England would not wait her turn, she is overwhelmed with accusations of
treachery and inhumanity by a sincerely indignant Germany. Could
stupidity, the stupidity of the wise men of Gotham, be more fantastic or
more monstrous?

German stupidity was even more monstrous. A part of the accusation
against England is that she has raised her hand against the nation
nearest to her in blood. The alleged close kinship of England and
Germany is based on bad history and doubtful theory. The English are a
mixed race, with enormous infusions of Celtic and Roman blood. The Roman
sculpture gallery at Naples is full of English faces. If the German
agents would turn their attention to hatters' shops, and give the
barbers a rest, they would find that no English hat fits any German
head. But suppose we were cousins, or brothers even, what kind of
argument is that on the lips of those who but a short time before were
explaining, with a good deal of zest and with absolute frankness, how
they intended to compass our ruin? There is something almost amiable in
fatuity like this. A touch of the fool softens the brute.

The Germans have a magnificent war-machine which rolls on its way,
crushing all that it touches. We shall break it if we can. If we fail,
the German nation is at the beginning, not the end, of its troubles.
With the making of peace, even an armed peace, the war-machine has
served its turn; some other instrument of government must then be
invented. There is no trace of a design for this new instrument in any
of the German shops. The governors of Alsace-Lorraine offer no
suggestions. The bald fact is that there is no spot in the world where
the Germans govern another race and are not hated. They know this, and
are disquieted; they meet with coldness on all hands, and their remedy
for the coldness is self-assertion and brag. The Russian statesman was