know, are prejudiced
in his favour."

"That's true enough, old friend," cried the colonel, looking askant at
his orange-coloured coat; "but faith, Addison, I wish you would set up a
paper of the same sort, d'ye see; you're a nice judge of merit, and your
sketches of character would do justice to your friends."

"If ever I do, Colonel, I, or my coadjutors, will study at least to do
justice to you."*

* This seems to corroborate the suspicion entertained of the identity of
Colonel Cleland with the Will Honeycomb of the "Spectator."

"Prithee, Steele," cried the stranger in spectacles, "prithee, tell us
thy thoughts on the subject: dost thou know the author of this droll
periodical?"

"I saw him this morning," replied Steele, carelessly.

"Aha! and what said you to him?"

"I asked him his name."

"And what did he answer?" cried he of the flaxen wig, while all of us
crowded round the speaker, with the curiosity every one felt in
the authorship of a work then exciting the most universal and eager
interest.

"He answered me solemnly," said Steele, "in the following words,--

"'Graeci carent ablativo, Itali dativo, ego nominativo.'"*

* "The Greek wants an ablative, the Italians a dative, I a nominative."

"Famous--capital!" cried the gentleman in spectacles; and then, touching
Colonel Cleland, added, "what does it exactly mean?"

"Ignoramus!" said Cleland, disdainfully, "every _schoolboy knows
Virgil_!"

"Devereux," said Tarleton, yawning, "what a d----d delightful thing
it is to hear so much wit: pity that the atmosphere is so fine that no
lungs unaccustomed to it can endure it long, Let us recover ourselves by
a walk."

"Willingly," said I; and we sauntered forth into the streets.

"Wills's is not what it was," said Tarleton; "'tis a pitiful ghost of
its former self, and if they had not introduced cards, one would die of
the vapours there."

"I know nothing so insipid," said I, "as that mock literary air which
it is so much the fashion to assume. 'Tis but a wearisome relief to
conversation to have interludes of songs about Strephon and Sylvia,
recited with a lisp by a gentleman with fringed gloves and a languishing
look."

"Fie on it," cried Tarleton, "let us seek for a fresher topic. Are
you asked to Abigail Masham's to-night, or will you come to Dame de la
Riviere Manley's?"

"Dame de la what?--in the name of long words who is she?"

"Oh! Learning made libidinous: one who reads Catull