A GOLDEN BAR.* Tam is a work in some respects

like, and in others unlike, many of those at present popular. Like them, it aims at im- parting interest less by a complex plot than by good descrip- tions, skilful delineations of character, and scenes that illus- trate modern life both in its familiar and its picturesque details. Whether this be a wise aim or not, is matter now much in dis- pute. Those who ohject to it, point to the carefully constructed plots of Fielding's novels, and of "the wonderful works" of Sir Walter Scott, as Leigh Hunt calls them. Those who prefer the style now most in use would probably cite The Vicar of Wakefield, the separate scenes in which, especially scenes of humour, can never be forgotten, while a considerable part of the story is remembered by few. The Angel in the House, begins by the exclamation, "We'll have no incidents !" and but few occur in that poem ; but the vivid pictures of modern life, which succeed each other so rapidly, prevent us from regretting their absence. In this work the interest derived from incident is con- fined to narrow limits, but within these limits the story is worked out with much art and a happy discrimination.

Old Squire Haseltine is a county magnate, with a grand park and house, which bear the name of their lord. As death draws near, he meets for the first time pecuniary embarrassments. He cannot leave his property to his eldest son, who has died ; nor to his younger son, with whom he has quarrelled ; and he cannot take it with him. The widow of his eldest son has long lived with him in the great house, and also one who made it look to the last as bright as when he dwelt there in youth, viz., Iris Durant, the daughter of that son's wife by a former mar- riage; for by the second marriage there have been no children. He makes a will, leaving his property to Iris. The girl, who is as just as she is proud and beautiful, will not consent to this arrangement, and at her entreaty the old man bequeaths his wealth to the son of his younger eon. The squire and his son both die soon after, and the grandson becomes the lord of Haseltine. Iris makes up her mind to hate him, since her grandfather, whose memory she idolizes, hated his father. Her mother, however, Mrs. Hazeltine, a still handsome and somewhat designing woman of forty, has other plans. She does not wish to be turned out of the manor-house, and resolves that Iris shall marry the "In- truder." Iris resents the plot. She had been brought up in splendour, and she has become comparatively a pauper. But she has never valued wealth, nor feared poverty, and she does not want to be married.

Haseltine arrives at his home ; he invites his aunt to remain at it for some time ; admires her daughter for her witching ways and lively wit, and hears her one day tell her mother that she detests him. He had been previously half dis- posed to seek her, and now, of course, resolves to win her. He is unlike the young triflers Iris has often repelled,— reserved, dignified, and somewhat sad, for he has had troubles. By degrees she grows to love him ; but she is very angry with herself for loving the enemy, very angry with him

• .A Golden Bar. By the Author of "Christina North," "Under the Limes," &c. 3 vols. London Hurst and Blaekett.

for making her do so, and fully resolved that he shall never know of her affection. The girl is proud ; but love is humble. It does not occur to her that Haseltine can have found in her anything worthy of his love ; and she will never allow him to marry her merely that she may not be turned out of house and home. The more the pair grow attached, the more they manage to wage war against the happiness each of the other, much assisted by the mother of Iris whose ingenuity is always frustrating her own ambitions schemes, and also by two fashionable sisters of Haseltine, who wish to reign as mistresses of his house. He pursues her still; but Iris is worthy of her name, and the rainbow moves ever before him, but to mock him.

The charm of this book is much enhanced by its lightness of touch in those descriptive passages so often spoilt by being laboured. Here is an average specimen of such :—

" Losing patience one evening, Haseltine exclaims, ' No ; if we are to be friends, let us begin at once.'—' What is the first step ?' she asked, half in jest, half in earnest. So speaking, she leant a little way from him, shaking the bench upon which they sat, and a deutzia in full flower behind it ; a cloud of sweet-scented snowy petals fell in n shower upon her dusky hair, and flecked her black dress with white. Twilight was gathering round them ; the red azaleas looked like tongues of flame amongst the leaves ; only one stream of light from the door which opened into the house lay along the pavement, and trembled in the lilies of the valley,—and at their feet. 'What is the first step ?' repeated Hnseltine. He broke off, as steps and voices approached them the lady-like steps and the well. modulated voices of the Miss liaseltines.

