was leaving the stocks.  There is something about the tale that reminds us of Mr. Kipling.  Now he is the prophet of Jehovah, now the Corybantic pagan priest, now the interpreter of the soul of machines.  He is everything and everybody.  He knows the heart of the unborn, and, telling of days far in the future, can make them as living and real as the hours of to-day.  It was the late Professor James who said of him, “Kipling is elemental; he is down among the roots of all things.  He is universal like the sun.  He is at home everywhere.  When he dies they won’t be able to get any grave to hold him.  They will have to bury him under a pyramid.”  In our reckoning such a man hardly counts.  It would be most interesting, if it were as yet possible, to speculate as to whether his permanent influence has been more on the side of a kind of a wild Titanic paganism, or of that ancient Calvinistic God whom Macandrew worships in the temple of his engine-room.

We now come to a later phase, for which we may take as representative writers the names of Mr. H.G.  Wells and Mr. Bernard Shaw.  Science, for the meantime at least, has disentangled herself from her former materialism, and a nobly ideal and spiritual view of science has come again.  It may even be hoped that the pagan view will never be able again to assert itself with the same impressiveness as in the past.  But social conditions are to-day in the throes of their strife, and from that quarter of the stage there appear such writers as those we are now to consider.  They both present themselves as idealists.  Mr. Wells has published a long volume about his religion, and Mr. Shaw prefaces his plays with essays as long or even longer than the plays themselves, dealing with all manner of the most serious subjects.  The surface flippancy both of prefaces and plays has repelled some readers in spite of all their cleverness, and tended towards an unjust judgment that he is upsetting the universe with his tongue in his cheek all the time.  Later one comes to realise that this is not the case, that Mr. Shaw does really take himself and his message seriously, and from first to last conceives himself as the apostle of a tremendous creed.  Among many other things which they have in common, these writers have manifested the tendency to regard all who ever went before them as, in a certain sense, thieves and robbers; at least they give one the impression that the present has little need for long lingering over the past.  Mr. Wells, for instance, cannot find words strong enough to describe the emancipation of the modern young man from Mr. Kipling with his old-fashioned injunction, “Keep ye the law.”  There are certain laws which Mr. Wells proclaims on the housetops that he sees no necessity for keeping, and so Mr. Kipling is buried under piles of opprobrium—­“the tumult and the bullying, the hysteria and the impatience, the incoherence and the inconsistency,” and so on.  As for Mr. Bernard Shaw, we all know his own view of the relation in which he stands to William Shakespeare.