We have had a drought for three weeks.  During a whole week this northern strath has been as sunny as the Riviera is expected to be.  The streams can be crossed dry-shod, kelts are plunging in the pools, but even kelts will not look at a fly.  Now, by way of a pleasant change, an icy north wind is blowing, with gusts of snow, not snow enough to swell the loch that feeds the river, but just enough snow (as the tourist said of the water in the River Styx) “to swear by,” or at! The Field announces that a duke, who rents three rods on a neighbouring river, has not yet caught one salmon.  The acrimoniously democratic mind may take comfort in that intelligence, but, if the weather will not improve for a duke, it is not likely to change for a mere person of letters.  Thus the devotee of the Muses is driven back, by stress of climate, upon literature, and as there is nothing in the lodge to read he is compelled to write.

Now certainly one would not lack material, if only one were capable of the art of fiction.  The genesis of novels and stories is a topic little studied, but I am inclined to believe that, like the pearls in the mussels of the river, fiction is a beautiful disease of the brain.  Something, an incident or an experience, or a reflection, gets imbedded, incrusted, in the properly constituted mind, and becomes the nucleus of a pearl of romance.  Mr. Marion Crawford, in a recent work, describes his hero, who is a novelist, at work.  This young gentleman, by a series of faults or misfortunes, has himself become a centre of harrowing emotion.  Two young ladies, to each of whom he has been betrothed, are weeping out their eyes for him, or are kneeling to heaven with despairing cries, or are hardening their hearts to marry men for whom they “do not care a bawbee.”  The hero’s aunt has committed a crime; everybody, in fact, is in despair, when an idea occurs to the hero.  Indifferent to the sorrows of his nearest and dearest, he sits down with his notion and writes a novel—­writes like a person possessed.

He has the proper kind of brain, the nucleus has been dropped into it, the pearl begins to grow, and to assume prismatic hues.  So he is happy, and even the frozen-out angler might be happy if he could write a novel in the absence of salmon.  Unluckily, my brain is not capable of this aesthetic malady, and to save my life, or to “milk a fine warm cow rain,” as the Zulus say, I could not write a novel, or even a short story.  About The Short Story, as they call it, with capital letters, our critical American cousins have much to say.  Its germ, one fancies, is usually an incident, or a mere anecdote, according to the nature of the author’s brain; this germ becomes either the pearl of a brief conte, or the seed of a stately tree, in three volumes.  An author of experience soon finds out how he should treat his material.  One writer informs me that, given the idea, the germinal idea, it is as easy for