th, certainly I am nearer to tears than when I am obliged to attend
the bed of Little Dombey or of Little Nell. Probably there is a great
deal of slangy and unrefined Anglo-Indian society; and, no doubt, to
sketch it in its true colours is not beyond the province of art. At
worst it is redeemed, in part, by its constancy in the presence of
various perils--from disease, and from "the bullet flying down the pass."
Mr. Kipling may not be, and very probably is not, a reader of "Gyp"; but
"The Gadsbys," especially, reads like the work of an Anglo-Indian
disciple, trammelled by certain English conventions. The more Pharisaic
realists--those of the strictest sect--would probably welcome Mr. Kipling
as a younger brother, so far as "Under the Deodars" and "The Gadsbys" are
concerned, if he were not occasionally witty and even flippant, as well
as realistic. But, very fortunately, he has not confined his observation
to the leisures and pleasures of Simla; he has looked out also on war and
on sport, on the life of all native tribes and castes; and has even
glanced across the borders of "The Undiscovered Country."

Among Mr. Kipling's discoveries of new kinds of characters, probably the
most popular is his invention of the British soldier in India. He avers
that he "loves that very strong man, Thomas Atkins"; but his affection
has not blinded him to the faults of the beloved. Mr. Atkins drinks too
much, is too careless a gallant in love, has been educated either too
much or too little, and has other faults, partly due, apparently, to
recent military organisation, partly to the feverish and unsettled state
of the civilised world. But he is still brave, when he is well led;
still loyal, above all, to his "trusty chum." Every Englishman must hope
that, if Terence Mulvaney did not take the city of Lungtung Pen as
described, yet he is ready, and willing so to take it. Mr. Mulvaney is
as humorous as Micky Free, but more melancholy and more truculent. He
has, perhaps, "won his way to the mythical" already, and is not so much a
soldier, as an incarnation, not of Krishna, but of many soldierly
qualities. On the other hand, Private Ortheris, especially in his
frenzy, seems to shew all the truth, and much more than the life of, a
photograph. Such, we presume, is the soldier, and such are his
experiences and temptations and repentance. But nobody ever dreamed of
telling us all this, till Mr. Kipling came. As for the soldier in
act