He did and he didn't.

Letters, easy, clear, to the point, and gorgeously human, flowed from him without let or hindrance.

That masterpiece of corresponding, "The German March Through Brussels," was probably written almost as fast as he could talk (next to Phillips Brooks, he was the fastest talker I ever heard), but when it came to fiction he had no facility at all.

Perhaps I should say that he held in contempt any facility that he may have had.

It was owing to his incomparable energy and Joblike patience that he ever gave us any fiction at all.