_Paris, 44 Bd. Haussmann, Friday, February 21, 1878._
MY DEAR PEOPLE,--Do you know who is my favourite author just now? How
are the mighty fallen! Anthony Trollope. I batten on him; he is so
nearly wearying you, and yet he never does; or rather, he never does,
until he gets near the end, when he begins to wean you from him, so that
you're as pleased to be done with him as you thought you would be sorry.
I wonder if it's old age? It is a little, I am sure. A young person
would get sickened by the dead level of meanness and cowardliness; you
require to be a little spoiled and cynical before you can enjoy it. I
have just finished the _Way of the World_; there is only one person in
it--no, there are three--who are nice: the wild American woman, and two
of the dissipated young men, Dolly and Lord Nidderdale. All the heroes
and heroines are just ghastly. But what a triumph is Lady Carbury! That
is real, sound, strong, genuine work: the man who could do that, if he
had had courage, might have written a fine book; he has preferred to
write many readable ones. I meant to write such a long, nice letter, but
I cannot hold the pen.