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
in the sense that everything depends upon obedience. There is no
perfectly epicurean corner; there is no perfectly irresponsible place.
Everywhere men have made the way for us with sweat and submission.
We may fling ourselves into a hammock in a fit of divine carelessness.
But we are glad that the net-maker did not make the hammock in a fit of
divine carelessness. We may jump upon a child's rocking-horse for a joke.
But we are glad that the carpenter did not leave the legs of it
unglued for a joke. So far from having merely preached that a soldier
cleaning his side-arm is to be adored because he is military,
Kipling at his best and clearest has preached that the baker baking
loaves and the tailor cutting coats is as military as anybody.
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