OUT OF THE WORLD.*

Tam book is like a pleasant schoolboy's progress to school. He goes lounging along with his hands in his pockets, staring apathe- tically about, and quite regardless of time, till—the school at length in view in the distance, and the five-minutes' bell hurry- ing with its well-known clangour to a rapid and noisy conclusion— his whole aspect changes; his hands reappear to help his balance in his startled condition and reckless career, and away he goes, wild fire in his eyes, and sudden destruction imminent for any un- fortunate child or old woman who haply or unhappily crosses his headlong course, until, at the last possible moment, edging in at the already closing door, he checks his excited glance and rapid breathing, and feigns to have arrived coolly in the ordinary course of nature. But the events of the last two minutes, in that street, if only they were known, would dispel that illusion by a revelation of unexpected and dire disaster. Thus this story takes its calm and easy course, in an absent spirit of reflec- tion and observation. It hovers on the banks of the Hudson, and takes a peep at New. York. With its hands in its pockets, as it were, it has a good look in at the window at Paris, sometimes smiling with animation, sometimes looking grave at what it sees there. Then it turns on its heel and takes its way to the Pyrenees, gazing up at the mountains, and much fascinated by the old- world look of an ancient château and its antediluvian inhabi- tants. Here it lingers for a long time, quite forgetting itself in its interest in the villagers, and the cure, and the storms, and its new friends at the chateau, and in a mysterious staircase, and panels that open ,aith a spring ; till, at last, it finds itself in the middle of the third volume and nothing done ; then does it rush head- long to its denouement, spreading an epidemic of terror, start- ling horses into wild gallops, rolling sleeping youth over preci- pices, hurrying tottering age into paralysis, and middle life into heart-disease, and driving the ignorant mad in its wild confusion, inciting them to arson and murder ; till the end thus attained within the assigned limits, it suddenly pulls up, smooths down its ruffled garments, assumes a calm, almost indifferent mien, and presents itself to its reader as if nothing out of the common way had happened. Now this, we take it, is scarcely fair. To soothe us into quietude and almost into repose, and then to disturb the action of the heart and the gentle and healthy equipoise of the spirit by this sudden upheaval, followed by an explosion of horrors that sends our hands to our ears, and closes our eyes, and summons all our courage to stand fast until this tyranny be overpast.

If we had not discovered from the title-page that Miss Healy is already a voluminous writer, we should have said that she was a young, but very promising hand at the work. The subject— the arbitrary disposal of children in marriage—and the scene —the Pyrenees—are both comparatively new ground, and manj of the characters are original sketches, well conceived, and not badly worked out ; but unfortunately for the story, it is the nice people who are not exceptionally original,

* Out of the World. By Mary Healy. London: Sampson Low, Marston, Low, and Searle.

as is - the rule in novels, and the exceptional people who do not secure our admiration. For we cannot choose Jeanne, who, if we are not mistaken, is Miss Healy's pet, for ours. We regard

Mademoiselle Jeanne, with her lonely life, her volcanic nature, her marvellous and concealed histrionic powers, her statuesque beauty, and her saint-like self-devotedness, as one of the creations of clever, but inexperienced youth. This impulsive nature, these tremendous talents, this concentration of unsympathised-with goodness, is a favourite ideal with the young, who have not yet

realised that great genius is too rare for the subject of a novel, and that if it be united with great self-control, which is still rarer, it is nearly irresistible, and is not likely to eat its heart out for want of opportunity,—still less, as in this case, at the command of a narrow- minded old father of antiquated opinions. And the springs in the panels and the mysterious staircase are other evidences of the youthfulness of our author which we cannot help smiling at. For

a secret stair that only leads the young lady from her bedroom on one floor, to the one above it on the next, is so very

humiliating, especially when her brothers and sisters arrive at another door of the same chamber in the same time by the ordinary family staircase. There are other evidences in abundance of a young hand, the title-page notwithstanding ; witness a young lady's forgetfulness of a story of a favourite's brutal murder and secret burial, told to her by the lips of the

murderer himself, because "it happened that Paul had things to, tell her when he came back from his walk with his father that put all thoughts of Jean [the murderer] out of her head, until it was already too late to take any decisive steps in the matter that day." And there is a stream that is a torrent in the mountains, but a rivulet when it reaches the valley, where it "dashes through the pastures of the "wide plain," "making diamonds of light as it throws up its water-drops to the sun." And as we have implied, the tremendous adventures with which the .story sweeps up to its climax are eminently and unmistakably young.

Nevertheless, it is a clever and pleasing story, on the whole.. The scenery of the Pyrenees is often prettily described with something of the eye of an artist, but with little mistakes or flourishes for effect that render it difficult to select a tolerably faultless passage. Here is a little picture of a peaceful valley seen under the storm from a mountain top, round which it howled and whirled :—

"The wind still swept past in great gusts, but less violently and at

greater intervals—it would soon be all over Far down, framed by the mountain-sides, beyond the curtain of clouds and wind-raised dust, one saw the valley lying calm and peaceful, bathed in sunshine. Above, stormy clouds, wild wind, tormented whirlings of dust and leaves, frowning rocks, trees writhing in agony : below, perfect rest sunshine, and silence. The picture was now visible, now hidden, ac- cording to the wild fantasy of the wind. Once, when there was a longer lull than usual, Aim4e distinguished, glistening in the green meadow, the restless Babillard ; then, a little at one side, there was the grove of dark trees hiding Les Tourelles."

