nized condition, though his commentary is limited to a brief and not very lucid gesture in the direction of the dread inhibitions which are frequently said to manacle our national spirit. But whatever the reasons, it is a fact that the really humorous, the lightly whimsical, the genuinely gay story is far too rare in our magazines. I have recently noticed only six stories which I should account as of this class and the best three of them are by English authors: one, W. W. Jacobs's already mentioned "Something for Nothing"; another, Elizabeth De Burgh's "Mrs. Buckle" (Atlantic, January), a merry tale much in the Jacobs vein recording a delightfully garrulous charwoman's criticism of life; and one other, St. John Ervine's "Mr. Peden Keeps His Cook" (Century, December) - a delightful narrative of an epicure who married his cook for the sake of his stomach, only to find that she had become, perforce, a fine lady and would cook for him no more! Yet the mellowness of Mary Wolfe Thompson's "Turtle" (Midland, December), a sketch of how two old men catch and eat, or try to eat, an enormous turtle - the mellowness and gaiety of this American writer must be admitted. And still more interesting is "The Ultimate Frog" (Harper's, November) by Roy Dickinson. This could not be called a humorous story on the grounds that it is humorous in intent. Indeed, its end is tragic and deeply moving. But it has a breezy, genuine humor, and with it an eerie touch of caprice. Told briefly, without effort to convey its elusive flavor, it is the story of Old Man Saunders who And so Old Man Saunders tried to capture a frog quartette, and the news got about. Of course he was held to be insane. He got into serious trouble over it, became a fugitive from the troopers, and was finally shot down - just as he succeeded in capturing the final, the ultimate frog. A kindly friend, carrying out the old man's thought, took the ultimate frog to the secret pond where the rest were. The other three had escaped. Mr. Dickinson is peculiarly identified with influences which, along with Puritanism, are blamed for throttling the creative effort of Americans. I mean modern business. Mr. Dickinson is a member of the editorial staff of the "Printers' Ink" publications, and spends his days writing about sales resistance in the drug trade, market analysis, advertising copy, and what can be done about educating the grocer to a warmer appreciation of what food manufacturers accomplish in spending money for advertising space. "The Ultimate Frog" gives an account of Mr. Dickinson's nights and a very fine. and cheering one it is. There is yet hope for us so long as any business man can write a story as good as this one. And with regard to our Puritan inhibitions haven't we been somewhat glib and sudden in making them the scapegoat of our discontent? AND KIPLING'S CAREER By Grant Overton With a Portrait by Bertrand Zadig ND here it is 1925, and he is sixty. Once upon a time it seemed that he was to have a half dozen careers but they have turned out to be only a single career, after all. It would be interesting, though, to find out what it is. Never was such a manysided man who is yet somehow always being onesided, nor a prophet so with and without honor in his own country, nor an outlander so snugly at home. Born in the bazaar, he keeps his hall in Sussex. Bred to write, he consorts with county families or else consorts not at all. In infancy in India, he saw men of a venerable countenance withdraw themselves from the fleshly world with the significant syllable, "Om". This, in English, is the first syllable of "Omen". Many times hath he said, "Omen, Omen", and some harkened thereto and others took no heed. Nevertheless, even as with those ancient men, the look of peace has stood sometimes in his eyes. In a not unreasonably long life he has compassed much and has kept a little. Born in Bombay in 1865, the grandchild of Wesleyan ministers, with a mother and sister who wrote verse and a father interested in the history and culture of India, Rudyard Kipling had an ayah or nurse who addressed him in Hindustani, a tongue which the QueenEmpress Victoria was to start learning in her approaching old age. Kipling Sahib was director of the Lahore Museum; he did not shrink from curious and strange knowledge. But when his son was six, he sent the lad to England. Since young Rudyard was too little for school, he was lodged for five years at Portsmouth with a family. At eleven he went into Westward Ho! in Devon, the favorite school for the children of Anglo-Indians, the school of "Stalky & Co." He took an English literature prize, edited the school paper, and wrote verse imitative of Tennyson and Browning. There is a poem of the time in honor of Victoria with the note of imperial obligation quite clear in it. His school life was ended when he was sixteen. He refused the path to one of the universities and returned to India, where, at seventeen, he was a newspaper man on the staff of the "Civil and Military Gazette", Lahore. But now he was a man. "He had, though living with his parents, his own servants, his horse, his dog-cart, his club, his friends, a life of his own." He was a reporter and editor, too. The Duke