the Tory journals,
called the Post-Boy, (a letter upon Bouchain, that the town talked about
for two whole days, when the appearance of an Italian singer supplied
a fresh subject for conversation,) and having business at the Exchange,
where Mistress Beatrix wanted a pair of gloves or a fan very likely,
Esmond went to correct his paper, and was sitting at the printer's, when
the famous Doctor Swift came in, his Irish fellow with him that used
to walk before his chair, and bawled out his master's name with great
dignity.

Mr. Esmond was waiting for the printer too, whose wife had gone to the
tavern to fetch him, and was meantime engaged in drawing a picture of
a soldier on horseback for a dirty little pretty boy of the printer's
wife, whom she had left behind her.

"I presume you are the editor of the Post-Boy, sir?" says the Doctor,
in a grating voice that had an Irish twang; and he looked at the Colonel
from under his two bushy eyebrows with a pair of very clear blue eyes.
His complexion was muddy, his figure rather fat, his chin double. He
wore a shabby cassock, and a shabby hat over his black wig, and he
pulled out a great gold watch, at which he looks very fierce.

"I am but a contributor, Doctor Swift," says Esmond, with the little boy
still on his knee. He was sitting with his back in the window, so that
the Doctor could not see him.

"Who told you I was Dr. Swift?" says the Doctor, eying the other very
haughtily.

"Your Reverence's valet bawled out your name," says the Colonel. "I
should judge you brought him from Ireland?"

"And pray, sir, what right have you to judge whether my servant came
from Ireland or no? I want to speak with your employer, Mr. Leach. I'll
thank ye go fetch him."

"Where's your papa, Tommy?" asks the Colonel of the child, a smutty
little wretch in a frock.

Instead of answering, the child begins to cry; the Doctor's appearance
had no doubt frightened the poor little imp.

"Send that squalling little brat about his business, and do what I bid
ye, sir," says the Doctor.

"I must finish, the picture first for Tommy," says the Colonel,
laughing. "Here, Tommy, will you have your Pandour with whiskers or
without?"

"Whisters," says Tommy, quite intent on the picture.

"Who the devil are ye, sir?" cries the Doctor; "are ye a printer's man
or are ye not?" he pronounced it like NAUGHT.

"Your reverence needn't raise the devil to ask who I am," says Colonel
Esmond. "Did you ever hea