One day I had occasion to mention to a friend the spiritual cost of the war. I remarked that in addition to all that the struggle had cost us in money, and even in blood, we had paid an unutterable price in the loss of brains that were born to think, souls that were made to dream, and lips that were fashioned to sing. She promptly replied that, while this was true, the war had awakened a great many minds to thoughtfulness, taught a multitude of souls the magic secret of weaving the fabric of dreams, and put a song into many lips that had hitherto been dumb. She was right. Many singers and tellers of tales went down in the crash of things, but out of it came many others who had been reborn. The war has invigorated literature for a long while to come. We shall not soon see another stagnant age. Having had a war literature, we now face the period in which is to be born a post-war literature. It is a common thought among people everywhere that during the years between 1914 and 1918 the elements melted with fervent heat. The old world has been done away, and all things are ready to be made new. The outlines of seas and continents are the same as before, but the viewpoint, outlook, and general consciousness of the race are totally changed. It could hardly seem more so if we had been bodily transported to another planet. The new age will express itself in a new literature—a reconstruction literature. The literature of pre-war writers already seems to belong to a very remote time. Scott, and Thackeray, and Dickens will never lose their literary excellence, but the time has already come when their work seems to belong to another world. The fundamental principles of life have not changed, but our attitude toward life and our application of those principles have changed mightily. A broader interpretation of them is now a necessity. This service must be rendered by the pen of the writer. Writers can now turn their attention from the production of propaganda and concern themselves more vitally with the real mission of the author. The world will warmly welcome, be it also said, a time when it may feel that the writer of its reading matter had no axe to grind in the writing. The German Empire offered an instance of the sad extent to which the pen can be prostituted for propaganda. Education, Science, Philosophy, and Literature were all made to serve the selfish ends of a party struggling to build a super-state upon a foundation of self-interest. At such a time, the soul of greatness dies from any land. Those who usher in such periods dig the grave of pure literature by the purchase of its makers.