'Yet is there life in that I make,—
O Thou who knowest, turn and see,
As Thou hast power over me,
So have I power over these,
Because I wrought them for Thy sake,
And breathed in them mine agonies.
'Small mirth was in the making. Now
I lift the cloth that clokes the clay,
And, wearied, at thy feet I lay
My wares, ere I go forth to sell.
The long bazar will praise—but Thou—
Heart of my heart, have I done well?'
Certainly three of these tales constituted something very like a revelation not only of one of 'the four main features of Anglo-Indian life,' but also of a new writer of considerable force and originality. Nothing like either 'The Big Drunk Draf' or 'With the Main Guard' had been presented to the reading public before, and the praise of the long bazar was justifiable enough. But as a gallery of characters, as manifest fictional creations, the success of the book is not great. Indeed, here right at the very start, one of the weakest sides of all Mr. Kipling's work is just the want of this very gift, on the assured possession of which he seems to pique himself. His characterisation is never excellent; often it is mediocre; sometimes it is abominable. He cannot escape from his own subjectivity. Never was work more acutely personal than his. Never did a writer
