‘The drivelling of politicians!’
     Marcus Aurelius Antoninus.

It is said that the unexpected always happens, and therefore one may deplore without surprise the fact that schemes set on foot by a charitable government to relieve the necessities of their starving fellow-countrymen should frequently have a diametrically opposite effect.  Into the Ministerial cheers that followed the Premier’s last statement broke a sound outside the House, a sound as of much wailing, the howling of innumerable newsboys, the cries of ‘Woe, woe!’ the dirge of an empire qui s’en va!  With those now familiar noises was mingled, but at a greater distance, a strain of martial music.

‘What is this?’ said the Prime Minister through the increasing tumult, with a vague idea of legions of the able-bodied unemployed coming in person to state their views on the debate.  ‘A riot?’

‘No,’ shouted the member below the gangway, promptly divining, by a prophetic instinct, the real nature of the case.  ‘It is a Revolution.’

‘Heavens!’ said the leader of the Opposition helplessly.  ’I hope not.  I had no idea!’

It was too true.  The Army was advancing to the House-the broken-down, ragged, wasted remnant of an Army of Heroes.  Sent forth, too late, to ‘smash’ Prester John, and relieve the Equator, they had all but overcome the Desert, and had only been defeated by space.  Too many of them lay like the vanished legions of Cambyses, swathed by the sand and lulled by the music of the night wind.  The remnant had returned of their own motion.  It was an impressive spectacle, and the British public, finding no more appropriate action, cheered vociferously, while the newsboys, hundreds of them, continued to howl one against another.  For the newspapers had got wind of Something, and it only remained for them to find out what the Something was.  At present they had confused the facts-an accident which will happen sometimes with the best-regulated newspapers.  But all of them had made shots at the truth, more or less un-veracious.  ‘The Banner’ asserted that Sir Charles Dilke and the Democrat, arrayed in costumes of the beginning of the seventeenth century for effect, were parading the cellars under the House of Lords, after the manner of Guy Fawkes, laying trains of gunpowder and singing the well-known lines about the fifth of November.  The ‘Daily Pulpit,’ on the other hand, declared that Lord Randolph Church-hill had set the Thames on fire with native genius and a lighted fusee, which, on the face of it, seemed so extremely probable, that all of the British public that was not cheering the Army’s arrival rushed to the bridges to investigate the river.  Delegates from the ‘Holywell Street Gazette,’ in the meantime, were madly interviewing everything and everybody with such celerity that the British public probably arrived at the truth of matters somewhere about that journal’s fifth edition.  Up to this time, unfortunately, the ‘Gazette’ had only been able to contradict flatly all the statements of all its contemporaries in language, to say the least of it, most emphatic.  But at a national crisis one is nothing if not emphatic.  And this was a national crisis.  And while the crowd was rushing and swaying hither and thither, and the light-fingered brigade was taking advantage of the crowd’s absent-mindedness to borrow its watches and pocket-handkerchiefs, the General, just returned from the Desert, with the demeanour of a second Cromwell, was marching on the House of Commons.  In the House itself reigned confusion much worse confounded.  There was no time for lengthy recrimination, for in another moment the General, alone, and with a mien of indignant resolution that struck a chill to the hearts of the most irrepressible members, was striding boldly up to the table.  The Speaker looked at the Serjeant-at-Arms, and the Serjeant-at-Arms looked at the Speaker, but neither of them said a word.  This was worse than Mr. Bradlaugh at his worst.

