I have but the knowledge of the man in the street in these things, though once or twice I have chanced on prophecy, and I am uneasily apprehensive of the quality of all our naval preparations.  We go on launching these lumping great Dreadnoughts, and I cannot bring myself to believe in them.  They seem vulnerable from the air above and the deep below, vulnerable in a shallow channel and in a fog (and the North Sea is both foggy and shallow), and immensely costly.  If I were Lord High Admiral of England at war I would not fight the things.  I would as soon put to sea in St. Paul’s Cathedral.  If I were fighting Germany, I would stow half of them away in the Clyde and half in the Bristol Channel, and take the good men out of them and fight with mines and torpedoes and destroyers and airships and submarines.

And when I come to military matters my persuasion that things are not all right, that our current hostility to imaginative activity and our dull acceptance of established methods and traditions is leading us towards grave dangers, intensifies.  In South Africa the Boers taught us in blood and bitterness the obvious fact that barbed wire had its military uses, and over the high passes on the way to Lhassa (though, luckily, it led to no disaster) there was not a rifle in condition to use because we had not thought to take glycerine.  The perpetual novelty of modern conditions demands an imaginative alertness we eliminate.  I do not believe that the Army Council or anyone in authority has worked out a tithe of the essential problems of contemporary war.  If they have, then it does not show.  Our military imagination is half-way back to bows and arrows.  The other day I saw a detachment of the Legion of Frontiersmen disporting itself at Totteridge.  I presume these young heroes consider they are preparing for a possible conflict in England or Western Europe, and I presume the authorities are satisfied with them.  It is at any rate the only serious war of which there is any manifest probability.  Western Europe is now a network of railways, tramways, high roads, wires of all sorts; its chief beasts of burthen are the railway train and the motor car and the bicycle; towns and hypertrophied villages are often practically continuous over large areas; there is abundant water and food, and the commonest form of cover is the house.  But the Legion of Frontiersmen is equipped for war, oh!—­in Arizona in 1890, and so far as I am able to judge the most modern sections of the army extant are organised for a colonial war in (say) 1899 or 1900.  There is, of course, a considerable amount of vague energy demanding conscription and urging our youth towards a familiarity with arms and the backwoodsman’s life, but of any thought-out purpose in our arming widely understood, of any realisation of what would have to be done and where it would have to be done, and of any attempts to create an instrument for that novel unprecedented undertaking, I discover no trace.