Printer Friendly

Constructing the Englishman in Rudyard Kipling's Letters of Marque.


Rudyard Kipling's Letters of Marque, subsequently published in From Sea to Sea (1900), were first published anonymously in Allahabad Pioneer from December 1887 to February 1888, and described his travels in the Native States of Rajputana. These letters, a professional assignment, nevertheless have a mood of holiday, and throughout them Kipling, consistently referring to himself in the third person as 'the Englishman', simultaneously celebrates, interrogates, and subverts the notion of his Englishness. In doing so he mourns, mocks, but at the same time pays tribute to the idea of empire.


Rudyard Kipling's Letters of Marque, subsequently published in From Sea to Sea (1900), described his travels in the Native States of Rajputana, states that had never been conquered and absorbed into British India, but which had peacefully recognized British paramountcy. Reprinted with some exasperation because of the activities of pirating publishers, the Letters were originally published anonymously in the Allahabad Pioneer from December 1887 to February 1888. Edmonia Hill, later to become a close friend of Kipling's, wrote to her sister that there was much speculation as to their authorship. At a dinner-party,

When we were seated at the table and conversation was in full swing, my partner called my attention to a short dark-haired man of uncertain age, with a heavy moustache and wearing very thick glasses, who sat opposite, saying: 'That is Rudyard Kipling, who has just come from Lahore to be on the staff of the Pi. He is writing those charming sketches of the native states, Letters of Marque, which the Pi. is publishing.'

Mr Kipling looks about forty, as he is beginning to be bald, but he is in reality just twenty-two. He was animation itself, telling his stories admirably, so that those about him were kept in gales of laughter. He fairly scintillated, but when more sober topics were discussed he was posted along all lines.' (1)

This meeting would in fact have been around the time of Kipling's twenty-third birthday: his 'uncertain age' is reflected in the Letters, which have a wealth of literary and other allusions and an assurance of touch astonishing for such a young man, even if we reflect that he had been a journalist in India since the age of seventeen. The charm and humour of the sketches, again characteristic, as Edmonia Hill found, of both writer and work, are their most striking features. Kipling, who felt himself to be on holiday, writes with an entrancing ease and gaiety.

One critic, at least, claims that Kipling was sent on his travels because his flippant treatment of government news had become a liability to the Pioneer, and it was thought 'safer to put him on the road than suffer him in the office.' (2) Whatever the truth of this, the Letters were an important turning-point for Kipling. Coming towards the end of 'seven years' hard' in India, his transference from the Civil and Military Gazette to its 'big sister-paper' (3) the Pioneer had represented a journalistic promotion. He was never again to be so 'furiously productive', (4) and his Indian travels not only made him aware of the twin aspects of India, the ancient and the modern, (5) but gave him, perhaps for the first time in his life, a sense of history. (6) They may also have 'whetted his appetite for the road'; (7) Kipling certainly subsequently became remarkable for the diversity and length of his travels. (8)

A more negative aspect of the importance of the Letters is suggested by the biographer who claims:

Kipling's attitude to India was torn into two: reverence for the ancient, mysterious and wise, which appealed to the religious, sensual, romantic and imaginative side of his personality; and contempt for its political childlikeness, and lack of capacity for self-government. He was always prepared to love Indians, provided they made no attempts to look after their own destiny. These attitudes were never resolved within him. They ceased to develop after he left India in 1889, and gradually became petrified in him. His imperialistic ideas were founded in part on his notion that he was an expert on India. (9)

Kipling himself certainly rejoiced in his expertise on India, writing, not too long after the publication of the Letters, in March 1890, from Embankment Chambers in Villiers Street, London ('this black place') to an unidentified correspondent who was probably Wolcott Balestier:

Recollect I've tasted power--such power as I shall never get this side of the water--when I knew all the heads of the Indian Government--rulers administrators and kings--and saw how the machinery worked. Sunshine, colour, light, incident and fight I've had poured into my lap: and now the chastened amusements of this black place don't bite. (10)

One of the charms of the Letters, however, is in the shifting and complex way Kipling uses this 'power' in relation to himself as narrator. It has been remarked of his 'formative years' (1885-87) that whether he wrote in the first or third person, 'he could not control the irresistible tendency to interfere with the narrative.' (11) In the Letters such interference becomes part of the narrative itself. Andrew Lycett has observed of Kipling that, 'as when indulging in opium, he liked to cast off his official persona from time to time and travelling seemed an agreeable way of doing this' (pp. 150-51). As the Letters open, Kipling's holiday spirit is at once emphasized, as he stresses the joy of having escaped from work 'to go abroad under no more exacting master than personal inclination, and with no more definite plan of travel than has the horse, escaped from pasture, free upon the countryside'. (12)

