it on every bark, on every oak and beech, that all the world may wonder at my fortune, and bless the generous maid; let it grow up to ages that shall come, that they may know the story of our loves, and how a happy youth, they called Philander, was once so blest by heaven as to possess the charming, the adored and loved by all, the glorious Sylvia! a maid, the most divine that ever graced a story; and when the nymphs would look for an example of love and constancy, let them point out Philander to their doubted swains, and cry, 'Ah! love but as the young Philander did, and then be fortunate, and then reap all your wishes: and when the shepherd would upbraid his nymph, let him but cry, 'See here what Sylvia did to save the young Philander; but oh!
Remember, Sylvia, are my due; And all the Joys my Rival does receive He ravishes from me, not you. Ah Sylvia, can I live and this believe? Insensibles are touched to see My languishments, and seem to pity me. Which I demand of thee, E. of thee, Which I demand, &c. Pis. What's all this? Phi. Who's there? Pis. A Man, a Friend to the General. Phi. Then thou'rt an Enemy to all good Men.
So long as love is thus spoken of in the general, the ordinary serious Englishman will have no difficulty in inclining himself with respect while Madame Sand speaks of it. But when he finds that love implies, with her, social equality, he will begin to be staggered. And in truth for almost every Englishman Madame Sand's strong language about equality, and about France as the chosen vessel for exhibiting it, will sound exaggerated. "The human ideal," she says, "as well as the social ideal, is to achieve equality." France, which has made equality its rallying cry, is therefore "the nation which loves and is loved," la nation qui aime et qu'on aime. The republic of equality is in her eyes "an ideal, a philosophy, a religion." She invokes the "holy doctrine of social liberty and fraternal equality, ever reappearing as a ray of love and truth amidst the storm." She calls it "the goal of man and the law of the future." She thinks it the secret of the civilization of France, the most civilized of nations. Amid the disasters of the late war she cannot forbear a cry of astonishment at the neutral nations, insensibles
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