the union of German-Austria. For instance, you might have gone to the Sport-Palast with Erzberger in the pulpit. I myself did not. The rotund, rubicund, ebullient, emollient Erzberger, ex-Minister of Propaganda and delegate to Spa, who looks like Winston Churchill turned Papal Legate, was too ritualistic for me. I went to a "service" at the Circus Busch, where the sermon was broader.

Come with me then along Unter den Linden past the gilt crosses and cupolas of the Evangelical Dom and the shell-shattered sham classic façade of the Imperial Palace—deserted shrines of the faith—to a very dilapidated and dingy circus. There was a time when the Protestants of Germany were driven into the depths of the woods and the dens of wild beasts to hold their services. And to-day we find the pastors of protestant nationalism symbolically perched on pasteboard rocks amid woodland scenery, with a very realistic atmosphere of menagerie. The congregation is characteristically middle-class and by no means so formidable in appearance as the hungry, haggard workmen and their women that we should have found in a meeting of the dissenting internationalists.

As we come in Freiherr von Richthofen is perorating a sort of commination service, each verse of which is received with a loud response. The Paris Conference is worse than the Congress of Vienna (ah). France is outraging and robbing Germany when wounded and a prisoner (aah). But not a yard of German soil shall be surrendered without consent of its population (aaah). Germany can be dissected alive, but England will be disgraced and America dishonoured (aaah), and a time will come when such outrages will find their retribution (AAAH). A roar of applause which rouses the wild beasts in their dens, so that they roar in unison. The Paris diplomats have at last succeeded in stirring up again the weary wolves of war where they were lying licking their wounds.

But then, like a thin trickle of cold water into a boiling pot, comes the aged, anxious voice of the patriarchal Bernstein. He begins by reading the resolution of the Berne Conference; but we are here to attack the Paris Conference, and get restless, shouting "Zur Sache" (come to the point). He speaks of the fair-mindedness of the British delegates there, trade unionists as well as independents, and concludes that England as a people wishes to be fair to Germany; this can even be seen in developments at Paris. But we don't share this optimism—Blödsinn (bosh), is about the mildest of our interjections. Still Bernstein, nothing daunted, maintains that if Germans bring facts before the English the English will be fair. "Quite true," shouts an elderly man near by. "What do you know about it?" cries a youth some rows away. "I have been longer in England than you have in the world, Lausbub," retorts the man.

Bernstein again becomes audible, talking about Alsace-Lorraine. Once we might have appealed to foreign fairness there, too, he says, but now it is too late. Alsace-Lorraine is lost, and we lost it. This is too much for us, and we shout: "But you're speaking for partition. Quatsch! (bosh). Parteibulle! (party claptrap), etc." Bernstein dominates the storm enough to shout: "You have been so long fed on lies you can't swallow the truth." But we are not here to have truth shoved down our throats.

Eduard Bernstein withdraws—a prophet without honour, he has this week both left the opposition party and lost his Government post. He is followed by the representative of German-Austria, the new type of professor-politician, with a Victorian appearance and a Wilsonian address—very earnest and emphatic. The union of Germany and German-Austria is, he maintains, an internal affair and quite inevitable. We give Professor Hartmann a rousing reception, and file out into the cold, clear winter weather of Berlin.

Outside is a large black, red, and gold Republican flag, and a number of enthusiasts carrying placards, "No partitioning of Germany," "No peace of violence," and so forth. A long procession forms and moves off. Look at that group, mostly elderly men and women of the middle class, thin and threadbare with the look given by hardship and hunger that once in Germany one saw only in paintings of the Middle Ages—dull faces, but not without devotional fervour. So they shuffle along round a placard inscribed "Wilson's Fourteen Points," as their ancestors once shuffled in procession for Luther's theses. Unhappily Wilson did not succeed in nailing his theses to the portals of the Quai d'Orsay.

We reach the Wilhelmstrasse, where we join the processions from the other meetings. All learn with gratification that the Sport-Palast has hooted Erzberger because he won't declare for a restoration of Posen to Germany, and that the officers' meeting passed a resolution calling for the exclusion from the peace delegation of the internationalist Professor Schücking. The procession from the officers' meeting is headed by a band playing "Deutschland über alles," and by the old black, white, and red national flag, which is fast becoming the standard of reaction. After the Finance Minister, Schiffer, has welcomed our quite unobjectionable resolution from a balcony of the Reichskanzlei, a young officer suddenly appears in another balcony waving a black, white, and red flag, and adjuring us to swear loyalty to it. We are prepared to swear anything by now without much bothering what it is, and find ourselves being moved along towards the Tiergarten.

As we pass the British Embassy suddenly the officers' procession begins to shout and wave to a flabby-faced portly person bowing and smiling on the kerb. Ludendorff! By the undying jingo! Well! what next? Then to Bismarck's statue, where officers offer tributes of rhetoric and wreaths, and finally a schoolboy, climbing the pedestal, calls for cheers for the Kaiser, while a claque below start up "Heil Dir im Siegerkranz." But this is a bit too much for the bystanders. "Where's your Kaiser? Where's your Victory?" shouts one. "You give us the Kaiser," growls a soldier behind me, "and we'll give him a wreath all right—round his neck, and pulled tight."

The German dynasties exploited Luther and his Protestant movement. I doubt they will succeed in exploiting the national protestants of Germany, who are revolting against the infallible imbecilities of diplomacy. But undoubtedly our demagogues and diplomatists have succeeded in setting up again the idols our soldiers and sailors had overthrown.

The scene described above took place in March and then it was already becoming difficult to see the other side of Berlin political life—the internationalist and revolutionary. Reaction had begun to drive revolution underground and revolution was resisting spasmodically in eruptions and explosions. Let us take another day in March, one during the street fighting, to see what this other side of life in Berlin was like.

Before the war the life that filled the public places of Berlin was as vivid and vivacious as it was vulgar and vicious. Unter den Linden was like a scene in a second-rate revue; the company in one of the rococo restaurants was like the food, exuberant and cheap, but neither interesting nor choice. Nowhere were nouveaux riches so obviously new and so obtrusively rich. Everything was bright and loud, everyone looked overfed and over-dressed. Materially there was a sort of red-faced, raucous-voiced rotundity about Berlin. Morally it was in a decadence like that of the Second Empire at Paris when a charlatan despot and a cheap-jack Government were trying to dazzle the eyes and distract the ears of a half-deluded public.