Will the women of England kindly wait a little till their demands can be considered in a dignified way?  No!  They will not take their place in the waiting-line.  Others get what they want by pushing; so will they.

Will the Labor party be a little less noisy and insistent in its demands?  All will come in time, but one Reform must say to 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 seen eighteen persons disappear in this mysterious fashion.  I could swear that when I last saw them it seemed too late for them to escape their doom.