This is an immediate interference with the narrative, which is 'copy', as Kipling knows, and as he knows his reader knows, demanded by his employers. As one of his biographers has pointed out, the very title, Letters of Marque, which he gave the series, identifies him as 'a kind of journalistic privateer, licensed to raid foreign lands for newspaper booty'. (13) This combined sense of the licit and the illicit is pervasive throughout the Letters, as is the simultaneous contempt for and envy of the Globe-trotter, one of Kipling's pet aversions in his fiction. Kipling is at once confident of his right to expatiate on India and mildly uneasy about it.

Kipling immediately identifies his sense of holiday freedom as 'the normal portion of the Globe-trotter--the man who "does" kingdoms in days and writes books upon them in weeks' (pp. 1-2), but it is uncomfortably clear that the globe-trotter is not dissimilar to the travelling journalist; having said that he wished merely to study globe-trotters, 'our winter birds of passage', this travelling journalist cheerfully concedes that he has sacrificed all his self-respect and become, '--at enormous personal inconvenience--', a globe-trotter himself (p. 3). Yet this new identity, so casually assumed, is equally casually abandoned, as Kipling mocks a temporary railway companion, the Young Man from Manchester, for his banal vocabulary and for his gullibility in buying what he considers 'very Eastern' gifts for his friends at home. 'For some inscrutable end', comments Kipling urbanely, 'it has been decreed that man shall take a delight in making his fellow-man miserable' (p. 6), as he relates his own grave delight in disabusing the Young Man. Kipling is particularly acute on the instinctive competitiveness of fellow-travellers: later in From Sea to Sea, when he is visiting Burma, he asks,

Why is it that when one views for the first time any of the wonders of the earth a bystander always strikes in with, 'You should see it, etc.'? Such men given twenty minutes from the tomb at the Day of Judgment, would patronise the naked souls as they hurried up with the glare of Tophet on their faces, and say: 'You should have seen this when Gabriel first began to blow'. (p. 219)

In the case of the Young Man, however, his fellow traveller relented, and consoled him, and parted from him with mingled feelings of disapproval and envy:

For, as the train bore him from Jeypore to Ahmedabad, happy in 'his getting home by Christmas,' pleased as a child with his Delhi atrocities, pink-cheeked, whiskered, and superbly self-confident, the Englishman whose home for the third time was a dark bungaloathsome hotel, watched his departure regretfully; for he knew exactly to what sort of genial, cheery British household, rich in untravelled kin, that Young Man was speeding. (p. 7)

Kipling's reference to himself throughout the Letters as 'the Englishman' is part of his interference with his own narrative. It has been observed that, 'ironically, his name for himself, "the Englishman", which should be synonymous with confidence and phlegm, comes to subtly accentuate an underlying isolation and vulnerability'. (14) But there is more to it than that. Kipling presents himself as a very particular kind of Englishman, one who lives and works in India, and who is therefore (usually) busy, but, crucially, one of a small elite, an elite obsessed by gossip and rumour (pp. 2-3). His references are on one level to South Kensington (p. 33) and Crystal Palace (p. 77), but when he refers to himself as a Cockney (pp. 50, 62) he means an Anglo-Indian Cockney who has wandered off his beat. In Jodhpur he writes that,

To one who has hitherto believed that Simla is the hub of the Empire, it is disconcerting to hear: 'Oh, Simla! That's where you Bengalis go. We haven't anything to do with Simla down here.' And no more they have. Their talk and their interests run in the boundaries of the States they serve, and, most striking of all, the gossipy element seems to be cut altogether. It is a backwater of the river of Anglo-Indian life--or is it the main current, the broad stream that supplies the motive power, and is the other life only the noisy ripple on the surface? (p. 130)

Here he is of course making common cause with the readers of the Pioneer who share his specific view of Simla; at other times he identifies himself with a generic Anglo-Indian (p. 26) as opposed to an ignorant tourist. This tourist, however, the Young Man from Manchester, is equally set in opposition to the narrator because he is going home to England, a home the narrator shares and knows and covets in his exile.

