vists from America or the British Isles returning to join the colours. But the surprising phenomena were the spread of the rumour like wildfire, the passion with which it was held to be true, and the infinity of corroborative detail with which it was substantiated; and these were the outcome of desire, which is the enemy of truth. They recall to one's mind Prof. Bury's dictum to the effect that, in so far as we desire our investigation to lead to a particular conclusion, we are not good historians; for the desire to see certain things will lead us to see them, and to ignore the facts which stand in the way.

What, under these circumstances, is the value to be attached to the word of men and women? The question often cropped up during the prevalence of the Russian rumour in a somewhat offensive form; and on occasion one could hardly venture to suggest a doubt without being met with the irate query: "Do you think I am a liar? or "Do you think that

who told me he had seen the Russians, is a liar?" and the softest of answers was insufficient to turn away wrath, unless one perjured oneself and professed a belief in what one knew to be false. There was one redeeming point about the matter: no one had seen the Russians himself; it was always a friend or a friend's friend, and one could escape without any reflection upon one's interlocutor except in so far as his intelligence was concerned. The fact is that, while truthfulness is commonly treated as a moral quality which all may possess, it is also a matter of intellect. The desire to tell the truth is a moral quality; the capacity to discern the truth is quite a different thing, which no amount of good intention can produce.

The retailers of the Russian rumour were not in the least dishonest; but their capacity to discern the truth was limited, and their desire to tell it was overborne by their desire for comforting news and their wish to share it with others.

Less amiable motives have led to the propagation of rumour. A prolific source is the sense of superiority which some people derive from the possession of real or imaginary information, to which less favoured individuals have no access; and most of us have suffered, I imagine, from persons with cousins at the front, or in the Admiralty or War Office, whence they derive an inexhaustible supply of priceless secret information, about which their certainty is in inverse ratio to the inherent probability of the news, or of its having been communicated to them. My own advice would be to disbelieve it all; for, so far as my experience goes, English gentlemen, who are in a position to possess confidential information, are in the habit of treating it as confidential; and the more communicative I find an informant, the less I trust the sources of his information. In any case, such confidences are more likely to be the source than the corrective of rumour, and it is far safer to rely upon the scientific use of knowledge, which is public property, than upon the credulous repetition of private tittle-tattle.

The November rumours about emplacements at Willesden and elsewhere for heavy German siege artillery, provide another illustration of the value of a little definite knowledge properly applied. Those tales were an echo of the famous story about concrete platforms at Maubeuge, a story which was told and

conclusively exploded three years before the war broke out. Now, we in England might be excused for ignorance of the exposure of that specific story; and my point is to illustrate the value of public information which enables us to appreciate the futility, not of one specific legend, but of all the brood. The simple criterion of all these concrete platform legends is the fact that the German 11.2-inch gun, which made havoc of the French and Belgian forts, is not fired from a concrete platform at all, but from its own carriage, which has its wheels fitted with steel plates for the purpose, and can be discharged on any macadamized road. Nor is there any fortification in London that would require the attention of an 11.2-inch gun, and there was not the least necessity for nervous citizens to discover six feet of concrete for German guns in the three inches beneath the asphalt of scores of tennis courts. If our tremulous and indignant neighbours could divert some of their imagination from their parochial surroundings, and devote it to the task of realizing the unseen effect of British naval power, there would be less rumour, less inclination to panic, and a truer insight into the realities of the war.

I am not sure that I have been preaching comfortable doctrine, or pointing out a broad and easy way for the teachers and students of history and historical methods. But I hope I may have said something to indicate the value and necessity of historical education. The war has produced some sudden conversions; and educational authorities have developed

1 See "The New Statesman," 14 Nov., 1914.

2 See Major-General O'Callaghan's letters in "The Times," 13 and 19 Nov., 1914.

an extemporary sense of the importance of historical study as a means of understanding current events. But it is easier to improvise armies than it is to improvise an historical sense; and that sense, indispensable to the understanding of the issues of the war, will be even more essential to the settlement of peace. History is no mean subject, and no mere antiquarian study to satisfy the curiosity of a few self-chosen votaries. It provides the opportunity for, and requires, severe scientific training; and it has a moral value as well. If we allow our desires to dictate our beliefs, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us.

III.

THE LENGTH OF WARS.1

We are most of us deeply interested in the probable duration of the war, but there is no Delphic oracle to respond to our inquiries. More than twelve months ago Lord Kitchener ventured to express in the House of Lords his conviction that the war would be long; and subsequent events have tended to establish his reputation as a military prophet. But, if Pilate was jesting when he asked what is truth and stayed not for an answer, we need not jest when we ask what is length in war, and we should willingly wait for a response. It is a defect in adjectives that they mean little except in comparison; and Lord Kitchener did not explain his standard of reference when he said that the war would be long. Some wars have been very long and some very short; with which category was Lord Kitchener mentally comparing the present war, when he expressed his opinion as to its length-with the six weeks' war between Prussia and Austria in 1866, or with the Hundred Years' War between England and France? If the former was in his mind, the truth of his statement was self-evident, for when it was made the war had already lasted more than six weeks. If he was thinking of the Hundred Years' War, he was clearly indulging in paradox.

1 "The Times" Literary Supplement, 14 October, 1915.