would take cold. The poor children gazed at her, wondered, and shed tears. Helpless, unprotected, and alone in the world, their little hearts failed them; and the inquiry often and often occurred to their minds, What is to become of us? Death, that sat embodied in one human form in that house, and had laid his cold, benumbing hand on another, whom he appeared to have marked for his victim, seemed ready to devour them all. Silence first disclosed to them their solitude, and solitude their danger. On the third evening they clustered as usual round their mother's chair and prayed; but she was unable to join them. She looked at them, but did not seem to comprehend them. They then tried, with faltering lips and tearful eyes, a verse of a hymn, one that she had always been fond of; but two voices were now wanting, and they were alarmed at the feeble and plaintive sound of their own. The chords of the widow's heart vibrated at the sound of the music, and she looked about her, as one awaking from slumber. Thought, feeling, and sensibility returned; the fountains of her affections opened, and a flood of tears mingled with those of her children. She inquired of them the day of the week, and whether any person had been at the house since the postman left it, wrung her hands in agony at the thoughts of the length of her stupor, and having affectionately kissed and blessed her little ones, went to bed to weep unseen, and pour out her griefs and her petitions undisturbed to Him who has graciously promised His protection to the widow and the orphan.

In the morning she rose more composed, but sadly changed. Years had revolved in that night, and left their tracks and furrows on her faded cheek; and the depth, and strength, and acuteness of her mental sufferings, had rendered her hair as white as the snow-wreath that death had folded round her husband as a winding-sheet. The struggle had been violent, but successful. She was afflicted but not subdued, bereft but not destitute. She was sensible of her situation, and willing to submit with humble resignation; aware of her duties, and ready to undertake

them. She stood between the living and the dead. A fearful debt was to be discharged to the one, subsistence and comfort were due to the other. She commenced the morning with prayer from a church formulary that had been given her by a travelling missionary, and then went about her usual duties. As she sat by her fireside in the evening she revolved in her mind the new sphere in which she was placed. As any doubt or difficulty suggested itself, her loss became more and more apparent. How was her husband to be buried? The ground was frozen to the depth of three feet, and she was unable to dig a grave. She dare not go to the next neighbour's, a distance of seven miles, for she could not leave her children. She could not send her eldest daughter, for she did not know the way; and she, too, might be lost. She must wait for the postman, he would arrive in three days, and would assist her. If not, God would send relief when least expected. Every thing, however, about her-every thing she had to do, and every thing she required, mixed itself in some way with recollections of him she mourned, and reminded her of some habit, word, or act of his. Even the weather now made her shudder. The storm, like a giant refreshed with sleep, arose again in all its might, and swept across the desert with such unbroken force that the snow appeared rather like a moving mass of drift than distinct and separate flakes. It was just such an evening as when her husband perished. She shuddered, and drew her children nearer to her

on the hearth. They had always loved each other, but their affection was greatly increased now, for they knew that death was a reality. They had seen it and felt its effects. It had lessened their number once, it could do so again. They had been told they were mortal, now they knew it. It was an awful disclosure to them, and yet what was death? It was not annihilation, for the body remained. That which had inhabited and animated it was incorporeal, and had departed unseen. It was that unknown, invisible, and mysterious spirit, they had unconsciously loved, for the corpse shocked and terrified them. They had been instructed that there was a soul that survived the body, but

they could not comprehend it. They now saw and shuddered at the dif ference between the living and the dead. It was palpable, but still it was not intelligible. Poor little innocents! it was their first practical lesson in mortality, and it was engraved on their aching hearts too deeply ever to be forgotten. Their affection now became more intense and far more tender, for solicitude had blended with it and softened it. Yes, their little circle was stronger for having its circumference reduced, it could bear more pressure than before, if the burden were unhappily increased.

