him to make a novel out of it as a tale—­as easy, and much more satisfactory and remunerative.  Others, like M. Guy de Maupassant, for example, seem to find their strength in brevity, in cutting down, not in amplifying; in selecting and reducing, not in allowing other ideas to group themselves round the first, other characters to assemble about those who are essential.  That seems to be really the whole philosophy of this matter, concerning which so many words are expended.  The growth of the germinal idea depends on the nature of an author’s talent—­he may excel in expansion, or in reduction; he may be economical, and out of an anecdote may spin the whole cocoon of a romance; or he may be extravagant, and give a capable idea away in the briefest form possible.

These ideas may come to a man in many ways, as we said, from a dream, from a fragmentary experience (as most experiences in life are fragmentary), from a hint in a newspaper, from a tale told in conversation.  Not long ago, for example, I heard an anecdote out of which M. Guy de Maupassant could have made the most ghastly, the most squalid, and the most supernaturally moving of all his contes.  Indeed, that is not saying much, as he did not excel in the supernatural.  Were it written in French, it might lie in my lady’s chamber, and, as times go, nobody would be shocked.  But, by our curious British conventions, this tale cannot be told in an English book or magazine.  It was not, in its tendency, immoral; those terrible tales never are.  The events were rather calculated to frighten the hearer into the paths of virtue.  When Mr. Richard Cameron, the founder of the Cameronians, and the godfather of the Cameronian Regiment, was sent to his parish, he was bidden by Mr. Peden to “put hell-fire to the tails” of his congregation.  This vigorous expression was well fitted to describe the conte which I have in my mind (I rather wish I had it not), and which is not to be narrated here, nor in English.

For a combination of pity and terror, it seemed to me unmatched in the works of the modern fancy, or in the horrors of modern experience; whether in experience or in imagination it had its original source.  But even the English authors, who plume themselves on their audacity, or their realism, or their contempt for “the young person,” would not venture this little romance, much less, then, is a timidly uncorrect pen-man likely to tempt Mr. Mudie with the conte.  It is one of two tales, both told as true, which one would like to be able to narrate in the language of Moliere.  The other is also very good, and has a wonderful scene with a corpse and a chapelle ardente, and a young lady; it is historical, and of the last generation but one.