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im　leave　books；　they　said；　to　the　palsied　or　the　dying。　But　worse　was　to　e。　For　once　the　disease　of　reading　has　laid　upon　the　system　it　weakens　it　so　that　it　falls　an　easy　prey　to　that　other　scourge　which　dwells　in　the　inkpot　and　festers　in　the　quill。　The　wretch　takes　to　writing。　And　while　this　is　bad　enough　in　a　poor　man；　whose　only　property　is　a　chair　and　a　table　set　beneath　a　leaky　roof—for　he　has　not　much　to　lose；　after　all—the　plight　of　a　rich　man；　who　has　houses　and　cattle；　maidservants；　asses　and　linen；　and　yet　writes　books；　is　pitiable　in　the　extreme。　The　flavour　of　it　all　goes　out　of　him；　he　is　riddled　by　hot　irons；　gnawed　by　vermin。　He　would　give　every　penny　he　has　（such　is　the　malignity　of　the　germ）　to　write　one　little　book　and　bee　famous；　yet　all　the　gold　in　Peru　will　not　buy　him　the　treasure　of　a　well–turned　line。　So　he　falls　into　consumption　and　sickness；　blows　his　brains　out；　turns　his　face　to　the　wall。　It　matters　not　in　what　attitude　they　find　him。　He　has　passed　through　the　gates　of　Death　and　known　the　flames　of　Hell。

Happily；　Orlando　was　of　a　strong　constitution　and　the　disease　（for　reasons　presently　to　be　given）　never　broke　him　down　as　it　has　broken　many　of　his　peers。　But　he　was　deeply　smitten　with　it；　as　the　sequel　shows。　For　when　he　had　read　for　an　hour　or　so　in　Sir　Thomas　Browne；　and　the　bark　of　the　stag　and　the　call　of　the　night　watchman　showed　that　it　was　the　dead　of　night　and　all　safe　asleep；　he　crossed　the　room；　took　a　silver　key　from　his　pocket　and　unlocked　the　doors　of　a　great　inlaid　cabi　which　stood　in　the　corner。　Within　were　some　fifty　drawers　of　cedar　wood　and　upon　each　was　a　paper　neatly　written　in　Orlando’s　hand。　He　paused；　as　if　hesitating　which　to　open。　One　was　inscribed　‘The　Death　of　Ajax’；　another　‘The　Birth　of　Pyramus’；　another　‘Iphigenia　in　Aulis’；　another　‘The　Death　of　Hippolytus’；　another　‘Meleager’；　another　‘The　Return　of　Odysseus’；—in　fact　there　was　scarcely　a　single　drawer　that　lacked　the　name　of　some　mythological　personage　at　a　crisis　of　his　career。　In　each　drawer　lay　a　document　of　considerable　size　all　written　over　in　Orlando’s　hand。　The　truth　was　that　Orlando　had　been　afflicted　thus　for　many　years。　Never　had　any　boy　begged　apples　as　Orlando　begged　paper；　nor　sweetmeats　as　he　begged　ink。　Stealing　away　from　talk　and　games；　he　had　hidden　himself　behind　curtains；　in　priest’s　holes；　or　in　the　cupboard　behind　his　mother’s　bedroom　which　had　a　great　hole　in　the　floor　and　smelt　horribly　of　starling’s　dung；　with　an　inkhorn　in　one　hand；　a　pen　in　another；　and　on　his　knee　a　roll　of　paper。　Thus　had　been　written；　before　he　was　turned　twenty–five；　some　forty–seven　plays；　histories；　romances；　poems；　some　in　prose；　some　in　verse；　some　in　French；　some　in　Italian；　all　romantic；　and　all　long。　One　he　had　had　printed　by　John　Ball　of　the　Feathers　and　Coro　opposite　St　Paul’s　Cross；　Cheapside；　but　though　the　sight　of　it　gave　him　extreme　delight；　he　had　never　dared　show　it　even　to　his　mother；　since　to　write；　much　more　to　publish；　was；　he　knew；　for　a　nobleman　an　inexpiable　disgrace。

Now；　however；　that　it　was　the　dead　of　night　and　he　was　alone；　he　chose　from　this　repository　one　thick　document　called　‘Xenophila　a　Tragedy’　or　some　such　title；　and　one　thin　one；　called　simply　‘The　Oak　Tree’　（this　was　the　only　monosyllabic　title　among　the　lot）；　and　then　he　approached　the　inkhorn；　fingered　the　quill；　and　made　other　such　passes　as　those　addicted　to　this　vice　begin　their　rites　with。　But　he　paused。