The time for rest had now approached, and the widow was weak and unwell. The thought of her unburied husband oppressed her. The presence of death, too, in the house, for so long a time, was a heavy load for her nerves; and unable to sustain her feelings and her reflections any longer, she resorted to her evening prayers with her little family, and added to the prescribed form a short and simple petition of her own. Her voice was almost inaudible, amid the din and roar of the tempest, to those around her; but it penetrated far above the elements, and reached the throne of mercy to which it was addressed. Relieved, refreshed, and strengthened by this devotional exercise, they gathered again around the hearth ere the fire was secured for the night, and were engaged in some little consultation about the daily duties that were to be assigned to each, when they were aroused by a loud and violent knocking at the door. The mother arose and opened it, with a palpitating heart. Three strange, wild-looking, haggard men, entreated admittance for God's sake, for they were famished, and nearly chilled to death with the cold. What a contrast for that hitherto quiet and noiseless household! There were these men stamping on the floor, shaking off the snow from their clothes, beating their hands together, throwing down their packs, talking loudly, and all speaking at onceall calling for food, all demanding more fire, and all rejoicing in their shelter and safety. The children huddled together in affright in the corner of the room, and the poor mother trimmed her lamp, rebuilt her fire, and trembled as she reflected

that she was alone and unprotected. Who are these men, she asked herself? Houseless in the storm, her heart replied," Would to Heaven there had been such a shelter for my poor John Lent! We need not fear, for God and our poverty are our protection." She told them they were in the house of death-that her husband lay dead, and, for want of assistance, unburied in the next room, but that all that could be done for them she would do, though at such a time, and in such a place, that all, of course, would be but very little. She advised them to keep at a distance from the fire, and having ascertained that they were not frost-bitten, set about getting them some refreshment. While at work she heard all that they had to say to each other, and with the quickness of observation peculiar to the natives of this country soon perceived they were not equals that one of them spoke with a voice of authority; that another called him, Sir; and the third only answered when he was spoken to, and that all three were sailors. They had a fearful tale of trouble and of death, to which frequent allusion was made. They were the captain, mate, and steward, of a ship that had been wrecked that day on the coast beyond the hilly land in front of the cottage, and were the sole survivors of ten, who, on that morning, were pursuing their course on the ocean in perfect confidence and safety. A hearty meal was hastily prepared, and more hastily despatched. Liquor was then asked for; she trembled and obeyed. She was a lone woman, it was a dangerous thing, and she hesitated; but a moment's reflection suggested to her that it was impossible that they could either forget her loss or their own.

A fresh difficulty now occurred, to understand which it is necessary to describe the house. The chimney stood in the middle of the building, opposite the front door, which opened into a small entry. On the right was the family sitting room or kitchen, where they were now assem bled, off which were two bedrooms. On the left, three rooms were similarly arranged, and devoted to the accommodation of strangers. In the apartment corresponding to the one they were in was the frozen body of her husband, resting on a chest, in a

sitting attitude, as I have before described. In order to prepare their beds it was necessary to pass through that room, into which she had not ventured since she had recovered from her stupor. She was perplexed and distressed, but at last, having stated to the captain her difficulty, he at once ordered the steward to go and make the requisite arrangements. The master and mate having been thus provided for for the night, some blankets were given to the steward, who slept on the hearth, before the kitchen fire. In the morning the latter was sent to dig a grave for poor John Lent, while the other two, having procured the requisite tools, made him a coffin, into which he was placed with great difficulty, from the rigidity of his limbs. The little pony was then harnessed to the sledge, and the body was followed by the family and their guests to its last resting-place. The beautiful burial-service of the church was read over the deceased by the captain, amid the heartfelt sobs of the widow, the loud lamentations of the children, and the generous tears of the sailors. The scene was one that was deeply felt by all present. There was a community of suffering, a similarity of situation, and a sympathy among them all, that for the time made them forget they were strangers and feel towards each other like members of one family. The mariners had twice narrowly escaped death themselves: first, from shipwreck, and then from the intensity of the weather; while seven of their comrades had been swept into eternity before their eyes. The poor widow, in losing John Lent, appeared to have lost every thing-her friend, her support, her companion, and protector; the husband of her heart, the father of her children. If their losses were similar, their mutual sorrows were similar also. She had afforded them food, shelter, and a home. They had aided her in a most trying moment with their personal assistance, and comforted her with their sympathy and kindness. The next morning her guests visited the sea-shore, in order to ascertain whether any portion of the cargo of their vessel could be saved. When they arrived at the scene of their disaster, they found that the vessel

was gone; she had either fallen off from the precipitous cliff upon which she had been thrown by the violence of the sea, or been withdrawn by the reflux of the mountain waves, and had sunk into the deep water, where her masts could now just be discerned under its clear and untroubled surface. The cabin, which had been built on the deck, had been broken to pieces, and fragments of it were to be seen scattered about on the snow. Some few barrels and boxes from the steward's pantry had been thrown on shore, containing stores of various kinds, and also the captain's hammock and bedding. These were divided into two small lots of equal weight, and constituted two sleigh loads, for the travelling was too heavy to permit them all to be carried at once. The captain presented them, together with a purse of ten sovereigns, to the poor widow, as a token of his gratitude for her kindness and sympathy for his distress. She was also recommended to examine the shore from time to time after violent gales of winds, as many loose articles would no doubt hereafter float to the surface; and these, by a written authority, he empowered her to apply to her own use.

