turn back the tide of popular enthusiasm which surged and broke at Rudyard Kipling's feet was natural enough. He assured the British public that "Recessional" was the work of a "solemn cad"; and the British public—quite as if he had not spoken—took the poem to its heart, wept over it, prayed over it, and dilated generally with emotions which it is good for a public to feel. The looker-on was reminded a little of Horace Walpole fretfully explaining to Paris that a Salisbury Court printer could not possibly know anything about the habits of the English aristocracy; and of Paris replying to this ultimatum by reading "Clarissa Harlowe" with all its might and main, and shedding torrents of tears over the printer's matchless heroine.
The asperity of a solitary critic is, however, far less impelling than the asperity of a whole school of writers
