"What!" cried the gentleman in the flaxen wig, "what! the 'Tatler's' successor,--the 'Spectator'?" "The same," quoth the colonel. "To be sure; who has not?" returned he of the flaxen ornament. "People say Congreve writes it." "They are very much mistaken, then," cried a little square man with spectacles; "to my certain knowledge Swift is the author." "Pooh!" said Cleland, imperiously, "pooh! it is neither the one nor the other; I, gentlemen, am in the secret--but--you take me, eh? One must not speak well of one's self; mum is the word." "Then," asked Steele, quietly, "we are to suppose that you, Colonel, are the writer?" "I never said so, Dicky; but the women will have it that I am," and the colonel smoothed down his cravat. "Pray, Mr. Addison, what say you?" cried the gentleman in the flaxen wig; "are you for Congreve, Swift, or Colonel Cleland?" This was addressed to a gentleman of a grave but rather prepossessing mien; who, with eyes fixed upon the ground, was very quietly and to all appearance very inattentively solacing himself with a pipe; without lifting his eyes, this personage, then eminent, afterwards rendered immortal, replied, "Colonel Cleland must produce other witnesses to prove his claim to the authorship of the 'Spectator:' the women, we well 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."