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f deportment which it was a pleasure to watch； was now pletely littered with parcels。 While she had been sitting in Hyde Park the bookseller had delivered her order； and the house was crammed—there were parcels slipping down the staircase—with the whole of Victorian literature done up in grey paper and neatly tied with string。 She carried as many of these packets as she could to her room； ordered footmen to bring the others； and； rapidly cutting innumerable strings； was soon surrounded by innumerable volumes。
Accustomed to the little literatures of the sixteenth； seventeenth； and eighteenth centuries； Orlando was appalled by the consequences of her order。 For； of course； to the Victorians themselves Victorian literature meant not merely four great names separate and distinct but four great names sunk and embedded in a mass of Alexander Smiths； Dixons； Blacks； Milmans； Buckles； Taines； Paynes； Tuppers； Jamesons—all vocal； clamorous； prominent； and requiring as much attention as anybody else。 Orlando’s reverence for print had a tough job set before it but drawing her chair to the window to get the benefit of what light might filter between the high houses of Mayfair； she tried to e to a conclusion。
And now it was clear that there are only two ways of ing to a conclusion upon Victorian literature—one is to write it out in sixty volumes octavo； the other is to squeeze it into six lines of the length of this one。 Of the two courses； economy； since time runs short； leads us to choose the second； and so we proceed。 Orlando then came to the conclusion （opening half–a–dozen books） that it was very odd that there was not a single dedication to a nobleman among them； next （turning over a vast pile of memoirs） that several of these writers had family trees half as high as her own； next； that it would be impolitic in the extreme to wrap a ten–pound note round the sugar tongs when Miss Christina Rossetti came to tea； next （here were half–a–dozen invitations to celebrate centenaries by dining） that literature since it ate all these dinners must be growing very corpulent； next （she was invited to a score of lectures on the Influence of this upon that； the Classical revival； the Romantic survival； and other titles of the same engaging kind） that literature since it listened to all these lectures must be growing very dry； next （here she attended a reception given by a peeress） that literature since it wore all those fur tippets must be growing very respectable； next （here she visited Carlyle’s sound–proof room at Chelsea） that genius since it needed all this coddling must be growing very delicate； and so at last she reached her final conclusion； which was of the highest importance but which； as we have already much overpassed our limit of six lines； we must omit。
Orlando； having e to this conclusion； stood looking out of the window for a considerable space of time。 For； when anybody es to a conclusion it is as if they had tossed the ball over the and must wait for the unseen antagonist to return it to them。 What would be sent her next from the colourless sky above Chesterfield House； she wondered？ And with her hands clasped； she stood for a considerable space of time wondering。 Suddenly she started—and here we could only wish that； as on a former occasion； Purity； Chastity； and Modesty would push the door ajar and provide； at least； a breathing space in which we could think how to wrap up what now has to be told delicately； as a biographer should。 But no！ Having thrown their white garment at the naked Orlando and seen it fall short by several inches； these ladies had given up all intercourse with her these many years； and were now otherwise engaged。 Is nothing then； going to happen this pale March morning to mitigate； to veil； to cover； to conceal； to shroud this undeniable event whatever it may be？ For after giving that sudden； violent start； Orlando—but Heaven be praised； at this very moment there struck up outside one of these frail； reedy； fluty； jerky； old–fashioned barrel–organs which are still sometimes played by Italian organ–grinders in back streets。 Let us accept the intervention； humble though it is； as if it were the music of the spheres； and allow it； with all its gasps and groans； to fill this page with sound until the moment es when it is impossible to deny its ing； which the footman has seen ing and the maid–servant； and the reader will have to see too； for Orlando herself is clearly unable to ignore it any longer—let the barrel–organ sound and transport us on thought； which is no more than a little boat； when music sounds； tossing on the waves； on thought； which is； of all carriers； the most clumsy； the most erratic； over the roof tops and the back gardens where washing is hanging to—what is this place？ Do you recognize the Green and in the middle the steeple； and the gate with a lion couchant on either side？ Oh yes； it is Kew！ Well； Kew will do。 So here we are at Kew； and I will show you to–day （the second of March） under the plum tree； a grape hyacinth； and a crocus； and a bud； too； on the almond tree； so that to walk there is to be thinking of bulbs； hairy and red； thrust into the earth in October； flowering now； and to be dreaming of more than can rightly be said； and to be taking from its case a cigarette or cigar even； and to be flinging a cloak under （as the rhyme requires） an oak； and there to sit； waiting the kingfisher； which； it is said； was seen once to cross in the evening from bank to bank。
Wait！ Wait！ The kingfisher es； the kingfisher es not。
Behold； meanwhile； the factory chimneys and their smoke； behold the city clerks flashing by in their outrigger。 Behold the old lady taking her dog for a walk and the servant girl wearing her new hat for the first time not at the right angle。 Behold them all。 Though Heaven has mercifully decreed that the secrets of all hearts are hidden so that we are lured on for ever to suspect something； perhaps； that does not exist； still through our cigarette smoke； we see blaze up and salute the splendid fulfilment of natural desires for a hat； for a boat； for a rat in a ditch； as once one saw blazing—such silly hops and skips the mind takes when it slops like this all over the saucer and the barrel–organ plays—saw blazing a fire in a field against minarets near Constantinople。
Hail！ natural desire！ Hail！ happiness！ divine happiness！ and pleasure of all sorts； flowers and wine； though one fades and the other intoxicates； and half–crown tickets out of London on Sundays； and singing in a dark chapel hymns about death； and anything； anything that interrupts and confounds the tapping of typewriters and filing of letters and forging of links and chains； binding the Empire together。 Hail even the crude； red bows on shop girls’ lips （as if Cupid； very clumsily； dipped his thumb in red ink and scrawled a token in passing）。 Hail； happiness！ kingfisher flashing from bank to bank； and all fulfilment of natural desire； whether it is what the male novelist says it is； or prayer； or denial； hail！ in whatever form it es； and may there be more forms； and stranger。 For dark flows the stream—would it were true； as the rhyme hints ‘like a dream’—but duller and worser than that is our usual lot； without dreams； but alive； smug； fluent； habitual； under trees whose shade of an olive green drowns the blue of the wing of the vanishing bird when he darts of a sudden from bank to bank。
Hail； happiness； then； and after happiness； hail not those dreams which bloat the sharp image as spotted mirrors do the face in a country–inn parlour； dreams which splinter the whole and tear us asunder and wound us and split us apart in the night when we would sleep； but sleep； sleep； so deep that all shapes are ground to dust of infinite softness； water of dimness inscrutable； and there； folded； shrouded； like a mummy； like a moth； prone let us lie on the sand at the bottom of sleep。
But wait！ but wait！ we are not going； this time； visiting the blind land。 Blue； like a match struck right in the ball of the innermost eye； he flies； burns； bursts the seal of sleep； the kingfisher； so that now floods back refluent like a tide； the red； thick stream of life again； bubbling； dripping；