another,
"After you." Hoarse voices cry, "We care nothing for etiquette, we must
have what we demand, and have it at once. We cannot stand still. If we
are pushing, we are also pushed from behind. If you do not give us what
we ask for, the Socialists and the Syndicalists will be upon you." There
is always the threat of a General Strike. Laborers have hitherto been
starved into submission. But two can play at that game.

IV

This is not the England of Sir Roger de Coverley with its cheerful
contentment with the actual, and its deference for all sorts of
dignitaries. It is not, in its present temper, a model of propriety.
But, in my judgment, it is all the more interesting, and full of hope.
To say that England is in the midst of a revolution is not to say that
some dreadful disaster is impending. It only means that this is a time
when events move very rapidly, and when precedents count for little. But
it is a time when common sense and courage and energy count for a great
deal; and there is no evidence that these qualities are lacking. I
suspect that the alarmists are not so alarmed as their language would
lead us to suppose. They know their countrymen, and that they have the
good sense to avoid most of the collisions that they declare to be
inevitable.

I take comfort in the philosophy which I glean from the top of a London
motor-bus. From my point of vantage I look down upon pedestrian humanity
as a Superman might look down upon it. It seems to consist of a vast
multitude of ignorant folk who are predestined to immediate
annihilation. As the ungainly machine on which I am seated rushes down
the street, it seems admirably adapted for its mission of destruction.
The barricade in front of me, devoted to the praise of BOVRIL, is just
high enough to prevent my seeing what actually happens, but it gives a
bloodcurdling view of catastrophes that are imminent. I have an
impression of a procession of innocent victims rushing heedlessly upon
destruction. Three yards in front of the onrushing wheels is an old
gentleman crossing the street. He suddenly stops. There is, humanly
speaking, no hope for him. Two nursemaids appear in the field of danger.
A butcher's boy on a bicycle steers directly for the bus. He may be
given up for lost. I am not able to see what becomes of them, but I am
prepared for the worst. Still the expected crunch does not come, and the
bus goes on.

Between Notting Hill Gate and Charing Cross I have see