ill thinks that juvenile crime is mainly
caused by cinema five-part dramas.

The crowd is rather like the individual unconscious; it is primitive,
and like the unconscious it can only wish. The crowd that welcomed
Mary and Douglas was closely akin to the personal unconscious. Douglas
stands to each individual in the crowd as the eternal hero, the man who
always wins. Each man in the crowd sees in Douglas his own ideal self,
so that when the office boy cheers Douglas he is cheering himself.
Mary has been well named "the world's sweet-heart"; she is the ideal
heroine, beautiful, wronged, protected by six foot of masculinity.
Both come from the world of make-believe, the world of phantasy. Their
arrival in England simply made a dream come true.

Now I am certain that if any individual in the great Piccadilly crowd
had met Douglas and Mary on the boat, he or she would have looked at
them with interest, but there would have been no cheering and throwing
of roses. What the crowd does is to raise an emotion to a superlative
degree. In a full hall you will laugh at a joke that would not bring a
smile to your face in a room. You become absorbed in your crowd, and
you are fully open to your crowd's suggestion. I generally laugh at
Charlie Chaplin, but one night a cinema manager, a friend of mine, gave
me a private view of Charlie's latest production. I sat alone in the
large cinema palace . . . and I couldn't even smile. Had a crowd been
there to share my laugh, I should have roared.

The Douglas-Mary episode makes me pessimistic about the future of
democracy. For democracy is crowd rule, and the crowd is a baby when
it isn't a savage. Yet we have no real democracy in this country. We
have a slave state, the exploiters and the exploited, the "haves" and
the "have nots." Douglas and Mary came over, and the poor
beauty-starved populace forgot for the moment its poverty, and showered
all its pent-up emotion on the people from picture-book land.

In Elizabethan times the world was a place of wonder; every mariner was
coming home with wondrous tales of Spanish gold and men with necks like
bulls. All you had to do to find a reality that was more wonderful
than fancy was to sail away across the sea. But to-day the world holds
no mystery; there are no pirates to overcome, no prisoned maidens to
rescue. Reality means toil and taxes and trouble. But there is a land
where men are dew-lapped like bulls . . . the land of