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over another is the only satisfactory end, especially to a naval engagement, that the real lesson of the ultimate surrender and subsequent fate of the German Fleet has been overlooked. And yet it seems obvious enough, unless we are prepared to deny that God worketh all things here amongst us mediatly by a secondary means.’ Had the German Fleet been destroyed at Jutland, the victory would have been largely that of force over force; and, as such, nothing very new or startling. The surrender of that Fleet, however, was something far more significant; it was the visible manifestation of the triumph of the human or spiritual element over the material, and in consequence perhaps the greatest victory in history, the triumph of Right over Might.

When the nation offered up its thanks for the victory of the Right, it is to be supposed that it recognised, even in modern days, that those who fought to uphold the Right were directed by the Power to which its thanks were offered. Otherwise the thanks were meaningless

or worse.

Lord Jellicoe acted, as he always would do, in accordance with what he believed to be the best for his country and regardless of any personal considerations whatsoever. As a result, his failure to achieve the end which seemed most satisfactory to human intelligence, alone rendered possible a far greater victory, and one of such deep significance that no one, except Mahan, ever dreamed of it. This is a very old story in human affairs. But there seems to be a lesson in it which eclipses any to be found in even the greatest of Nelson's victories. For it is precisely the neglect of any consideration of those spiritual forces that have been the real secret of our Sea Power, which constitutes our gravest peril at the present time.

For their recognition might in turn lead to a reconsideration of the world's problems from the only standpoint which can promise any lasting results. Great Britain would, no doubt, be extremely hard pressed to find the means to enter upon a new naval competition, by whatever name it be called; but her pause at the present time is, I believe, based upon an instinctive disinclination to demand 'guifts,' solely for the purpose of their exhibition as the strongest Fleet in the world. One writer has complained that the Jutland battle has left

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us little in the way of guidance as to our future naval construction. If this be so, it seems that herein lies one of the principal lessons of the late war at sea, and one which, it may be, we are, albeit unconsciously, taking to heart.

Two facts appear to stand out from the past years of war. With the obvious peril to civilisation, naval construction took a definite form, and the ships were built, in the main, with the clear knowledge of the nature of their opponents and the principal and determining theatre of operations. The peril, in fact, was revealed, and the sea spirit or instinct was guided in providing the means by which the most obvious danger might be met. In the absence of any definite threat, or theatre of operations, since Japan and the U.S.A. are ruled out by common consent, there is also an absence of guidance as to the means of defence, which has resulted in the widely divergent views that have been expressed on the subject.

It is true that many auxiliaries and accessories were not provided; but this only emphasises the second fact. Soon after the outbreak of war, just because the waiting battle fleets dominated the position in seeming inactivity, it became necessary for the enemy to adopt methods for which we were totally unprepared, as he did on land and as will always happen, to surprise us in fact. Neglecting, however, to use those methods aright, he simply invoked in his opponents a double portion of those spiritual forces latent in a naturally maritime nation, forces of whose powers he has never had the smallest conception.

And mark what followed. Firstly, the inspired merchant seamen went about their business with renewed determination; and, secondly, there was called into active service that power of improvisation which is our greatest national asset in emergency, especially amongst our seamen. This was, no doubt, quite natural; but that is what' secondary means' invariably are.

We habitually hold ourselves up to scorn for our seemingly chaotic methods of preparation, a national quality which might verily reassure those who accuse us of evil intent. With the necessary money and powers, it is possible, of course, to organise a whole nation until it becomes a war machine of remarkable mechanical efficiency, as the ruins of more than one dead nation

testify. It requires, however, a people with a soul to 'muddle through.' In any case, a little reflexion and facing of facts will show us that any final solution of the question of future construction of ships for the sole purpose of destroying one another is quite impossible. Any other solution will only intensify the ultimate ruin. Such a ship, from the moment her design is sealed, and to whatever type or class, generally speaking, she belongs, becomes from her very nature and mission in life the object upon which the designers of every possible opponent, as well as her own, concentrate their attention with the express purpose of finding means to compass her destruction. This is the designer's recognised, remunerative, and curious business. Until comparatively recently a new ship, built by a foreign power, produced in somewhat leisurely fashion a more or less adequate answer, and there the matter rested awhile. Their respective officers, indeed, frequently compared notes with considerable friendliness.

