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A Moving-Picture of Democracy


Excerpt: . Wells, with his retorts, his

experiments about him, his pots and kettles of humanity in a great stew

of steam, half-hopeful, half-dismayed, mixing up his great, new, queer

messes of human nature; and (when I could look up again) G.K.

Chesterton, divinely swearing, chanting, gloriously contradicting,

rolled lustily through the wide, sunny spaces of His Own Mind; and

Bernard Shaw (all civilization trooping by), the eternal boy, on the

eternal curbstone of the world, threw stones; and the Bishop of

Birmingham preached a fine, helpless sermon....

* * * * *

When a new American, coming from his own big, hurried, formless,

speechless country, finds himself in what he had always supposed to be

this trim, arranged, grown-up, articulate England, and when, thrust up

out of the ground in Trafalgar Square, he finds himself looking at that

vast yellow mist of people, that vast bewilderment of faces, of the

poor, of the rich, coming and going they cannot say where--he naturally