’Behold in this handful of broken and wasted men, returned, not by your order, but by mine, to their native shore,’ exclaimed the General in a voice of stern thunder that reverberated through the building, ’the result of your imbecile, idiotic, ignominious, incomprehensible policy and of your absurd “Intelligence” and “Righteousness!” Call yourselves a Parliament?  I tell you, your Constitution is rotten to the core.  Do you think we are to shed our blood for you, to perish of famine, sword and pestilence, while you sit here, talking the most delirious nonsense that ever was talked since the Confusion of Tongues?  You never have anything fresh to say; but there you are, and nothing stops you.  If it was the Day of Judgment you would go on moving resolutions; and you have the insolence to maunder over your gallant band of heroes, sacrificed to a whim of party rancour or a struggle for place.  We put you here to maintain law and order, to give justice to your fellow-countrymen, and you sit listening to your own melodious voices raving of the welfare of the nation, of Political Economy, Budgets, and Ballots; but so much as the meaning of true justice the bulk of you never guess. You, you turn Parliament into a club, and your ambition is satisfied by invitations to dinner.  But we have borne enough, and marched enough; now you must march.  We have trudged at your bidding thousands of weary miles, for an end you made impossible by your word-splitting cowardice. Your turn has come.  The troops are in readiness; we are drilling the unemployed in event of civil war, and you had better look out.  “Obey me,"’ added the General, insensibly sliding into a popular quotation, ’"and my nature’s île:  disobey me, and it’s still île, but it’s île of vitriol."’

For the most part honourable members sat stunned and silent; but from the more rebellious came a few cries of ‘Order!’ ‘Turn him out!’ and the Speaker slowly rose.  ’I would remind the gallant General of the Mutiny Act,’ he said.

‘An obsolete restriction of free contract,’ said the General.  He stamped his foot, and in a second a file of soldiers had appeared.

‘Take away that bauble!’ exclaimed the General to his aide-decamp in a severe and terrible tone, as he pointed to the mace.  But as he gazed upon the venerable emblem his frown melted, and his eyes grew dim.  For one instant the victorious warrior, the inexorable avenger of his country’s wrongs, was the dreamy worshipper of Blue China, the aesthetic adorer of marquetry, and Chippendale.

‘Take away that bauble,’ he repeated in a low voice of ineffable sweetness, ’and deposit it in the upper compartment of my bureau.  You know the spot.  The bauble has a Chippendale feeling about it.’

Then his fortitude returned; he was once more the dauntless General, the saviour of society.

‘A passing weakness,’ he said, smiling sadly. ’"Richard’s himself again!"’

Into the lull that followed his words fell the familiar accents of the future Dictator, the Member for Woodstock, as he said in a cool aside to Mr. Goschen: 

‘The Hour has come.’

And Mr. Goschen, with his usual calm impartiality, replied: 

‘Yes, Randolph, and the Man!’

Through all the uproar Queen Mab and the Owl had looked on with breathless interest; but now, at a reiterated mandate from the General, the members were compelled to disperse, some furious, some alarmed, and all discomfited.  There only remained one policeman, the General, and the Democrat to fight it out between themselves, and decide whether a European war would be advisable, or whether they should disband the army and devote themselves to Home Reform.  But by this time Queen Mab and the Owl had had enough, for the din which still continued outside the windows was giving them neuralgia.  They therefore left the House and flew away westward over the crowd, where differences of opinion, expressed in the British public’s own graceful and forcible manner, had become the order of the day.  They met Mr. Bradlaugh at a little distance, hurrying to the scene of combat with the air of ’Under which king, Bezonian?’ and if the locality had not been so extremely noisy they could not have but turned back to see the fun.  The Prime Minister had unaccountably (though not unexpectedly) disappeared from the arena, and his adherents were under the impression that he had been treacherously stowed away in the Tower or some subterranean dungeon.  The fact was, that, as eloquence could have no effect on the House in its present state of delirium, the temptation to study Hittite inscriptions in their native home became too strong for him, and he was on his peaceful way to the shores of the Orontes and the ruins of Megiddo.

