passing away； and so forth。
I had never taken a major anaesthetic before； and I must say I did not find the process pleasant。 I can still see the face of my friend Dr。 Lyne Stivens； and the jovial； rubicund countenance of the late Professor Rose； bending over me as through a mist； both grown so strangely solemn； and feel the grip of my hand tightening upon that of the nurse which afterwards it proved almost impossible to free。
Then came the whirling pit and the blackness。 I suppose that it was like death； only I hope that death is not quite so dark！
From this blackness I awoke in a state of utter intoxication to find the nurses of the establishment gathered round me with sheets of paper and the familiar； hateful autograph books in which； even in that place and hour； they insisted I should write。 Heaven knows what I set down therein： I imagine they must have been foolish words； which mayhap one day will be brought up against me。
Another question： Why cannot the public authorities establish really suitable nursing homes for paying patients？ This would be a great boon to thousands； and； I should imagine； self…supporting。
However； of one of these nurses at any rate； a widow； I have grateful recollections。 I amused myself； and； I trust； her； by reading “Ayesha” aloud to her during my long wakeful hours — for she was a night nurse。
This book “Ayesha；” which was published while I was in the nursing home； is a sequel to “She；” which； in obedience to my original plan； I had deliberately waited for twenty years to write。 As is almost always the case； it suffered somewhat from this fact； at any rate at the hands of those critics with whom it is an article of faith to declare that no sequel can be good。 Still； I have met and heard from many people who like “Ayesha” better than they do “She。”
Lang was very doubtful about this book。 He wrote：
You may think me a hound； but I only found out as I went to bed last night that “Ayesha” was in the drawing…room。 Awfully good of you to make me such a nice dedication； grammar right too； which I name because in a very jolly book egalement dedie to me the grammar is wrong； but I could not point that out to the author。
I am almost afraid to read “She；” as at 61；00000 one has no longer the joyous credulity of forty； and even your imagination is out of the fifth form。 However； plenty of boys are about； and I hope they will be victims of the enchantress。 。 。 。
I was therefore correspondingly relieved； believing as I do that Lang’s judgment on imaginative fiction was the soundest of any man of his time； and knowing his habit of declaring the faith that was in him without fear； favour； or prejudice； when on the following day I received another note in which he said：
It is all right： I am Thrilled： so much obliged。 I thought I was too Old； but the Eternal Boy is still on the job。 Unluckily I think the dam reviewers never were boys — most of them the Editor’s nieces。 May it be done into Thibetan。 Dolmen business in Chapter I all right！
I have often been asked； and have been careful never to answer the question； as to what I considered the best passages in my own humble writings。 It is a very favourite query of the casual correspondent； from whom I receive； on an average； a letter a day； and sometimes many； many more。 Now in acknowledgment of them all I reply — Ignosi’s chant in “King Solomon’s Mines；” as it appears in the later editions of that book （the same that Stevenson called “a very noble imitation”）； the somewhat similar chant to the Sun in “Allan Quatermain”； the scene where Eric Brighteyes finds his mother dead — which Lang declared was “as good as Homer” — and the subsequent fight in the hall at Middlehof； the description of the wolves springing up at the dead body in the cave in “Nada the Lily”； the transformation in the chapter called “The Change” and “The Loosing of the Powers” in “Ayesha”； a speech made by the heroine Mameena as she dies； in an unpublished work called “Child of Storm；” with the rest of her death scene； the account of the passion of John and Jess as they swung together wrapt in each other’s arms in the sinking waggon on the waters of the flooded Vaal； and； oh！ I know not what besides。 When one has written some fifty books the memory is scarce equal to the task of searching for plums amidst the dough。 Also； when one has found them； they seem on consideration to be but poor plums at best。 Also one thinks differently of their relative merits or demerits at different times。 For instance； how about “She’s” speech before she enters the fire？ and the holding of the stair by old Umslopogaas？ and the escape of the ship in “Fair Margaret”？ or the battle of Crecy in “Red Eve”？ If I am asked what book of mine I think the best as a whole； I answer that one； yet unpublished； to my mind is the most artistic。 At any rate； to some extent； it satisfies my literary conscience。 It is the book named “Child of Storm；” to which I have alluded above； and is a chapter in the history of “Allan Quatermain。” Of Allan； for obvious reasons； I can always write； and of Zulus； whose true inwardness I understand by the light of Nature； I can always write； and — well； the result pleases at least one reader — myself。 Whether it will please others is a different matter。
So； at last I have tried to answer the inquiries of the all…pervading casual correspondent in a somewhat superficial fashion。 To do so thoroughly would involve weeks of reading of much that I now forget。
