OLIVE.'

TIM novel is an improvement upon the writer's former tale of The Ogilvies, though it is hardly raised above the class of fictions in which we placed its predecessor,—the representations of life are not sufficiently large as a general picture, though vivacious as a matter-of-fact view, if put forward simply as such. In Olive, in- deed, the matter of the earlier part of the tale scarcely reaches this merit; for the elements are those of the common novel, though displaying good writing and used with a purpose. The latter por- tions, although extreme, have more elevation of subject and real interest, besides being free from the questionable moral incident that rather detracted from the effect of The Ogilvies.

Olive, the heroine, would seem to be designed to show the effects of love and goodness over a want of personal attractions and un- favourable external circumstances. Her father, Captain Rothesay, struck by a pretty face, has married a weak and rather foolish woman. A ffairs take him to the West Indies before the birth of his daughter, where he is detained some years. Olive is weakly, and slightly deformed. Her mother, looking only to beauty, can- not bear the sight of her daughter; and she is left to an old Scotch nurse. Mrs. Rothesay's foolishness prevents her from writing the truth to her husband ; he comes home expecting a beauty, and his disappointment deadens the father's love. In the end, however, Olive triumphs over this feeling, and other difficulties. When

Rothesay is estranged from his wife by her foolish temper an harassed by embarrassed circumstances, Olive restores peace. On her father's death, she comforts and supports her mother in limited means and finally in blindness, till the once foolish Mrs. Rothesay becomes respectable, and even interesting, from her resignation and maternal affection.

In the essential elements of the story these things are not very new. A foolish match, and an estranged pair reconciled by love for a child, are not uncommon in the novels of the last generation ; though in Olive they are exhibited with greater reality and knowledge of life. There are, however, two broad incidents that give more of force and novelty to the tale. To pay off a debt of her father, Olive becomes an artist; and the painter, by whose means she is taught, is a forcible picture of a man al- together wedded to his art, (though Barry, we fancy, was the only one of the English school who could have sat for the likeness, in his earnestness and his oddities,) while the devoted attachment of the artist's sister, though resembling that of Miss Lamb to her brother Elia, is more humble and subdued. The other incident is the story of Harold Gwynne, who is led by affection for his mother to enter the church as a means of support while he is secretly an unbeliever. Him Olive is a means of converting ; and at the mature age (for a love story) of thirty she falls in love with him,—an atta&ment which is rather tediously spun out, by no other mode than keeping silence. Although there seems a good deal to be done in Olive, yet one of its deficiencies is want of action. The story is carried on by the author rather than the actors, and it is often done by writing. This, indeed, is an old fault with inferior novelists and tale- writers ; but it has probably increased, from the example of those who publish their books piecemeal. To elaborate descriptions, and to expand reflections till they almost reach an essay, is a much easier task than to present scenery in a few touches like a striking background to a picture; while to let' the persons themselves impress the moral that is pointed by their situation or conduct, • Olive ; a Novel. By the Author of " The Ogilvies." In three volumes. Pub- lished by Chapman and Hall. instead of having the author call attention to it by writing that delays the story, is more arduous still. In works whose object is expressly didactic, and where the author has really something new to teach, this peculiarity must be borne with, as forming part of the nature of the book; but so high -a character does not belong to Olive.

In scenes of strong emotion this failing is of necessity kept down. The following is an occasion of the kind, where Harold, after an illness caused by his exertions in rescuing Olive from a fire, which leads to their betrothal, avows to his mother the former state of his mind. Mrs. Gwynne, a reserved but deep-feeling Scoteh- woman, has been alluding to his appearance in the pulpit, which had been prevented not only by his illness but by a foreign tour.

" 'In truth, all your parishioners will be glad to have you back again. Even Mrs. Fludyer was saying so yesterday, and noticing that it was a whole year since you had preached in your own church. A long absence ! Of course it could not be helped ; still it was rather a pity. Please God, it shall not happen again—shall it, Harold ?' " 'Mother—mother !' His hands were pressed together, and on his face was a look of pain. Olive stole to his side.

" ' He looks ill ! Perhaps we are talking too much for him. Shall we go away, Harold, and leave you to sleep ?' " Hush, Olive, hush !' he whispered : have thought of this before ; I knew I must tell it to her—all the truth.'

" But not now—not now. Wait till you are stronger ; wait a week—a day.' " No, not an hour. It is right!'

" ' What are you talking to my son about ?' said Mrs. Gwynne, with a quick jealousy, which even yet was not altogether stilled.

