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write in an equable flow, avoiding any ruggedness, any violence, which would injure the smoothness of the style. Because strength and intensity mean everything to Kipling he often forgets that the foundation of style is grammatical · correctness. Wherever the British soldier or children speak, the broken style is especially fitting, but in many sketches in "Plain Tales" a long succession of short sentences becomes unbeautiful, and a great number of similar beginnings, the same noun or pronoun, adds an unlovely uniformity. It is different in the longer stories. In the beautiful and somewhat long stories in "Life's Handicap," as "Without Benefit of Clergy," "The Head of the District," "The Man Who Was," or in "The Man Who Would Be King"-in short in all which are noteworthy because of their content and artistic worth-the style is flowing, simple and original. In these stories, which deal for the most part with native life and which show great skill in their structure, he reveals a real superiority when compared with contemporary English novelists. In the sharpest contrast to his unadorned manner of narration stands, perhaps, Stevenson's style, whose sentences we can see are shaped, filed, and elaborated with such care. Stevenson himself expressly says in his readable essay, "A College Magazine," that he carried forward his style to perfection only through unwearied practice. The reflective manner of a George Meredith or of a Marie Corelli I will serve as a second antithesis. The novels of these writers are doubtless more thoughtful; but the long-drawn moralizing sends the reader to sleep. In Kipling everything rings simple, fresh, and strong, affecting fancy and sense with equal power. I have mentioned examples of this, and may refer to the wild ride in "False Dawn." The choice of words in that story is masterly. The despair of the maiden is paint
ed in her cry of anguish; we feel the scorn of death which makes her urge her horse into the swiftest gallop in despite of storm, darkness and the treacherous ground; we feel the fury of the dust-devil and tempest, and see the garments of the daring rider fluttering back round the sides of her gray steed. Because Kipling has kept so sternly to reality he has been called a photographer. That is an unfortunate comparison. Photography shows every line, even the most insignificant, while Kipling's pictures give only the really characteristic features. His pictures are not primarily and fundamentally works of art, because he is accustomed to project them only with a few rough strokes of the pencil, which only secures the sharp contours and for the most part entirely neglects the soft and gradual transitions. Thus their defect is the want of finish; but he has not wished to give anything else. His stories are for the most part only a few pages in length, so that great brevity is demanded. The first sen. tences in the introduction contain everything necessary to make the reader acquainted with the relations of the persons, their appearance and character. The verses which stand as mottoes are so appropriately chosen that they call up beforehand the right toning, with a single stroke. Nearly every one of the short sketches in "Plain Tales" is a notable example of this. The strophe which forms the introduction to "The Brockenhorst Divorce Case" gives in a few words the fundamental note of the story, the reason for the divorce and the sentiments of the husband:
In the day-time when she moved about me,
In the night when she was sleeping at my side,
I was wearied, I was wearied of her presence,
Day by day I grew to hate herWould God that she or I had died!
In order to fetter the attention of the reader on the theme beforehand, Kipling often begins with a sentence which contains a general truth, to which the following special case forms an exception, as in "In the Error, or A Germ Destroyer." The represented events gain very much in probability because the author plays the role of the quietly observing confidant, friend or helper. "I am only the chorus that comes in at the end to explain things," he says of himself in "In the House of Suddhoo." The soldiers tell their experiences themselves, or the author repeats them literally as he has heard them from themselves. These stories pos: sess peculiar dramatic power. Life is gained by the dialogue form and by : the use of dialect. Both of these means help the character-drawing in an ex.'traordinary degree. Any one who has read "Soldiers Three" will never forget Mulvaney the Irishman, Learoyd the Yorkshireman, and Ortheris the Cockney: they are living types of the British soldier, such as have never before been known. By the skilful use of the dialogue Kipling, as is universally recognized, has won for himself a peculiar distinction. Besides, he seems to be master of these three dialects; at · least his slang and Cockney vocabulary show such richness that it is a proof of how far he has penetrated into the habits of thought of his companions through his intercourse with them. Whether he makes the finer distinctions in the three dialects can be judged of course only by the initiated. Certainly he may have made occasional mistakes, as the Quarterly Review tries to show: but that is not a serious reproach against a writer. It is enough if he has hit upon the right tone and the distinctive peculiarities of speech. The reading is, indeed, made very much more difficult for the foreigner, and troublesome for the Englishman as well. But we get accustomed to it
more quickly than to the peculiarities of the Scottish dialect; and it is fundamentally false to maintain that the worth of these tales would have been greater if literary English had been exclusively employed. On the contrary, it is the merit of Kipling to have made the first successful attempt to introduce the rough speech of the common British soldier into literature. spite of the fact that many pages are overburdened with the crudest dialectal expressions, with oaths and barbarous idioms, yet the reader may rejoice that this speech, whose sounds often ring in his ear, can be expressive of the very aim of the artist. Some of the "Barrack-Room Ballads" owe their witchery of tone and their great liveliness not only to their stirring rhythm, but also to their dialectal coloring. If this were taken from them the poetic atmosphere would be clouded; and, worse still, the spirit of the soldier-nature in which they are conceived would be destroyed. The speech of Tommy Atkins with the missing "h" at the beginning of words and the suppressed "g" in the participial ending, has a homely, popular ring which is so essential to these songs, just as the dialectal peculiarities heighten the charm of folk-songs or dialectal poems.
