Any pessimist who inclines to the belief that the British
public is tottering on the verge of Bolshevism ought to join in one of the daily festivals of the London streets, which when we write show no sign of coming to an immediate end. A time when Europe is in a state of flux and thrones arc crashing down in all directions is the time for the fever of anarchy to enter into men's blood, if the tendency to that fever is there. Many readers of history take something like a mystical view of the contagion of revolution. They see in it less a sign of earnest political conviction than a capacity for being carried away by quite intangible and incalculable motives. In the great year of revolution, 1848, the fever spread into countries which a few weeks before the revolution broke out were unconscious of any distressing grievances. But such an atmosphere does not seem to touch us here. The crowds are full of geniality and goodwill, and, take it all round, the fun
Is absolutely sane and innocent. The police are notoriously inadequate in numbers just now, but the crowds police themselves quite well enough.
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