the truce of winter produced other effects among the young, the thoughtless, and the vicious.  During the colder months there was a general rush to London in search of amusement—­the ties of public opinion were loosened; many were rich, heretofore poor—­many had lost father and mother, the guardians of their morals, their mentors and restraints.  It would have been useless to have opposed these impulses by barriers, which would only have driven those actuated by them to more pernicious indulgencies.  The theatres were open and thronged; dance and midnight festival were frequented—­in many of these decorum was violated, and the evils, which hitherto adhered to an advanced state of civilization, were doubled.  The student left his books, the artist his study:  the occupations of life were gone, but the amusements remained; enjoyment might be protracted to the verge of the grave.  All factitious colouring disappeared—­death rose like night, and, protected by its murky shadows the blush of modesty, the reserve of pride, the decorum of prudery were frequently thrown aside as useless veils.  This was not universal.  Among better natures, anguish and dread, the fear of eternal separation, and the awful wonder produced by unprecedented calamity, drew closer the ties of kindred and friendship.  Philosophers opposed their principles, as barriers to the inundation of profligacy or despair, and the only ramparts to protect the invaded territory of human life; the religious, hoping now for their reward, clung fast to their creeds, as the rafts and planks which over the tempest-vexed sea of suffering, would bear them in safety to the harbour of the Unknown Continent.  The loving heart, obliged to contract its view, bestowed its overflow of affection in triple portion on the few that remained.  Yet, even among these, the present, as an unalienable possession, became all of time to which they dared commit the precious freight of their hopes.

The experience of immemorial time had taught us formerly to count our enjoyments by years, and extend our prospect of life through a lengthened period of progression and decay; the long road threaded a vast labyrinth, and the Valley of the Shadow of Death, in which it terminated, was hid by intervening objects.  But an earthquake had changed the scene—­under our very feet the earth yawned—­deep and precipitous the gulph below opened to receive us, while the hours charioted us towards the chasm.  But it was winter now, and months must elapse before we are hurled from our security.  We became ephemera, to whom the interval between the rising and setting sun was as a long drawn year of common time.  We should never see our children ripen into maturity, nor behold their downy cheeks roughen, their blithe hearts subdued by passion or care; but we had them now—­they lived, and we lived—­what more could we desire?  With such schooling did my poor Idris try to hush thronging fears, and in some measure succeeded.  It was not as in summer-time,