LITERARY NOTES.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 471, 14 May 1890, Page 4

LITERARY NOTES.

(FROM OUR LONDON CORRESPONDENT.) London, March 22. The Rodya rd Kipling Craze. A Rudyard Kipling craze has set in, and threatens to rage as severely as did the Conway and Haggard crazes for their respective periods. Several accidents have coritriouted to this end. First there were the young Anglo-Indian’s recent stories, in the English magazines and reviews, which attracted considerable attention on their merits, and led to curious persons like myself looking up the author’s previous work- Then several papers (oblivious of the books being ten years old or more) suddenly awoke to the extraordinary merits of Mr Kipling’s “ Departmental Ditties." and “Soldiers .Three,” unobtainable in England three weeks ago. Finally “ Labby ” clinched matters by seriously proposing in Parliament that the author of those powerful verses entitled “Cleared, in Saturday week’s “Scobs Observer,” should be hailed bo the Bar of the House forcontempt. Naturally, everybody began to ask, “ Who is Kipling ?” and AngloIndian, proud of its product, responded boldly. “ The coming man.” Mr Kipling’s books have been rapidly republished in England and can now be got at most of tho smart shops. Sampson Low issue a shilling edition of * Soldiers Three, which you ought not to miss. This week in the “Scobs Observer” Mr Kipling, unabashed by Labby’s threats, goes straight for that gentleman himself, satirising more particularly the hon. member’s appeal to the English people in Tuesday week’s speech, and his lofty statement, “ Our tribunal is outside the House.” The verses are headed, “To Arms.” I dare not quote the lot; indeed, I don t want to, for clever though they are, one can’t approve the sentiments ; but tho following sample will suffice to give an idea : Smarting with a late reverse And the m ospei t of a worse. - Yea,” the hold Du Cleveland cried, “Our tritninaL is outside.” Rise and gather in your might. Ho ! the “ ad vs need ” of every school, Private faddist, public fool. Do the brave Du Cleveland r glit. Shall Du Cleveland, though in wane. Tell the truth and all in vain, Ho ! believers, fierce and fell, In the honour of Parnell, In the wisdom of O’Brien, And in Sexton’s mighty line ! Geese that pick ti e grass of slander, Hiss behind the Grand Old Gamier, Tax your Government with “ Crimes, Pigottise about the ’•Times.” Proudly take within your pale The Blood-bolstered Clan-na-Gacl. Ye, to whom a woman maimed. Clipped or carded, hurt . r shamed, Is (you own) as fair a sight As a stallion ripped by night. Rise and gather; vise and ride As Du Cleveland bids you do. llis tribunal is outside, Ho, the trusty and the tsi d Sweep away the Tory crew. Till agnin ye bid to he Parnell’s lost virginity!

Here, too, is a short extract from one of the most powerful of Kipling’s “ Plain Tales from the Hills,” a story detailing the Madness of Private Ortheris,” a little Cockney who is suddenly seized with a terrible attack of homesickness. He details the symptoms to his comrades, sitting beside an Indian river in the hob, sultry night. The language is the rude, rough language of the British private soldier in India, but the sen bimen -‘s are common to all who love and relish intensely the full pulsating life of this great London, and have had to leave it. “I’m sick to go ’Ome —go ’Ome-go ’Ome ! No, I ain’t mammysick, because my uncle brung me up, bub I’m sick for London again—sick for the sounds of ’er, an’ the sights of ’er, and the stink- of ’er; orange-peel and hasphalt an’ gas cornin’ in over Vaux’all Bridge. Sick for the rail goin’ down to Box ’III, with your gal on your knee an’ a new clay pipe in your face. That an’ the Stran’ lights where you knows everyone, an’ the Copper that takes you up is a old friend that tuk you up before, when you was a little smibchy boy lying loose ’tween the Temple an’ the Dark Havches. No bloomin’ guard-mountin’, no bloomin’ rotten-stone, nor khaki, and yourself your own master with a gal bo take an’ see the Humaners practisin’ a-hookin’ dead corpses out of the Serpentine o’ Sundays. An’llef’ all that for to serve the Widder beyond the seas where there ain’t no women and there ain’t no liquor worth ’avin', and there ain’t nothin’ to see, nor do, nor feel, nor think. Lord love you, Stanley Orth’ris, but you’re a bigger bloomin’ fool than the rest o’ the regiment and Mulvaney wired together ! There’s the widder sibtin’ at ’Ome with a gold crownd on ’er ’ead ; and ’ere am Hi, Stanley Orbh’ris, the Widder’s property, a robtin’ .FOOL !’ Equally characteristic in adifferentfashion are the reflections of a lover (in “ Departmental Ditties ”) who ha 3 been told by his fiancee that he must choose between her and his cigar. After rehearsing the delights and comforts of tobacco he murmurs angrily, it is very hard he should have to choose between — The wee little whimpering Love ami the great J god Nicotine And I have been servant.of Love for barely a twelvemonth clear. But I have been Priest of Partagas a matter of seven year; , And the gloom of my bachelor days is fleckea with the cheery light.