And now those horrid shouts of the legions of Caesar, crying to the inheritor of an invading name to lead them against us, as the origin of his title had led the army of Gaul of old gloriously, scared sweet sleep.

We saw them in imagination lining the opposite shore; eagle and standard-bearers, and gallifers, brandishing their fowls and their banners in a manner to frighten the decorum of the universe.

Where were our men?
The returns of the census of our population were oppressively satisfactory, and so was the condition of our youth.

We could row and ride and fish and shoot, and breed largely: we were athletes with a fine history and a full purse: we had first-rate sporting guns, unrivalled park-hacks and hunters, promising babies to carry on the renown of England to the next generation, and a wonderful Press, and a Constitution the highest reach of practical human sagacity.

But where were our armed men?
where our great artillery?
where our proved captains, to resist a sudden sharp trial of the national mettle?
Where was the first line of England's defence, her navy?
These were questions, and Ministers were called upon to answer them.