of Connaught, in India as a military commander, gave permission to young Kipling to visit the army and see what he could make of army life. Some of the early poems were written as part of the day's newspaper work, and some of the stories. From the Lahore journal Kipling went to work for the Allahabad "Pioneer". His first book was "Departmental Ditties", published at Lahore when he was twenty one; two years later at Calcutta was published "Plain Tales from the Hills". At twenty four Kipling, as correspondent for the Allahabad "Pioneer", set out for Japan, San Francisco, New York, and England. His tales of India found no market in America and, at first, none in London. But he had not long to wait. In 1890 "Plain Tales from the Hills" was brought out in London; a magazine published in one number "The Incarnation of Krishna Mulvaney" and "The Ballad of East and West"; and there were interviews and reviews and appreciations. Rudyard Kipling was twenty five. Youth is a formula. And to make the confession is to take away nothing from the magic of that time. Every boy is a Euclid making the discovery of the immortal and venerable old propositions; demonstrating them) them) Every young girl is her own prism, deliciously unaware that there is a law of prisms such as she. The young Kipling invented no new formula; he merely applied his immense youthful exuberance to new classes of material. The formulaic nature of his early work was quickly evident. Naturally it has led to formulas in attempts to estimate him. The most hackneyed is the assertion that his best work was done before he was thirty. It is an assertion not infrequently repeated today, but today its falsity is manifest. Whatever the difficulty in estimating Kipling's prose and verse, the one thing certain is that some of his worst work was done before he was thirty years old. He was only twenty five when "The Light That Failed" was brought out in the United States with a happy ending written especially for American consumption; the London edition, published a year later, finishing in more tragic fashion. "The Record of Badalia Herodsfoot" which, if you know it not, I beg you to forget was written at about the same time. "The Jungle Book” and "The Second Jungle Book" belong to the under-thirty period, but Kipling was thirty six in the year that "Kim" was brought out. There is a further point: Was Kipling's thirty the same as another's? It is impossible to think of it so. A man who has his own job (a responsible one), his own servants and club and "a life of his own" at seventeen, is not as other men. not at all. Not to risk a doubtful comparison with Mr. Tarkington's hero, William Sylvanus Baxter, it is safe to say that Kipling at seventeen occupied the mental and spiritual position of most men from five to ten years older. Thus at thirty he would stand, presumably, with men of thirty five and even forty in attainment. No, Of course it is not quite so simple as that; life is a handicap race with any number of deductions and offsets and a few peculiar penalties. Kipling's thirty might be another man's forty; no such fixed relation would hold between him and his fellow at any other given age. And the difference, roughly, between an artist and a man of business is this: The man of business runs life's race as a race frankly, in open and seeing competition with men like him; the artist runs the race only with himself. With him the race is not to win, but to satisfy his need." The tragedy of Kipling—if tragedy it is lies just here. Watching the artist's performance, we expect to see him do as ordinary men do. He may or may not sprint at the start; he must sprint somewhere. He may start moderately, but he must soon be holding his own and he must be going strong until he dies or deliberately stops. Otherwise, we demand to know, what is he running for? Well, the lives of half the artists who ever have lived are Kipling's son, John, in the Great War. Another was an interview by Clare Sheridan appearing after the war. Concerning the interview, there was a complete misunderstanding between Mr. Kipling and the interviewer. The interview was officially denied. I am not aware that it was specifically retracted. Its purport was highly critical of the United States. Published hroughout America, it aroused much comment. In Michael Arlen's phrase, here was any amount of backchat. You are anxious, perhaps, to make a ame for yourself? You might try to erview Mr. Kipling now. Perhaps a Conservative government might have given Mr. Kipling a peerage, but since 1914 Conservative governments have been scarce and before 1914 it would not have been possible. Stanley Baldwin is a kinsman of Kipling; one cannot be indelicate. But it is small wonder that as I am writing these lines Heywood Broun should be printing his opinion that "there seems every reason to believe that the man who wrote 'Kim' is definitely dead". The obvious reply is that, as a person, he never lived. I do not myself for one moment credit the biographical outline I have already set forth. It is, like the atomic theory and other such matters, a mere hypothesis, a plausible way of accounting for the presence of so much printed matter and the evidence of