A sudden gleam of delight on the countenance of Iris when Haseltine unexpectedly returns after an absence makes him almost sure that his affection is not unreciprocated. That after- noon he goes forth to meet her :—

" It was a day when wealthy summer had spread out all her tree- sures of earth and sky with careless lavishness. As he reached the last gate leading on to the high-road Haseltine paused, looking down from the sapphire heavens above him to the little blue flower at his feet. There was a faint line of light upon the western horizon, where, a few hours later, the sun would set in regal splen- dour; the birds still twittered, but faintly, and under the woods already the flowers, with drooping heads, were shutting up their leaves.'

Iris approaches without seeing him, but accompanied by one in whom Haseltine, from the words that reach his ears, strongly suspects a successful rival. He again takes refuge in reserve. The mother of Iris, by way of mending matters, lets him know that but for Iris he would have been disinherited. Her daughter deeply resents the betrayal of this secret, and with increasing coldness repulses his advances, which she attributes to gratitude, not love. She persuades her mother to take her away from the old house. "So you will put your woman's pride and self-will before all else And yet I believe that you liked me." "I cannot," she faltered. "Are you quite sure," he said, in a changed voice. "Quite sure," she answered. They separate.

An amusing contrast to this perplexed love-making is sup- plied by the prosperous courtship of Sir Louis Stretton. He falls in love with an amusing little girl not half his age. She is not deep-hearted, but neither is she like Iris, the victim of high-flown scruples. She likes him all the better because he has broad acres to offer her. A week before the marriage they converse on the bright prospects before them :—

"'After I am married,' continued his fianae, shall, of course, have my own way in everything Well ! I don't know about that,' said Sir Louis, dubiously.= Bat I must know. It must be settled before- hand. I am sure it is quite as important as the settlements. If you are not free to make yourself happy—'—' But it is I who am to make you happy. Will not that be much better?' asked Sir Louis. But Lefty was looking out of the window.—' I don't think you would know how,' she said candidly. I am sure you would try ; but how should a man know what a girl wants ? I might as well try to choose your cigars or your after-dinner claret.' A quarrel breaks out ; Letty pronounces herself insulted, and laments that she has not a brother old enough to challenge her future husband. Sir Louis's boy-brother, Raymond, comes in, How wretched you both look ! How glad I am that I am not going to be married.' "

This light-hearted youth of seventeen is one of the best-con- ceived charactersin the book; he is fall of wit, while he fancies him- self nearly a fool, and so friendly, that every one loves him. On one occasion, he amusingly consoles a little boy accused of cowardice, by assuring him that he himself, though now bold as a lion, was such a coward when first sent to school that once, when on the point of being flogged, he fumbled in his pocket for his last shilling, and offered it to his angry master on con- dition of being spared. The contrast between the brightness of this sketch and the tragedy which follows so suddenly, is at once original and suggestive. If the main story tells us of the woes unreal, yet slowly healed, which we bring upon our-

selves, this touching episode reminds us of the magic might by which the deeper sorrows sent to us are consoled. Raymond has received an injury while out hunting. In his sickness his spirits never flag. It is still of others that he is always thinking. He gets the:children from the lodge into his bedroom, amuses them, and replies to anxious inquiries with a jest, which a devout friend fears may be a sign of irreverence. "She had found

herself awed by Raymond's bright, dark eyes, so that she left the room as she found it, littered with all those incongruous tokens of his peat pursuits ; a shrill, gay bullfinch and a play- ful kitten for his companions." The change he alone had not feared comes :—

" With the suddenness of a tropical night, the great darknes was to close in upon his sunshiny life and quench it for ever. No, no ; what was he saying? He knew that his brother should dwell for ever in the light, but it was a light which no man might approach unto.' It seemed almost more strange than sad, that he should be called all at once from bis violin and his tennisplaying, from the companionship of Jacko and his dogs, to take his place amid angelic choirs, amongst the heavenly host."

