RUDYARD KIPLING Nothing has been made plainer than the impossibility of foretelling popularity for the book of any author. The judgment of experienced critics can not foresee the attitude of the reading public toward any writing, whether prose or verse, sermon or romance, carefully indited by the man of letters or hastily scrawled by the novice. Anthony Trollope made his reputation, published a book without his name - and learned he had another reputation to make. Every bookseller can bring forward examples of failure where success was thought certain, of success where failure seemed assured. But it is easy enough to look back after the verdict has been reached and think out the reasons for it; and nothing now seems more in the nature of things than the acceptance of the poems of Mr. Rudyard Kipling, once those who speak his language in many and far countries have set laurels on his brow. His methods are simple and sane; his work, for all the mystery of the East and the wider mysteries of life and love and death, is without puzzles or philosophical profundities; his rime is certain and uncomplicated, and his measures of the sort that must be sung. Yet even to this day some withhold their praise, and his earlier work was frowned upon by more than one critic of distinction. It is, indeed, the curious and ironical fate of James Kenneth Stephen, thought to be safely within the temple of fame when Mr. Kipling's foot was halting at the threshold, that his memory should live chiefly through his witty lines, ending "When there stands a muzzled stripling, When the rudyards cease from kipling, A few years later, and the fear that the young Anglo-Indian might cease from “kipling" sent a thrill of sympathy to follow the drumbeats of his people around the world- -the two great nations of his blood standing as eager rivals in their concern. So intense was the feeling that it is certain no death in the world would be more deeply regretted, and regretted by so many conditions of men from the private soldier to the German Emperor, than that of this youthful poet and romancer, born in Bombay on the last day but one of the year 1865. The following verses, written in the days his desperate condition began to mend, are examples taken from scores of similiar expressions of relief: NEWS FROM A MISSING Liner To a Convalescent Crawling back to port again, half her cargo shifted, Just enough of fuel left to steam her to the pier ; Plunging through an icy gale when the fog has shifted, Battered by the breakers, but her lights a-burning clear! Rudyard Kipling Hope almost abandoned. days and nights she floundered Nights when not a star was out, and no sea-lights were near; All the world believed her lost; men despaired, but wondered How the liner could be wrecked and Kipling there to steer! Now she makes her harbor lights, glides through seas Whistles shrieking gayly, and thousands at the pier; On the bridge the Captain, pale and worn daunted! "Welcome back to life again!” cheer! un Hear the people "DROCH," in the New York Tribune. TO RUDYARD KIPLING, ESQ., FROM THOMAS ATKINS. There's a reg'lar run on papers, since we 'eard that you was ill; An you might be in a 'orspital; the barracks is so stiil; We 'ave all been mighty anxious, since we 'eard it on parade; An' we ain't no cowards neither, but I own we was afraid, An' we all prayed 'ard and earnest; "O Gawd, don't take 'im yet! Just let 'im stop and 'elp us; An' warn,' Lest we forget'!' The sergeant said: "E won't get round. It's 'three rounds blank' for 'im ! 'E won't write no more stories!" And our 'opes was bloomin' dim. But you 'ad always 'elped T. Atkins, an' though things did look blue Well! we ain't much 'ands at prayin', but we did our best for you. 'E must n't die; we want 'im ! 'E wrote "Lest we forget" ! We 'eard that you was fightin' 'ard — just as we knew you would; But we 'ardly 'oped you'd turn 'is flank; they said you 'ardly could. But the news 'as come this mornin', an' I'm writin' 'ere to say, There's no British son more 'appy than your old friend Thomas A. O Gawd, we're all so grateful Lest we, "Lest we forget"! -J. O. C., in the London Times. |