When I escaped from that nursing home； very feeble and with much…shattered nerves； I went to stay with my friend Lyne Stivens to recuperate； and then for a day or two to Kipling’s。 Here I remember we pounded the plot of “The Ghost Kings” together； writing down our ideas in alternate sentences upon the same sheet of foolscap。
Among my pleasantest recollections during the last few years are those of my visits to the Kiplings； and one that they paid me here； during which we discussed everything in heaven above and earth beneath。 It is； I think； good for a man of rather solitary habits now and again to have the opportunity of familiar converse with a brilliant and creative mind。 Also we do not fidget each other。 Thus only last year Kipling informed me that he could work as well when I was sitting in the room as though he were alone； whereas generally the presence of another person while he was writing would drive him almost mad。 He added that he supposed the explanation to be that we were both of a trade； and I dare say he is right。 I imagine； however； that sympathy has much to do with the matter。
Of late years Kipling has been much attacked； a fate with which I was once most familiar； since at one time or the other it overtakes the majority of those who have met with any measure of literary； or indeed of other success — unless they happen to be Scotchmen； when they are sure of enthusiastic support from their patriots always and everywhere。 The English； it seems to me； lack this clan feeling； and are generally prepared to rend each other to pieces in all walks of life； perhaps because our race is of such mixed origin。 In Kipling’s case some of these onslaughts are doubtless provoked by his strong party feeling and pronouncements； though the form they take is for the most part criticism of his work。 Even on the supposition that this is not ale quality； such treatment strikes me as ungenerous。 No man is continually at his best； and the writer of “Recessional” and other noble and beautiful things should be spared these scourgings。 However； I have no doubt it will all e right in the end； and I hope that when this book is published he may be wearing the Order of Merit。
Nowadays everything is in extremes； and the over…praised of one year are the over…depreciated of the next； since； as much or more than most people； critics； or the papers that employ them； like to be in the fashion。 It is fortunate that； however much it may be influenced at the time； the ultimate judgment lies with the general public； which； in the issue； is for the most part just。 It is fortunate also that only a man’s best work will e before this final court； since in our crowded age the rest must soon evaporate。
The next important event that happened to me was my nomination in the year 1906 as a member of the Royal mission on Coast Erosion。 It happened thus。 Seeing that such a mission was to be appointed； I wrote to Mr。 Lloyd George； who was then the President of the Board of Trade in the new Radical Government； explaining to him a method I had adopted of keeping back the sea by the planting of Marram grass。 This plan had proved most successful so far as the frontage of my house； Kessingland Grange； near Lowestoft； was concerned； and I suggested that it might with advantage be more widely followed。
Mr。 Lloyd George asked me to e to see him； which I did； with the result that ultimately I found myself a member of the Royal mission whereof Lord Ashby St。 Ledgers； then Mr。 Ivor Guest； was the Chairman。 Lord Ashby St。 Ledgers I liked very much； and with whom I got on extremely well； indeed he was always most kind and considerate to me。 So far he has been extraordinarily fortunate in life； and I hope that his good chance may continue。 Born to great wealth； while still young he finds himself a member of the Government； a Privy Councillor； and a peer in his own right without the necessity of waiting for his father’s title。 Truly the ball is at his feet and； with his considerable business abilities； he should be able to kick it far； as I hope he may。
How strangely do the lots of men vary； especially in this old…established land！ One toils all his life to attain in old age； or more probably not to attain at all； what another steps into from the beginning as a natural right and almost without effort on his part。 One man misfortune follows fast and death follows faster； another seems to pass from childhood to a very distance grave without a heartache or a stumble； neither he nor those connected with him are called upon to face work； or want； or struggle； or to know any kind of human loss or suffering or anxiety of the soul — that is； so far as we can judge。
Almost am I inclined to think that the Prince Fortunatus of this character； of whom everybody will know several； must have behaved himself very well in a previous incarnation and now be reaping the harvest of reward。 Or maybe — this is a more unpleasant idea — his good things are appointed to him here like those of Dives in the Bible； and — there are breakers ahead。 Unless the world is regulated by pure chance； there must be some explanation of these startling differences of fate。 Or perhaps the fortunate ones have their own bitternesses which are invisible to other eyes。 Well； one may speculate on such problems； but to do the work that es to one’s hand thoroughly； to thank God for and be content with what one has and to envy no man — these are the only real recipes for such satisfaction and happiness as are allowed to us in our mortal pilgrimage。 Such； at least； is my attitude； though I must say I agree with Disraeli that life has more to offer to those who begin it with 3000 pounds a year； and with Becky Sharp who remarked safely that in these circumstances it was easier to be