One hundred years ago, in Lahore -- today the second city in independent Pakistan but then an administrative center in British India -- a 17-year-old subeditor, fresh out of school in England, worked very hard to get out each day's edition of the Civil and Military Gazette. His name was Rudyard Kipling. [Image: (Joseph) Rudyard Kipling, 1865-1936.] Every now and then the young subeditor, with his editor's assent, would fill up a little left-over space in the newspaper with a poem of his own composition, much to the annoyance of the Indian typesetters, who did not like to use the special typefaces which Kipling deemed appropriate to distinguish his poems from the prose around them. In 1886 he gathered up all of these poems from the previous three years and republished them in a book, under the title Departmental Ditties. The book was an immediate hit with other British colonials, and the first printing sold out very quickly. Then it was one book after another, for from 1883 until his death in 1936 Kipling's pen was seldom idle; hardly a week went by that he did not write one or more poems. Because his poetry expressed so well the common sentiment of the race -- the deep soul-sense of men conscious of their breeding and of their responsibility to live up to a standard set by their forebears -- it became very popular with his fellows. He was by far the most widely read -- and the best-loved -- poet writing in English at the beginning of this century; every cultured person in the English-speaking world was familiar with at least some of his poems. In 1907 he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. Kipling chose as his symbol -- his personal rune -- the swastika, the ancient Aryan sign of the sun and of health and of good fortune. Most editions of his works published in the first decades of this century are adorned with this symbol. Beginning in 1933, however, Jewish pressure was brought to bear against the publishers, and the swastikas were dropped from subsequent printings. [Image: Kim, (1901).] Unfortunately, the censorship did not end there. Kipling's poetry was obnoxious to the new men who began tightening their grip on the cultural and informational media of the English-speaking world in the 1930's -- obnoxious and dangerous. Actually, the whole spirit of Kipling's writing was dangerous to them, totally at odds with the new spirit they were promoting so assiduously, but they could not simply ban all further publication of his works. What they did instead was take measures to have dropped from new editions of his collected writings those of his poems and stories which expressed most explicitly the spirit and the ideas they feared: the spirit and the ideas of proud, free White men. Today every school child still reads a bit of Kipling's poetry: such things as "Mandalay" and "FuzzyWuzzy" and "Gunga Din," which superficially seem safely in tune with an age of multiracialism and "affirmative action" and White guilt. But what American schoolchild has ever been given an opportunity to read Kipling's "The Children's Song"? The first two stanzas of that poem are: Land of our Birth, we pledge to thee

Our love and toil in the years to be;

When we are grown and take our place,

As men and women with our race. Father in Heaven who lovest all,

Oh help Thy children when they call;

That they may build from age to age,

An undefiled heritage. There are many other Kipling poems, equally dangerous, which have been deleted from every edition of his works published since the Second World War. Here are three of them:



A Song of the White Men Now, this is the cup the White Men drink

When they go to right a wrong,

And that is the cup of the old world's hate --

Cruel and strained and strong.

We have drunk that cup -- and a bitter, bitter cup

And tossed the dregs away.

But well for the world when the White Men drink

To the dawn of the White Man's day! Now, this is the road that the White Men tread

When they go to clean a land --

Iron underfoot and levin overhead

And the deep on either hand. We have trod that road -- and a wet and windy road

Our chosen star for guide.

Oh, well for the world when the White Men tread

Their highway side by side! Now, this is the faith that the White Men hold

When they build their homes afar --

"Freedom for ourselves and freedom for our sons

And, failing freedom, War. "

We have proved our faith -- bear witness to our faith,

Dear souls of freemen slain!

Oh, well for the world when the White Men join

To prove their faith again!

The Stranger The Stranger within my gate,

He may be true or kind,

But he does not talk my talk --

I cannot feel his mind.

I see the face and the eyes and the mouth,

But not the soul behind. The men of my own stock

They may do ill or well,

But they tell the lies I am wonted to.

They are used to the lies I tell,

And we do not need interpreters

When we go to buy and sell. The Stranger within my gates,

He may be evil or good,

But I cannot tell what powers control

What reasons sway his mood;

Nor when the Gods of his far-off land

Shall repossess his blood. The men of my own stock,

Bitter bad they may be,

But, at least, they hear the things I hear,

And see the things I see;

And whatever I think of them and their likes

They think of the likes of me. This was my father's belief

And this is also mine:

Let the corn be all one sheaf --

And the grapes be all one vine,

Ere our children's teeth are set on edge

By bitter bread and wine.

Song of the Fifth River When first by Eden Tree,

The Four Great Rivers ran,

To each was appointed a Man

Her Prince and Ruler to be. But after this was ordained,

(The ancient legends tell),

There came dark Israel,

For whom no River remained. Then He Whom the Rivers obey

Said to him: "Fling on the ground

A handful of yellow clay,

And a Fifth Great River shall run,

Mightier than these Four,

In secret the Earth around;

And Her secret evermore,

Shall be shown to thee and thy Race." So it was said and done.

And, deep in the veins of Earth,

And, fed by a thousand springs

That comfort the market-place,

Or sap the power of Kings,

The Fifth Great River had birth,

Even as it was foretold

The Secret River of Gold! And Israel laid down

His sceptre and his crown,

To brood on that River bank,

Where the waters flashed and sank,

And burrowed in earth and fell,

And bided a season below,

For reason that none might know,

Save only Israel. He is Lord of the Last --

The Fifth, most wonderful, Flood.

He hears Her thunder past

And Her Song is in his blood.

He can foresay: "She will fall,"

For he knows which fountain dries

Behind which desert-belt

A thousand leagues to the South. He can foresay: "She will rise."

He knows what far snows melt

Along what mountain-wall

A thousand leagues to the North.

He snuffs the coming drouth

As he snuffs the coming rain.

He knows what each will bring forth,

And turns it to his gain. A ruler without a Throne,

A Prince without a Sword,

Israel follows his quest.

In every land a guest,

Of many lands a lord,

In no land King is he.

But the Fifth Great River keeps

The secret of Her deeps

For Israel alone,

As it was ordered to be.

Annex: Kipling's Most Famous Poem If -- If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too:

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or being hated don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise; If you can dream -- and not make dreams your master;

If you can think -- and not make thoughts your aim,

If you meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two imposters just the same:

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools; If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss:

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!" If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with Kings -- nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much: If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And -- which is more -- you'll be a Man, my son!

National Vanguard, March 1984.