One of the incidents of the Strike was the suppression of some of the big newspapers and the curtailment of all of them. The news was most scanty at the very time when, from hour to hour, everyone was eager for bulletins. In the more remote parts of the country the disorganised postal services prevented even the arrival of the meagre sheet that did service for the morning paper; and those people who had not access to the wireless were left mostly in the dark. Most of the journalists were silenced by the the stoppage of the printing machines; and those writers who could have their say were, owing to the abnormal conditions, reduced to a brevity of utterance and a terseness of expression more often met with in the writings of the mediaeval philosophers than in the outpourings of the philosophers of Fleet Street. The wireless and the stump orator came into their own. The former, we suspected, from its reticence about the Archbishop of Canterbury’s peace appeal, was being controlled on some principle of artificial selection; and the latter gave us views rather than news. The British public, which is often accused of relying with a too slavish trust upon its press, found that it had to live through a very trying time without the light and leading that comes from the printed word —or, at least, with very little of it. The powerful Daily Maildisappeared before the strike began. Some say that its disappearance was the occasion if not the cause of things being brought to a head.