* of Lenin and his friends through * Germany. [L'Eclair, February 13, # 1921.] In 1870, Karl Marx had already laid down the programme of revolution in this country, which he said was to be made by foreigners and was to begin in Ireland. [The Secret History of the 1 International Working-Men's Association, by Onslow Yorke (Hepworth Dixon), London, 1872. (Reprinted by the Boswell Publishing Company, 1 1921.)]

Since that time the Marxian propaganda has gone steadily forward in this country and throughout the British Empire. At the present time it has reached an intensity little suspected by the British public, or indeed by the British Government. There are many organizations, suited to the various classes with which they deal. For the Intelligentsia of the bourgeoisie there is the Fabian Society manned by gentlemen of the highbrow order, who profess moderation and detachment. They depend much on intellectual snobbery, and a young student of the long-haired, lacklustre type recently confessed that he went to the summer schools for the privilege of passing the salt to Mr. Bernard Shaw.'

A more robust propaganda is carried on by a Red organization, the Plebs League, a body which superintends 'Proletcult' or Marxian propaganda among the 'workers.' There are, moreover, Labor Colleges in London, Kew, Glasgow, and Dublin, which provide a growing army of lecturers trained in the use of Communist slogans, catchwords, and formulas, with a smattering of bourgeois science and culture to help them.

The New Statesman, an organ started by Sidney Webb, Bernard Shaw, and others to catch the Moderates, gives some very pretty examples of the 'tendencious' in propaganda. If we might use the chromatic scale to deVOL. 317-NO. 4111

scribe these activities, the Fabians are pink, or what are called in America 'parlor' Bolsheviki. They are not, however, to be described as 'suckers,' a term used by the American Reds to denote "forward-looking' or 'highbrow' gentlemen who work for revolution without knowing it. In this class has been placed the Industrial Christian Fellowship, whose directors, members, and patrons are mainly clergymen and bishops of the Church of England, but include a few 'idealistic' laymen, with a thin and judicious sprinkling of Labor M.P.'s.

The I.C.F. publishes a paper called the Torch, which contains tendencious propaganda probably intended to flatter and placate the tigerish Bolshevik. To give one example out of many, we have a series of articles and notes glorifying Bolshevism, as, for example: 'Meanwhile the Bolsheviki are earning national approval and gratitude by (1) showing special kindness and consideration to all children; and (2) doing everything in their power to promote education.' [From the Torch, September 1920. Since public attention was drawn to the character of many of the articles in the Torch, there has been a great change in the tone of that paper for the better.]

I cannot suppose that the Archbishop of Canterbury, one of the patrons of the I.C.F., who recently protested against the martyrdom of the Orthodox Church in Russia and the imprisonment of the Patriarch Tikhon, knows that the organ of the Industrial Christian Fellowship thus glorifies the Reign of Terror. Are we, therefore, to describe His Grace, as well as his brothers of York and Wales, and such pious prelates as the Bishops of Manchester and Woolwich, to name only a few, as the 'suckers' of the revolutionary movement in this country?

It is hardly to be supposed, by the

way, that the laity of the Church of England are aware that all their archbishops, most of their bishops, and many of their clergy are so deeply engaged in an organization which publishes a paper supporting not only revolution, but every seditious cause, as for example the Indian Nationalists and Sinn Fein in Ireland. The innocence of the sheep is no less a danger to the fold than the cunning of the wolf.

Contrariwise, I have not discovered that the I.C.F. has made any attempt to oppose the spread of the Red or Communist Sunday Schools in this country. [The Industrial Christian Fellowship and the Communist Sunday Schools are both faithfully dealt with in the Patriot, a weekly paper wholly devoted to the cause of fighting the secret and open enemies of society, which contains a great deal of information on this subject.] Yet again we can hardly suppose that the Church of England can approve of a movement which teaches English children the 'slogans' of revolution and atheism.

It has been noted by a careful reporter of these Red Sunday Schools that, whereas the children are invariably English, the teachers are frequently Jewesses, and by a curious lapse the source of the organization for the corruption of English youth has been betrayed in one of its own newspapers. The Young International and the Young Comrade, printed in English and headed 'London - New York,' have the following imprint:

Published by the Young Communist International, Berlin-Schöneberg, Feurigstrasse 63. Editor: E. Hörnle, BerlinGrunewald, Charlottenbrunnerstrasse 45.

Processions may sometimes be seen in our London streets of children, obviously Anglo-Saxon, blue of eye and flaxen-haired, wearing red badges, and shepherded by sinister-looking aliens.

With this 'give-away' to support us, we make bold to state that the true source of Bolshevism in Europe is the power of Germany or German-Jewry

almost synonymous terms-and that the design is nothing less than to destroy the British Empire as Russia was destroyed, in the interest of that highly capitalized power.

