There never was a time when men were less brave. All ages and all epics
have sung of arms and the man; but we have effected simultaneously
the deterioration of the man and the fantastic perfection of the arms.
Militarism demonstrated the decadence of Rome, and it demonstrates
the decadence of Prussia.

And unconsciously Mr. Kipling has proved this, and proved it admirably.
For in so far as his work is earnestly understood the military trade
does not by any means emerge as the most important or attractive.
He has not written so well about soldiers as he has about
railway men or bridge builders, or even journalists.
The fact is that what attracts Mr. Kipling to militarism
is not the idea of courage, but the idea of discipline.
There was far more courage to the square mile in the Middle Ages,
when no king had a standing army, but every man had a bow or sword.
But the fascination of the standing army upon Mr. Kipling is
not courage, which scarcely interests him, but discipline, which is,
when all is said and done, his primary theme. The modern army
is not a miracle of courage; it has not enough opportunities,
owing to the cowardice of everybody else. But it is really
a miracle of organization, and that is the truly Kiplingite ideal.
Kipling's subject is not that valour which properly belongs to war,
but that interdependence and efficiency which belongs quite
as much to engineers, or sailors, or mules, or railway engines.
And thus it is that when he writes of engineers, or sailors,
or mules, or steam-engines, he writes at his best. The real poetry,
the "true romance" which Mr. Kipling has taught, is the romance
of the division of labour and the discipline of all the trades.
He sings the arts of peace much more accurately than the arts of war.
And his main contention is vital and valuable. Every thing is military