eses
and Balboas of India, Africa, Australia, Japan, and the isles of the
southern seas. All such conquerors, whether they write with the polish
of M. Pierre Loti, or with the carelessness of Mr. Boldrewood, have, at
least, seen new worlds for themselves; have gone out of the streets of
the over-populated lands into the open air; have sailed and ridden,
walked and hunted; have escaped from the fog and smoke of towns. New
strength has come from fresher air into their brains and blood; hence the
novelty and buoyancy of the stories which they tell. Hence, too, they
are rather to be counted among romanticists than realists, however real
is the essential truth of their books. They have found so much to see
and to record, that they are not tempted to use the microscope, and pore
for ever on the minute in character. A great deal of realism, especially
in France, attracts because it is novel, because M. Zola and others have
also found new worlds to conquer. But certain provinces in those worlds
were not unknown to, but were voluntarily neglected by, earlier
explorers. They were the "Bad Lands" of life and character: surely it is
wiser to seek quite new realms than to build mud huts and dunghills on
the "Bad Lands."

Mr. Kipling's work, like all good work, is both real and romantic. It is
real because he sees and feels very swiftly and keenly; it is romantic,
again, because he has a sharp eye for the reality of romance, for the
attraction and possibility of adventure, and because he is young. If a
reader wants to see petty characters displayed in all their meannesses,
if this be realism, surely certain of Mr. Kipling's painted and frisky
matrons are realistic enough. The seamy side of Anglo-Indian life: the
intrigues, amorous or semi-political--the slang of people who describe
dining as "mangling garbage" the "games of tennis with the seventh
commandment"--he has not neglected any of these. Probably the sketches
are true enough, and pity 'tis true: for example, the sketches in "Under
the Deodars" and in "The Gadsbys." That worthy pair, with their friends,
are to myself as unsympathetic, almost, as the characters in "La Conquete
de Plassans." But Mr. Kipling is too much a true realist to make their
selfishness and pettiness unbroken, unceasing. We know that "Gaddy" is a
brave, modest, and hard-working soldier; and, when his little silly bride
(who prefers being kissed by a man with waxed moustaches) lies near to
dea