In the course of history it has rarely been the case that any war that has broken out was really inevitable, and there does not appear to be any sufficient reason for thinking that the war of 1914 was an exception to the general rule.  It seems clear that, if Germany had resolved to do so, she could quite safely have abstained from entering upon it and from encouraging Austria in a mad adventure.  The reason why the war came appears to have been that at some period in the year 1913 the German Government finally laid the reins on the necks of men whom up to then it had held in restraint.  The decision appears to have been allowed at this point to pass from civilians to soldiers.  I do not believe that even then the German Government as a whole intended deliberately to invoke the frightful consequences of actual war, even if it seemed likely to be victorious.  But I do believe that it elected to take the risk of what it thought improbable, a general resistance by the Entente Powers if Germany were to threaten to use her great strength.  In thus departing in 1913 from the appearance of self-restraint which in the main they had displayed up to then, the Emperor and his Ministers misjudged the situation.  They did not foresee the crisis to which their policy was conducting, and when that crisis arrived they lost their heads and blundered in trying to deal with it.  They did not perceive the whirlpool toward which they were heading.  They thought that they could safely expose what was precarious to a strain, and secure the substance of a real victory without having to overcome actual resistance.  Had they put an extreme ambition for their country aside, and been careful in their language to others, they might have attained a considerable success without a shot being fired.  But they were over ambitious and in their language they were far from careful.  A few unlucky words made all the difference in the concluding days of July, 1914: 

  “Ten lines, a statesman’s life in each.”

We here had done the best we could, according to our lights, to keep Germany from misjudging us.  It was not always easy to do this.  The genius of our people was not well adapted for the particular task.  If the only question to-day were whether we always rendered ourselves intelligible to her, she might say with some show of reason that we did not.  She might have grumbled, as Bismarck used to do, over our apparent indefiniteness.  But that indefiniteness in policy was only apparent.  Its form was due to the habit of mind which was, what it always has been and probably always will be, the habit of mind of the people of these islands.  It was the defect of her qualities that prevented Germany from understanding what this habit of mind truly imported, and we have never fully taken in at any period of our history how little she has ever understood it.  Let anyone who doubts this read the German memoirs which have appeared since the war.  But it remains not the less true and obvious that the purpose of