But the Kipling of the last ten years is an Imperialist and a Mechanic, rather than a literary man. We need not classify _Stalky and Co._, except to say that it is probably the worst novel ever written by a man of genius. It is on a false pitch throughout, and the most rasping book of recent times. The only good things in it are the quotations from Browning. The Jingo in Mr. Kipling was released by the outbreak of the South African War, and the author of _The Recessional_ forgot everything he had prayed God to remember. He became the voice of the British Empire, and the man who had always ridiculed Americans for bunkum oratory, out-screamed us all. In this imperialistic verse and prose there is not much literature, but there is a great deal of noise, which has occasionally deceived the public; just as an orator is sure of a round of applause if his peroration is shouted at the top of his voice. His recent book, _Puck of Pook's Hill_, is written against the grain; painful effort has supplied the place of the old inspiration, and the simplicity of true art is conspicuous by its absence. Of this volume, _The Athenæum_, in general friendly to Kipling, remarks: "In his new part--the missionary of empire--Mr. Kipling is living the strenuous life. He has frankly abandoned story-telling, and is using his complete and powerful armory in the interest of patriotic zeal." On the other hand, Mr. Owen Wister, whose opinion is valuable, thinks _Puck_ "the highest plane that he has ever reached"--a judgement that I record with respect, though to me it is incomprehensible.