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to　the　Cocoa　Tree；　and　Addison；　Dryden；　Pope　had　chimed　in　her　head　like　an　incantation　ever　since。　Who　can　credit　such　folly？　but　so　it　was。　All　her　experience　with　Nick　Greene　had　taught　her　nothing。　Such　names　still　exercised　over　her　the　most　powerful　fascination。　Something；　perhaps；　we　must　believe　in；　and　as　Orlando；　we　have　said；　had　no　belief　in　the　usual　divinities　she　bestowed　her　credulity　upon　great　men—yet　with　a　distinction。　Admirals；　soldiers；　statesmen；　moved　her　not　at　all。　But　the　very　thought　of　a　great　writer　stirred　her　to　such　a　pitch　of　belief　that　she　almost　believed　him　to　be　invisible。　Her　instinct　was　a　sound　one。　One　can　only　believe　entirely；　perhaps；　in　what　one　cannot　see。　The　little　glimpse　she　had　of　these　great　men　from　the　deck　of　the　ship　was　of　the　nature　of　a　vision。　That　the　cup　was　china；　or　the　gazette　paper；　she　doubted。　When　Lord　O。　said　one　day　that　he　had　dined　with　Dryden　the　night　before；　she　flatly　disbelieved　him。　Now；　the　Lady　R。’s　reception　room　had　the　reputation　of　being　the　antechamber　to　the　presence　room　of　genius；　it　was　the　place　where　men　and　women　met　to　swing　censers　and　chant　hymns　to　the　bust　of　genius　in　a　niche　in　the　wall。　Sometimes　the　God　himself　vouchsafed　his　presence　for　a　moment。　Intellect　alone　admitted　the　suppliant；　and　nothing　（so　the　report　ran）　was　said　inside　that　was　not　witty。

It　was　thus　with　great　trepidation　that　Orlando　entered　the　room。　She　found　a　pany　already　assembled　in　a　semicircle　round　the　fire。　Lady　R。；　an　oldish　lady；　of　dark　plexion；　with　a　black　lace　mantilla　on　her　head；　was　seated　in　a　great　arm–chair　in　the　centre。　Thus　being　somewhat　deaf；　she　could　control　the　conversation　on　both　sides　of　her。　On　both　sides　of　her　sat　men　and　women　of　the　highest　distinction。　Every　man；　it　was　said；　had　been　a　Prime　Minister　and　every　woman；　it　was　whispered；　had　been　the　mistress　of　a　king。　Certain　it　is　that　all　were　brilliant；　and　all　were　famous。　Orlando　took　her　seat　with　a　deep　reverence　in　silence。。。After　three　hours；　she　curtseyed　profoundly　and　left。

But　what；　the　reader　may　ask　with　some　exasperation；　happened　in　between。　In　three　hours；　such　a　pany　must　have　said　the　wittiest；　the　profoundest；　the　most　interesting　things　in　the　world。　So　it　would　seem　indeed。　But　the　fact　appears　to　be　that　they　said　nothing。　It　is　a　curious　characteristic　which　they　share　with　all　the　most　brilliant　societies　that　the　world　has　seen。　Old　Madame　du　Deffand　and　her　friends　talked　for　fifty　years　without　stopping。　And　of　it　all；　what　remains？　Perhaps　three　witty　sayings。　So　that　we　are　at　liberty　to　suppose　either　that　nothing　was　said；　or　that　nothing　witty　was　said；　or　that　the　fraction　of　three　witty　sayings　lasted　eighteen　thousand　two　hundred　and　fifty　nights；　which　does　not　leave　a　liberal　allowance　of　wit　for　any　one　of　them。

The　truth　would　seem　to　be—if　we　dare　use　such　a　word　in　such　a　connection—that　all　these　groups　of　people　lie　under　an　enchantment。　The　hostess　is　our　modern　Sibyl。　She　is　a　witch　who　lays　her　guests　under　a　spell。　In　this　house　they　think　themselves　happy；　in　that　witty；　in　a　third　profound。　It　is　all　an　illusion　（which　is　nothing　against　it；　for　illusions　are　the　most　valuable　and　necessary　of　all　things；　and　she　who　can　create　one　is　among　the　world’s　greatest　benefactors）；　but　as　it　is　notorious　that　illusions　are　shattered　by　conflict　with　reality；　so　no　real　happiness；　no　real　wit；　no　real　profundity　are　tolerated　where　the　illusion　prevails。　This　serves　to　explain　why　Madame　du　Deffand　said　no　more　than　three　witty　things　in　the　course　of　fifty　years。　Had　she　said　more；　her　circle　would　have　been　destroyed。　The　witticism；　as　it　left　her　lips；　bowled　over　the　current　conversation　as　a　cannon　ball　lays　low　the　violets　and　the　daisies。　When　she　made　her　famous　‘mot　de　Saint　Denis’　the　very　grass　was　singed。　Disillusionment　and　desolation　followed。　Not　a　word　was　uttered。　‘Spare　us　another　such；　for　Heaven’s　sake；　Madame！’　her　friends　cried　with　one　accord。　And　she　obeyed。　For　almost　seventeen　years　she　said　nothing　memorable　and　all　went　well。　The　beautiful　counterpane　of　illusion　lay　unbroken　on　her　circle　as　it　lay　unbroken　on　the　circle　of　Lady　R。　The　guests　thought　that　they　were　happy；　thought　that　they　were　witty；　thought　that　they　were　profound；　and；　as　they　thought　this；　other　people　thought　it　still　more　strongly；　and　so　it　got　about　that　nothing　was　more　delightful　than　one　of　Lady　R。’s　assemblies；　everyone　envied　those　who　were　admitted；　those　who　were　admitted　envied　themselves　because　other　people　envied　them；　and　so　there　seemed　no　end　to　it—except　that　which　we　have　now　to　relate。