a force or energy which we do not understand. There are the photographs of Kipling - but since Sir Arthur Conan Doyle discovered ectoplasm, the camera is not to be trusted. R. K. is a myth. But if his personality does not exist outside his work, it is fully realized in it. We shall do well if we can comprehend all of his manysidedness and his singlesidedness. What fun to try! "Born blasé", was J. M. Barrie's comment, when Kipling the strisome appeared on the scene. Athe fences went away to meditat Yes, the unique thing is that, since is youth, he has had no personal hisory at all. There is literally nothing to record. People have made, in anxiety and enmity or with that curious malice that is not personal but is directed toward the great, all sorts of conjectures. The rumor got about that Kipling's whole ambition was to found a county family. But if he' compre-assed, and he prary lot is Rudyard ambitinai tire freistis about. Mr. Conrad, a late starter, moved with gathering speed and a sustained pace to the very end. Always the Conrad novel every year or two years, always the individual gait, a constantly increasing number of eyes riveted on this dark horse who ran so well. But although it so happened that the method and performance of Mr. Conrad was the simple path of industrious achieve Kiprenson refining his race, like all his tribe, to'satisfy his own need, he has chosen at one or another time to go through nearly all the paces of which the literary artist is capable. A trick horse, if you like. A dark horse, never. That, indeed, was half the difficulty. We saw this youngster flash out from under the wire when he had barely attained to manhood. His first burst of speed was terrific; and not only did he At twenty four Kipling, as correspondent for the Allahabad "Pioneer", set out for Japan, San Francisco, New York, and England. His tales of India found no market in America and, at first, none in London. But he had not long to wait. In 1890 "Plain Tales from the Hills" was brought out in London; a magazine published in one number "The Incarnation of Krishna Mulvaney" and "The Ballad of East and West"; and there were interviews and reviews and appreciations. Rudyard Kipling was twenty five. And to make Youth is a formula. the confession is to take away nothing from the magic of that time. Every boy is a Euclid making the discovery of the immortal and venerable old propositions; demonstrating them) Every young girl is her own prism, deliciously unaware that there is a law of prisms such as she. The young Kipling invented no new formula; he merely applied his immense youthful exuberance to new classes of material. The formulaic nature of his early work was quickly evident. Naturally it has led to formulas in attempts to estimate him. The most hackneyed is the assertion that his best work was done before he was thirty. It is an assertion not infrequently rethings today, but today its falsity is writer of Whatever the difficulty in stories); chauving's prose and verse go", Anglo-Saxon (that some of o dic" is both too fore b inaccurate), prophet, moral, AngloIndian, traveler, country gentleman, hermit. One is exhausted before he can possibly become exhaustive, recer Next, it is necessary to list, as nearly as possible, all the varieties of his work: Short stories as far apart as the cheap cynicism of some of the earlier Indian tales and sketches and the lovely, delicate, and firm emotion of "They". forget was written at about the same time. "The Jungle Book" and "The Second Jungle Book" belong to the under-thirty period, but Kipling was thirty six in the year that "Kim" was brought out. There is a further point: Was Kipling's thirty the same as another's? It is impossible to think of it so. A man who has his own job (a responsible one), his own servants and club and "a life of his own" at seventeen, is not as other men. not at all. Not to risk a doubtful comparison with Mr. Tarkington's hero, William Sylvanus Baxter, it is safe to say that Kipling at seventeen occupied the mental and spiritual position of most men from five to ten years older. older. Thus at thirty he would stand, presumably, with men of thirty five and even forty in attainment. No, Of course it is not quite so simple as that; life is a handicap race with any number of deductions and offsets and a few peculiar penalties. Kipling's thirty might be another man's forty; no such fixed relation would hold between him and his fellow at any other given age. And the difference, roughly, between an artist and a man of business is this: The man of business runs life's race as a race frankly, in open and seeing competition with men like him; the artist runs the race only with himself. With him the race is not to win, but to satisfy his need. at Batemairedy of Kipling - if tragedy A real feeling for the was scop ble for his retirement into the country, accentuated by a dislike of the literary circles of London. Since he has lived in that old sixteenth century house, his reclusive tendency has much strengthened. There has never been a telephone installed; only the fewest visitors were ever welcomed, and two significant things have happened to make visitors fewer. the One was the death of |