nineteenth century prided itself particularly on its short stories, and I understand that the pride has been taken on by the twentieth. Indeed I have seen it said totidem verbis, that, good as they may be, Mérimée's examples can not pretend to the subtlety, the poignancy, the true philosophico-mythical character of ours. Well, "a gude conceit of ourselves" is no doubt a good gift of Providence in a way. But I fear I am not able to share it in this particular instance, and to this particular extent. To speak of living persons is invidious, but there are, I suppose, few living persons who would rank themselves or any of their contemporaries as superior to the late M. Guy de Maupassant in the short story. And much as I admire Maupassant, glad as I am to think I was among the very first English critics to hail him, I certainly do not think that he has beaten Mérimée. Even in what les jeunes seem to consider the last secret of their art, the secret of not finishing, of leaving a problem and a suggestion, Mérimée knew all about it, though, like a great artist, he did not too often indulge in what is at its best something of a trick, while it may be something worse—a mere subterfuge to hide an inability to finish—a sort of literary parallel to the proceedings of that gifted painter who put forth as his mas-