The Morning Post recently published a series of articles entitled 'Our Bolshevist Moles,' giving the secret plans of the Reds in this country for the penetration, not only of the trade unions, but of every sort of public, sporting, and social organization. That the programme is authentic was not denied by the Communist press, nor could it be denied, since printed copies of their secret plans actually exist. Yet the revelations of the Morning Post were denounced as a reactionary nightmare by a great part of the British press. That incredulity suggests that the 'suckers' of revolution are not confined to the Church, but permeate British journalism, and are indeed to be found in every rank and class of society.

There is reason to suspect a double propaganda, one part directed to the creation of an active Red Army among the unemployed and the discontented of the proletariat, backed by a strong contingent of Irish and aliens; and the other part to the persuasion of the rest of the people that there is no cause for alarm, and that the 'common sense' and 'stolidity' of the British race is proof against all these incitements. Just as before the Great War anyone who ventured to warn his country of German designs was denounced as 'hysterical' and 'alarmist,' so now those who do their duty in warning the nation of a far greater danger have to

OUR troop train was stalled again. There was no chance of reaching Novonikolaievsk. The station was dark and dirty. The rails had been torn up. The village seemed to be farther away than is usually the case, for no people were waiting to buy from or sell to the passengers. It was already late in the evening. The commandant of the train decided to draw upon the supplies we had brought with us. Each man received a large salmon-like fish. That was fairly satisfactory, for we had plenty of bread. However, the boiler at the railway station was out of order. We could get no hot water, and the fish was frightfully salty.

My chum had a bright idea. He whispered it in my ear, for there were fifteen or twenty others in our compartment, and we were packed so closely together that they might overhear us and get ahead of us.

The result of our whispered conference was that we wrapped up our fish, swallowed a few crusts of dry bread,

rolled up in our blankets, and went to sleep. We were thirsty, but in the typhus region that was a minor evil. We dared not touch unboiled water, so it was better to sleep.

Bright and early, before it was fully light, I woke up, and pulled at the hair of my friend, which was the only part of him outside his blanket. He looked at me a moment drowsily, and then remembered. We got up very quietly, meanwhile keeping a sharp eye on our comrades. No one stirred. Stepping over several prostrate bodies, we reached the heavy door, which luckily had just been oiled, and did not creak. Springing out, we landed in the soft mud without a sound, nearly losing our fish as we did so.

Creeping under our train and two others stalled here with us, we reached the station platform. In spite of the early hour, it was far from empty. The water tap near the depot was surrounded by a crowd, although there was not the slightest smoke rising from

who looked at us either with pity or with malicious joy. Was it really too late?

Then we began to pass people bringing back their fish. They told us: 'Nothing more doing.'

My friend set his teeth and kept on. We reached the village. The wooden sidewalk was so slippery that we could hardly stand on it. Everywhere else was fathomless mud. Contrary to our expectation, there were few people in the wide village street. The fish-sellers seemed to have dispersed in every direction. Most of the houses were still locked, and heaps of village refuse barred their entrances.

There was no hope of disposing of our fish in the street itself. We must try to get into the houses, in spite of the dirt. Slabs and pieces of wood had been thrown down here and there to step upon, but they afforded only a precarious foothold. Often they would tip up and shower us with a muddy spray, and our boots were soon smeared with tenacious brown slime.

We met a peasant. 'Want to sell your fish?' he asked. But he would give only money, and when we refused it he cursed us roundly. We kept on our way. Finally we met a peasant woman. She stopped and looked at us. 'Half a pound of butter for the two fish.'

My friend stuck to his price - a pound of butter for each. The woman laughed, and we picked our way farther on the slippery slabs. Someone called to us from the other side of the road, but we could not get across. The brown bog seemed to have no bottom.

After perhaps half an hour of this, we came at length to a place where there was no one in sight. We had stopped at a cabin here and there, but had either been offered money or told that they wanted no fish. But we kept on, though we had given up hope. Naturally we did not confess this to

each other, but each knew what the other thought. At length we reached a point where the mud was not quite so bad. The road was furrowed with ruts and full of holes, but the ground was frozen. Here there were no more houses. We had reached the farthest limits of the village and nothing but dreary white fields lay beyond. Should we turn around and knock at every door, or should we go back to the station, accept the girl's offer, and at least get a little tea with our dry bread?

'Want to sell your fish?' someone suddenly said behind us. We turned around, and saw a pleasant little peasant woman with a basket of eggs on her

arm.

My chum measured up to the occasion. My respect for him returned. Unshaken by our unhappy experience so far, he said: 'A pound of butter for each.'

The peasant woman smiled and looked us over from head to foot. Then she stepped to the door of the house from which she had just come the last house in the village-and invited us in. She carefully took the fish from my friend, which indicated that she accepted our price. We stood dumb with astonishment in the low door. When she returned, her face showed genuine regret. Unhappily she could give us only a pound of butter, but would we take a piece of bacon for the rest? Upon receiving our prompt affirmative, she led us into a well-filled storeroom, chatting away about the civil war and the famine while she wrapped up our butter and bacon. Thank God, things were going well with her. As a proof of it, she pointed with pride to her stores.

The railway line ran directly behind her house, and afforded the only decent highway. We managed with some difficulty to reach it, and got back to the station with comparative ease.