Other formats

    Adobe Portable Document Format file (facsimile images)   TEI XML file   ePub eBook file  

Connect

    mail icontwitter iconBlogspot iconrss icon

Typo: A Monthly Newspaper and Literary Review, Volume 4

Literature

page 149

Literature.

Rarely has a young author come to the front in so short a time as Mr Rudyard Kipling. Altogether unknown a few months ago, his books are now read everywhere, and magazine-editors compete with each other for his contributions. According to Andrew Lang, whose critical judgment few would question, « a new star in literature » has arisen. His stories, says Mr Lang, are « characterized by extraordinary brightness, brevity, observation, humor: unusual, perhaps unexampled knowledge of life in India—life of the people, of their white rulers, of men and women, and of the private soldiers. He has the unusual art of telling a short story; he cuts it down to almost anecdote in his hatred of the prolix and the superfluous. » He was born at Bombay on 30th December, 1865. According to Mr M. McPherson, in the Inland Printer, he is « an almost perfect illustration of hereditary genius. The elder Kipling was employed by the Government of Bombay as one of the art professors in the Bombay School of Design. He was an admirable artist and original designer. One of his fads—if we may call such a thing a fad—was the preservation of native art in all its original purity. He was a prolific and delightful writer, and his literary contributions to the leading English papers in the East were read by thousands with the keenest delight. His wife was also a person of remarkable literary attainments. The letters, stories, and poems of Alice Kipling were admired throughout the length and breadth of India for their easy gracefulness and exquisite daintiness of fancy. And she could be vigorous, too. » Last year Rudyard Kipling visited England, paying a long visit to America on the way. « His political opinions, » says Mr Lang, « are of the kind which were English in the old days before Mr Gladstone; and I am not aware that he has ever attempted to overthrow the Christian religion, nor to supply his own mixture at reasonable charges as a substitute. He is thus, though young and popular, a little belated in our intelligent and advanced generation. » We suppose that there are few of our readers who have not met with some of Mr Kipling's sketches, and have not been struck with their fresh and vivid style. He is somewhat too realistic in the way in which he reproduces the talk of the camp. No doubt he tones it down considerably, but he might with advantage do so to a greater extent. Some of the vernacular of Tommy Atkins requires translation as much as that of the natives. Mr Kipling—like many another successful writer—graduated in the school of journalism; his first sketches were contributed to the press, and his first book was set up by his own hands. His is just now suffering from the effects of overwork, and has retired to Italy, where, undisturbed by the importunities of publishers, he hopes to complete a novel on which he is engaged. Some of his brief sketches already published are likely to take a permanent place in literature; and if he can maintain an equal standard in sustained effort, and does not fall into the error of attempting too much work, his future fame is assured. In our present issue will be found a short piece of Mr Kipling's, in verse, which exhibits both the forcible points and the defects of his style. It is a parable with a moral worth thinking out. Mr Kipling recognizes a fact which socialists in vain endeavor to ignore—that for good or evil, the human affections are after all the motive powers of life, and must be taken into account by all who aim at social reconstruction or reform.

According to the Printer's Register, the manuscript of « The Pentateuch of Printing, » by the late William Blades, is being edited for the press by Mr Talbot B. Reed, and will be published by Elliot Stock.

Justin McCarthy has dedicated the following sonnet to the memory of the late Richard Burton:—

Farewell, dear friend, dead hero! The great life
Is ended, the great perils, the great joys,
And he to whom adventures were as toys,
Who seemed to bear a charm 'gainst spear or
Or bullet, now lies silent from all strife [knife
Out yonder where the Austrian eagles poise
On Istrian hills. But England, at the noise
Of that dread fall, weeps with the hero's wife.
Oh, last and noblest of the Errant Knights,
The English soldier and the Arab Sheik,
Oh, singer of the East, who loved so well
The deathless wonder of the Arabian nights,
Who touched Camoens' lute, and still would seek
Ever new deeds until the end—farewell!

We find the following paragraph in the Printing Times: The French Academy has abandoned its dictionary! Since as far back as 1835 the Academy has been preparing this prodigious work, which was to be official. From time to time the newspapers had contained announcements that the academicians had been in council working on their dictionary, but they never could get beyond the letter A. It was a despairing case. Many of the Immortals have said that the work would be useless; that it would have no purpose; that, Penelope task as it was, it was always being re-commenced. They have at last been listened to, with the result that the news of the definite abandonment of the dictionary is said to be official. Meanwhile, it is asked, what is to become of the result of all this vast labor of fifty-five years on the letter A?

We find, under the signature of « Charles Mackenzie, » the following stanzas on their rounds:—

Hide long, unbridled years, ride long,
While morning glory tints the hills;
Ride to the rhythm of the song
Brave youth hath shapen into trills.
O'er champaign bright, with ringing hoof,
That mocks the buried city's dust,
Beneath the wonder-spangled roof,
Ride on before young life can rust.
Love's chiselled honors stand as gods
Afar, where sea and heaven meet;
Think not what lies beneath the sods
Can make the ride less long and fleet.
Then ride, unbridled years, ride long;
Nor look what follows in your wake—
A shadow may unnerve the strong,
A ghost can e'en a hero quake.

They are not published as an enigma, nor do they appear to be intended as a joke. The twice-repeated metaphor with which the piece opens is at least original—it is usually the horse, and not the rider, that is bridled. After careful reading, we are obliged to conclude that the poem is an amphigory, which (according to Webster) is « a rigmarole, with apparent meaning, which, on further examination, proves to be meaningless. » If all amphigoric rhymes, in the words of Calverley,

Could be furled together, this genial weather,
And carted or carried on « wafts » away,
Nor ever again trotted out—ah me!
How much fewer volumes of verse there'd be!

The Wellington Times says:—We have just seen in that excellent publication Little Folks, a story of adventure in New Zealand which makes some wonderful misstatements. A party of young people land in a kauri forest close to Wellington; they find snakes in the grass; they are attacked by bloodthirsty natives armed with boomerangs; they are addressed as « Paheka. » and they are thre'at-ened with tortures unmentionable. They escape only to fall into the hands of bushrangers, and finally they bring up safe within the sound of railway whistles and the roar of Cobb and Co's coaches!

Mr Henry Varley, a noted « evangelist, » who is conducting a vigorous anti gambling crusade in Melbourne, has broken out into verse. The following is said to be one of his best efforts:—

Higher than Melos or Highborn,
Our choice! His worth? Thousands. In fine
Worthy for deeds of honour, glory,
Great horsey Idol, Lord Carbine.
How we prayed him to ride first-
Object of worship, pass the line;
That prayer he answered. More,
He gave us gold—our Lord Carbine.

If Mr Varley is really capable of producing worse verse than this, his abilities in that line must be unparalleled.