" Neither of the betrothed spoke. " Yon are not hiding anything from me, Harold ?—from me, your mother !'

" ' My mother—my noble, self-denying mother !' murmured Harold, as if thinking aloud. Surely, if I sinned for her God will forgive me !'

" 'Sinned for me ! What are you talking of, Harold ? Is there anything in your thought—anything I do not know ?' And her look—still tender, yet becoming cold with a half-formed suspicion—was fixed, searchingly, on her son. And when, as if to shield him even from his mother, Olive leaned over him, Mrs. Gwynne's voice grew stern with reproof. "'Stand aside, Olive. Let me see his face. Not even you have a right to interpose between me and my son.'

" Olive moved a little aside. Very meek was her spirit—meek as had need to be that of one whom Mrs. Gwynne would call daughter and Harold wife. Yet by her meekness she had oftentimes controlled them both. She did so now.

" Olive--darling? whispered Harold, his eyes full of love; my mother says right. Let her come and sit by me a little. Nay, stay near, though. I must have your face in my sight—it will strengthen me.' "She pressed his hand, and went away to the other end of the room. " Then Harold said, tenderly, 'Mother, come and talk to me—I want to tell you something.' " It is no misfortune—no sin ? Oh, my son, I em too old to bear either ?' she answered, as she sat down, trembling a little. But she let him take her hands, and her face softened as he continued,

" My own mother—my mother that I love dearer now than ever in my life before—listen to me, and thenjudge me. Twelve or fourteen years ago, there was a son—an only son—who had a noble mother. She had sacri- ficed everything for him ; the time came when he had to sacrifice something for her. It was a point of conscience ; light, perhaps, then—but still, it caused him a struggle. He must conquer it ; and he did so. He stifled all scruples, pressed down all doubts, and became minister of a church in whose faith he only half believed.'

" 'Goon,' said Mrs. Gwynne, hurriedly; had a fear once—a bitter fear. But no matter. Go on.'

" Well, he did this sin, for sin it was, though done for his mother's sake. He had better have supported her by the labour of his hands than have darkened his soul by a lie. But he did not think of that then. All the fault was his—not his mother's, mind—I say,. not his mother's.'

"She looked at him, and then looked away again, with a bewildered sor- row in her eyes.

" He could blame no one but himself—he never ffid—though his doubts grew until they prisoned him like a black mist, through which he could see neither earth nor heaven. God makes men's natures different; his was not meant for that of a quiet village priest. Circumstances, associations, habits of mind—all were against him. And so his scepticism and his misery in- creased, until, in despair of heaven, he plunged into the oblivion of an earthly passion. He went mad for a woman's beauty—for her beauty only !' [A former wife.]

"Harold pressed his hand upon his brow as if old memories stung him still. His betrothed saw it, but she felt no pain. She knew that her own strong, pure, infinite love, had shone down into his heart's dark depths, re- moving every stain, binding up every wound. By that love's great might she had controlled fils. She had saved him, and won him, and would have power to keep him evermore. " 'Mother,' Harold pursued, I must pass on quickly to the end. This man's one error seemed to cause all fate to rise against him, that he might become an infidel to God and to man. At last he had faith in no living soul except his mother. This alone saved him from being the vilest wretch that ever crawled, as he was already the most miserable.'

"A faint groan—only one—broke from the depth of the mother's heart; but she never spoke. " There was no escape—his pride shut out that. So, year after year he fulfilled his calling and lived his life honestly, morally—in some thing:to- wards man, at least ; but towards Heaven it was one long, awful lie. For he—a minister in God's temple—was in his heart an atheist.' "Harold stopped. In his strong excitement he had forgotten his mother. She, letting go his hand, glided to her knees ; there she knelt for a long time, her lips movine. silently. At last she rose, her grand figure lifted to its ut- most height, her face very stern, her voice without one tone of tremulous age or mother's anguish.

" And this hypocrite in man's sight—this blasphemer in the face of God —is my son Harold !' " Was, but is not—never will be more. Oh, mother, have mercy ! for Heaven has had mercy too. Now, at last, I believe.' " Mrs. Gwynne uttered a great cry, and fell on his neck. Never since the time when he was a child in her arms had he received such a passionate clasp—an embrace mingled with weeping that shook the whole frame of the aged mother. For a moment she lifted her head, murmured a thanksgiving for the son who was dead, and alive again—was lost, and found'—and then she clung to him once more. "