constant stream of
visitors engrossed him far more than the printed words, the meaning
of which he understood no whit.

It was much more interesting to him to listen to what the
frequenters of the coffee house were saying amongst themselves; and
greatly did he admire the ease and readiness with which Harry took
his share in the conversation.

"Has my Lord Godolphin found a worthy pen to sing the praise of the
victor of Blenheim yet?" he asked of a man who appeared to be a
referee on matters literary. "The last I heard was that he was
scouring London, tearing his periwig in pieces in despair that the
race of poets was extinct, and he could only find the most wretched
doggerel mongers, whose productions were too vile to be tolerated.
Has the noble lord found a better rhymster? Or will the victory of
the great Duke have to go unsung by the Muse?"

"What! have you not heard the end of that matter? Why, my Lord
Halifax declared that he knew the man worthy of the occasion; but
he would not reveal the name unless it was promised that he should
be excellently well treated. And this man is none other than Joseph
Addison, a fellow of the University of Oxford, and a man well
thought of and pensioned, too, by the late King William. But since
the death of His Majesty, the poet has been living in poverty and
obscurity in a humble lodging hard by the Haymarket. There it was
that he received a visit one day from the two noble lords; and it
hath since been whispered that a poem is a-preparing so fine in
quality and so finished in style, that my Lord Godolphin is now fit
to dance a hornpipe for joy, and has promised a bountiful reward to
the genius whose brain has devised and whose hand has penned the
lines. They say that the poem is to be called 'The Campaign,' and
that it is one of the finest the world has ever seen."

Whilst this sort of talk was going on in one corner, there were
counter-conversations, more interesting to Tom, being carried on in
other parts of the room. One band of bully beaux, somewhat the
worse for drink already, were telling stories of scandal and
duelling, to which Tom could not but listen with ill-concealed
interest. Others were discussing the last new play, or the last new
toast. A few fine dandies sat combing their periwigs as they talked
of the latest fashions, taking snuff freely, and sprinkling
themselves with perfume from a small pocket flask, if they were
ever too nearly approached by some commoner