of those compensations, one of those afterthoughts of a
relenting destiny, that reconcile us from time to time to the
evil that is in the world; the atmosphere of the book is
purified by the presence of this pathetic love; it seems to
be above the story somehow, and not of it, as the full moon
over the night of some foul and feverish city.

There is here a quality in the narration more intimate and
particular than is general with Hugo; but it must be owned,
on the other hand, that the book is wordy, and even, now and
then, a little wearisome. Ursus and his wolf are pleasant
enough companions; but the former is nearly as much an
abstract type as the latter. There is a beginning, also, of
an abuse of conventional conversation, such as may be quite
pardonable in the drama where needs must, but is without
excuse in the romance. Lastly, I suppose one must say a word
or two about the weak points of this not immaculate novel;
and if so, it will be best to distinguish at once. The large
family of English blunders, to which we have alluded already
in speaking of LES TRAVAILLEURS, are of a sort that is really
indifferent in art. If Shakespeare makes his ships cast
anchor by some seaport of Bohemia, if Hugo imagines Tom-Tim-
Jack to be a likely nickname for an English sailor, or if
either Shakespeare, or Hugo, or Scott, for that matter, be
guilty of "figments enough to confuse the march of a whole
history - anachronisms enough to overset all, chronology,"
(1) the life of their creations, the artistic truth and
accuracy of their work, is not so much as compromised. But
when we come upon a passage like the sinking of the "Ourque"
in this romance, we can do nothing but cover our face with