Whether Kipling will win an enduring position in the history of English literature cannot be decided with certainty. But his undoubted merit is that, unlike any of the modern English novelists, he writes powerfully and unaffectedly, free from all conventional and traditional influences, and is endowed with conspicuous narrative talIent. He succeeds everywhere in giving the characteristic side of life, which he has learned in the most varied of homes and on long journeys in different parts of the world; and in putting old things in a new light; for he has sharp eyes to see, understanding to reflect, and conscience to prevent him from dis
figuring anything. If his conception of life seems somewhat superficial, and if rash judgments show too strong selfconsciousness at times, we may count it to his youth. Without doubt it is a great feat for an Englishman, who does homage to the words, "The pleasant is permitted," to act freely and openly in life; and it is a still greater feat to honestly bring this into his writings. English literature thus possesses in Kipling the first naturalistic author, whom his people has received with almost unanEnglische Studien.
imous applause in spite of the actual exclusion of the moral in his works; for the tone of his narrative is so näive and poetic that even English sensibility can delight in it undisturbed." However exaggerated it would be to call Kipling a sun, a Phoebus, it would be equally unjustifiable to compare him to a meteor, which rises in flames and is then forever quenched in darkness. He is a star, which has been shining brightly for twelve years, and which is as yet in no wise near its setting.
THE NEW PSYCHOLOGY. Though, so far as science can yet discern, the great process of evolution, in every department of its activity, proceeds ceaselessly onwards, never reproducing, in very truth, forms to which it has given birth and then destroyed, nevertheless it now and again develops phenomena which resemble singularly, if superficially, the products of its activity in earlier ages.
The bats and flying-foxes of our own day recall to mind the winged reptiles of the secondary age of geological time, as the huge Ichthyosauri of the then existing seas are dimly imaged forth by our dolphins and porpoises, the probable descendants of some swinelike beast which became marine and legless long after their reptilian predecessors had ceased to be.
In the political development of tribes and nations, in art, in poetry, religion, and the highest regions of human thought, analogous recurrences now and again manifest themselves.
It is to one such recurrence we would direct the attention of those of our readers who may not as yet have interested themselves in the new and important study which may be called physiological, or experimental, psychol
18 See A. Brandl in Cosmopolis, Vol. VI., pp. 579 ff., for a valuable essay.
ogy. No longer confining itself to an interrogation of consciousness, it examines pyschical manifestations in the light to be obtained by exact quantitative inquiry. It also recalls to mind, in its conception of nature, certain phases of Greek thought in that most memorable and fruitful period-the fourth century before Christ.
But I may perhaps, at starting, be permitted to make two personal remarks, in order to gain a better hearing for views which I venture to think merit more consideration than they have obtained.
First I would observe that a very eminent scientific friend tells me my biological views and arguments are attributed by some naturalists to a wish on my part to champion ideas with which biology has no connection. I desire, therefore, to repudiate, with all the energy of which I am capable, any such object or intention. If I do not (as in fact I do not) accept as sufficient, causes for specific change and origin which do suffice in the opinion of various other naturalists, I am, of course, none the less certain that such origin is due to some natural causes. I know no causes in nature but natural causes. If I am right in regarding the process of specific origin as being still an un
solved enigma, I am not on that account without hope that its solution
may hereafter be achieved, and I welcome the new psychology as a possible aid in that direction.
But if what I am thus told surprises me, what I have learned from another biologist adds amusement to my surprise. I had expressed to him a wish to discuss some points of philosophy with his intimate friend Mr. B. I was informed, in reply, that B. was disinclined for such discussion, fèaring lest he might so be brought within the pale of a certain definite theological system! Now, considering that in all my arguments on scientific questions I have ever made my appeal to reason, and reason only, and that the sole authority to which I have referred, as claiming some deference from naturalists, has been that of Aristotle, I do feel that such apprehensions are singularly unreasonable.
