LETTERS OF TRAVEL
(1892-1913)
BY RUDYARD KIPLING
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON
1920
The Letters entitled 'FROM TIDEWAY TO TIDEWAY' were published
originally in The Times; those entitled 'LETTERS TO THE FAMILY' in
The Morning Post; and those entitled 'EGYPT OF THE MAGICIANS' in
Nash's Magazine.
CONTENTS
FROM TIDEWAY TO TIDEWAY (1892) -
In Sight of Monadnock
Across a Continent
The Edge of the East
Our Overseas Men
Some Earthquakes
Half-a-Dozen Pictures
'Captains Courageous'
On One Side Only
Leaves from a Winter Note-Book
LETTERS TO THE FAMILY (1907) -
The Road to Quebec
A People at Home
Cities and Spaces
Newspapers and Democracy
Labour
The Fortunate Towns
Mountains and the Pacific
A Conclusion
EGYPT OF THE MAGICIANS (1913) -
Sea Travel
A Return to the East
A Serpent of Old Nile
Up the River
Dead Kings
The Face of the Desert
The Riddle of Empire
* * * * *
FROM TIDEWAY TO TIDEWAY
1892-95
IN SIGHT OF MONADNOCK.
ACROSS A CONTINENT.
THE EDGE OF THE EAST.
OUR OVERSEAS MEN.
SOME EARTHQUAKES.
HALF-A-DOZEN PICTURES.
'CAPTAINS COURAGEOUS.'
ON ONE SIDE ONLY.
LEAVES FROM A WINTER NOTE-BOOK.
* * * * *
IN SIGHT OF MONADNOCK
After the gloom of gray Atlantic weather, our ship came to America in a
flood of winter sunshine that made unaccustomed eyelids blink, and the
New Yorker, who is nothing if not modest, said, 'This isn't a sample of
our really fine days. Wait until such and such times come, or go to such
and a such a quarter of the city.' We were content, and more than
content, to drift aimlessly up and down the brilliant streets, wondering
a little why the finest light should be wasted on the worst pavements in
the world; to walk round and round Madison Square, because that was full
of beautifully dressed babies playing counting-out games, or to gaze
reverently at the broad-shouldered, pug-nosed Irish New York policemen.
Wherever we went there was the sun, lavish and unstinted, working nine
hours a day, with the colour and the clean-cut lines of perspective that
he makes. That any one should dare to call this climate muggy, yea, even
'subtropical,' was a shock. There came such a man, and he said, 'Go
north if you want weather - weather that is weather. Go to New
England.' So New York passed away upon a sunny afternoon, with her roar
and rattle, her complex smells, her triply over-heated rooms, and much
too energetic inhabitants, while the train went north to the lands where
the snow lay. It came in one sweep - almost, it seemed, in one turn of
the wheels - covering the winter-killed grass and turning the frozen
ponds that looked so white under the shadow of lean trees into pools of
ink.
As the light closed in, a little wooden town, white, cloaked, and dumb,
slid past the windows, and the strong light of the car lamps fell upon a
sleigh (the driver furred and muffled to his nose) turning the corner of
a street.
