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tainly　not　true　either　of　himself　or　Mr　Dupper。　He　could　think　of　no　greater　happiness　than　to　be　allowed　to　sit　behind　a　curtain　and　hear　them　talk。　Even　the　imagination　of　that　bold　and　various　discourse　made　the　memory　of　what　he　and　his　courtier　friends　used　to　talk　about—a　dog；　a　horse；　a　woman；　a　game　of　cards—seem　brutish　in　the　extreme。　He　bethought　him　with　pride　that　he　had　always　been　called　a　scholar；　and　sneered　at　for　his　love　of　solitude　and　books。　He　had　never　been　apt　at　pretty　phrases。　He　would　stand　stock　still；　blush；　and　stride　like　a　grenadier　in　a　ladies’　drawing–room。　He　had　twice　fallen；　in　sheer　abstraction；　from　his　horse。　He　had　broken　Lady　Winchilsea’s　fan　once　while　making　a　rhyme。　Eagerly　recalling　these　and　other　instances　of　his　unfitness　for　the　life　of　society；　an　ineffable　hope；　that　all　the　turbulence　of　his　youth；　his　clumsiness；　his　blushes；　his　long　walks；　and　his　love　of　the　country　proved　that　he　himself　belonged　to　the　sacred　race　rather　than　to　the　noble—was　by　birth　a　writer；　rather　than　an　aristocrat—possessed　him。　For　the　first　time　since　the　night　of　the　great　flood　he　was　happy。

He　now　missioned　Mr　Isham　of　Norfolk　to　deliver　to　Mr　Nicholas　Greene　of　Clifford’s　Inn　a　document　which　set　forth　Orlando’s　admiration　for　his　works　（for　Nick　Greene　was　a　very　famous　writer　at　that　time）　and　his　desire　to　make　his　acquaintance；　which　he　scarcely　dared　ask；　for　he　had　nothing　to　offer　in　return；　but　if　Mr　Nicholas　Greene　would　condescend　to　visit　him；　a　coach　and　four　would　be　at　the　corner　of　Fetter　Lane　at　whatever　hour　Mr　Greene　chose　to　appoint；　and　bring　him　safely　to　Orlando’s　house。　One　may　fill　up　the　phrases　which　then　followed；　and　figure　Orlando’s　delight　when；　in　no　long　time；　Mr　Greene　signified　his　acceptance　of　the　Noble　Lord’s　invitation；　took　his　place　in　the　coach　and　was　set　down　in　the　hall　to　the　south　of　the　main　building　punctually　at　seven　o’clock　on　Monday；　April　the　twenty–first。

Many　Kings；　Queens；　and　Ambassadors　had　been　received　there；　Judges　had　stood　there　in　their　ermine。　The　loveliest　ladies　of　the　land　had　e　there；　and　the　sternest　warriors。　Banners　hung　there　which　had　been　at　Flodden　and　at　Agincourt。　There　were　displayed　the　painted　coats　of　arms　with　their　lions　and　their　leopards　and　their　coros。　There　were　the　long　tables　where　the　gold　and　silver　plate　was　stood；　and　there　the　vast　fireplaces　of　wrought　Italian　marble　where　nightly　a　whole　oak　tree；　with　its　million　leaves　and　its　nests　of　rook　and　wren；　was　burnt　to　ashes。　Nicholas　Greene；　the　poet　stood　there　now；　plainly　dressed　in　his　slouched　hat　and　black　doublet；　carrying　in　one　hand　a　small　bag。

That　Orlando　as　he　hastened　to　greet　him　was　slightly　disappointed　was　inevitable。　The　poet　was　not　above　middle　height；　was　of　a　mean　figure；　was　lean　and　stooped　somewhat；　and；　stumbling　over　the　mastiff　on　entering；　the　dog　bit　him。　Moreover；　Orlando　for　all　his　knowledge　of　mankind　was　puzzled　where　to　place　him。　There　was　something　about　him　which　belonged　neither　to　servant；　squire；　or　noble。　The　head　with　its　rounded　forehead　and　beaked　nose　was　fine；　but　the　chin　receded。　The　eyes　were　brilliant；　but　the　lips　hung　loose　and　slobbered。　It　was　the　expression　of　the　face—as　a　whole；　however；　that　was　disquieting。　There　was　none　of　that　stately　posure　which　makes　the　faces　of　the　nobility　so　pleasing　to　look　at；　nor　had　it　anything　of　the　dignified　servility　of　a　well–trained　domestic’s　face；　it　was　a　face　seamed；　puckered；　and　drawn　together。　Poet　though　he　was；　it　seemed　as　if　he　were　more　used　to　scold　than　to　flatter；　to　quarrel　than　to　coo；　to　scramble　than　to　ride；　to　struggle　than　to　rest；　to　hate　than　to　love。　This；　too；　was　shown　by　the　quickness　of　his　movements；　and　by　something　fiery　and　suspicious　in　his　glance。　Orlando　was　somewhat　taken　aback。　But　they　went　to　dinner。