As　this　pause　was　of　extreme　significance　in　his　history；　more　so；　indeed；　than　many　acts　which　bring　men　to　their　knees　and　make　rivers　run　with　blood；　it　behoves　us　to　ask　why　he　paused；　and　to　reply；　after　due　reflection；　that　it　was　for　some　such　reason　as　this。　Nature；　who　has　played　so　many　queer　tricks　upon　us；　making　us　so　unequally　of　clay　and　diamonds；　of　rainbow　and　granite；　and　stuffed　them　into　a　case；　often　of　the　most　incongruous；　for　the　poet　has　a　butcher’s　face　and　the　butcher　a　poet’s；　nature；　who　delights　in　muddle　and　mystery；　so　that　even　now　（the　first　of　November　1927）　we　know　not　why　we　go　upstairs；　or　why　we　e　down　again；　our　most　daily　movements　are　like　the　passage　of　a　ship　on　an　unknown　sea；　and　the　sailors　at　the　mast–head　ask；　pointing　their　glasses　to　the　horizon；　Is　there　land　or　is　there　none？　to　which；　if　we　are　prophets；　we　make　answer　‘Yes’；　if　we　are　truthful　we　say　‘No’；　nature；　who　has　so　much　to　answer　for　besides　the　perhaps　unwieldy　length　of　this　sentence；　has　further　plicated　her　task　and　added　to　our　confusion　by　providing　not　only　a　perfect　rag–bag　of　odds　and　ends　within　us—a　piece　of　a　policeman’s　trousers　lying　cheek　by　jowl　with　Queen　Alexandra’s　wedding　veil—but　has　contrived　that　the　whole　assortment　shall　be　lightly　stitched　together　by　a　single　thread。　Memory　is　the　seamstress；　and　a　capricious　one　at　that。　Memory　runs　her　needle　in　and　out；　up　and　down；　hither　and　thither。　We　know　not　what　es　next；　or　what　follows　after。　Thus；　the　most　ordinary　movement　in　the　world；　such　as　sitting　down　at　a　table　and　pulling　the　inkstand　towards　one；　may　agitate　a　thousand　odd；　disconnected　fragments；　now　bright；　now　dim；　hanging　and　bobbing　and　dipping　and　flaunting；　like　the　underlinen　of　a　family　of　fourteen　on　a　line　in　a　gale　of　wind。　Instead　of　being　a　single；　downright；　bluff　piece　of　work　of　which　no　man　need　feel　ashamed；　our　monest　deeds　are　set　about　with　a　fluttering　and　flickering　of　wings；　a　rising　and　falling　of　lights。　Thus　it　was　that　Orlando；　dipping　his　pen　in　the　ink；　saw　the　mocking　face　of　the　lost　Princess　and　asked　himself　a　million　questions　instantly　which　were　as　arrows　dipped　in　gall。　Where　was　she；　and　why　had　she　left　him？　Was　the　Ambassador　her　uncle　or　her　lover？　Had　they　plotted？　Was　she　forced？　Was　she　married？　Was　she　dead？—all　of　which　so　drove　their　venom　into　him　that；　as　if　to　vent　his　agony　somewhere；　he　plunged　his　quill　so　deep　into　the　inkhorn　that　the　ink　spirted　over　the　table；　which　act；　explain　it　how　one　may　（and　no　explanation　perhaps　is　possible—Memory　is　inexplicable）；　at　once　substituted　for　the　face　of　the　Princess　a　face　of　a　very　different　sort。　But　whose　was　it；　he　asked　himself？　And　he　had　to　wait；　perhaps　half　a　minute；　looking　at　the　new　picture　which　lay　on　top　of　the　old；　as　one　lantern　slide　is　half　seen　through　the　next；　before　he　could　say　to　himself；　‘This　is　the　face　of　that　rather　fat；　shabby　man　who　sat　in　Twitchett’s　room　ever　so　many　years　ago　when　old　Queen　Bess　came　here　to　dine；　and　I　saw　him；’　Orlando　continued；　catching　at　another　of　those　little　coloured　rags；　‘sitting　at　the　table；　as　I　peeped　in　on　my　way　downstairs；　and　he　had　the　most　amazing　eyes；’　said　Orlando；　‘that　ever　were；　but　who　the　devil　was　he？’　Orlando　asked；　for　here　Memory　added　to　the　forehead　and　eyes；　first；　a　coarse；　grease–stained　ruffle；　then　a　brown　doublet；　and　finally　a　pair　of　thick　boots　such　as　citizens　wear　in　Cheapside。　‘Not　a　Nobleman；　not　one　of　us；’　said　Orlando　（which　he　would　not　have　said　aloud；　for　he　was　the　most　courteous　of　gentlemen；　but　it　shows　what　an　effect　noble　birth　has　upon　the　mind　and　incidentally　how　difficult　it　is　for　a　nobleman　to　be　a　writer）；　‘a　poet；　I　dare　say。’　By　all　the　laws；　Memory；　having　disturbed　him　sufficiently；　should　now　have　blotted　the　whole　thing　out　pletely；　or　have　fetched　up　something　so　idiotic　and　out　of　keeping—like　a　dog　chasing　a　cat　or　an　old　woman　blowing　her　nose　into　a　red　cotton　handkerchief—that；　in　despair　of　keeping　pace　with　her　vagaries；　Orlando　should　have　struck　his　pen　in　earnest　against　his　paper。　（For　we　can；　if　we　have　the　resolution；　turn　the　hussy；　Memory；　and　all　her　ragtag　and　bobtail　out　of　the　house。）　But　Orlando　paused。　Memory　still　held　before　him　the　image　of　a　shabby　man　with　big；　bright　eyes。　Still　he　looked；　still　he　paused。　It　is　these　pauses　that　are　our　undoing。　It　is　then　that　sedition　enters　the　fortress　and　our　troops　rise　in　insurrection。　Once　before　he　had　paused；　and　love　with　its　horrid　rout；　its　shawms；　its　cymbals；　and　its　heads　with　gory　locks　torn　from　the　shoulders　had　burst　in。　From　love　he　had　suffered　the　tortures　of　the　damned。　Now；　again；　he　paused；　and　into　the　breach　thus　made；　leapt　Ambition；　the　harridan；　and　Poetry；　the　witch；　and　Desire　of　Fame；　the　strumpet；　all　joined　hands　and　made　of　his　heart　their　dancing　ground。　Standing　upright　in　the　solitude　of　his　room；　he　vowed　that　he　would　be　the　first　poet　of　his　race　and　bring　immortal　lustre　upon　his　name。　He　said　（reciting　the　names　and　exploits　of　his　ancestors）　that　Sir　Boris　had　fought　and　killed　the　Paynim；　Sir　Gawain；　the　Turk；　Sir　Miles；　the　Pole；　Sir　Andrew；　the　Frank；　Sir　Richard；　the　Austrian；　Sir　Jordan；　the　Frenchman；　and　Sir　Herbert；　the　Spaniard。　But　of　all　that　killing　and　campaigning；　that　drinking　and　love–making；　that　spending　and　hunting　and　riding　and　eating；　what　remained？　A　skull；　a　finger。　Whereas；　he　said；　turning　to　the　page　of　Sir　Thomas　Browne；　which　lay　open　upon　the　table—and　again　he　paused。　Like　an　incantation　rising　from　all　parts　of　the　room；　from　the　night　wind　and　the　moonlight；　rolled　the　divine　melody　of　those　words　which；　lest　they　should　outstare　this　page；　we　will　leave　where　they　lie　entombed；　not　dead；　embalmed　rather；　so　fresh　is　their　colour；　so　sound　their　breathing—and　Orlando；　paring　that　achievement　with　those　of　his　ancestors；　cried　out　that　they　and　their　deeds　were　dust　and　ashes；　but　this　man　and　his　words　were　immortal。

