gs, while the democrat also turned on his heel, and went
to address the British public in Hyde Park. Queen Mab, however, had
heard enough of social problems for one day, and she did not follow
him. The Owl took her, instead, to Westminster Abbey, and offered
explanations after the manner of a verger.

'This is our museum of 'dead celebrities,' he said. 'Here lie our great
men--poets, soldiers, artists, and statesmen. When the British public
feels elevated and sublime it comes here to look at the tombstones, and
it says: "These are my great men: they worked for me. I bought them: I
paid for them!" And it turns away with tears in its eyes.'

'And while they are alive?' asked Mab.

'That is rather a long subject,' replied the Owl.

'In the first place, they set up a great man, like a target, to shoot at
and fight over, and find out whether he is really a great man or only
a "lunatic ritualist," like General Gordon, in the view of Thoughtful
persons. It takes them some time to decide: sometimes they never do
decide till he has gone to his reward, if even then. It is an admirable
quality in him, always, not to mind being shot at. But when the British
public has really made up its mind that a man is a great man, and that
however low they rate him at market value he is sure to be above the
average, they sing a psalm of thanksgiving, and they cry, "Where is his
coffin? Let us drive nails into the coffin of this great man! Let us
show our magnanimity, our respect for the higher life, our reverence for
the lofty soul! Give us the hammer." Then they begin. It is an imposing
ceremony, and lasts during the lifetime of the great man, whoever
he happens to be. He may be a literary great man, a poet, perhaps a
Laureate. This type, according to the notions of the British public,
requires a great quantity of nails, and every class of society almost
brings them to his coffin. The young lady authors come, many troops of
them, all conscious of greatness in their own souls, and all having
made it the dream of their lives to turn their souls inside out for the
benefit of a really great man. Surely, they think, there must be in the
heart of him a natural affinity for the details of their inner lives.
They give him the details of their inner lives: they also bring with
them hammer and nails. There is nerve in those delicate fingers, energy
in those sympathetic souls: the number of nails they contrive to hammer
in is astonishing.

'Then the