The Anaconda standard. [volume] (Anaconda, Mont.) 1889-1970, 1899-08-17

olu power IN the lndlan STORIES. 1eT-
manent interest cannot attach to any
thing which does not consist, from
rind to seeds, of instructive truth. A
thing must be interesting from every
point of view. as history, as poetry, as
philosophy; good for a sick man, just
the thing for Sunday morning. 1t must
be true if read backwards, true literal
ly and true as parable, true in frag-
ments and true as a whole. 1t must
be valuable as a campaign document.
and it must make you laugh or cry at
any time. day or night. Lasting liter
ature has got to be SO very good as
to fill all these conditions. Kipling's
work does not do so since the time he
began making money out of it. There
is, moreover. a harsh substratum in
the man that genius cannot atone for
1t ruins his poetry. This is India, and
in India it belonged. 1t is part of the
place. The man is wonderful appar-
ition of power, which every circum-
stance has combined to intensity, but
in himself he is neither England nor
America He is the greatest product of
journalism. He is flung out by condi-
tons and reflects conditions, but they
are not of the sort that remain COM
pI hey DtCdIHe d boIt
He will vanish. If he had died he
would have fallen like a bright exhala-
ton in the evening and no man have
seen him more. The obituaries would
have sold another edition or two of
his books, and five years would have
ended his fame. But he lives, and
what will he do next? He cannot be-
come poet. He is not in the class.
l. ;,,Itr ell spt,
any cosmic force or solar myth He
meets Russia and banks. A poet must
think he is the voice of humanity. He
sings and sings, and it turns out after
wards that he was the true spirit of
Pike county. A man who schedules
himself as the poet of Anglo-Saxondom
is litterateur. He is class poet. We
cannot accept this race prejudice.
There is nothing in it. Every one
knows that the emperor of Germany
is a human being. He and his must
be counted in. They are in already and
affect our personal comfort, and are a
part of our destiny and of our problem
AS for novel writing Kipling never
got the stride of it. He has acquired
the terrible habit of receiving large
sums for his wares, and he is about to
the vultures he feeds. At each trial
more effort, less nspiration-disap-
pointment. His talent is as doomed as
that of Bret Harte. The thumbs are
turned down on him already.
Kipling is lopsided. He is turmoil
and passion, but he is not all human
ity. He is like a hull that is flattened
on one side and can only go round in
circles. Why could not Kipling have
been-somebody else? This is what we
always and most ungratefully ask of
any newcomer, forgetting that what he
is he must be; forgetting that he is
only significant because he is the pro-
duct of inherent powers, manifesting
themselves inexoraby, unfolding them
selves, continually evolving like plant.
The accomplishment of this man is
dazzling. He has covered the globe
and run down the gamut of readers
from the highest intelligence to the
lowest before his first note has stopped
sounding. But his work has no future.
There is no beyond to his mind. There
remains nothing but repetition. Mean
while, whatever happens, he will have
been a sort Of rainbow, strand of gal
vanic influence crossing the sky above
the English-speaking peoples and to
some extent qualifying their history.