Nevertheless, it does appear to be possible in Germany for a man to point to fixed bayonets and say, “These are my authority,” and yet to convince ordinarily sane men that he is a soldier.  If this is so, it does really seem to point to some habit of high-faultin’ in the German nation, such as that of which I spoke previously.  It almost looks as if the advisers, and even the officials, of the German Army had become infected in some degree with the false and feeble doctrine that might is right.  As this doctrine is invariably preached by physical weaklings like Nietzsche it is a very serious thing even to entertain the supposition that it is affecting men who have really to do military work It would be the end of German soldiers to be affected by German philosophy.  Energetic people use energy as a means, but only very tired people ever use energy as a reason.  Athletes go in for games, because athletes desire glory.  Invalids go in for calisthenics; for invalids (alone of all human beings) desire strength.  So long as the German Army points to its heraldic eagle and says, “I come in the name of this fierce but fabulous animal,” the German Army will be all right.  If ever it says, “I come in the name of bayonets,” the bayonets will break like glass, for only the weak exhibit strength without an aim.

At the same time, as I said before, do not let us forged our own faults.  Do not let us forget them any the more easily because they are the opposite to the German faults.  Modern England is too prone to present the spectacle of a person who is enormously delighted because he has not got the contrary disadvantages to his own.  The Englishman is always saying “My house is not damp” at the moment when his house is on fire.  The Englishman is always saying, “I have thrown off all traces of anaemia” in the middle of a fit of apoplexy.  Let us always remember that if an Englishman wants to swindle English people, he does not dress up in the uniform of a soldier.  If an Englishman wants to swindle English people he would as soon think of dressing up in the uniform of a messenger boy.  Everything in England is done unofficially, casually, by conversations and cliques.  The one Parliament that really does rule England is a secret Parliament; the debates of which must not be published—­the Cabinet.  The debates of the Commons are sometimes important; but only the debates in the Lobby, never the debates in the House.  Journalists do control public opinion; but it is not controlled by the arguments they publish—­it is controlled by the arguments between the editor and sub-editor, which they do not publish.  This casualness is our English vice.  It is at once casual and secret.  Our public life is conducted privately.  Hence it follows that if an English swindler wished to impress us, the last thing he would think of doing would be to put on a uniform.  He would put on a polite slouching air and a careless, expensive suit of clothes; he would stroll up to the