One other fault, before we pass on. In spite of the horror
and misery that pervade all of his later work, there is in it
much less of actual melodrama than here, and rarely, I should
say never, that sort of brutality, that useless insufferable
violence to the feelings, which is the last distinction
between melodrama and true tragedy. Now, in NOTRE DAME, the
whole story of Esmeralda's passion for the worthless archer
is unpleasant enough; but when she betrays herself in her
last hiding-place, herself and her wretched mother, by
calling out to this sordid hero who has long since forgotten
her - well, that is just one of those things that readers
will not forgive; they do not like it, and they are quite
right; life is hard enough for poor mortals, without having
it indefinitely embittered for them by bad art.

We look in vain for any similar blemish in LES MISERABLES.
Here, on the other hand, there is perhaps the nearest
approach to literary restraint that Hugo has ever made: there
is here certainly the ripest and most easy development of his
powers. It is the moral intention of this great novel to
awaken us a little, if it may be - for such awakenings are
unpleasant - to the great cost of this society that we enjoy
and profit by, to the labour and sweat of those who support
the litter, civilisation, in which we ourselves are so
smoothly carried forward. People are all glad to shut their
eyes; and it gives them a very simple pleasure when they can
forget that our laws commit a million individual injustices,
to be once roughly just in the general; that the bread that
we eat, and the quiet of the family, and all that embellishes