ters for the most part from among the lowlier walks of life and pictures their troubles and sufferings and their infrequent joys with loving fidelity. A vein of gentle melancholy pervades his writings, varied by an occasional indignant denunciation of the shams and frauds of society, but without maudlin sentimentality. It is to be doubted, however, if he will ever receive the recognition that his tender grace and manly humanitarianism entitle him to, for he neither blows the trumpet nor beats the big drum, as some of his confrères are not above doing; and although he pipes so pleasantly, he does it, rather, cum tenui avena.
De Maupassant, who seemed likely at one time to run Zola close in the race for popularity, is pretty well known on this side of the Atlantic; Bourget and Claretie, both adepts in the story-teller's art, are less so. It may be said that the Zola school is by no means omnipotent in the country of its birth; there are many excellent men and eminent writers who deprecate its influence on morals and on literature, and French authors, unconsciously to themselves perhaps, permit themselves to be swayed to a much greater extent than they did a short time ago by the influence of English and American writers. They, appreciate more justly than they used to do the traits, habits, and character of their neighbors across the water; there is less (though even now too much) of that contempt for the outer barbarian that they formerly took
