their fall, and "a hideous hum" from the mob outside thrills through
the temples. In fiction, on the other hand, the world of fashion is
"played out." Nobody cares to read or write about the dear duchess.
If a peer comes into a novel he comes in, not as a coroneted
curiosity, but as a man, just as if he were a dentist, or a
stockbroker. His rank is an accident; it used to be the essence of
his luminous apparition. I scarce remember a lord in all the many
works of Mr. Besant, nor do they people the romances of Mr. Black.
Mr. Kipling does not deal in them, nor Mr. George Meredith much; Mr.
Haggard hardly gets beyond a baronet, and HE wears chain mail in
Central Africa, and tools with an axe. Mrs. Oliphant has a Scotch
peer, but he is less interesting and prominent than his family
ghost. No, we have only Ouida left, and Mr. Norris--who writes
about people of fashion, indeed, but who has nothing in him of the
old fashionable novelist.

Is it to a Republic, to France, that we must look for our
fashionable novels--to France and to America. Every third person in
M. Guy de Maupassant's tales has a "de," and is a Marquis or a
Vicomte. As for M. Paul Bourget, one really can be happy with him
in the fearless old fashion. With him we meet Lord Henry Bohun, and
M. De Casal (a Vicomte), and all the Marquises and Marquises; and
all the pale blue boudoirs, and sentimental Duchesses, whose hearts
are only too good, and who get into the most complicated amorous
scrapes. That young Republican, M. Bourget, sincerely loves a
blason, a pedigree, diamonds, lace, silver dressing cases, silver
baths, essences, pomatums, le grand luxe. So does Gyp: apart from
her wit, Gyp is delightful to read, introducing us to the very best
of bad company. Even M. Fortune du Boisgobey likes a Vicomte, and
is partial to the noblesse, while M. Georges Ohnet is accused of