which "will disclaim both parliamentary and Anarchism." He explains his feelings :

"Call a general conference? To what end? What more could we discover at it than that we didn't agree? Besides, these conferences are really bogus affairs. In short my dear boy, whenever you want to get rid of me, you need never put on your boots. I never wait to be kicked downstairs."

The triumph of the Anarchists was the inevitable consequence of the justifiable expulsion of the Bloombury Branch, and Morris intended his article on David Nicoll's folly as "farewell" to the League. He had no intention of remaining in the League after that and fighting the Anarchists and he could not co-operate with them:

"For, in good truth, I would almost as soon join a white Rose Society as an Anarchist one ; such nonsense as I deem the latter."

We know what a broken reed Bruce Glasier turned out to be. David Nicoll, whose attack on Scotland Yard Morris denounced as being foolish and ineffective, died in poverty and madness, years after his release from prison. It was a pathetic sight to see him at Socialist meetings endeavoring to sell the products of his insanity, for he had been broken in the workers' cause. We remember him well as a figure at the Chandos Hall, Charlotte Street Club, and Jubilee Street meetings in London. He will be remembered to the end of the workers' struggle by his new version of the Marseillaise, written in his days of hope and strength and valorous dedication:-

Ye sons of freedom, wake! 'tis morning,
'Tis time from slumber to arise,
On high the redden'd sun gives warning
That day is here, the black night flies.
The day is here, the black night flies.
And will ye lie in sleep forever?
Shall tyrants always crush you down?
Lo, they have reaped and ye have sown.
The time hath come your bonds to sever.

Chorus.
To arms! to arms! again!
The Red Flag waves on high!
March on! march on!
A gallant band
March on - to liberty.

Long have ye heard children weeping,
For bread they cried in vain to you,
Why do you lie there dreaming, sleeping.
When there is work and deeds to do?
When there is work and deeds to do?
Your lords and masters pile plunder
They feast and prey and do not spare.
But from your weary toll and care
They wring the wealth at which ye wonder.
Chorus:

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