“I hear Mr. Addison is equally famous as a wit and a poet,” says Mr. St. John. “Is it true that his hand is to be found in your 'Tatler,' Mr. Steele?” “Whether 'tis the sublime or the humorous, no man can come near him,” cries Steele. “A fig, Dick, for your Mr. Addison!” cries out his lady: “a gentleman who gives himself such airs and holds his head so high now. I hope your ladyship thinks as I do: I can't bear those very fair men with white eyelashes--a black man for me.” (All the black men at table applauded, and made Mrs. Steele a bow for this compliment.) “As for this Mr. Addison,” she went on, “he comes to dine with the Captain sometimes, never says a word to me, and then they walk up stairs both tipsy, to a dish of tea. I remember your Mr. Addison when he had but one coat to his back, and that with a patch at the elbow.” “Indeed--a patch at the elbow! You interest me,” says Mr. St. John. “'Tis charming to hear of one man of letters from the charming wife of another.” “La, I could tell you ever so much about 'em,” continues the voluble lady. “What do you think the Captain has got now?--a little hunchback fellow--a little hop-o'-my-thumb creature that he calls a poet--a little Popish brat!” “Hush, there are two in the room,” whispers her companion. “Well, I call him Popish because his name is Pope,” says the lady. “'Tis only my joking way. And this little dwarf of a fellow has wrote a pastoral poem--all about shepherds and shepherdesses, you know.” “A shepherd should have a little crook,” says my mistress, laughing from her end of the table: on which Mrs. Steele said, “She did not know, but the Captain brought home this queer little creature when she was in bed with her first boy, and it was a mercy he had come no sooner; and Dick raved about his genus, and was always raving about some nonsense or other.” “Which of the 'Tatlers' do you prefer, Mrs. Steele?” asked Mr. St. John. “I never read but one, and think it all a pack of rubbish, sir,” says the lady. “Such stuff about Bickerstaffe, and Distaff, and Quarterstaff, as it all is! There's the Captain going on still with the Burgundy--I know he'll be tipsy before he stops--Captain Steele!” “I drink to your eyes, my dear,” says the Captain, who seemed to think his wife charming, and to receive as genuine all the satiric compliments which Mr. St. John paid her.