On the succeeding morning the postman returned with his mail, and furnished a conveyance for the steward. The captain and mate followed under his guidance, with Mrs. Lent's little pony and sledge, which were to be returned the following mail-day by Ainslow. They now took an affectionate leave of each other, with mutual thanks and benedictions, and the widow and her family were again left to their sorrows and their labours. From that day she said an unseen hand had upheld her, fed her, and protected her, and that hand was the hand of the good and merciful God of the widow and the orphan. There were times, she added, when the wounds of her heart would burst open and bleed afresh; but she had been told the affections required that relief, and that Nature had wisely provided it, to prevent a worse issue. She informed me that she often saw her husband of late. When sitting by her solitary lamp, after her children had fallen asleep, she frequently perceived him looking in at the window upon her. She would some

SOMETHING MORE ABOUT VICTOR HUGO.

lects, his imagination embellishes, his sympathy associates itself with, and his voice interprets. Into the feeling-fraught heart of humanity he enters, and inly dwells; with beautybreathing nature he respires; with calm-inducing, thought-suggesting, love-fostering nature he meditates, and quickly feels. Gentle, domestic affections; home, parents, children, friends; the love of infancy, and the reverence for age; kindly cheerfulness and chastened sorrow; a calm, meditative melancholy dwelling upon recollections of early hopes and dreams gone by-these are among the feelings which occupy him, who at other times, with the eye at once of poet, patriot, and sage, regards the changing scenes and actors in the great drama of nations. Pensive, serene, peaceful, glides among homely haunts, by the household hearth, amid the fields, the hamlets, and the woods, the verse that elsewhere rolls its mighty stream around kings and conquerors, triumphs and trophies, and shattered thrones, and contending factions. To him may be applied in their comprehensiveness the words of one with whom he, Frenchman though he be, has much in common:

THE novelist, the dramatist, the lyrist, is now a peer of France. The bold defender of the liberty of the stage, the spirited pleader before the Tribunal de Commerce, sits on the benches of the noblesse viagère: the author of the interdicted drama,* of the supposed offence against the family of Orleans, is installed among the constitutional nominees of Louis Philippe. Long life to him at the Luxembourg-the Baron Victor Hugo! Whether he will attempt in the upper chamber the ambitious rôle of his friend and brother bard, De Lamartine, in the lower, remains to be seen. We trust that he will not avail himself of his position as a senator to press those Rhenane, and (he must pardon us) insane pretensions which produced that marvellous political paper from the tourist; otherwise we shall be compelled to part company, and to range ourselves, with hostile look intent, against one with whom, admiring him as we do, we would fain continue upon terms of cordial intimacy. It is not, however, in the arena of political controversy that we are now to seek him; so let us have no unfriendly anticipations. We resume the pen to fulfil an engagement made to our readers to increase their acquaintance with the bard whom we introduced in a former paper; and it now devolves upon us to exhibit him in the exercise of his art upon other subjects than those, the admirable treatment of which has justly earned for him the title of Historical Poet par excellence. There is no lack of variety in Victor. Few are the children of song in whom will be found a greater diversity of matter, a more free and facile multiformity of style. Ennui is a state of feeling he is never likely to produce in his readers; for want of transitions and novelty none will cast him aside. Besides the materials of history,wars, revolutions, politics,-in his dealings with which we have already displayed something of his spirit, abundant are the subjects which engage his muse-which his taste se

"Not love, not war, nor the tumultuous swell

Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change, Nor duty struggling with affections strange,

Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell: But where untroubled peace and concord dwell,

There also is the Muse not loth to range, Watching the blue smoke of the elmy grange

Skyward ascending from the twilight

dell.

Meek aspirations please her, lone endea

vour,

And sage content, and placid melancholy."-WORDSWORTH.

An intent and earnest perusal of Victor Hugo will reveal this disposition, of which probably few English readers would suspect a poet of a nation they are too accustomed to regard as the pattern of frivolity.

* "Le Roi s'amuse."