Before the War it was a lack of “Trust in the people” which contributed to our unprepared condition.  How much nearer would victory have been—­possibly, indeed, there would have been no war—­if our Government and leading men had, instead of carping at the great man who had true insight, stated plainly and calmly that great perils were threatened, that it was necessary to set our house in order, to make military training more general, to use all available knowledge in making ready the machinery which would be necessary in case war was thrust upon us suddenly!  It was not “the people” who were responsible for the fact that the storm found us so unprepared.  They would not have resented being told the truth, and asked to act accordingly.  Even a candidate for Parliament may sometimes say what he really thinks, and yet not repel the electors, as witness one who, being asked long ago what was his view about “one man one vote,” answered, “It is a good question for a school debating society.  Let us talk about something important.  Our first need is a strong navy; without that we should be starving, perhaps eating each other, or submitting to the most degrading terms, within a few months of the outbreak of war, and the second is the increased production of food at home to make us more self-supporting in time of need.  Let us think of these things.”  He was elected by the votes of the artizans and agricultural labourers in a constituency where at the election before there had been a great majority for the opposing candidate, though he had no personal influence, had spent nothing in “nursing the constituency,” and refused to give pledges or act as a delegate to register the instructions of any caucus.  He died, politically, without abjuring his faith.  It was not the electors who hastened his decease.

When a democratic Government is definitely established as in England now, the alternatives for trust are either to hold aloof in despair awaiting the debacle, to resist to the bitter end with a result like that which Stephenson said would occur if a cow attempted to stop his locomotive, or to try humbug and flattery.  You do not flatter those you trust.  We are not speaking of that delightful flattery practised by Irishmen out of exuberant spirits or to create a genial atmosphere, but which is so easily succeeded by equally picturesque and imaginative denunciation.  To resent is as foolish as to believe either, though we must admit that it is often a pleasure to be a recipient of the one and to hear the other facon de parler addressed to our opponents.  For the stolid Saxon it is a good maxim to tell the truth as pleasantly as possible, but to tell it plainly, and to be honest in admitting defects and recognising dangers.  We are on the whole rather an ignorant nation—­probably not more so than others, if we except the Germans and possibly the Scandinavians.  We are not, as a rule, clear-headed or accurate thinkers, though we have generally a large fund of practical good sense.  We lack constructive imagination, but have a certain originality and real power of initiative in dealing with practical problems as they arise, and much dogged perseverance in “carrying a thing through.”  These, like most other general propositions, are subject to exceptions and open to many objections, but they contain a sufficient element of truth to be worth noting.