But it seems to be a fact that there are some men who are, like Laura in Mrs. Humphry Ward's "Helbeck of Bannisdale," quite unable to argue forcibly against a theological system which they detest. They seem, in consequence, beset with an abiding fear of being caught hold of by theology, as by the arms of an octopus, dragged, willy-nilly, down into a sea of dogma from which they can find no escape. Any arguments, therefore, which they think may tend in this dreadful direction are not to be listened to, or if listened to at all, then with a mind firmly closed against conviction, but keenly on the look out for sophistries and fallacies which must, they think, be latent in such teaching.
do not shut your eyes, blunt your senses, or your reason, when you survey the world around you. It is above all things needful to avoid prejudice when we would study such a science as biology."
To be able better to appreciate this science, let us briefly consider the teaching of that philosopher who initiated, and was the father of, the whole system of modern thought-I mean Descartes.
He taught that each man is composed of two entirely different substances: (1) one spiritual, consisting of nothing but thought (the soul); (2) the other, material, possessing no property but motion (the body).
For him, the soul, devoted to thought alone, was a distinct spiritual substance, inhabiting the body and ruling it from, and enthroned in, the pineal gland. Every other power and property of our being followed inevitably, he taught, from the disposition of our bodily organs-as the movements of a watch from its construction. For him, the essence of thought excluded extension and movement; while it was of the essence of extension and movement to have nothing in common with thought or feeling.
How then was the union of the soul and body to be explained? He endeavored to explain it to his correspondent, Her Highness Elizabeth, Princess Palatine, but with small success. Indeed, he terminates his explanatory essay with these words: "Je serais trop présomptueux si j'osais penser que ma réponse doive entièrement satisfaire Votre Altesse." In fact she was not satisfied, but demanded further lightenment, which she never succeeded in obtaining.
A belief in the co-existence of these two utterly diverse substances naturally led, first to the "occasionalism" of Malebranche, and subsequently to "Idealism."
If nothing exists but a thinking spiritual substance and a material moving mechanism, there must be either two substances entirely distinct (and then a man is not one being, but two); or else he is one substance with the two attributes "thought" and "motion;" or, finally, one of these is but a dependency and modification of the other, in which case we have either materialism or idealism.
What, however, does the personal experience of each one of us seem to be? Do we not each of us know and feel that we are one being-a unitynot a compound of two separate substances? We always "feel" in "thinking," and we mostly also "think" in "feeling." But our experience of unity is yet much more complete, for many vital activities which normally never felt, now and again rise into consciousness, and sometimes into very painful consciousness; while, on the other hand, many actions which we only learn to perform by means of reiterated conscious efforts, come at last to be produced quite automatically and unconsciously.
It is evident, therefore, that we do not consist of one substance which is all thought and nothing but thought, and of another into which thought and feeling never enter. That we have a body is manifest; and it is also manifest that we possess an energy we may recognize as "thought," but which may merely exist in the form of feeling or may pass into a state of activity which is not recognizable by thought because it is not even felt. This energy (since we have no evidence that our being is dominated by more than one kind of energy) appears, therefore, to operate partly as thought, partly as feeling, but mainly in an imperceptible and quite unconscious manner.
1 See our work On Truth, pp. 420-440. Professor Haldane, F.R.S., bas lately shown (Nineteenth Century, September, 1898) how the physico-chemical theory of life is being
But the influence of Descartes mains so powerful that quite a passion still exists among many biologists for representing, if not trying to explain, the phenomena of organic life as "modes of motion." Such naturalists as Weismann, Nägeli, and many others, have attempted to explain the development of the germ by imagining the existence in it of a multitude of excessively minute particles. Each of these particles, however, when carefully considered, will be found no less to need explanation than do the phenomena they are supposed to explain. Indeed, however we may play with such conceptions, the same inevitable and insoluble difficulty will ever recur; for the energy which operates in sensation, growth, nutrition, etc., cannot be represented by the imagination, since the senses are incapable of perceiving it.
The use of such images to explain any vital phenomenon is equivalent, therefore, to an attempt to make imaginary representatives of things "perceptible" to the senses serve as representations of things "imperceptible to the senses"-which is manifestly an absurd attempt.
The view I have ever defended' is that every living creature is the result of the coalescence of two factors into one absolute unity; as water is produced by the coalescence of oxygen and hydrogen. After that coalescence, neither oxygen nor hydrogen exists, but water only, though the water remains capable of being again resolved. into its constituent elements-the reappearance of which is the annihilation of the water. But as no two distinct substances can be identical in nature and energy, and as elements with different energies must act with different effects, so we must conclude that in their union to produce water, each element
experimentally refuted. A very interesting work, by Alfred Earl, M.A., entitled The Living Organism (Macmillan, 1898), will well repay perusal.