The Sun.
London, England, 1862-10-23 00:00:00

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forward, states that he is the real criminal, and
although he is at first refused credence he so clearly
proves the fact that he is put in the place of the
accused, and is sentenced to the galleys for life.
Previously, however, he had withdrawn his money
from the bankers and had buried it in the forest of
Montfermeil. M. Victor Hugo now makes a digres-
sion and describes the battle of Waterloo, giving
his own account of the reason why the French lost
that memorable day. " Was it possible," he says,
" for Napoleon to win the battle ? We answer
in the negative. Why ? On account of Wel-

lin,gton, on account of Blucher? No; on account
of GOD. Bonaparte, victor at Waterloo, did not
harmonize with the law of the 19th century.
Another series of facts was preparing, in which.
Napoleon had no longer a place; the ill will of
events had been displayed long previously. It was
time for this vast man to fall ; his excessive
weight in human destiny disturbed the balance.
The individual alone was of more account
than the universal group; such plethora of
human vitality concentrated in a single head
—the world mounting to one man's brain—
would be mortal to civilisation if they endured.
The moment had arrived for the incorruptible su-
preme equity to reflect, and it is probable that the
principles and elements on which the regular gra-
vitations of the moral order as of the material order
depend, complained. Streaming blood, overcrowded
graveyards, mothers in tears, are formidable
pleaders. When the earth is suffering from an ex-
cessive tiirdeb, are mysterious groans from
the shadow which the abyss hears. Napoleon had
been denounced in infinitude, and his fall was de-
cided. Waterloo is not a battle but a transforma-
tion of the universe." That his English readers
will agree with him in the opinions he expresses
with regard to this battle is scarcely probable,
nevertheless all must admire the graphic vigour
with which he sketches the main features of the
conflict. To return, however, to the fortunes of
the convict Valjean, now in the Bagne at Toulon.
Having saved the life of one of the crew of the
Orion, who had lost his balance when on the main-
topsail, and, clinging to a rope, was in a position
of extreme peril, Valjean let himself fall
into the water, as if accidentally, and
was supposed to be drowned, but in reality
he seized the opportunity of escaping. His
first proceeding was to rescue Cosette from the
Thenardiers, who persistently illtreated her; and
he then took her to Paris, where, in disguise, and
under an assumed name, he employed his time and
money in doing good. But he is tracked by the
indefatigable Javert, with difficulty makes his
escape, and takes refuge with Casette in the garden
of a convent, where an old acquaintance of his,
whose life he had once saved, was employed, and
through whose influence he is taken as assistant
gardener. Here he remains for several years, till
Cosette approximates to womanhood, when, no t
wishing that she should remain there for life, he
leaves, and they once more take a lodging and pur-
sue a career of charity. The author now indulges
in another episode and introduces us to a Gamin
de Paris and to a certain Marius, who afterwards
weds Cosette. The former, Gavroche by name, is
one of the most natural creatures in the book, and
the genus to which he belongs is thus described :
" This little being is joyous ; he does not eat every
day, and he goes to the theatre every night, if he
thinks proper. He has no shift on his body, no shoes
on his feet, and no covering on his head ; he is like
the flies, which have none of them things. He is from

seven to thirteen years of age, lives gregariously, i
lodges in the open air, wears an old pair of his
father's trousers, which descend lower than his heels,
an old hat belonging to some other father, which
comes below his ears, and one yellow list brace. He
runs, watches, begs, kills time, colours pipes, swears
like a fiend, haunts the wine shop, knows thieves,
is intimate with prostitutes, talks slang, sings filthy
songs, and has nothing bad in his heart, for he has

in his soul a pearl—lnnocence; and pearls are not
dissolved by niud. So long as the man is a child,

GOD desires that he should be innocent. If we
were to ask the enormous city what is this crea-
ture ? It would reply, •Itis my little one.' " The
" manners and customs" of this eccentric character
are described by M. Victor Hugo, con amore and so
well that no one, we should think, would have cou-

rage enough to touch it after him. We have, then,
after various adventures, in which Marius and Val-
jean take part, a most vivid account of the attempted
revolution in 1832, in which Marius is wounded,
but is rescued by Valjean, who, at imminent risk,
carries him through a sewer, and then surrenders
himself to Javert, whose life he had saved when
recognised as a spy by the defender of the Barri-
cade, and condemned to be shot. Javert, however,
is for once unequal to this occasion; duty commands

him to consign Valjean once more to the galleys ;
admiration of his generosity impels him to leave
him free. Torn by these conflicting emotions his
mind gives way, and he cuts the knot by jumping
into the Seine. Valjean is now relieved from perse.
cution, and Cosette 'is married to Marius, but his
conscience impels him to tell the latter his history,
and Marius, not approving his wife's intimacy
with such a character, and unaware that ha owed
him his life, discourages his visits. Hurt at this,'
and worn out with anxiety and hardships, Val-
jean takes to his bed and dies, though not before
Marius, disabused of his prejudices and suspicions,
has, with Cosette, been to him and sought recon-
ciliation and forgiveness. Such is the meagre out-
line of the main thread of the plot of this very re-
markable novel, which is so rich in both thought
and incident that it would require not one but a
series of articles to do it justice. For the combina-
tion of dramatic vigour, artistic construction, and
earnestness of purpose, it stands almost alone
among modern French fiction, and the publishers,
by producing it in its present form, have conferred
a boon on the reading public, of which, we should
think, they would not be slow to avail themselves.

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WORD
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double
knock at the door. " Ecoutez," cried the lady of
the house ; " that surely is Estremadura's knock." EstreEstre-
madural There was a cry of derisive amazement, Every
body agreed that
he had been dead ten years. Somebody
had seen an account of his funeral in the newspapers. But
the door opened, and Estremadura made his appearance.
He was the same as ever. The same yellow face, black
bead-like eyes, innumerable wrinkles, fixed grin; the same
straw hat, grass-green coat, white trousers, and big stick—
his unvarying costume ever sint-.,.e I had known him. " How
you do ?" was his salutation to me. " Ver well since I saw
you lasse ?" I had not seen him for 15 years. He chatted
and talked and drank tea. He was asked whence he had
come ? From Rome. Whither he was going ? To Stock-
holm. He was charming ; yet we could not help feeling,
all of us, as though we were sitting in the presence of a
facetious phantom, of a jocular ghost. It was rather a relief
when he skipped away, and was seen no more. I wonder
whether he will ever turn up again. It is clear that Estre-
madura is ninety, if he be a day old ; yet I dare say he will
read the account of my death, if anybody takes the trouble
to advertise that fact in the newspapers, and say, " Alia I
and so he die. Eh! I knew his good papa ver well."—
_Dickens's 411 the Year Bova.

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