For　about　the　third　time　Orlando　went　there　a　certain　incident　occurred。　She　was　still　under　the　illusion　that　she　was　listening　to　the　most　brilliant　epigrams　in　the　world；　though；　as　a　matter　of　fact；　old　General　C。　was　only　saying；　at　some　length；　how　the　gout　had　left　his　left　leg　and　gone　to　his　right；　while　Mr　L。　interrupted　when　any　proper　name　was　mentioned；　‘R。？　Oh！　I　know　Billy　R。　as　well　as　I　know　myself。　S。？　My　dearest　friend。　T。？　Stayed　with　him　a　fortnight　in　Yorkshire’—which；　such　is　the　force　of　illusion；　sounded　like　the　wittiest　repartee；　the　most　searching　ment　upon　human　life；　and　kept　the　pany　in　a　roar；　when　the　door　opened　and　a　little　gentleman　entered　whose　name　Orlando　did　not　catch。　Soon　a　curiously　disagreeable　sensation　came　over　her。　To　judge　from　their　faces；　the　rest　began　to　feel　it　as　well。　One　gentleman　said　there　was　a　draught。　The　Marchioness　of　C。　feared　a　cat　must　be　under　the　sofa。　It　was　as　if　their　eyes　were　being　slowly　opened　after　a　pleasant　dream　and　nothing　met　them　but　a　cheap　wash–stand　and　a　dirty　counterpane。　It　was　as　if　the　fumes　of　some　delicious　wine　were　slowly　leaving　them。　Still　the　General　talked　and　still　Mr　L。　remembered。　But　it　became　more　and　more　apparent　how　red　the　General’s　neck　was；　how　bald　Mr　L。’s　head　was。　As　for　what　they　said—nothing　more　tedious　and　trivial　could　be　imagined。　Everybody　fidgeted　and　those　who　had　fans　yawned　behind　them。　At　last　Lady　R。　rapped　with　hers　upon　the　arm　of　her　great　chair。　Both　gentlemen　stopped　talking。

Then　the　little　gentleman　said；　He　said　next；　He　said　finally　（These　sayings　are　too　well　known　to　require　repetition；　and　besides；　they　are　all　to　be　found　in　his　published　works。）；

Here；　it　cannot　be　denied；　was　true　wit；　true　wisdom；　true　profundity。　The　pany　was　thrown　into　plete　dismay。　One　such　saying　was　bad　enough；　but　three；　one　after　another；　on　the　same　evening！　No　society　could　survive　it。

‘Mr　Pope；’　said　old　Lady　R。　in　a　voice　trembling　with　sarcastic　fury；　‘you　are　pleased　to　be　witty。’　Mr　Pope　flushed　red。　Nobody　spoke　a　word。　They　sat　in　dead　silence　some　twenty　minutes。　Then；　one　by　one；　they　rose　and　slunk　from　the　room。　That　they　would　ever　e　back　after　such　an　experience　was　doubtful。　Link–boys　could　be　heard　calling　their　coaches　all　down　South　Audley　Street。　Doors　were　slammed　and　carriages　drove　off。　Orlando　found　herself　near　Mr　Pope　on　the　staircase。　His　lean　and　misshapen　frame　was　shaken　by　a　variety　of　emotions。　Darts　of　malice；　rage；　triumph；　wit；　and　terror　（he　was　shaking　like　a　leaf）　shot　from　his　eyes。　He　looked　like　some　squat　reptile　set　with　a　burning　topaz　in　its　forehead。　At　the　same　time；　the　strangest　tempest　of　emotion　seized　now　upon　the　luckless　Orlando。　A　disillusionment　so　plete　as　that　inflicted　not　an　hour　ago　leaves　the　mind　rocking　from　side　to　side。　Everything　appears　ten　times　more　bare　and　stark　than　before。　It　is　a　moment　fraught　with　the　highest　danger　for　the　human　spirit。　Women　turn　nuns　and　men　priests　in　such　moments。　In　such　moments；　rich　men　sign　away　their　wealth；　and　happy　men　cut　their　throats　with　carving　knives。　Orlando　would　have　done　all　willingly；　but　there　was　a　rasher　thing　still　for　her　to　do；　and　this　she　did。　She　invited　Mr　Pope　to　e　home　with　her。