Here；　Orlando；　who　usually　took　such　things　for　granted；　was；　for　the　first　time；　unaccountably　ashamed　of　the　number　of　his　servants　and　of　the　splendour　of　his　table。　Stranger　still；　he　bethought　him　with　pride—for　the　thought　was　generally　distasteful—of　that　great　grandmother　Moll　who　had　milked　the　cows。　He　was　about　somehow　to　allude　to　this　humble　woman　and　her　milk–pails；　when　the　poet　forestalled　him　by　saying　that　it　was　odd；　seeing　how　mon　the　name　of　Greene　was；　that　the　family　had　e　over　with　the　Conqueror　and　was　of　the　highest　nobility　in　France。　Unfortunately；　they　had　e　down　in　the　world　and　done　little　more　than　leave　their　name　to　the　royal　borough　of　Greenwich。　Further　talk　of　the　same　sort；　about　lost　castles；　coats　of　arms；　cousins　who　were　baros　in　the　north；　intermarriage　with　noble　families　in　the　west；　how　some　Greens　spelt　the　name　with　an　e　at　the　end；　and　others　without；　lasted　till　the　venison　was　on　the　table。　Then　Orlando　contrived　to　say　something　of　Grandmother　Moll　and　her　cows；　and　had　eased　his　heart　a　little　of　its　burden　by　the　time　the　wild　fowl　were　before　them。　But　it　was　not　until　the　Malmsey　was　passing　freely　that　Orlando　dared　mention　what　he　could　not　help　thinking　a　more　important　matter　than　the　Greens　or　the　cows；　that　is　to　say　the　sacred　subject　of　poetry。　At　the　first　mention　of　the　word；　the　poet’s　eyes　flashed　fire；　he　dropped　the　fine　gentleman　airs　he　had　worn；　thumped　his　glass　on　the　table；　and　launched　into　one　of　the　longest；　most　intricate；　most　passionate；　and　bitterest　stories　that　Orlando　had　ever　heard；　save　from　the　lips　of　a　jilted　woman；　about　a　play　of　his；　another　poet；　and　a　critic。　Of　the　nature　of　poetry　itself；　Orlando　only　gathered　that　it　was　harder　to　sell　than　prose；　and　though　the　lines　were　shorter　took　longer　in　the　writing。　So　the　talk　went　on　with　ramifications　interminable；　until　Orlando　ventured　to　hint　that　he　had　himself　been　so　rash　as　to　write—but　here　the　poet　leapt　from　his　chair。　A　mouse　had　squeaked　in　the　wainscot；　he　said。　The　truth　was；　he　explained；　that　his　nerves　were　in　a　state　where　a　mouse’s　squeak　upset　them　for　a　fortnight。　Doubtless　the　house　was　full　of　vermin；　but　Orlando　had　not　heard　them。　The　poet　then　gave　Orlando　the　full　story　of　his　health　for　the　past　ten　years　or　so。　It　had　been　so　bad　that　one　could　only　marvel　that　he　still　lived。　He　had　had　the　palsy；　the　gout；　the　ague；　the　dropsy；　and　the　three　sorts　of　fever　in　succession；　added　to　which　he　had　an　enlarged　heart；　a　great　spleen；　and　a　diseased　liver。　But；　above　all；　he　had；　he　told　Orlando；　sensations　in　his　spine　which　defied　description。　There　was　one　knob　about　the　third　from　the　top　which　burnt　like　fire；　another　about　second　from　the　bottom　which　was　cold　as　ice。　Sometimes　he　woke　with　a　brain　like　lead；　at　others　it　was　as　if　a　thousand　wax　tapers　were　alight　and　people　were　throwing　fireworks　inside　him。　He　could　feel　a　rose　leaf　through　his　mattress；　he　said；　and　knew　his　way　almost　about　London　by　the　feel　of　the　cobbles。　Altogether　he　was　a　piece　of　machinery　so　finely　made　and　curiously　put　together　（here　he　raised　his　hand　as　if　unconsciously；　and　indeed　it　was　of　the　finest　shape　imaginable）　that　it　confounded　him　to　think　that　he　had　only　sold　five　hundred　copies　of　his　poem；　but　that　of　course　was　largely　due　to　the　conspiracy　against　him。　All　he　could　say；　he　concluded；　banging　his　fist　upon　the　table；　was　that　the　art　of　poetry　was　dead　in　England。

How　that　could　be　with　Shakespeare；　Marlowe；　Ben　Jonson；　Browne；　Donne；　all　now　writing　or　just　having　written；　Orlando；　reeling　off　the　names　of　his　favourite　heroes；　could　not　think。

