I have never believed in political assassination as a means to an end, and least of all in assassination of the dynastic order.  I don’t know how far murder can ever approach the perfection of a fine art, but looked upon with the cold eye of reason it seems but a crude expedient of impatient hope or hurried despair.  There are few men whose premature death could influence human affairs more than on the surface.  The deeper stream of causes depends not on individuals who, like the mass of mankind, are carried on by a destiny which no murder has ever been able to placate, divert, or arrest.

In July of last year I was a stranger in a strange city in the Midlands and particularly out of touch with the world’s politics.  Never a very diligent reader of newspapers, there were at that time reasons of a private order which caused me to be even less informed than usual on public affairs as presented from day to day in that necessarily atmosphereless, perspectiveless manner of the daily papers, which somehow, for a man possessed of some historic sense, robs them of all real interest.  I don’t think I had looked at a daily for a month past.

But though a stranger in a strange city I was not lonely, thanks to a friend who had travelled there out of pure kindness to bear me company in a conjuncture which, in a most private sense, was somewhat trying.

It was this friend who, one morning at breakfast, informed me of the murder of the Archduke Ferdinand.

The impression was mediocre.  I was barely aware that such a man existed.  I remembered only that not long before he had visited London.  The recollection was rather of a cloud of insignificant printed words his presence in this country provoked.

Various opinions had been expressed of him, but his importance was Archducal, dynastic, purely accidental.  Can there be in the world of real men anything more shadowy than an Archduke?  And now he was no more; removed with an atrocity of circumstances which made one more sensible of his humanity than when he was in life.  I connected that crime with Balkanic plots and aspirations so little that I had actually to ask where it had happened.  My friend told me it was in Serajevo, and wondered what would be the consequences of that grave event.  He asked me what I thought would happen next.

It was with perfect sincerity that I answered “Nothing,” and having a great repugnance to consider murder as a factor of politics, I dismissed the subject.  It fitted with my ethical sense that an act cruel and absurd should be also useless.  I had also the vision of a crowd of shadowy Archdukes in the background, out of which one would step forward to take the place of that dead man in the light of the European stage.  And then, to speak the whole truth, there was no man capable of forming a judgment who attended so little to the march of events as I did at that time.  What for want of a more definite