' And here are the mountains at peace :— " I remember well, for instance, going over a pass called the Col d'Aspin,' and watching the morning vapours shifting and fantastically clothing the mountains. Once, when we were already quite high, a veil of grey mist passed very near us, just below our feet, as it seemed, —a ragged, thin veil, through which we partly saw the country-side.. It was a curious impression ; one felt inclined to catch at it and pull it away, only it went so rapidly that it had soon passed. Then here and there lying on the mountain, were little, filmy, white cloudlets, just touched with sunshine. I thought they looked much like a delicate worsted shawl, such as the peasants of Bigorre make, which my mother used to gather softly about her at any of the frequent changes from hot to cold. I think I enjoyed watching this mist as much as seeing the- terrible Maladetta, which we did at last, when the sun had dispersed the clouds. It rose very grandly, holding up its mighty head above the other snow-peaks. The valley on which we looked down was quite surrounded by hills and mountains, which shaped it into something like an amphitheatre of magnificent dimensions. From the very top of the, pass we could still distinguish Arrean, where we had slept the night before, half hidden among its trees ; and then deep down, just below us, nestled a tiny village, which we were told was always buried in snow from October till April. Think of it ! Shut in by snow half the long year—white, cold walls all around—whole families, with their cattle, huddled together.

The picturesque does. not escape Miss Healy. We seem our- selves to have rested on the fallen trunks in the orchard of beautiful shrubs and ancient fruit-trees, and gazed till we knew by heart the old château, and to have worshipped in its beautiful chapel ; and the ungainly curd, and the virago at the village inn and her beauteous serving - maid, are all familiar to us. But M. de Varenne and his antiquated daughter, Ernestine, are perhaps the most original of Miss Healy's, conceptions, though the sketches of M. de Mart= and Albert are not far behind in careful and natural drawing. Nothing can be better than the picture of the old Marquis,—courteous, but exigeant ; hospitable by nature, but parsimonious from the exigencies of poverty ; affectionate, but arbitrary and ex- acting rigorous obedience in public, which he compensates by weak indulgence in private ; self-opinionated, but weakly depend- ent on the sanction of others to his opinions ; mean in garb, but dignified in bearing. Of course all the incidents of the story arise indirectly from the effects of his overweening belief in the great- mess of his pcsition, and his divine right to rule his children ; in -which view he is supported by the father of our heroine. They have, however, to do with a very independent young lady of ad- vanced ideas, who has been brought up by a half-sister in America, and whose disposition, as it thus reveals itself to her lover, is likely to prove a stumbling-block in the path of the old-fashioned fathers :—

" Most of the women he had met in society had acquired an exterior polish, so superiorly laid on that it was rare that one was able to see much under that polish, so that it was a shock, as well as a sort of pleasure, to meet a girl who, like Aimdc,', impulsively allowed every mood of hers to be seen. He was by no means sure that ho approved -of this ; her reserve—which was too visibly meant to be reserve—once laid aside, the variations of her mood—and they were numberless— were as visible as the constant change of light in the eyes, and the con- stant rise and fall of colour in the soft cheeks. No, he was by no means sure that he approved of all this, but it was interesting to watch- -decidedly interesting."

We must not conclude our notice of this story of very fair promise, -without an assurance that it is bright throughout with enlightened intelligence ; and that, though on the side of intelligence, it never offends by advocating the too advanced principles of strong- minded women. And it is not merely lively, it is often humorous with a touch of good-natured irony. We will wind up with a short extract in proof of our assertion. The rich and elderly Baron, the master of the ceremonies on this occasion, is meditating the rashness of a proposal to the statuesque but simple-minded daughter of the impoverished old Marquis, when he is thus addressed by her :— " 'Please let me sit next to you at dinner?' The Baron grew a little uneasy. Had she guessed his secret thoughts ? He glanced at her ; she was perfectly quiet and unmoved ; there was not a shade of coquetry

in her expression. had already arranged to have you at my side. I am glad that the arrangement should prove as satisfactory to you as it is—ahem !—delightful to me.'—' Thank you. Ernestine seems to think that the young men seek me too much,' and she moved away. ▪ The young men !' M. de Plerrefonds twirled his moustache defiantly.

So! he was looked upon as an old fellow—not dangerous at all ! He would let her see !—' Pray, who is that superb-looking girl who was speaking to you a moment ago ?' The speaker was an exquisite whom 'M. de Pierrefonds had known in Paris.—' The youngest daughter of the Marquis do Varenne.'—' Indeed ? How is it we do not see her in Paris?' Then he added carelessly, A largo dot ?'—'Not a penny,' answered the Baron, with savage pleasure ; 'furthermore, her father does not wish her to marry under any circumstances Still, I fancy that if a rich man were to offer to take her, penniless as she is—shall I present you ?'—

▪ Thanks ; I will content myself with admiring at a safe distance,' and the exquisite sauntered away."