iration and interest is far away from the battle-field and the
barrack. They are the kind of battle story which is usually written by
sedentary poets who live in the country and are fond of children. Only
they are the very best of their kind.

Mr Kipling's study of the professional soldier is best observed in
Private Ortheris. Mulvaney is more popular, but Mulvaney in no sense
belongs to Mr Kipling. He is the stage Irishman of the old Adelphi and
the hero of many tales by Lever and Marryat. He is as purely a
convention of the days of Mr Kipling's youth as are Mrs Hawksbee and
the Simla ladies. His chief importance lies in the opportunities he
gives Mr Kipling for indulging his joyful gift for pure farce.
_Krishna Mulvaney_ and _My Lord the Elephant_ are farce of the first
quality, whose merit liberally covers the charge that their hero is of
no human importance. Ortheris is in rather a different case. He has
just that air of being authentic which is needed for an anecdote or
narrative. He is not a profound and original document in human nature.
There is no such document in any one of Mr Kipling's books. But he
stands well erect among the professional soldiers of literature.

We will take one look at Private Ortheris at work:

"Ortheris suddenly rose to his knees, his rifle at his shoulder, and
peered across the valley in the clear afternoon light. His chin
cuddled the stock, and there was a twitching of the muscles of the
right cheek as he sighted; Private Stanley Ortheris was engaged on his
business. A speck of white crawled up the watercourse.

"'See that beggar? . . . Got 'im.'

"Seven hundred yards away, and a full two hundred down the hillside,
the deserter of the Aurangabadis pitched forward, rolled down a red
rock, and lay very still, with his face in a clump of blue gentians,
while a big raven flapped out of the pine wood to make investigation.

"'That's a clean shot, little man,' said Mulvaney.

"Learoyd thoughtfully watched the smoke clear away. 'Happen there was
a lass tewed up wi' him, too,' said he.

"Ortheris did not reply. He was staring across the valley, with the
smile of the artist who looks on the completed work."

This passage has been quoted against Mr Kipling as evidence of his
inhuman delight in the hunting of man. If we look at it closely we
shall find (1) an obvious delight in Ortheris as a professional expert
who knows his business, the same delight which we find in