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system, backed up with the stock and ancient chauvinism about the glory and gain of the good old gentleman officer, all of the olden time, the individual with the courage of a mastiff and the brains of a rabbit. The poor old Irishman in his degradation is even made to consolingly kick himself with the reflection that, if he could have kept out of one big drink a month, he would have been an honorary lieutenant by this time, 'a nuisince to my betthers, a laughin'-shtock to my equils, an' a curse to meself.' And thus we settle the modern military question, incidentally throwing in a few jeers at Lord Wolseley as a drawing-room man, who doesn't know his business. With what heartfelt rapture, on the other hand, do we approach the sacred exhibitions of the Old Style! Take the first toast at the mess, which is the same as Mulvaney's loyal conversational prayer. 'That Sacrament of the Mess,' says Mr. Kipling solemnly and deliberately in his own person, 'never grows old and never ceases to bring a lump into the throat of the listener, be he by sea or by land. Dirkovitch' [a mere unregenerate Cossack] 'rose with his "brothers glorious," but he did not understand. No one but an officer' [the italics are mine] 'can tell what that means; and the bulk,' etc. etc. Now, what I want to know is this: Does Mr. Rudyard Kipling, in his most calm and disillusionised