Mulvaney, Learoyd, and Ortheris? "Tis immortal fame the gentleman's going to give us," predicted the firstnamed, and the prophecy bids fair to come true. Since the deathless Pickwick and his faithful band desisted from their wanderings, no group of personages has gained so well-assured a footing in the affections of the public as these same "soldiers three." Men

do not love them, perhaps, for their own sakes. As studies of character they count for comparatively little. They are not discriminated with any great nicety, and the marked difference in their speech dispenses with all necessity for the finer and more delicate strokes of the brush. We cannot pretend to look upon Mulvaney as a Milesian Prometheus, with the vultures of remorse preying upon his vitals; nor does Learoyd seem to be distinguishable in any particular from our old friend the Yorkshireman of the stage. The claim which the trio really have upon our undying gratitude and regard arises mainly from their being the mouthpiece of the author for a series of stories which hold their own with any in our language in point of variety, humor, spirit, and power. It is unnecessary to expatiate on their merits, though we may call attention to the extraordinary felicity and appropriate ness of their respective settings, of which Mulvaney and his comrades are pars magna. Nor is it possible to arrange them in order of excellence. Each seems the best until the next is read. We should not quarrel seriously with any one who indicated a special preference for The Courting of Dinah Shadd" and "With the Main Guard,” the latter being Mr. Kipling's best war-piece, with the exception of "The Lost Legion." But we cannot pass from them without congratulating the British private upon having at last found his vates sacer, and the army generally upon having fallen in with a writer who has taught the least imaginative of nations what manful work its

soldiers are doing for it. There is a fine healthy ring in all Mr. Kipling's utterances about her Majesty's forces. But his inspiration was curiously anticipated by a writer who in other respects is his very antithesis. Tom

Robertson was timid, artificial, and conventional. Mr. Kipling is dashing, original, and bold. Tom Robertson seeins hopelessly out of date. Mr. Kipling is essentially dans le train. But he must be a rare hand indeed at the splitting of a hair who can detect any appreciable distinction or difference between the tone and sentiment of "Ours" and those of "The Big Drunk Draf'," or "Only a Subaltern," or "The Man Who Was," or "His Private Honor."

The rough classification which, for convenience sake, we have made of Mr. Kipling's short stories is not quite exhaustive. There remain a fair number which are not tales of Anglo-Indian society, nor tales of native life, nor yet tales of the British army. There are, for instance, what we may call the tales of physical horror. Among these are "Bertran and Bimi," "A Matter of Fact," and "The Mark of the Beast; and, without embarking upon the general question whether such topics as they deal with fall within the legitimate sphere of art, we confess that we could have willingly spared them. The stories of the supernatural, on the other hand, like "At the End of the Passage," we could spare by no possibility whatever. Finally, there is a small class which stands by itself in virtue of possessing in an especial degree the characteristic excellences of its creator's genius. "The Finest Story in the World" will always stand out as perhaps the most striking illustration of Mr. Kipling's versatility. The deeper problems it suggests may be put on one side; what is of real moment is the snatches from the galley-slave's experience. Here are the same matchless power of presenting a scene and suggesting an atmosphere, the same realistic commemoration of minute details, the same idealistic selection of the relevant and the essential, which distinguished the Indian narratives, and all applied to a state of facts long since passed away. Yet even this

miracle of invention and artifice must give place to "The Man who would be King," which we venture to consider Mr. Kipling's chef-d'œuvre in prose. The fable makes considerable drafts on one's credulity at the outset ; but the

drafts are instantly honored, and the reader, falling more and more under the master's spell, is whirled along triumphantly to the close. No time to No time to take breath or to reflect, so impetuous and irresistible is the torrent. Those to whom emotions are as daily bread will find there a truly bounteous repast.