Shortly after, the Owl and the Fairy met the Bishop, who had heard of the catastrophe, and was torn by conflicting emotions; personal anxiety about his prospects being overclouded by the fear that the new Government might proceed to pass the Deceased Wife’s Sister Bill immediately.  ‘And a man who marries his Deceased Wife’s Sister,’ he exclaimed pathetically to the air, ’may very soon end in the swamps of Rationalism!’ Only Queen Mab and the Owl heard the words as they flew overhead.  Next they met Mr. Matthew Arnold, smiling a happy smile, and concocting a ‘childlike and bland’ article for the ‘Nineteenth Century’ on the present crisis.  So they flew on westward till, gaining a freer and fresher neighbourhood, they came upon a wide green lawn, and on the lawn three old acquaintances, the Poet, the Palaeonto-theologist, and-wholly altered from the pale and dreamy boy of their recollection-Walter, the Professor’s child.

The Professor was a man given to promptitude of speech and action, and, once awakened to the serious state of Walter’s health, physical and mental, he had resolved, at whatever discomfort to himself, to check the boy’s undue mental precocity and substitute for it mere physical vigour.  He was content with no half-measures, and he sent the lad at once to a preparatory school for Eton.  At Eton he knew Walter’s brain would have a rest.  The effect was miraculous.  The boy, whom the Palaeonto-theologist had rashly invited to spend a holiday at his home, was a different creature.  He had become sturdy and robust; he had forgotten his new religion of Dala, with his science primers, and could no more have composed a hymn to a fairy than he could have endured a false quantity.  He had forgotten the Goona stones; he had forgotten the dates of the Kings of England.  He said that bogies were all bosh; he said that Cardinal Wolsey was imprisoned in the Tower for thirteen years and wrote ‘Robinson Crusoe’ there, and that the Nile rose in Mungo Park.  He had forgotten his father’s instructions, and regarded birds, not as products of Evolution, but as things suitable to shy stones at, and to be treated with contempt, and catapults.  He was incorrigible at Euclid, but he was excellent at cricket, and on this occasion he had fagged the Poet and the Palaeonto-theologist to bowl to and field out for him.  It was beyond human nature to expect them to enjoy it.  The Poet was in the midst of a sublime stanza when he was peremptorily ordered to come and bowl, and he went dreamily and reluctantly, to be greeted with a further mandate of ‘Look sharp there!’ The Palaeonto-theologist was deep in an exhaustive inventory of the animals in Noah’s Ark, and was discussing the probability of the Mammoth’s having been one of its residents.  If so, there came the knotty point of how Noah contrived to stow him and the Mégathérium in comfortably, and whether they never wanted to do away with the other animals, in which case the Patriarch must have had stirring times.  The Palaeonto-theologist was just about to begin the grand chain of evidence in which he proves conclusively, from careful study of the original Hebrew manuscripts, and from examination of the soil of Mount Ararat, whose fossils are abraded to this day where the Ark rested on them, that the dimensions of the Ark were anything but what they are said to be, when Walter ordered him to come and field.  There was no help for it; he went and fielded; ’he ran, he fell, he fielded well.’

While he and the Poet were thus occupied, Mab and the Owl rested on a great horse-chestnut and watched the game, and Mab, under the impression that the boy, at sight of her, would be filled with wonder and delight, slipped off her invisible cloak.  For some time he was too much absorbed in ‘crumping the Poet’s slows,’ as he said, to notice her; but at last, when the Poet and the Palaeonto-theologist were utterly ‘collared’ (as Walter put it) and exhausted, and the perspiration stood thick on their intellectual foreheads, the advent of refreshments gained them a momentary respite.  Walter attacked the fruit and cakes so vigorously that Queen Mab grew impatient, and descended to a lower branch of the huge tree, where at last the boy, raising his eyes, beheld her.

‘Hi!’ he cried, rushing indiscriminately at his companions.  ’Get me a catapult, lower boy, I say!  Stones, peashooter, anything.  Look alive!  Here goes!’

And he assailed the astonished Mab with a cricket-ball, and next ’it came to pleats,’ as Mrs. Major O’Dowd said; and then he hurled a jampot and a fruit-knife.  Fortunately for the fairy, who at the moment was too much astonished to move, his aim was rendered inaccurate by his excitement, and the missiles flew wide.  The unhappy fags had started up, and the Poet, looking round bewildered, with a volley of desperate expletives un-uttered in his soul, caught sight of Mab.

