THE STORY OF PAULINE.* Irt looking back over Pauline's story,

the feeling is very much what it is after a long journey, in which the scenery was at first rugged and ugly, then for a time rich and beautiful, and then during the final and, apparently though not really, much the longest stage, provokingly monotonous and displeasing, and ending by the weary traveller being not even met at the terminus as he expected.

The author's object has clearly been to show that no religious beliefs—from the narrowest orthodoxy to the broadest theism— whether those by whom they are professed be enlightened or not, will at all serve to keep the conduct right, while an honest cultiva- tion of the conscience and a courageous persistence in obeying it, whatever be the creed or want of creed, are the only evidences of a true religious faith. So far the programme of the story, if not very exciting, is at least ennobling ; but it is not equally worked

• 2'he Btory of By G. C. Clunes. London: Macmillan and Co.

out, for the sympathy of the writer is all with the cultivated and philosophical theist, and when he is put in the wrong, it is

evidently in spite of his theories, while the bigot is made to err as the result of them ; but this much impartiality

is accorded — somewhat artificially — that there are in the story illustrations both of the hard and rigid and of the kind and loving Calvinist, and also of the lawless-refined and Christian- like-refined theist ; moreover, the theist who knows no law but self-interest is brought to grief, while the hard but well-meaning Calvinist—though clearly so uncongenial to the tastes of the author—is left, at the close, rather improved in liberality than otherwise.

There is nothing original in the opening of the story, which dis- covers poor little Pauline a victim to the same hard and unfeeling discipline, the same preachings and punishments with which we have been made familiar in stories of a like-kind to the commence- ment of this ; the genius of the author does not lie in describing the half-disgusting, half-amusing details of the lives of soured old maids of small incomes, like sisters Leah and Judith ; there is none of the ability to appreciate their self-denial, nor of the loving delight in detecting the humorous element in their principles and practice ; on the contrary, the sketch of Pauline's two step- sisters is rather a clumsy caricature, and is only introduced to intensify, by contrast, the brightness of Pauline's subsequent life, and her admiration of a broad and liberal theology. Pauline, too, in this early part of her career, is not altogether a success ; her running-away propensities are a little absurd, as well as the cir- cumstances that attend her indulgence of them ; and her extreme simplicity and ignorance of conventional proprieties are altogether inconsistent with the straight-laced principles in which she has been brought up.

But when she has finally run away and been accepted by her mother's relations, the godless Riverses, as her sisters term them, we leave the rugged stage of our journey, and rejoice for a time in a section of the tale full of beauty and power ; it is of a quiet kind, consisting of little more than the description of the tranquil pursuits and clever conversation of a highly educated family circle, first amidst the refinements of Paris, and afterwards in an English country-house adorned with everything that a fastidious taste could collect, and bright with flowers and rich with the shade of trees ; and further, of the effect produced on the young hero and heroine by these combined influences of nature and intellect ; but the thoughtful and sometimes brilliant talks about religion, love, temptation, responsibility, and the subtle analysis of motive and influence, only require, to make them exceeding fascinat- ing, that they should be illustrated by the conduct of the actors in the story ; and when the talk is done amidst the lovely and harmonious beauty of nature or the soft surroundings of wealthy refinement, the fascination is complete. Pauline's description of the change of mental and physical atmosphere, from her sisters' house in a dull English town to her uncle's salon in Paris, is vivid and striking, and will serve for a fair specimen of the style of the book, written, we venture to believe, by a lady, and by one whose probable residence in Paris (with which there is no doubt she is lovingly familiar) will account for occasional un-English forms of expression and spelling :—