He　soon　perceived；　however；　that　the　battles　which　Sir　Miles　and　the　rest　had　waged　against　armed　knights　to　win　a　kingdom；　were　not　half　so　arduous　as　this　which　he　now　undertook　to　win　immortality　against　the　English　language。　Anyone　moderately　familiar　with　the　rigours　of　position　will　not　need　to　be　told　the　story　in　detail；　how　he　wrote　and　it　seemed　good；　read　and　it　seemed　vile；　corrected　and　tore　up；　cut　out；　put　in；　was　in　ecstasy；　in　despair；　had　his　good　nights　and　bad　mornings；　snatched　at　ideas　and　lost　them；　saw　his　book　plain　before　him　and　it　vanished；　acted　his　people’s　parts　as　he　ate；　mouthed　them　as　he　walked；　now　cried；　now　laughed；　vacillated　between　this　style　and　that；　now　preferred　the　heroic　and　pompous；　next　the　plain　and　simple；　now　the　vales　of　Tempe；　then　the　fields　of　Kent　or　Cornwall；　and　could　not　decide　whether　he　was　the　divinest　genius　or　the　greatest　fool　in　the　world。

It　was　to　settle　this　last　question　that　he　decided　after　many　months　of　such　feverish　labour；　to　break　the　solitude　of　years　and　municate　with　the　outer　world。　He　had　a　friend　in　London；　one　Giles　Isham；　of　Norfolk；　who；　though　of　gentle　birth；　was　acquainted　with　writers　and　could　doubtless　put　him　in　touch　with　some　member　of　that　blessed；　indeed　sacred；　fraternity。　For；　to　Orlando　in　the　state　he　was　now　in；　there　was　a　glory　about　a　man　who　had　written　a　book　and　had　it　printed；　which　outshone　all　the　glories　of　blood　and　state。　To　his　imagination　it　seemed　as　if　even　the　bodies　of　those　instinct　with　such　divine　thoughts　must　be　transfigured。　They　must　have　aureoles　for　hair；　incense　for　breath；　and　roses　must　grow　between　their　lips—which　was　certainly　not　true　either　of　himself　or　Mr　Dupper。　He　could　think　of　no　greater　happiness　than　to　be　al

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