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Whether a writer of short stories can write long ones and vice versa has often been acrimoniously debated; but one thing is plain, that Mr. Kipling has not yet proved the affirmative. The Light that Failed" and "The Naulahka" have their moments. They are much more readable than most contemporary novels, and the latter is as thrilling as "Treasure Island." But to compare them with, say, "The Drums of the Fore and Aft" would be ridiculous. Perhaps one reason of their failure is the thoroughly uninteresting character of the hero and heroine. Who cares much for Dick and Maisie? Who for Nicholas Tarvin and Kate Sheriff? Better by far the society of Mowgli and the wolvesthan whom indeed more agreeable company is not to be found without much seeking. None of Mr. Kipling's works have the same graciousness and charm as "The Jungle Books," none are so wise, so considerate, so kindly. If, before trying them yourself, you follow the old maxim and "try them on the dog," the result is certain to be satisfactory. Children adore them, and add the animals to that menagerie which Robin, Dickie, Flapsy, and Pecksy used to adorn. And if, fortified by the success of your experiment, you try them on yourself, you will thenceforth use no others. The reader will perhaps forgive an uncontrollable lapse into the dignified phraseology of latter-day criticism.

The peculiar attraction of Mr. Kipling's prose work lies much less in any solicitude for style than in his unique fertility of imagination. He need never beat about the bush, for it disgorges a hare every two minutes; nor has he time to be fastidious in his choice of words. In some of his earlier pieces his manner is almost vicious. It is like "the picture-writing of a half-civilized people," to borrow an apt metaphor of his own,

crude, jerky, flippant. The straining after smartness and sensation is too evident, and the flash epigram is too frequent and favorite an ornament That these faults have been to a great extent corrected by the maturer taste and sounder discretion of advancing years is perfectly true. But they are not wholly eradicated, and Mr. Kipling has still to vindicate his title to be considered as a model of English style. That he could make it good if he pleased, we have not the least doubt. A descriptive passage like the following proves that he has little to learn:

"Over our heads burned the wonderful Indian stars, which are not all pricked in on one plane, but, preserving an orderly perspective, draw the eye through the velvet darkness of the void up to the barred doors of heaven itself. The earth was a gray shadow, more unreal than the sky. We could hear her breathing lightly in the pauses between the howling of the jackals, the movement of the wind in the tamarisks, and the fitful mutter of musketryfire, leagues away to the left. A native woman from some unseen hut began to sing, the mail-train thundered past on its way to Delhi, and a roosting crow cawed drowsily. Then there was a belt-loosening silence about the fires, and the even breathing of the crowded earth took up the story."

There is no doubt about that as a piece of English; but the great bulk of Mr. Kipling's most vigorous and successful prose-work is not in ordinary English but in dialect. It is in the lingo of the Cockney, the Irishman, or the Yorkshireman; or it is in a tongue specially invented for the use of birds and beasts; or it is in a language designed to reproduce the characteristic nuances of oriental thought and feeling. It is through such a medium that Mr. Kipling's genius seems to find its most ample and fitting expression; and perhaps it is on that account that his long stories are disappointing. They are necessarily in more or less literary English, for dialect cannot be maintained beyond a certain length of time without fatiguing the reader.

That Mr. Kipling has performed prodigies of ingenuity, and of more than ingenuity, with dialect in verse as well as in prose, is no more than the truth. He has indeed accomplished what, perhaps, was never achieved before. He has selected a patois the associations

of which were wholly mean, commonplace, ludicrous, and degrading, and has made it the vehicle of poetry characterized by qualities the very reverse of these. But his verse, whether in plain English or in dialect, is superior to his prose in plain English, because poetry is more exacting than prose. It is the paradox of poetry that it permits no synonyms. The poet is in perpetual quest of the one inevitable word, and only the true poet can find it. Now in Mr. Kipling's poetry the right word emerges at the right moment, and no one can doubt that it is the right word. "So it's knock out your pipes an' follow

me!

An' it's finish off your swipes an' follow

me!

Oh, 'ark to the fifes a-crawlin'!

Follow me-follow me 'ome! "

Does not the word we have italicized almost make one catch one's breath by its startling appropriateness? But we must not begin to quote, or this article would never end.

The technical difficulties of poetry have no terrors for Mr. Kipling.* His command of rhythm and metre is absolute. No measure is too intricate for him to master, and some of the pleasure with which his verse is read is due to the apparent facility with which he handles a complicated scheme of versification.