Mr. Crane, the good clergyman, thinks,— " It was very hard upon the young fellow, just at the outset of his

career but it was, no doubt, the young man's duty to resign himself, and meet his fate bravely. He spoke to Raymond after he had read and prayed with him, somewhat to this effect. Raymond only turned those great, lustrous eyes of his upon him, and smiled. He thought it strange that God's minister should pity him who was about to be admitted, all unworthy as he was, to the heavenly Jeru- salem, and all those good things which the heart of man cannot conceive."

Then comes the end. The boy and his elder brother have all their lives been devoted to each other :—

"Let Let it be,—when only we two are alone together,' Raymond had said, with halting, labouring breath, turning his sweet, gleaming eyes for the last time upon his brother. Then Sir Louis had shut the door upon them all, and taken Raymond's head upon his breast, and so, till the night passed slowly into day, they waited, they two together."

To Raymond belonged, without his knowing it, the blessing promised to the peace-makers. Between Sir Louis and his light-hearted young wife frivolous contention had early begun to supervene upon frivolous gaiety. The death which brought to each a sense of the realities of life, brought peace to the troubled household. Raymond's life had been innocent, and his faith had never been shaken or clouded. This was the simple solution of what to those who wondered at his calmness seemed strange. But this solution is suggested only. It is one of the merits of the book that there is no preaching in it, while the spirit is ever sound and salutary ; and doubtless such spiritual suggestions as must ever come from a good work of imagination, are most acceptable when they make their way to us, like the visits of the Gods, "in leni aurit," not in dusty gusts of teaching, obtrusive and unseasonable.

With time the difficulties of the lovers but increase. The

proud beauty cannot be got to believe that Haseltine loves her, and will not be married out of compassion. At last the worldly

mother raises a second obstacle, no less fatal than the first, to her own designs. The old squire had drawn up another legal document later than his will, which, though it does not leave Iris his landed estate, provides that the rest of his property, far 'the larger part of it, is to be hers in case she does not marry. Iris spurns the gift, and burns the legal paper which conveys it; but her mother has a second copy of it, and shows it to her lover. The tables are turned. It is now his turn to be proud. He will not woo further a lady who, besides having

refused a Haseltine twice, has the additional guilt of being an heiress. He cannot, with this change in his fortunes, continue to keep up his family mansion, and he resolves to leave it for ever. Iris, who had scorned humiliation, has to humiliate herself. He

is to depart the next morning. She has ceased to doubt his motives, and believes in his love. She casts her pride away, visits him in the grey dawn, tells him that she will never avail herself of his grandfather's gift, and in an agony of grief and penitence reveals the long-hidden secret of her love. But it is now too late. The proud man, disinherited, will not believe in her affection, and will not profit by her generosity.

He answers, "You would give me back Haseltine even at the cost of giving me yourself," and departs. The peace- maker on this occasion is not a dead youth, but a dying . child. During a part of his wandering life, of which little is told us, Haseltine had been married to one little worthy of him, who died a year after their marriage, leaving him a little boy, Claude. Claude is but five years old, and has recently resided in the abandoned manor house. The child catches an infectious fever, and is at once deserted by Haseltine's fashion- able sisters. Iris leaves her cottage hard by, nurses the child till he is out of danger, and is found by Haseltine, who has been summoned, one morning just before sunrise, asleep on a sofa, not far from the little patient, whom his father had expected to find dead. Suddenly they come to understand each other,—but whether through an increase of wisdom,—each of them having learned that pride is not a thing to be proud. of, and that true love is not a thing to be spurned,— or through some skilful device of the lawyers allowing each to be happy, in spite of the newly-discovered codicil, and without either of-them condescending to humiliation, we shall not record. The readers of this book, and it will probably have many, will prefer to make the discovery for themselves. The tale is wholly free from the pretentious bad-taste now so common. It is written with sin- gular felicity of style and uniform purity and refinement ; it abounds in lively dialogue and vivid description ; and while it is free from all that is "sensational," it does not lack scenes of passion, in the higher sense of that often misused word.