"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?"