Germany, however, with a new and special object in view, and Mahan's works by no means completely digested, introduced a novel and intense form of competition on a scale hitherto unknown; which, as Admiral Fiske truly remarks, must have been amazing to the man who was so largely responsible for it. Heedless of the largely artificial nature of these efforts, there seems some danger of the nations perpetuating this form of national enterprise for no ostensible object; while freely admitting that the next great war, which, if unchecked, it is quite certain to provoke, will wreck civilisation for good and all.

Further, among the many lessons which competition should have taught those at least who participated in it, is this. Whatever be the beginnings of any particular type of ship, she will, and indeed must, inevitably grow in size and cost, in proportion to the growth and numbers of the enemies which her peculiar offensive qualities automatically create. Ultimately, in some cases, where her powers for defence or counter-attack can no longer be self-contained, she will demand attendant satellites to supplement them, and the whole will require increasing facilities for their upkeep and the possible healing of their complicated wounds.

The only criticism of a ship which I have never heard questioned, is that she is a compromise. That is to say, no ship has ever been endowed with the speed, armament, protection, range of action, etc., which the particular specialist concerned admitted to be in accordance with his ideals. It follows that there are sufficient joints in her harness to offer targets enough to provide for the efforts of the most prolific inventor.

To-day, with the impetus gathered in the late war, I have been told that there have been more new inventions since its termination than there were during its course. Thus it comes about that the effective life of a ship is being continually shortened. The Dreadnought, responsible for much, was built in 1906; but had been far surpassed by 1914.

Her first illustrious ancestor, of 1573, rendered stout service to her country for seventy-two years; and at the age of fifteen helped to save her country from a danger, in some respects even greater than that from which we have recently been delivered. It is of interest to note that she came into being in obedience to the same law as her most recent namesake, and was, too, something of a new departure, as King Philip was informed. She was one of the 'guifts' bestowed upon the country by 'secondary means,' when the danger looming ahead was abundantly revealed in the Massacre of St Bartholomew. The whole fleet in which she served, in 1588, could probably have been expeditiously disposed of by a few of our most venerable cruisers, at no risk whatever to themselves. The deliverance, however, was as great; while the odds against victory seemed considerably greater. It will be seen then, though this appears to be by no means generally recognised, that the crux of the problem is relative strengths. Who shall be materially greatest? A little thought should convince us that the solution of our difficulties lies in a different realm.

The existence of such a realm will be admitted, I think, by those even who do not consider its exploration practical; and it will be seen, in view of the pace at which things may conceivably move, that material strength will ultimately depend upon who has the most money to spend. And if from this is deduced the idea that Sea Power, the greatest instrument for good or evil

that exists, as Mahan has shown, and all that it means to mankind, is simply a question of the wealth necessary to obtain it, we arrive at a conclusion entirely opposed to the truth contained in the lines quoted at the head of this article. Power so derived, actually for its own sake, will be neither available nor beneficial; for it is debarred from any claim to the grace to use it aright, the grace which has been vouchsafed to us in the sea-spirit through all our long history, and which will be, and has been, vouchsafed to the seamen of all nations in proportion to their needs, be their fleets large or small.

'In accordance with the best traditions of the Service' is the customary description of the real secret of Sea Power; but it is a secret very rarely discussed, and still less emphasised, in Naval Histories of the usual type. Mahan, however, puts the matter in a nutshell when he refers to sailors as 'a strange race apart, neither themselves nor their calling ever understood.' Occasionally, even somewhat apologetically, naval historians lapse into quotation of incidents which point to the prevalence and continuity of a spirit upon which the whole of Sea Power depends, as a matter extraneous to the consideration of questions of strategy and operations which it is their province to analyse, but without which neither of these would be possible. The sea spirit was once defined to me by a civilian gifted with insight and imagination as 'almost a religion.' Indeed, I often think it first woke to consciousness at a time when the freedom of the seas and the freedom of our faith were so interwoven in the minds of those who were destined to defend them, that it is often impossible to distinguish between the two as the guiding motives.

The first definite record of the spirit occurs in the diary of one who was present when the doctrine was actually enunciated, and its abiding fruit is the universal brotherhood or fellowship of seamen. There was no sign of it that morning in 1578; nothing, indeed, but the most deadly discord. The little ship concerned was the pioneer of the English into the new world, when the success of the venture and all that it has meant and still may mean to mankind, hung in the balance.

That the dissension had been deliberately fostered to bar the grim gates through which she must pass, only

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