‘Celestial being!’ he exclaimed rapturously.  ’I again behold thee.  Bright inmate!  How did it run?’

‘Bother your verses!’ cried the boy with utter contempt.  ’Shy at it, you duffer!  Oh, what a Butterfly!  Get her into the teapot.  Blockhead!’

This last disdainfully to himself, for he had hurled the ancient and valuable teapot at Mab, who was flying to a higher branch, and the teapot had missed.

‘Rash boy!’ cried the Palaeonto-theologist, shaking him angrily, ’you have broken my grandfather’s teapot.’

‘Run for the butterfly-net,’ returned the boy unabashed.  ’By George, I’ll give you the jolliest licking!’

Hi, there she goes!  Seize her! he shouted distractedly, and the unlucky Palaeonto-theologist rushed after a butterfly-net, while Queen Mab, in unutterable indignation, rose slowly into the air, followed by the bewildered Owl, who had not had time to explain the boys new departure to himself on scientific principles.  It was not till they were fully half a mile from the ill-starred spot that the Owl opened his beak to murmur, with an air of long-suffering melancholy but scientific delight, the word-

‘Reaction!’

But Queen Mab, after this crowning insult, was fain to depart from Britain and renounce the higher civilisation.  In the Councils of the New Democracy she had no place.  Church and State abjured her:  the rising generation needed no fairies, but was content with football and cricket, ‘Treasure Island,’ and the Latin Grammar.  Education, Philosophy, and the Philistines had made of the island she once loved well a wilderness wherein no fairy might henceforth furl its wings.

She said ‘good-bye’ to the Owl, who shed one tear at parting, and to all the loyal birds, and went back to Samoa.  But alas!  Samoa, like Great Britain, was no longer any place for her.  It was annexed:  it was evangelised.  The natives of it were going to church; they were going to Sunday School; they were going to heaven.  They were sending their children to be educated at English colleges:  they were translating Tennyson and Wesley’s sermons, and learning the catechism, and reading the Testament in the original Greek, and wearing high-crowned hats and paper collars.  There was no end of the things they were doing, and they had no time for fairies.

Queen Mab summoned her Court together in despair, and left for one of the Admiralty Islands.  There, till the civilisation that dogs the steps of the old folk-lore has driven her thence-with constitutions, and microscopes, and a higher Pantheism that leaves the older Pantheism in the lurch, and other advantages of the nineteenth century-she is secure.  We trust that she is also happy, and that the shadow of the approaching hour when she will be ultimately reduced by scientific theologians to a symbol of some deeper verity, the conception of men whose understandings could not cope, like ours, with abstract truth, is not cast heavily upon her path.  For she knows well, now, that her day is over, that she is too tangible by far for a higher Pantheism, and that only among the heathen, in some obscure corner of Oceania, she is still permitted to linger on, till that lagging island too receives its chrism of intellect, and is caught up into the van of time.

The Owl is yet the wisest of the birds, though he has commenced a course of psychological research that, it is to be feared, if persisted in, will seriously injure his brain.  For he said, only yesterday, that as he was conscious of external objects merely through the medium of his own ego, how was he to know whether or not his own ego was the sole ego in the universe-in fact, composed the universe?  He wished to be informed whether he could possibly be nothing but an impression or somebody else’s ego; and said finally, in a despondent tone, that it was hopeless to regard this mundane scheme as anything but a subjective phenomenon, mere Schein or maya, and that he gave it up.

But the Democrat, untroubled by transcendental scruples, goes on his way, rejoicing in the prospect of the Millennium, now close at hand.  He does not much care what the universe is, but he knows what he wants to get out of it, and that is sufficient for his purpose.  To be sure, he wants to get what no one ever did or will obtain, but his moments are impassioned, and his idea is a distraction, like another.