th unbaptized Indian babies for the good of their little souls.

I have recovered from those astonishing adventures with Kipling. I may
read him to-day with enjoyment, but safe from excitation. This is due,
perhaps, to a stringy constitution, subject to bilious doubts, which
loves to see lusty Youth cock its hat when most nervous, swagger with
merry insolence to hide the uncertainty which comes of self-conscious
inexperience, assume a cynical shrewdness to protect its credulity, and
imitate the abandon of the hard fellow who has been to Hong Kong, Tal
Tal, and Delagoa Bay. We enjoy seeing Youth act thus; but one learns in
time that a visit to Rhodesia, worse luck, makes one no more intelligent
than a week-end at Brighton. Well, it doesn't matter. What ingrates we
should be now to turn on Kipling because we disagree with the politics he
prefers, those loud opinions of his which, when we get too much of them,
remain in the ears for a while like the echoes of a brass tray which a
hearty child banged for a drum. Though we hold the British Constitution
as sacred as the family vault we do not think the less of Dickens because
the awful spectacle of our assembled legislators made him laugh, nor do
we leave the room when Beethoven is played because his careless regard
for a monarch's divine right is painful to us. If Kipling had not given
us _My Sunday at Home_ and _The Incarnation of Krishna Mulvaney_, how
should we have got them?

I have just read Kipling's book, _Letters of Travel_. Its attractive
title drew me to it, and is to blame. Kipling has an uncanny gift of
sight. It prompts no divination in him, but its curiosity misses nothing
that is superficial. If he had watched the Crucifixion, and had been its
sole recorder, we should have had a perfect representation of the
soldiers, the crowds, the weather, the smells, the colours, and the three
uplifted figures; so lively a record that it would be immortal for the
fidelity and commonness of its physical experience. But we should never
have known more about the central figure than that He was a cool and
courageous rebel. Kipling can make a picture of an indifferent huddle of
fishing boats in a stagnant harbour which is more enjoyable than being
there. Letters from such a traveller would attract one directly across
the bookshop. But these letters of his were addressed to his friends the
Imperialists before the War, and one may guess the rest. Such an exposure
moves one to sor