fear? It is that if, in its present
mood, suddenly, the British public, and more especially the London
public, were allowed to realize clearly both what has happened in East
Anglia, and the monumental unfitness of our authorities and defences to
meet and cope with such an emergency--that then we should see England
torn in sunder by the most terrible revolution of modern times. We
should see statesmen hanging from lamp-posts in Whitehall; 'The
Destroyers' would be destroyed; the Crown would be in danger, as well as
its unworthy servants. And the Kaiser's machine-like army would find it
had invaded a ravaged inferno, occupied by an infuriated populace
hopelessly divided against itself, and already in the grip of the
deadliest kind of strife. That, I think, is a danger to be guarded
against, so far as it is possible, at all or any cost."

One could not but be impressed by this rather pompous, but sincere and
earnest man's words.

"I see that very clearly, Mr. Poole-Smith," said Constance Grey. "But
can the thing be done? Can the public be deluded for more than a few
hours?"

"Not altogether, my dear young lady, not altogether. But, as we learn
early in journalism, life is made up of compromises. We hope to school
them to it, and give them the truth gradually, with as little shock as
may be."

Soon after this we left the great office, and, as we passed out into the
crowded streets, Constance Grey said to me:

"Thank God, _The Times_ managed to win clear of the syndicate's clutches
when it did. There is moral and strength of purpose there now. I think
the Press is behaving finely--if only the public can be made to do as
well. But, oh, 'The Destroyers'--what a place they have cut out for
themselves in history!"

But for the glorious summer weather, one could have fancied Christmas at
hand from the look of Ludgate Hill. From the Circus we took a long look
up at Paul's great dome, massive and calm against the evening sky. But
between it and us was a seething crowd, promenading at the rate of a
mile an hour, and served by two solid lines of vendors of useless
trifles and fruit, and so forth.

Crossing Ludgate Circus, as we fought our way to the steps of an
omnibus, was a band of youths linked arm in arm, and all apparently
intoxicated. There must have been forty in a line. As they advanced,
cutting all sorts of curious capers, they bawled, in something like
unison, the melancholy music-hall refrain:

"They'll never g