Greene　laughed　sardonically。　Shakespeare；　he　admitted；　had　written　some　scenes　that　were　well　enough；　but　he　had　taken　them　chiefly　from　Marlowe。　Marlowe　was　a　likely　boy；　but　what　could　you　say　of　a　lad　who　died　before　he　was　thirty？　As　for　Browne；　he　was　for　writing　poetry　in　prose；　and　people　soon　got　tired　of　such　conceits　as　that。　Donne　was　a　mountebank　who　wrapped　up　his　lack　of　meaning　in　hard　words。　The　gulls　were　taken　in；　but　the　style　would　be　out　of　fashion　twelve　months　hence。　As　for　Ben　Jonson—Ben　Jonson　was　a　friend　of　his　and　he　never　spoke　ill　of　his　friends。

No；　he　concluded；　the　great　age　of　literature　is　past；　the　great　age　of　literature　was　the　Greek；　the　Elizabethan　age　was　inferior　in　every　respect　to　the　Greek。　In　such　ages　men　cherished　a　divine　ambition　which　he　might　call　La　Gloire　（he　pronounced　it　Glawr；　so　that　Orlando　did　not　at　first　catch　his　meaning）。　Now　all　young　writers　were　in　the　pay　of　the　booksellers　and　poured　out　any　trash　that　would　sell。　Shakespeare　was　the　chief　offender　in　this　way　and　Shakespeare　was　already　paying　the　penalty。　Their　own　age；　he　said；　was　marked　by　precious　conceits　and　wild　experiments—neither　of　which　the　Greeks　would　have　tolerated　for　a　moment。　Much　though　it　hurt　him　to　say　it—for　he　loved　literature　as　he　loved　his　life—he　could　see　no　good　in　the　present　and　had　no　hope　for　the　future。　Here　he　poured　himself　out　another　glass　of　wine。

Orlando　was　shocked　by　these　doctrines；　yet　could　not　help　observing　that　the　critic　himself　seemed　by　no　means　downcast。　On　the　contrary；　the　more　he　denounced　his　own　time；　the　more　placent　he　became。　He　could　remember；　he　said；　a　night　at　the　Cock　Tavern　in　Fleet　Street　when　Kit　Marlowe　was　there　and　some　others。　Kit　was　in　high　feather；　rather　drunk；　which　he　easily　became；　and　in　a　mood　to　say　silly　things。　He　could　see　him　now；　brandishing　his　glass　at　the　pany　and　hiccoughing　out；　‘Stap　my　vitals；　Bill’　（this　was　to　Shakespeare）；　‘there’s　a　great　wave　ing　and　you’re　on　the　top　of　it；’　by　which　he　meant；　Greene　explained；　that　they　were　trembling　on　the　verge　of　a　great　age　in　English　literature；　and　that　Shakespeare　was　to　be　a　poet　of　some　importance。　Happily　for　himself；　he　was　killed　two　nights　later　in　a　drunken　brawl；　and　so　did　not　live　to　see　how　this　prediction　turned　out。　‘Poor　foolish　fellow；’　said　Greene；　‘to　go　and　say　a　thing　like　that。　A　great　age；　forsooth—the　Elizabethan　a　great　age！’

‘So；　my　dear　Lord；’　he　continued；　settling　himself　fortably　in　his　chair　and　rubbing　the　wine–glass　between　his　fingers；　‘we　must　make　the　best　of　it；　cherish　the　past　and　honour　those　writers—there　are　still　a　few　of　‘em—who　take　antiquity　for　their　model　and　write；　not　for　pay　but　for　Glawr。’　（Orlando　could　have　wished　him　a　better　accent。）　‘Glawr’；　said　Greene；　‘is　the　spur　of　noble　minds。　Had　I　a　pension　of　three　hundred　pounds　a　year　paid　quarterly；　I　would　live　for　Glawr　alone。　I　would　lie　in　bed　every　morning　reading　Cicero。　I　would　imitate　his　style　so　that　you　couldn’t　tell　the　difference　between　us。　That’s　what　I　call　fine　writing；’　said　Greene；　‘that’s　what　I　call　Glawr。　But　it’s　necessary　to　have　a　pension　to　do　it。’

By　this　time　Orlando　had　abandoned　all　hope　of　discussing　his　own　work　with　the　poet；　but　this　mattered　the　less　as　the　talk　now　got　upon　the　lives　and　characters　of　Shakespeare；　Ben　Jonson；　and　the　rest；　all　of　whom　Greene　had　known　intimately　and　about　whom　he　had　a　thousand　anecdotes　of　the　most　amusing　kind　to　tell。　Orlando　had　never　laughed　so　much　in　his　life。　These；　then；　were　his　gods！　Half　were　drunken　and　all　were　amorous。　Most　of　them　quarrelled　with　their　wives；　not　one　of　them　was　above　a　lie　or

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