Our literature
from that continent of our conquest has been sparse indeed, except
in the way of biographies, of histories, and of rather local and
unintelligible facetiae. Except the novels by the author of "Tara,"
and Sir Henry Cunningham's brilliant sketches, such as "Dustypore,"
and Sir Alfred Lyall's poems, we might almost say that India has
contributed nothing to our finer literature. That old haunt of
history, the wealth of character brought out in that confusion of
races, of religions, and the old and new, has been wealth untouched,
a treasure-house sealed: those pagoda trees have never been shaken.
At last there comes an Englishman with eyes, with a pen
extraordinarily deft, an observation marvellously rapid and keen;
and, by good luck, this Englishman has no official duties: he is
neither a soldier, nor a judge; he is merely a man of letters. He
has leisure to look around him, he has the power of making us see
what he sees; and, when we have lost India, when some new power is
ruling where we ruled, when our empire has followed that of the
Moguls, future generations will learn from Mr. Kipling's works what
India was under English sway.
It is one of the surprises of literature that these tiny
masterpieces in prose and verse were poured, "as rich men give that
care not for their gifts," into the columns of Anglo-Indian
journals. There they were thought clever and ephemeral--part of the
chatter of the week.
Pages:
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228