Michael Ferrier. By E. Frances Poynter. (Macmillan and Co. 6s.)—Sir
Walter Scott and Anthony Trollope appeared to find the beginnings of their novels the most difficult part to manage. Nowa- days we have changed all that, and the modern writer of fiction sometimes seems to imagine that if he can only get "well in" so as to arrest his readers' attention in the first few pages, the rest of the book may be allowed to look after itself. Hence the re- viewer begins book after book with every hope of a " find," only to discover that the promising opening which has deluded him is, like Bunthorne's poem, " hollow, hollow, hollow." Michael Ferrier begins with quite an interesting letter from the hero (who gives his full name to the novel) to an elder woman friend. In this he exposes his state of mind, amatory and otherwise, in a manner which is both interesting and aehr modern. The whole scheme of the story seems laid on lines which look ready to develop into an interesting and readable book. Unfortunately, however, something seems to happen half-way ; the theme is interrupted, the story collapses, and a totally irrelevant and unnecessary accident turns the little drawing-room drama into a tragedy which it has not backbone enough to support. Tragedy, even everyday commonplace tragedy, to be artistically tolerable, should be inevitable,—a word which no one can apply to the fate of Michael and his most unhappy bride. The book, therefore, though carefully written, must be pronounced on the whole unsatisfactory, which is doubly disappointing in view of the promise which renders the opening chapters so attractive.
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