But the parents and the schoolmasters were not nervous without cause.  Mr. Kipling is an anarchist in his preferences to a degree that no bench of bishops could approve.  He is, within limits, on the side of the Ishmaelites—­the bad boys of the school, the “rips” of the regiment.  His books are the praise of the Ishmaelitish life in a world of law and order.  They are seldom the praise of a law and order life in a world of law and order.  Mr. Kipling demands only one loyalty (beyond mutual loyalty) from his characters.  His schoolboys may break every rule in the place, provided that somewhere deep down in their hearts they are loyal to the “Head.”  His pet soldiers may steal dogs or get drunk, or behave brutally to their heart’s content, on condition that they cherish a sentimental affection for the Colonel.  Critics used to explain this aspect of Mr. Kipling’s work by saying that he likes to show the heart of good in things evil.  But that is not really a characteristic of his work.  What he is most interested in is neither good nor evil but simply roguery.  As an artist, he is a barn rebel and lover of mischief.  As a politician he is on the side of the judges and the lawyers.  It was his politics and not his art that ultimately made him the idol of the genteel world.

2.  THE POET OF LIFE WITH A CAPITAL HELL

Everybody who is older than a schoolboy remembers how Mr. Rudyard Kipling was once a modern.  He might, indeed, have been described at the time as a Post-Imperialist.  Raucous and young, he had left behind him the ornate Imperialism of Disraeli, on the one hand, and the cultured Imperialism of Tennyson, on the other.  He sang of Imperialism as it was, or was about to be—­vulgar and canting and bloody—­and a world that was preparing itself for an Imperialism that would be vulgar and canting and bloody bade him welcome.  In one breath he would give you an invocation to Jehovah.  In the next, with a dig in the ribs, he would be getting round the roguish side of you with the assurance that:—­

    If you’ve ever stole a pheasant-egg behind the keeper’s back,
      If you’ve ever snigged the washin’ from the line,
    If you’ve ever crammed a gander in your bloomin’ ’aversack,
      You will understand this little song o’ mine.

This jumble—­which seems so curious nowadays—­of delight in piety and delight in twopence-coloured mischiefs came as a glorious novelty and respite to the oppressed race of Victorians.  Hitherto they had been building up an Empire decently and in order; no doubt, many reprehensible things were being done, but they were being done quietly:  outwardly, so far as was possible, a respectable front was preserved.  It was Mr. Kipling’s distinction to tear off the mask of Imperialism as a needless and irritating encumbrance; he had too much sense of reality—­too much humour, indeed—­to want to portray Empire-builders as a company of plaster saints.  Like an enfant