ARNOLD has written a preface to the volume, and seems to express a wish that the wonders here recorded could be possibilities of everyday life.  But, if so, as Mr. Weller, Senior, observed, a propos of “there being a Providence in it,” “O’ course there is, SAMMY; or what ‘ud become o’ the undertakers?” And as to cremation—­well, such an utter corporeal extinction would be the only way of putting an end to the terrestrial existence of Phra the Phoenician, who, however, “might rise,” as Mrs. Malaprop would say, “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!