" Volumes might be filled with the sensations I experienced as I saw the wonders of art, the utterly new scenes, the magnificence, and luxury, and pleasure of the great capital. When Madame asked me 'Don't you find that your mind is expanding every day ?' I was able to answer, entering perfectly into her meaning, Yes, I do indeed.' It seemed to me now that my old existence with my half-sisters was scarcely living at all. I looked back at it with shudders of disgust. I had come straight from an intellectual atmosphere the most bleak and bitter that could be imagined, chilled with the black frost of intolerance, and per- vaded by east winds of acrid censure, to a land of sunshine in which charity reigned supreme, in which harsh criticism was unknown—a sparkling, gracious, fascinating land. The sense of freedom was the most wonderful feeling, and the conviction that I was among genial, kindly, bright people, the most attractive fact of the many evolved for my experience ; and with all the vigour and defiance of a racer who has got the bit between his teeth, I cast Lockrage with its restraints and associations behind me with utter reprobation. A person translated from ice-bound, twilight regions, in which he had almost perished, to a country smiling in golden summer beauty, could not have revelled in his surroundings more rejoicingly than I did."

Of incident there is none, except what arises from the impression- able and sensitive nature of the hero, whose dependent trustful- ness, irritable pride, and strong, but shallow and vagrant, affec- tions, are described with both delicacy and power and a sort of partial and personal tenderness. Lionel is, in faithful conception and delineation, the character of the book, though Pauline is, no doubt, meant to be so ; but while her unselfish and courageous sweetness gains far more of our admiration than Lionel can corn- mand, the sketch is spoiled by the want of consistency to which we have already referred, and still more by her unnatural devotion to a Madame de Vignon, to whose faults she is ridiculously blind. and to whose sins—when too gross to be overlooked—she is culpably lenient and forgiving. The other actors in the story are Mr. and Mrs. Rivers, the uncle and aunt—on Mr. Rivers's side—of Lionel, and—on Mrs. Rivers's—of Pauline ; their daughter Helen ; the Madame de Vignon, already mentioned, who is the English widow of a French gentleman ; and a Sir George Gresham ; these assemble in Mrs. Rivers's salon, or in the gardens of Paris, and afterwards in her drawing-room at Riversdale, or under the trees of the Park, and there the conversations we have spoken of take place ; there is, perhaps, too little variety in the opinions expressed, inasmuch as Mr. Rivers and his daughter, and Madame de Vignon, who are the principal talkers, occupy very much the same philo- sophical position ; but the fine shades of difference are skilfully indicated between the Christian philosophy of Helen, Mr. Rivers's. theism—which is that of an honourable man, but of an epicurean and a cynic in one—and the same views expounded by Madame de Vignon, with more desire to form them into a beautiful system, than with any intention of illustrating them in her own life.

As we have hinted, the incident is scarcely more than by-play. Lionel begins by loving Helen, and she returns it, but makes no sign ; her calm and reticent nature finds the expression of her deep feeling impossible, and Lionel, who cannot understand this, and who longs for the love which pets and spoils, thinks that Helen despises his inferior intellect ; his irritable impatience of her learning is admirably described ; and so, too, is her one intel- lectual weakness,—her idealizing Liouel's qualities, both good and bad, into those of an almost perfect man ; but her constant regretful though sometimes self-complacent reference to her great mental powers—regretful because she knows Lionel's dislike of clever women—is a little overdone ; it is too outspoken for the really humble-minded girl that she is. Lionel next turns to Pauline, who has long loved him, and who, in ignorance of her cousin's love, accepts him, and their little misunderstandings are opportunities employed by the author for charming illustrations of Pauline's tender yet straightforward method of dealing with her warm-hearted but very touchy lover. Madame de Vignon, how- ever, plays the traitor to her devoted young friend, and being in want of money, and learning that Lionel has just inherited an estate, seduces him from his allegiance, and his heart again goes over to a new mistress.

