Romain Rolland bears out the idea that “in all countries the extremest views have been expressed by writers already past middle age.” So it is in Germany, Rolland tells us. Dehmel, the enemy of war, has enlisted at 51; Gerhart Hauptmann, “the poet of brotherly love,” cries out for slaughter. But Fritz von Unruh has, from the battlefield, written “Das Lamm”: “Lamb of God, I have seen Thy look of suffering; lead us back to the heaven of love.” Rudolf Leonhard, who was caught up in the storm, wrote afterwards on the front page of his poems: “These were written during the madness of the first weeks. That madness has spent itself, and only our strength is left. We shall again win control over ourselves and love one another.” “Menschen in Not ... Brüder dir tot ... Krieg ist im Land ...” No “glory” of war is in these simple, poignant words of Ludwig Marck—simply a dire evil that we have not the sanity to avoid. “Whether you gaze trembling into the eyes of the beloved, or mark down your enemy with pitiless glance, think of the eye that will grow dim, of the failing breath, the parched lips and clenched hands, the final solitude, and the brow that grows moist in the last pangs.... Be kind.... Tenderness is wisdom. Kindness is reason.... We are strangers all upon this earth, and die but to be reunited.” Thus Franz Werfel. Since these words cannot be called barbaric, they will perhaps be called sentimental. It is true that to those of us who have loved our comrades, of whatever nation, the sentiment of brotherhood does just now make a somewhat tragic appeal. If that appeal, in these days of decimated ideals, be at times strained and feverish, it scarcely lies in the mouths of the apostles of hate to deride us. The sentimentality of hatred is uglier and more fatuous than the sentimentality of brotherhood. Hermann Hesse is living at Berne. He has implored the writers of all nations not to join with their pens in destroying the future of Europe. From a poem of later date come these words: “All possessed it, but no one prized it. Like a cool spring it has refreshed us all. What a sound the word peace has for us now. Distant it sounds, and fearful, and heavy with tears. No one knows or can name the day for which all sigh with such longing.”