it by storm. And then we have the admirable but ill-written
character of Javert, the man who had made a religion of the
police, and would not survive the moment when he learned that
there was another truth outside the truth of laws; a just
creation, over which the reader will do well to ponder.

With so gloomy a design this great work is still full of life
and light and love. The portrait of the good Bishop is one
of the most agreeable things in modern literature. The whole
scene at Montfermeil is full of the charm that Hugo knows so
well how to throw about children. Who can forget the passage
where Cosette, sent out at night to draw water, stands in
admiration before the illuminated booth, and the huckster
behind "lui faisait un peu l'effet d'etre le Pere eternel?"
The pathos of the forlorn sabot laid trustingly by the
chimney in expectation of the Santa Claus that was not, takes
us fairly by the throat; there is nothing in Shakespeare that
touches the heart more nearly. The loves of Cosette and
Marius are very pure and pleasant, and we cannot refuse our
affection to Gavroche, although we may make a mental
reservation of our profound disbelief in his existence. Take
it for all in all, there are few books in the world that can
be compared with it. There is as much calm and serenity as
Hugo has ever attained to; the melodramatic coarsenesses that
disfigured NOTRE DAME are no longer present. There is
certainly much that is painfully improbable; and again, the
story itself is a little too well constructed; it produces on
us the effect of a puzzle, and we grow incredulous as we find
that every character fits again and again into the plot, and
is, like the child's cube, serviceable on six faces; things