And now we pass into the third stage of our journey, and the story hereafter consists of a long visit of Pauline's to her friend in Paris, in whose innocence she, at first, firmly believes, and to whose beauty and brilliant talents she is a perfect slave, and who, in a most seductive and winning way, with her arm round her victim's neck, admits and explains her treachery, and then—while still borrowing large sums of money from Lionel, and actually fixing her wedding-day with him—accepts another lover ; she deceives him also, making him believe her rich, she cheats her tradespeople, tells lies by the bushel, and ends, after dismissing Lionel and being dismissed by his successors, by putting an end to herself. This last division of the story spoils the whole; if Madame de Vignon's wickedness is not too exceptional for the subject of any but a sensational novel, at any rate, Pauline's belief in her and love for her, are. It is the devotion of the pilot-fish to the shark, which remorselessly eats up its humble companion at the first suggestion of self-interest. That an ardent, truthful girl, bearing not a shadow of malice to her faithless lover, but, on the contrary, believing his faithlessness to be the inevitable consequence of the resistless perfections of her friend, should continue to love and help her in the face of her subsequent desertion and robbery of him, is simply preposterous ; and that she should beset her uncle for funds to enable her friend to deceive, and so to secure, her intended husband, is nothing less than monstrous ; and, indeed, the whole episode of her Paris visit, which occupies one hundred and ten pages, is tiresome and revolting in the extreme, except for the same cleverness in describing the delicate sophistry of Madame de Vignon which runs through the whole.

Sir George Gresham,—Pauline's self-constituted guardian in Paris,—is a nice aketch of a brusque, sincere country-gentleman ; he is, apparently, provided to marry Pauline, and has won our esteem and regard, and Lionel has returned to his first love, Helen, when—heigh, presto !—Helen announces her engagement to Sir George, Lionel, in despair, straightway marries some fair unknown, and poor Pauline is left out in the cold.

It is not our province, in criticizing a novel, to enter into the metaphysical theories enounced and discussed ; but, had we space, we could quote interesting passages in abundance about them, and many beautiful ones on other less weighty topics ; as, for instance,

the description of the Paris of Pauline's actual experience as com- pared with that impressed on her imagination by the history of the Revolution ; of the indignation of Lionel at Pauline's reluct- ance to keep their engagement secret, and of his impatience of Helen's learning, and particularly the passage which describes his discomfiture after disputing her knowledge of the history of the- church of the Madeleine ; of the scene between Helen and Pauline after the latter's engagement to Lionel ; of the consequences of mystery in love matters ; of the nature of flirtation ; of the un- packing of the Paris purchases by Mr. Rivers and Pauline, when he gives her the valuable triptych which is the text for perhaps their most interesting conversation; of a summer's noon-day heat,. &c. We will, however, in conclusion, extract one other passage, which describes with deep and passionate feeling Pauline's longing for peace and for freedom from suspense, during the last scene of her friend's life :— " I sat and looked out, watching the moon, which rose behind the tall,. white houses, and gleamed down upon the sharp lines of their façade, and gazing at the sky with its serene stars; the heavens and the earth seemed to be alike eloquent of the stateliness which belongs to perfect calm, in unmerciful contrast with my tumultuous heart. I could not endure it at last—the bright, beautiful, above all, the tranquil night = the sight of it made me feel cut off from sympathy. I rose, and wont back into the dark part of the room. 'Do lot us remind one another of this time, when we are happy again,' I said, as I sat down on a footstool) at Madame's feet. 'Don't let us forget that we are happy, and what a delight it is to be so, when we are.' She only put her hand on my shoulder by way of answer."

"M. Lotto often came in on his way home from the opera, and so he- might be expected almost up to midnight. But when some deep-toned. clock in the neighbourhood solemnly proclaimed that hour, he had not come. I almost longed to see despair in Madame's face at this moment,. for I had been thinking that suspense was worse than any certainty. As in physical suffering, in which the stronger the vitality the sharper the agony, so the stronger the hope which contends for the mastery with the anguish of death to our desires, the more exquisite is our pain. I should have been glad, I believe, to know that the clock striking the- hour which killed the expectation of Lotto's appearance to-night, bad' fallen upon Madame's heart like the sound of the thud of the earth on a coffin-lid—for then, it seemed to me, the desperate struggle for happi- ness would cease, and the burden of life, supported on a form lying in dust and ashes, but still and quiescent, might be easier to endure. Thus- I argued ; but I knew that Madame would pass the night wrestling with. her unequal foe."