OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
Pietro Ghisleri is another success for that charming writer Marion Crawford. The style is everything. The story is not of so thrilling a nature as to be absorbing, but it is sufficiently interesting—for the Baron, at least, with whom M.C.—"Master of his Craft"—is a great favourite. "Odd, though," murmurs the Baron to himself, and he seldom murmurs about anything; "odd that a writer like our Marion should, in Vol. II., p. 35, pen such a sentence as this: "There are plenty of others whom you may care for more than I." Of course the author intends Maddalena del' Armi, who utters these words, to convey to her listener and to the reader that "There are plenty of others for whom you may care more than (you care) for me." How does "than I" get into this sentence, unless it is to mean "There are plenty of others for whom you may care more than I care for them"—quod est absurdum." It is unfortunate that the pivot on which the plot turns is so highly improbable as to be almost impossible, for is it not most unlikely that any Catholic, educated or uneducated, should ever write her confession to her confessor, and send it by post, instead of going to him, and making it by word of mouth? She must have known that, in so doing, she was making no confession at all, i.e., in the restrictedly religious sense of the word. While she was about it, she might as well have inclosed a stamped and addressed envelope for the absolution to be sent by return. This is the hinge of the story; and it is a very weak one. Mr. Crawford recognises this when his other characters casually discuss the probability of Adèle's having done such a thing. However, grant this, which is almost as easily done as granting superhuman strength to a Ouidaesque hero, and the book—in three of Macmillan's blue volumes—is fascinating. Such is the candid opinion of The Baron de Book-worms.