Kipling's naming himself 'the Englishman' does indeed accentuate his isolation and vulnerability, since he is travelling in India amongst Indians (and in an India he does not know), especially in what he calls 'the stony pastures of Mewar', where he 'with a great sinking of the heart', begins to realize that his caste is of no value (p. 44), and that no one is going to defer to him, or help him, in his travels. It also makes especially ridiculous the ridiculous figure Kipling often cuts for his readers, as not in the least a dauntless traveller, but one, as he says, 'of a sedentary and civilised nature' (p. 125), 'a soft, office-bred unfortunate' (p. 145). He explicitly separates himself from a shooting expedition in Udaipur, taking 'a gunless seat in the background' (p. 76), because he is afraid of killing the beaters or injuring himself. When he goes to a shop that sells swords, he relates with a certain indignant regret:

The man in the shop was rude--distinctly so. His first flush of professional enthusiasm abated, he took stock of the Englishman and said calmly: 'What do you want with a sword?' Then he picked up his goods and retreated, while certain small boys, who deserved a smacking, laughed riotously from the coping of a little temple hard by. (p. 56)

When he is stranded in the wilderness with two mail bags, and the suggestion is made that the mails should go on without him:

Seating himself upon the parcels-bag, the Englishman cried in what was intended to be a very terrible voice, but the silence soaked it up and left only a thin trickle of sound, that any one who touched the bags would be hit with a stick, several times, over the head. (p. 49)

To heighten the humour here, Kipling depicts himself as absolutely alone in this dilemma, and only much later in the Letters alludes to 'the faithful servitor, who had helped to fight the Battle of the Mail Bags at Udaipur' (p. 157). Making himself the butt of his own humour not only seduces the reader into an affection for the narrator, but has the effect of distancing the narrator from the military achievements of the Empire with which, as 'the Englishman', he is nevertheless associated, just as he is both distanced from and associated with the Native States. Kipling's interference with the narrative here contrives to suggest that, both on holiday and at work, he is simultaneously involved in Britain's imperial mission and floating free of it. One consequence of this is that when he praises the work of Englishmen in the Native States, as he frequently and generously does, he conveys both an insular enthusiasm and a dispassionate admiration.

One of the most striking aspects of the Letters is the sheer volume of information about the Native States that Kipling conveys to the reader. One study of Kipling opens by declaring that an unbiased appraisal is virtually impossible 'without a thorough and practical knowledge of India', (15) but it is in fact part of Kipling's genius to convince the reader that this is so, and that this thorough and practical knowledge can be obtained from Kipling himself. Paradoxically, his confident assurance of expertise is strengthened by his occasional jovial admission of an utter failure to grasp a point, as in the King's Palace at Boondi: '"The men," said the warden, "watch here day and night because this place is the Rutton Daulat." That, you will concede, is lucid enough. He who does not understand it, may go to for a thick-headed barbarian' (p. 178).

Whether or not it is true, as Cornell thought, that Kipling's Indian travels gave him, perhaps for the first time in his life, a sense of history, it is unarguable that this sense of history, with its particular accompanying confident assurance of expertise, stemmed from one person: James Tod. Tod was the author of the magisterial Annals and Antiquities of Rajast'han, (16) published in two volumes in 1829 and 1832, and described by William Crooke in 1920 as the most comprehensive monograph ever compiled by a British officer 'describing one of the leading peoples of India'. (17) Tod was congratulated by a contemporary reviewer on his 'animated and picturesque' narrative style, (18) and Kipling, who refers to him no less than seventeen times in the Letters, advises the reading of him 'luxuriously', since he is 'far too good to be chipped or sampled' (p. 191). He relies on him for historical fact, calling him 'Tod, the accurate' (p. 174) and 'Tod, who speaks the truth' (p. 126), but Tod himself, 'in cocked hat and stiff stock' (p. 61), as Kipling puts it affectionately, is at the same time a living presence in the Letters. Cornell asserts that Kipling took a copy of the Annals with him (Kipling in India, p. 147); if so, this is very unlikely to have been the first edition, which is enormously heavy. Even the second edition of 1873 is far from portable, (19) and Kipling never mentions having to manage it in his luggage. Since he was noted for his phenomenal memory, (20) it is more probable that Tod's words about 'the land he loved so well' (p. 72) had sunk into his brain.

