No one else in literary history has been so defrauded of her honours.  In love “to divide is not to take away,” as Shelley says; and Dingley’s half of the tender things said to MD is equal to any whole, and takes nothing from the whole of Stella’s half.  But the sentimentalist has fought against Mrs. Dingley from the outset.  He has disliked her, shirked her, misconceived her, and effaced her.  Sly sentimentalist—­he finds her irksome.  Through one of his most modern representatives he has but lately called her a “chaperon.”  A chaperon!

MD was not a sentimentalist.  Stella was not so, though she has been pressed into that character; D certainly was not, and has in this respect been spared by the chronicler; and MD together were “saucy charming MD,” “saucy little, pretty, dear rogues,” “little monkeys mine,” “little mischievous girls,” “nautinautinautidear girls,” “brats,” “huzzies both,” “impudence and saucy-face,” “saucy noses,” “my dearest lives and delights,” “dear little young women,” “good dallars, not crying dallars” (which means “girls"), “ten thousand times dearest MD,” and so forth in a hundred repetitions.  They are, every now and then, “poor MD,” but obviously not because of their own complaining.  Swift called them so because they were mortal; and he, like all great souls, lived and loved, conscious every day of the price, which is death.

The two were joined by love, not without solemnity, though man, with his summary and wholesale ready-made sentiment, has thus obstinately put them asunder.  No wholesale sentiment can do otherwise than foolishly play havoc with such a relation.  To Swift it was the most secluded thing in the world.  “I am weary of friends, and friendships are all monsters, except MD’s;” “I ought to read these letters I write after I have done.  But I hope it does not puzzle little Dingley to read, for I think I mend:  but methinks,” he adds, “when I write plain, I do not know how, but we are not alone, all the world can see us.  A bad scrawl is so snug; it looks like PMD.”  Again:  “I do not like women so much as I did.  MD, you must know, are not women.”  “God Almighty preserve you both and make us happy together.”  “I say Amen with all my heart and vitals, that we may never be asunder ten days together while poor Presto lives.”  “Farewell, dearest beloved MD, and love poor, poor Presto, who has not had one happy day since he left you, as hope saved.”

With them—­with her—­he hid himself in the world, at Court, at the bar of St. James’s coffee-house, whither he went on the Irish mail-day, and was “in pain except he saw MD’s little handwriting.”  He hid with them in the long labours of these exquisite letters every night and morning.  If no letter came, he comforted himself with thinking that “he had it yet to be happy with.”  And the world has agreed to hide under its own manifold and lachrymose blunders the grace and singularity—­the distinction—­of this sweet romance.  “Little, sequestered pleasure-house”—­it seemed as though “the many could not miss it,” but not even the few have found it.