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a tippet； the peacock； parrot and swan shall pay contributions to her muff； the sea shall be searched for shells； and the rocks for gems； and every part of nature furnish out its share towards the embellishment of a creature that is the most consummate work of it。 All this； I shall indulge them in； but as for the petticoat I have been speaking of； I neither can； nor will allow it。’
We hold that gentleman； cocked hat and all； in the hollow； of our hands。 Look once more into the crystal。 Is he not clear to the very wrinkle in his stocking？ Does not every ripple and curve of his wit lie exposed before us； and his benignity and his timidity and his urbanity and the fact that he would marry a Countess and die very respectably in the end？ All is clear。 And when Mr Addison has said his say； there is a terrific rap at the door； and Mr Swift； who had these arbitrary ways with him； walks in unannounced。 One moment； where is “Gulliver’s Travels”？ Here it is！ Let us read a passage from the voyage to the Houyhnhnms：
‘I enjoyed perfect Health of Body and Tranquillity of Mind； I did not find the Treachery or Inconstancy of a Friend； nor the Injuries of a secret or open Enemy。 I had no occasion of bribing； flattering or pimping； to procure the Favour of any great Man or of his Minion。 I wanted no Fence against Fraud or Oppression； Here was neither Physician to destroy my Body； nor Lawyer to ruin my Fortune； No Informer to watch my Words； and Actions； or forge Accusations against me for Hire： Here were no Gibers； Censurers； Backbiters； Pickpockets； Highwaymen； Housebreakers； Attorneys； Bawds； Buffoons； Gamesters； Politicians； Wits； spleick tedious Talkers。。。’
But stop； stop your iron pelt of words； lest you flay us all alive； and yourself too！ Nothing can be plainer than that violent man。 He is so coarse and yet so clean； so brutal； yet so kind； scorns the whole world； yet talks baby language to a girl； and will die； can we doubt it？ in a madhouse。
So Orlando poured out tea for them all； and sometimes； when the weather was fine； she carried them down to the country with her； and feasted them royally in the Round Parlour； which she had hung with their pictures all in a circle； so that Mr Pope could not say that Mr Addison came before him； or the other way about。 They were very witty； too （but their wit is all in their books） and taught her the most important part of style； which is the natural run of the voice in speaking—a quality which none that has not heard it can imitate； not Greene even； with all his skill； for it is born of the air； and breaks like a wave on the furniture； and rolls and fades away； and is never to be recaptured； least of all by those who prick up their ears； half a century later； and try。 They taught her this； merely by the cadence of their voices in speech； so that her style changed somewhat； and she wrote some very pleasant； witty verses and characters in prose。 And so she lavished her wine on them and put bank–notes； which they took very kindly； beneath their plates at dinner； and accepted their dedications； and thought herself highly honoured by the exchange。
Thus time ran on； and Orlando could often be heard saying to herself with an emphasis which might； perhaps； make the hearer a little suspicious； ‘Upon my soul； what a life this is！’ （For she was still in search of that modity。） But circumstances soon forced her to consider the matter more narrowly。
One day she was pouring out tea for Mr Pope while； as anyone can tell from the verses quoted above； he sat very bright–eyed； observant； and all crumpled up in a chair by her side。
‘Lord；’ she thought； as she raised the sugar tongs； ‘how women in ages to e will envy me！ And yet—’ she paused； for Mr Pope needed her attention。 And yet—let us finish her thought for her—when anybody says ‘How future ages will envy me’； it is safe to say that they are extremely uneasy at the present moment。 Was this life quite so exciting； quite so flattering； quite so glorious as it sounds when the memoir writer has done his work upon it？ For one thing； Orlando had a positive hatred of tea； for another； the intellect； divine as it is； and all–worshipful； has a habit of lodging in the most seedy of carcases； and often； alas； acts the cannibal among the other faculties so that often； where the Mind is biggest； the Heart； the Senses； Magnanimity； Charity； Tolerance； Kindliness； and the rest of them scarcely have room to breathe。 Then the high opinion poets have of themselves； then the low one they have of others； then the enmities； injuries； envies； and repartees in which they are constantly engaged； then the volubility with which they impart them； then the rapacity with which they demand sympathy for them； all this； one may whisper； lest the wits may overhear us； makes pouring out tea a more precarious and； indeed； arduous occupation than is generally allowed。 Added to which （we whisper again lest the women may overhear us）； there is a little secret which men share among them； Lord Chesterfield whispered it to his son with strict injunctions to secrecy； ‘Women are but children of a larger growth。。。A man of sense only trifles with them； plays with them； humours and flatters them’； which； since children always hear what they are not meant to； and sometimes； even； grow up； may have somehow leaked out； so that the whole ceremony of pouring out tea is a curious one。 A woman knows very well that； though a wit sends her his poems； praises her judgment； solicits her criticism； and drinks her tea； this by no means signifies that he respects her opinions； admires her understanding； or will refuse； though the rapier is denied him； to run her through the body with his pen。 All this； we say； whisper it as low as we can； may have leaked out by now； so that even with the cream jug suspended and the sugar tongs distended the ladies may fidget a little； look out of the window a little； yawn a little； and so let the sugar fall with a great plop—as Orlando did now—into Mr Pope’s tea。 Never was any mortal so ready to suspect an insult or so quick to avenge one as Mr Pope。 He turned to Orlando and presented her instantly with the rough draught of a certain famous l