What would have especially appealed to Kipling, besides Tod's appreciation of local folklore and beliefs, and his appetite for the chivalrous and heroic, was a sense in the Annals of the elegiac, a sense already pervading Kipling's earliest works, not only when Tod contemplates the Rajput kingdoms, but when, at the ending of his work, in a passage to which Kipling alludes (p. 149), he contemplates his own and his friends' mortality: 'And I am left almost alone, the ghost of what I was.' (21) It is essentially Tod's ghost that accompanies Kipling on his travels, and interferes with his narrative.

Another ghostly presence, as far as Kipling is concerned, is the supernatural intervention that offers him especially privileged glimpses as he travels. On the Boondi Road he hails a vision of the flight into Egypt:

The white banks of the ford framed the picture perfectly--the Mother in blue, on a great white donkey, holding the Child in her arms, and Joseph walking beside, his hand upon the donkey's withers. By all the laws of the East, Joseph should have been riding and the Mother walking. This was an exception decreed for the Englishman's special benefit. (p. 153)

Another example is his description of women 'clad in raw vermilion, dull red, indigo and sky-blue, saffron and pink and turquoise' bathing in Udaipur, which concludes,

Then a woman rose up, and clasping her hands behind her head, looked at the passing boat, and the ripples spread out from her waist, in blinding white silver, far across the water. As a picture, a daringly insolent picture, it was superb. (p. 60)

One critic feels that 'a somewhat callow and voyeuristic' Kipling spoils the effect with this last sentence (Paffard, p. 48), but as narrator he is interested here in the way that life so completely defeats the 'overdaring amateurs' of art (and, by implication, himself, as supposedly overdaring amateur of reporting). Sometimes the gift comes as sound rather than sight, as it does when an unseen brass band among the orange bushes at the palace of the Maharaja of Jeypore suddenly strikes up the overture of the Bronze Horse, and Kipling remarks with satisfaction, 'Those who know the music hall will see at once that that was the only tune which exactly and perfectly fitted the scene and its surroundings. It was a coincidence and a revelation' (p. 39). More usually, though, these magical glimpses are seen in terms of paintings, to the extent that when Kipling is describing the Treasury of Boondi as a vision of the River of Life, clinched by one supremely artistic detail, he calls this detail an example of the irony of Fate, 'who is always giving nuts to those who have no teeth' (p. 176).

Of course, Kipling had a preternatural number of teeth as far as the writing of fiction was concerned, but The Naulahka, the novel for which he preposterously took Wolcott Balestier as collaborator, is a sad disappointment as a reworking of some of the Letters' material. (22) Although Angus Wilson calls The Naulahka 'that much underestimated book', (23) it is a flat and dull picture of India compared with Kipling's journalism, and where observations are recycled, they are recycled with none of their original energy. For example, in Boondi, Kipling writes in the Letters,

In the early morning you may see a man pantingly chased out of the city by another man with a naked sword. This is the mail and the mail-guard; and the effect is as though runner and swordsman lay under a doom--the one to fly with the fear of death always before him, as men fly in dreams, and the other to perpetually fail of his revenge. (p. 180)

In The Naulahka Nick Tarvin (an extremely tiresome character) overtakes

a naked man who bore over his shoulder a stick loaded with jingling bells, and fled panting and perspiring from one who followed him armed with a naked sword. This was the mail-carrier and his escort running to Gunnaur. (p. 159)

This detail is dropped into the narrative without any indication of its effect on Tarvin, and has none of the combination of factual reporting and idiosyncratic commentary we find in the Letters. Even more striking is the episode of the descent into the Gau-Mukh as it reappears in The Naulahka. What Kingsley Amis calls Kipling's 'characteristic curiosity and powers of absorption' displayed in the Letters (24) here reached what might be called their logical conclusion, in the sudden blind panic he experienced:

It seemed as though the descent had led the Englishman, firstly, two thousand years away from his own century, and secondly, into a trap, and that he would fall off the polished stones into the stinking tank, or that the Gau-Mukh would continue to pour water until the tank rose up and swamped him, or that some of the stone slabs would fall forward and crush him flat. (p. 100)

Even here Kipling interferes with the narration by recording that at this moment he remembered 'with peculiar and unnecessary distinctness' Tod's mention of the legend of 'some sort of devil, or ghoul, or Something' in that place (pp. 100-01), so that we have his half-laughing commentary accompanying this moment of pure terror. In The Naulahka this reworked incident is merely farcical, as Tarvin, who has formed the idea that he ought to be able to take possession of a priceless Indian necklace in order to bribe the wife of an American businessman, goes to the Cow's Mouth (Gau-Mukh) to look for it, and is scared away by a crocodile (pp. 169-71).

