At the beginning of August, 1914, the Great War broke out, and everything seemed changed. No man now living will be able to say definitely what effects the war will have upon literature, but one thing is certain: nothing will remain the same. We have already learned to view each other with different eyes. For better or for worse, old animosities and party cleavages have given way to unforeseen combinations. To assert that we have all grown better would be untrue. But it might reasonably be argued that the innate generousness of the British people has been vitiated by its childlike trust in its journalists, and the men who own them. When Mr. Bernard Shaw wrote a brilliant defence of the British case for intervention in the war, his mild denigration of some of the defects of the English nation, a few trivial inaccuracies, and his perverse bellicosity of style made him the object of the attentions of a horde of panic-stricken heresy-hunters. Those of us who had not the fortune to escape the Press by service abroad, especially those of us who derived our living from it, came to loathe its misrepresentation of the English people. There seemed no end to the nauseous vomits of undigested facts and dishonourable prejudices that came pouring out in daily streams. Then we came to realize, as never before, the value of such men as Chesterton. Christianity and the common decencies fare badly at the hands of the bishops of to-day, and the journalists threw them over as soon as the war began. But, unfortunately for us all, G.K.C. fell seriously ill in the early period of the war, and was in a critical state for many months. But not before he had published a magnificent recantation--for it is no less--of all those bitternesses which, in their sum, had very nearly caused him to hate the British. It is a poem, _Blessed are the Peacemakers_. Of old with a divided heart I saw my people's pride expand, Since a man's soul is born apart By mother earth and fatherland. I knew, through many a tangled tale, Glory and truth not one but two: King, Constable and Amirail Took me like trumpets: but I knew A blacker thing than blood's own dye Weighed down great Hawkins on the sea; And Nelson turned his blindest eye On Naples and on liberty. Therefore to you my thanks, O throne, O thousandfold and frozen folk, For whose cold frenzies all your own The Battle of the Rivers broke; Who have no faith a man could mourn, Nor freedom any man desires; But in a new clean light of scorn Close up my quarrel with my sires; Who bring my English heart to me, Who mend me like a broken toy; Till I can see you fight and flee, And laugh as if I were a boy.