One of the writers who performed the same kind of moral somersault was Gerhart Hauptmann, author of a Socialist drama called “The Weavers,” and, rumour says, protégé (what frightful irony!) of the Crown Prince, Hauptmann knew well (none better) that a vast proportion of the human family live perpetually on the borderland of want, and that of all who suffer by war the poor suffer most. Yet he wrote (and a degenerate son of the great Norwegian liberator, Bjôrnsen, published) a letter, in which, after telling the poor of his people that “heaven alone knew” why their enemies were assailing them, he called on them (in effect) to avenge unnameable atrocities, which he alleged, without a particle of proof, had been committed on innocent Germans living abroad, and then said, in allusion to Mr. Maeterlinck, “I can assure him that, although ‘barbarous Germans,’ we shall never be so cowardly as to massacre or martyr the Belgian women and children.” This was written in August 1914, at the very hour, as the world now knows, when the German soldiers in Liège were shooting, bayoneting, and burning alive old men and little children, raping nuns in their convents and young girls in the open streets. But the invisible powers of evil have no mercy on their instruments after they have worked their will, and Time has turned them into objects of contempt. Nor were the German people themselves, any more than their master-spirits and spokesmen, spared the shame of their duplicity in those early days of August 1914. A large group of them, including commercial and professional men, drew up a long address to the neutral countries, in which they said that down to the eleventh hour they had “never dreamt of war,” never thought of depriving other nations of light and air or of thrusting anybody from his place. And yet the ink of their protest was not yet dry when they gave themselves the lie by showing that down to the last detail of preparation they had everything ready for the forthcoming struggle. Englishmen who were in Berlin and Cologne on July 81, and August 1 (before any of the nations had declared war on Germany), could see what was happening, though no telegrams or newspapers had yet made known the news. A tingling atmosphere of joyous expectation in the streets; the cafés and beer-gardens crowded with civilians in soldiers’ uniforms; orchestras striking up patriotic anthems; excited groups singing “Deutschland über Alles,” or rising to their feet and jingling glasses; then the lights put out, and a general rush made for the railway stations--everybody equipped, and knowing his duty and his destination. THE OLD GERMAN ADAM