Perhaps what is most disappointing in The Naulahka is the absence of that delight in India, even at its most exasperating, which we find in the Letters. Bonamy Dobree has written of their 'profound tolerance' of India, (25) but the gaiety and affection of Kipling's writing go far beyond this, for example in his description of trying to find accommodation in Boondi, where he is met by a snowy-bearded caretaker at a derelict pavilion:

He was an old man, and all the Sahib-log said so, and within the pavilion were tables and chairs and lamps and bath-tubs, and everything that the heart of man could desire. Even now an enormous staff of menials were arranging all these things for the comfort of the Sahib Bahadur and Protector of the Poor, who had brought the honour and glory of his Presence all the way from Deoli. What did tables and chairs and eggs and fowls and very bright lamps matter to the Raj? [...]

By this time two youths had twisted canvas round some of the pillars of the colonnade, making a sort of loose-box with a two-foot air-way all round the top. There was no door, but there were unlimited windows. Into this enclosure the chowkidar heaped furniture on which many generations of pigeons had evidently been carried off by cholera, until he was entreated to desist. 'What,' said he scornfully, 'are tables and chairs to this Raj? If six be not enough, let the Presence give an order, and twelve shall be forthcoming'. (pp. 157-58)

The humour is here aimed equally at the hyperbole of the chowkidar and the extravagantly flattered Englishman who is entirely at his mercy. One of Kipling's critics comments on the way that travel leads to a desire to cross cultural lines; (26) it also brings into sharper relief a familiar cultural absurdity.

Another episode in which 'the Englishman' deliberately comes off very badly is his encounter with 'a venerable spinster' (p. 90), a fifty-one-year-old elephant called Gerowlia, which it is tempting to see as an allegory of India. Kipling is left in charge of her, nervously enough, since she is tied up with a string that is 'more an emblem of authority than a means of restraint'. Because she has previously been unwisely pampered with biscuits, she gets out of control, until the Englishman (advised by a passing half-naked little boy) hits her on the feet. Gerowlia then squawks exactly like an old lady who has narrowly escaped being run over, and holds up alternate forefeet to be beaten, pitifully enough, since one swing of her trunk 'could have knocked the Englishman flat' (p. 92).

Just as Kipling's Indian fictions struggle between a night-time desire for knowledge and a daytime need for surface stability, (27) so the Letters alternate between the affectation of control and the admission of ineffectuality. It is always part of Kipling's project to demonstrate how very precarious is the status, and how very limited the capability, of the Englishman in India. His attitude to this dilemma is in itself ambivalent: it has been pointed out that he praises the application of modern, western methods in the Native States, (28) and that he is just as enthusiastic about a clean water supply as he is about ancient monuments, (29) so that his regret for 'the dead glories of Rajasthan' (p. 169) is tempered with a certain democratic pragmatism. On the other hand, his investment in his Englishness does not lead him into the brutal dogmatism of his pronouncements about Empire that we find elsewhere in From Sea to Sea.

It is the essence of good travel writing to make the reader share in the experience of travel, and Letters of Marque comes as close as any travel writing can do to creating the illusion of sharing. We have not earned the right to Kipling's experiences because we have not suffered the discomforts, embarrassment, and humiliation he endured in the Native States, but we earn the right through suffering them with him. At the same time we realize that they do not constitute suffering at all, because they have been constructed into entertainment, with the same adroitness with which Kipling constructs himself as 'the Englishman'. We never lose sight of the fact that our traveller is a travel writer, one taking a holiday from professional writing which is nevertheless another kind of assignment, and one whose closest companion is the ghost of another writer. The activity to which our attention is constantly called is that of the construction of the narrative, and the unexpected good fortune with which it is moved along. By calling himself 'the Englishman' Kipling does identify himself as someone both at home and homesick in India, both enriched by and saddened by his fellow-countryman Tod's pleasure and pain in India, but he also identifies himself as someone essentially anonymous. Despite what the narrative itself is telling us, with the mixture of scintillation and sober expertise Edmonia Hill noted in Kipling, the narrator is telling us that the most commonplace of raconteurs, if sufficiently trained in writing, could have produced these marvellous Letters. All it needed was the collision of the land that Kipling, like Tod, loved so well, with the embodiment of that other land, England, which laid artistic and emotional claim to it.