We think we can detect that Mr. Swinburne engaged some portion of Mr. Kipling's youth; but the influence of that master is not obtrusive in his later productions. For pure poetical prestidigitation we never read anything to compare with the stanza prefixed to chapter vii. of "The Naulahka." Even Mr. Gilbert, in the happiest hours of his plenary Aristophanic inspiration, never equalled that. But luckily there is infinitely more in Mr. Kipling's poetry than mere nim

bleness of wit or mechanical dexterity. His highest flights are high indeed, and it is true of his best work, as of all the world's greatest poetry, that it can be read and re-read without losing its freshness. New beauties are ever to be discovered, and the old ones shine with brighter lustre. His record as a poet is one of steady and rapid progress. His very earliest efforts are perhaps scarcely superior to the best verse in "Punch," when the letterpress of that journal was worth reading. Among all the "Departmental Ditties" there is but one-" Possibilities"-whose original flavor and half-pathetic, halfcynical humor indicates something transcending extreme cleverness. The Ballad of East and West" was the first plain manifestation of genius; while in his subsequent volumes-in the "Barrack-room Ballads" and in "The Seven Seas"-there are poems whose authorship not even the greatest of England's singers need be eager to disavow. "The Flag of England," "A Song of the English," The Last Chantey," "M'Andrew's Hymn,' these are strains that dwell in the memory and stir the blood. They have a richness and fulness of note very different from the shrill and reedy utterance of many who have attempted to tune their pipe to the pitch of courage and of patriotism. Yet even they sink into comparative insignificance beside. "Recessional which fifteen months ago took England by storm, and which seemed to concentrate in itself the glowing patriotism of a Shakespeare, the solemn piety of a Milton, and the measured stateliness of a Dryden. For sheer ingenuity and lightness of touch, indeed, "The Song of the Banjo" cannot be matched. (Why, by the bye, has the fate of

that

the

younger son" such a fascination for Mr. Kipling's muse?) But we are not prepared to put it in the same rank as the best of the "Barrack-room Ballads," though what the best are we shall not be rash enough to say. Let the reader make his own selection.

To frame a concise yet exhaustive judgment upon Mr. Kipling is impossible, so various are his gifts, so rich his endowment. A glowing imagina

tion, an inexhaustible invention, a profound knowledge of the human heart these are three of his choicest possessions. Yet how inadequately does so bald a statement sum up the rich profusion of his talents! How beggarly and feeble seem the resources of language to do justice to his great achievements! It is good to think that in all human probability he will be long with us to continue his work and to enhance his fame. There will never be wanting persons to dissuade from patriotism, and to point out how expensive the exercise of that virtue is apt to be. It is well for us that a great writer should be in our midst strengthening the weak hands and confirming the feeble knees. Much as he has accomplished in the past, there remains much for him to accomplish in the future, and if in the

course of providence we should be spared to survey Mr. Kipling's work thirty years hence, we make no doubt that much of priceless value will have been added to its tale. For the constant burden of his song teaches the lesson which it most behoves the younger generation to learn. "Law, Orrder, Duty, an' Restraint, Obedience, Discipline !"- these are the foundations of a prosperous State. The Laws of the Jungle are the Laws of the Universe, and we shall be fortunate indeed if, when times of stress and peril arrive, we have realized what our fathers learned in sorrow and tribulation and what their sons are too prone to forget,

"But the head and the hoof of the Law And the haunch and the hump is-Obey!'' -Blackwood's Magazine. :

THE study of the characteristics of notable personages, past and present, yields nothing more surprising-certainly nothing more humorous-than experiences of how frequently simplicity is closely allied to genius, and how often ignorance of the commonest things goes hand-in-hand with profound learning. The Duke of Wellington was largely endowed with that modesty or simplicity which makes a great man almost unconscious of his greatness. He met a lady friend who was going to see a model of the battle of Waterloo, and remarked to her. "Ah, you're going to see Waterloo ! It's a very good model; I was at the battle, you know." Surveying a field of battle, he could detect almost at a glance the weak points in the disposition of the contending forces, but he could never tell whether his dinner was cooked well or ill. A first-rate chef was in the employment of Lord Seaford, who, not being able to afford to keep the man, prevailed on the Duke of Wellington to engage him. Shortly after entering the Duke's service the chef returned to his former master and

begged him, with tears in his eyes, to take him back, at reduced wages or none at all. Lord Seaford asked, "Has the Duke been finding fault?"" “Oh, no—he is the kindest and most liberal of masters; but I serve him a dinner that would have made Ude or Francatelli burst with envy, and he say nothing! I go out and leave him to dine on a dinner badly dressed by my cook maid, and he say nothing. Dat hurt my feelings, my lord!"

