That there has been and still is a good deal of mutual ill-feeling both in Germany and in England cannot be denied.  Rivalry between nations is always accompanied by feeling which is all the stronger when it is instinctive and therefore, though not unintelligible, apt to be irrational.  But what in this case is really at the bottom of it?  There have no doubt been a number of matters that have been discussed between the two Governments, and though they have for the most part been settled, the manner in which they have been raised and pressed by German Governments has caused them to be regarded by British Ministers, and to a less extent by the British people, as sources of annoyance, as so many diplomatic “pin-pricks.”  The manners of German diplomacy are not suave.  Suavity is no more part of the Bismarckian tradition than exactitude.  But after all, the manners of the diplomatists of any country are a matter rather for the nation whose honour they concern than for the nations to which they have given offence.  They only partially account for the deep feeling which has grown up between Great Britain and Germany.

The truth is that England is disturbed by the rise of Germany, which her people, in spite of abundant warnings, did not foresee and have not appreciated until the moment when they find themselves outstripped in the race by a people whom they have been accustomed to regard with something of the superiority with which the prosperous and polished dweller in a capital looks upon his country cousin from the farm.

Fifty years ago Germany in English estimation did not count.  The name was no more than a geographical expression.  Great Britain was the one great Power.  She alone had colonies and India.  She as good as monopolised the world’s shipping and the world’s trade.  As compared with other countries she was immeasurably rich and prosperous.  Her population during the long peace, interrupted only by the Crimean War and the Indian Mutiny, had multiplied beyond men’s wildest dreams.  Her manufacturers were amassing fortunes, her industry had no rival.  The Victorian age was thought of as the beginning of a wonderful new era, in which, among the nations, England was first and the rest nowhere.  The temporary effort of the French to create a modern navy disturbed the sense of security which existed and gave rise to the Volunteer movement, which was felt to be a marvellous display of patriotism.

There were attempts to show that British self-complacency was not altogether justified.  The warnings of those who looked below the surface were read and admired.  Few writers were more popular than Carlyle, Ruskin, and Matthew Arnold.  But all three held aloof from the current of public life which flowed in the traditional party channels.  There was no effort to revive the conception of the nation as the organised state to which every citizen is bound, the source and centre of all men’s duties.  Accordingly every man devoted himself to his own affairs, of which the first was to make money and the second to enjoy life; those who were rich enough finding their amusement in Parliament, which was regarded as the most interesting club in London, and in its debates, of which the charm, for those who take part in them, lies in the fact that for success not knowledge of a subject, but fluency, readiness, and wit are required.