(1) Charles Carrington, Rudyard Kipling: His Life and Work (London: Macmillan, 1955), p. 128.

(2) K. Jamiluddin, The Tropic Sun: Kipling and the Raj (Lucknow: Lucknow University, 1974), p. 14.

(3) Martin Fido, Rudyard Kipling (London: Hamlyn, 1974), p. 50.

(4) Thomas Pinney, In Praise of Kipling (Austin: University of Texas, 1996), p. 7.

(5) Norman Page, A Kipling Companion (London and Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1984), p. 12.

(6) Louis L. Cornell, Kipling in India (London: Macmillan; New York: St Martin's Press, 1966), p. 147.

(7) Andrew Lycett, Rudyard Kipling (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1999), p. 150.

(8) Geoff Hutchinson, Kipling: Rudyard Kipling 1865-1936: An Introduction (London: Hutchinson, 1988), p. 32.

(9) Martin Seymour-Smith, Rudyard Kipling (London: Macdonald, 1989), p. 70.

(10) The Letters of Rudyard Kipling, ed. by Thomas Pinney, 3 vols (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1990), ii, 10.

(11) Francine E. Krishna, Rudyard Kipling: His Apprenticeship (Jaipur: Printwell, 1988), p. 17.

(12) Rudyard Kipling, Letters of the Marque, in From Sea to Sea and Other Stories: Letters of Travel, 2 vols (London: Macmillan, 1900), i, 1.

(13) Harry Ricketts, The Unforgiving Minute: A Life of Rudyard Kipling (London: Chatto & Windus, 1999), p. 104.

(14) Mark Paffard, Kipling's Indian Fiction (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1989), p. 49.

(15) S. S. T. Rowe, Kipling Discovered (Newcastle, Staffs.: Romica, 1974), p. 2.

(16) Lieutenant-Colonel James Tod, Late Political Agent to the Western Rajpoot States, Annals and Antiquities of Rajast'han, or the Central and Western Rajpoot States of India, 2 vols (London: Smith, Elder, 1829 and 1832).

(17) James Tod, Annals and Antiquities, ed. with introduction and notes by William Crooke, 3 vols (London: Oxford University Press, 1920), i, xliv.

(18) Quarterly Review (October-December 1832), quoted in Crooke, i, xxix.

(19) Annals and Antiquities, 2nd edn, 2 vols (Madras: Higginbotham, 1873).

(20) Hilton Brown, Rudyard Kipling: A New Appreciation (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1945), p. 97.

(21) Annals and Antiquities, 2nd edn, ii, 700.

(22) Rudyard Kipling and Wolcott Balestier, The Naulahka: A Story of West and East (1892; London: Macmillan, 1901).

(23) The Strange Ride of Rudyard Kipling: His Life and Works (London: Secker & Warburg, 1977), p. 94.

(24) Rudyard Kipling and His World (London: Thames and Hudson, 1975), p. 44.

(25) Bonamy Dobree, 'Rudyard Kipling (December 1927)', in Kipling: The Critical Heritage, ed. by Roger Lancelyn Green (London: Routledge, 1971), p. 350.

(26) W. J. Lohman, Jr, The Culture Shocks of Rudyard Kipling (New York: Lang, 1990), p. 223.

(27) Zohreh T. Sullivan, Narratives of Empire: The Fictions of Rudyard Kipling (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), p. 23.

(28) B. J. Moore-Gilbert, Kipling and 'Orientalism' (London: Croom Helm, 1986), p. 137.

(29) Cornell, Kipling in India, p. 148.


University of London
COPYRIGHT 2004 Modern Humanities Research Association
No portion of this article can be reproduced without the express written permission from the copyright holder.
Copyright 2004 Gale, Cengage Learning. All rights reserved.

Article Details
Printer friendly Cite/link Email Feedback
Author:Conde, Mary
Publication:Yearbook of English Studies
Article Type:Critical Essay
Date:Jan 1, 2004
Previous Article:From Cornhill to Cairo: Thackeray as travel-writer.
Next Article:'Home is the sailor, home from sea': Robert Louis Stevenson and the end of wandering.

Related Articles
Rudyard Kipling & the god of things as they are.
Text with each word used just once.
Tantor Media.
What's happening? Call for articles.
Politics and awe in Rudyard Kipling's fiction.

Terms of use | Privacy policy | Copyright © 2019 Farlex, Inc. | Feedback | For webmasters