There is a story also told of Mr. Gladstone which would show that the true meaning of the old saying "Do not mix your drinks" was unknown to the great statesman. It is said to have been his habit to let the wines which were served in the course of dinner mobilize at his elbow, and during a pause in the conversation seize the glass that happened to be nearest. On one occasion Mr. Gladstone, who had refreshed himself as usual in this haphazard way, inveighed against the practice of mixing wines. spectfully pointed out to him that he had been guilty of this very act; but he explained, to his own satisfaction,

that to mix wines was to fill up half a glass of champagne from the port decanter!

"Heckling," or the cross-examination of candidates for Parliamentary honors, is a favorite pastime in Scotland during election contests. Mr. John Morley was asked at one of his meetings during his wooing of the constituency of Montrose, "Are you in favor of the abolition of cess and stent?" He elevated his eyebrows, looked perplexed for a moment, and then came out, amid general laughter, with the whimsical confession, "Really, gentlemen, I don't know whether I am or not." A few moments later the right hon. gentleman had to make the dire admission that he did not know the difference between white and yellow trout. The meeting was rather pained. Another well-known M.P., addressing a political meeting some time ago, hoping thereby to create a little enthusiasm among the working men, exclaimed," When the polling-day comes, you good fellows must stick to me like bricks!" A hardy son of toil, who knew from experience that bricks had no adhesive property, rose in the middle of the hall and said, mean like mortar, don't you, sir?" Roars of laughter greeted this correction of the ignorance of the candidate.

You

The following amusing extract from the lately published work, "Mr. Gregory's Letter Box"-which contains the correspondence of a gentleman who was for many years Under-Secretary for Ireland-shows that the Ministers responsible for the good government of Ireland early in the century were so ignorant of the social condition of the country that they confounded the Ribbon Society-a widespread agrarian conspiracy-with the weavers of ribbon. in England:

"An amateur and somewhat officious informer writes to Lord Sidmouth, the Home Secretary, February 19, 1818:

"I am an inhabitant of Ballycastle, where there is a great deal of Ribbon work carrying on; there is not a night but they are met on the hills; and, as a good and loyal subject of His Majesty, I warn you that if some measures don't take place soon so as to quell them, I am afraid they'll murder us all in a short time. They are talking a great deal about rising all through Ireland before Easter, so would advise you to

"I am directed by Lord Sidmouth to transmit to you the enclosed copy of a letter from a person giving information of an intended rising of the Ribbon Weavers near Ballycastle, and who, he states, hold nightly meetings on the Hills, and I am to desire that you will submit the same for the information of the Lord Lieutenant.' "Mr. Gregory sends the letters to Mr. Peel, and says:

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'Pray read these letters, and explain to Mr. Hobhouse that Ribbon Work in Ireland is a very different manufacture from weav ing of Ribbons in England.'"

Here is another instance, also from Ireland, of official betrayal of colossal ignorance. In October, 1845, when the country was getting alarmed about the failure of the potato crop-which ultimately led to the awful famine of 1847-Sir Robert Peel, the Prime Minister, wrote to Lord Heytesbury, the Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, a letter on the situation, which he thus concluded: "At what period will the pressure be felt? Will it be immediate if the reports of the full extent of the evil are confirmed, or is there a stock of old potatoes sufficient to last for a certain time?" The Viceroy replied that he was assured "there is no stock whatever of last year's potatoes in the country." So little did the Prime Minister of England (who had been Chief Secretary for Ireland) and the Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland know of the nature and cultivation of the potato-upon which, at the time, the lives of millions of the Irish people dependedthat they imagined it was possible to keep them in stock for years, like grain!

Absent-mindedness also seems to be a common failing among great men. An amusing story is told of the late Louis Pasteur, who so distinguished himself by his discoveries in regard to bacteria. While dining at his son-in-law's one evening, it was noticed that he dipped his cherries in his glass of water, and then carefully wiped them before eating them. As this caused some amusement, he held forth at length on the dangers of the microbes with which the cherries were covered. cherries were covered. Then he leaned