For　if　it　is　rash　to　walk　into　a　lion’s　den　unarmed；　rash　to　navigate　the　Atlantic　in　a　rowing　boat；　rash　to　stand　on　one　foot　on　the　top　of　St　Paul’s；　it　is　still　more　rash　to　go　home　alone　with　a　poet。　A　poet　is　Atlantic　and　lion　in　one。　While　one　drowns　us　the　other　gnaws　us。　If　we　survive　the　teeth；　we　succumb　to　the　waves。　A　man　who　can　destroy　illusions　is　both　beast　and　flood。　Illusions　are　to　the　soul　what　atmosphere　is　to　the　earth。　Roll　up　that　tender　air　and　the　plant　dies；　the　colour　fades。　The　earth　we　walk　on　is　a　parched　cinder。　It　is　marl　we　tread　and　fiery　cobbles　scorch　our　feet。　By　the　truth　we　are　undone。　Life　is　a　dream。　‘Tis　waking　that　kills　us。　He　who　robs　us　of　our　dreams　robs　us　of　our　life—（and　so　on　for　six　pages　if　you　will；　but　the　style　is　tedious　and　may　well　be　dropped）。

On　this　showing；　however；　Orlando　should　have　been　a　heap　of　cinders　by　the　time　the　chariot　drew　up　at　her　house　in　Blackfriars。　That　she　was　still　flesh　and　blood；　though　certainly　exhausted；　is　entirely　due　to　a　fact　to　which　we　drew　attention　earlier　in　the　narrative。　The　less　we　see　the　more　we　believe。　Now　the　streets　that　lie　between　Mayfair　and　Blackfriars　were　at　that　time　very　imperfectly　lit。　True；　the　lighting　was　a　great　improvement　upon　that　of　the　Elizabethan　age。　Then　the　benighted　traveller　had　to　trust　to　the　stars　or　the　red　flame　of　some　night　watchman　to　save　him　from　the　gravel　pits　at　Park　Lane　or　the　oak　woods　where　swine　rootled　in　the　Tottenham　Court　Road。　But　even　so　it　wanted　much　of　our　modern　efficiency。　Lamp–posts　lit　with　oil–lamps　occurred　every　two　hundred　yards　or　so；　but　between　lay　a　considerable　stretch　of　pitch　darkness。　Thus　for　ten　minutes　Orlando　and　Mr　Pope　would　be　in　blackness；　and　then　for　about　half　a　minute　again　in　the　light。　A　very　strange　state　of　mind　was　thus　bred　in　Orlando。　As　the　light　faded；　she　began　to　feel　steal　over　her　the　most　delicious　balm。　‘This　is　indeed　a　very　great　honour　for　a　young　woman　to　be　driving　with　Mr　Pope；’　she　began　to　think；　looking　at　the　outline　of　his　nose。　‘I　am　the　most　blessed　of　my　sex。　Half　an　inch　from　me—indeed；　I　feel　the　knot　of　his　knee　ribbons　pressing　against　my　thigh—is　the　greatest　wit　in　Her　Majesty’s　dominions。　Future　ages　will　think　of　us　with　curiosity　and　envy　me　with　fury。’　Here　came　the　lamp–post　again。　‘What　a　foolish　wretch　I　am！’　she　thought。　‘There　is　no　such　thing　as　fame　and　glory。　Ages　to　e　will　never　cast　a　thought　on　me　or　on　Mr　Pope　either。　What’s　an　“age”；　indeed？　What　are　“we”？’　and　their　progress　through　Berkeley　Square　seemed　the　groping　of　two　blind　ants；　momentarily　thrown　together　without　interest　or　concern　in　mon；　across　a　blackened　desert。　She　shivered。　But　here　again　was　darkness。　Her　illusion　revived。　‘How　noble　his　brow　is；’　she　thought　（mistaking　a　hump　on　a　cushion　for　Mr　Pope’s　forehead　in　the　darkness）。　‘What　a　weight　of　genius　lives　in　it！　What　wit；　wisdom；　and　truth—what　a　wealth　of　all　those　jewels；　indeed；　for　which　people　are　ready　to　barter　their　lives！　Yours　is　the　only　light　that　burns　for　ever。　But　for　you　the　human　pilgrimage　would　be　performed　in　utter　darkness’；　（here　the　coach　gave　a　great　lurch　as　it　fell　into　a　rut　in　Park　Lane）　‘without　genius　we　should　be　upset　and　undone。　Most　august；　most　lucid　of　be

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