,
"like a Phoenician from the ashes."

The appearance of _A New Lady Audley_ is rather late in the
half-century as a "skit" on Miss BRADDON's celebrated novel. Now and
then I found an amusing bit in it, but, on the whole, poor stuff, says
THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

My faithful "Co." has been reading poetry and prose, and thus
communicates the result of his studies:--There is genuine but
unassuming poetry, which is, after all, only another way of saying
fine feeling finely expressed, in _Corn and Poppies_, by COSMO
MONKHOUSE (ELKIN MATHEWS). Much of the verse is musical, and there
is throughout a vein of thoughtfulness which never degenerates into
a morbid brooding. I commend particularly "Any Soul to any Body,"
"A Dead March," and "Mysteries," as good examples of Mr. MONKHOUSE's
style. So much for verse. Let me now to prose. Like my baronial Chief,
I say, "Bring me my boots!" and let them be thick, so that I may
trudge safely through Mr. RUDYARD KIPLING's latest, "_The Light that
Failed" (Lippincott's Monthly Magazine_, January). This is described
as Mr. KIPLING's first long story. His publishers, moreover, are good
enough to take all the trouble of criticism upon their own shoulders.
They declare that "there is more stern strength in this novel than
in anything which Mr. KIPLING has written;" but that is, after all,
only a comparative statement, which profits me little, as I never yet
estimated the amount of "stern strength" in Mr. KIPLING's previous
writings. I am, however, told, in addition, that the tale "is as
intensely moving as it is intensely masculine" (there's lovely
language!) "and it will not be surprising if it should prove to be
the literary sensation of the year." To such an expression of opinion
by competent judges it would be futile to attempt to add very much.
I will only say, therefore, that the "sensation" produced in me by
this novel is one of the most disagreeable I ever experienced. The
characters are, for the most part, inordinately dull, preposterously
conceited, and insufferably brutal. As for _Dick Heldar_, the hero, no
more disagreeable and hateful bully-puppy ever thought and talked in
disconnected gasps through ninety-seven pages. The catastrophe moves
no pity. Mr. KIPLING seems to despise the public, "who think with
their boots, and read with their elbows;" but so clever a man might
surely show his contempt less crudely. KIPLING, I love thee, but never
more write such another tale!