Part 37 (1/2)

The Colonel then, having writ a paper for one of the Tory journals, called the Post-Boy, (a letter upon Bouchain, that the town talked about for two whole days, when the appearance of an Italian singer supplied a fresh subject for conversation,) and having business at the Exchange, where Mistress Beatrix wanted a pair of gloves or a fan very likely, Esmond went to correct his paper, and was sitting at the printer's, when the famous Doctor Swift came in, his Irish fellow with him that used to walk before his chair, and bawled out his master's name with great dignity.

Mr. Esmond was waiting for the printer too, whose wife had gone to the tavern to fetch him, and was meantime engaged in drawing a picture of a soldier on horseback for a dirty little pretty boy of the printer's wife, whom she had left behind her.

”I presume you are the editor of the Post-Boy, sir?” says the Doctor, in a grating voice that had an Irish tw.a.n.g; and he looked at the Colonel from under his two bushy eyebrows with a pair of very clear blue eyes.

His complexion was muddy, his figure rather fat, his chin double. He wore a shabby ca.s.sock, and a shabby hat over his black wig, and he pulled out a great gold watch, at which he looks very fierce.

”I am but a contributor, Doctor Swift,” says Esmond, with the little boy still on his knee. He was sitting with his back in the window, so that the Doctor could not see him.

”Who told you I was Dr. Swift?” says the Doctor, eying the other very haughtily.

”Your Reverence's valet bawled out your name,” says the Colonel. ”I should judge you brought him from Ireland?”

”And pray, sir, what right have you to judge whether my servant came from Ireland or no? I want to speak with your employer, Mr. Leach. I'll thank ye go fetch him.”

”Where's your papa, Tommy?” asks the Colonel of the child, a s.m.u.tty little wretch in a frock.

Instead of answering, the child begins to cry; the Doctor's appearance had no doubt frightened the poor little imp.

”Send that squalling little brat about his business, and do what I bid ye, sir,” says the Doctor.

”I must finish, the picture first for Tommy,” says the Colonel, laughing. ”Here, Tommy, will you have your Pandour with whiskers or without?”

”Whisters,” says Tommy, quite intent on the picture.

”Who the devil are ye, sir?” cries the Doctor; ”are ye a printer's man or are ye not?” he p.r.o.nounced it like NAUGHT.

”Your reverence needn't raise the devil to ask who I am,” says Colonel Esmond. ”Did you ever hear of Doctor Faustus, little Tommy? or Friar Bacon, who invented gunpowder, and set the Thames on fire?”

Mr. Swift turned quite red, almost purple. ”I did not intend any offence, sir,” says he.

”I dare say, sir, you offended without meaning,” says the other, dryly.

”Who are ye, sir? Do you know who I am, sir? You are one of the pack of Grub Street scribblers that my friend Mr. Secretary hath laid by the heels. How dare ye, sir, speak to me in this tone?” cries the Doctor, in a great fume.

”I beg your honor's humble pardon if I have offended your honor,” says Esmond in a tone of great humility. ”Rather than be sent to the Compter, or be put in the pillory, there's nothing I wouldn't do. But Mrs.

Leach, the printer's lady, told me to mind Tommy whilst she went for her husband to the tavern, and I daren't leave the child lest he should fall into the fire; but if your Reverence will hold him--”

”I take the little beast!” says the Doctor, starting back. ”I am engaged to your betters, fellow. Tell Mr. Leach that when he makes an appointment with Dr. Swift he had best keep it, do ye hear? And keep a respectful tongue in your head, sir, when you address a person like me.”

”I'm but a poor broken-down soldier,” says the Colonel, ”and I've seen better days, though I am forced now to turn my hand to writing. We can't help our fate, sir.”

”You're the person that Mr. Leach hath spoken to me of, I presume. Have the goodness to speak civilly when you are spoken to--and tell Leach to call at my lodgings in Bury Street, and bring the papers with him to-night at ten o'clock. And the next time you see me, you'll know me, and be civil, Mr. Kemp.”

Poor Kemp, who had been a lieutenant at the beginning of the war, and fallen into misfortune, was the writer of the Post-Boy, and now took honest Mr. Leach's pay in place of her Majesty's. Esmond had seen this gentleman, and a very ingenious, hardworking honest fellow he was, toiling to give bread to a great family, and watching up many a long winter night to keep the wolf from his door. And Mr. St. John, who had liberty always on his tongue, had just sent a dozen of the opposition writers into prison, and one actually into the pillory, for what he called libels, but libels not half so violent as those writ on our side. With regard to this very piece of tyranny, Esmond had remonstrated strongly with the Secretary, who laughed and said the rascals were served quite right; and told Esmond a joke of Swift's regarding the matter. Nay, more, this Irishman, when St. John was about to pardon a poor wretch condemned to death for rape, absolutely prevented the Secretary from exercising this act of good-nature, and boasted that he had had the man hanged; and great as the Doctor's genius might be, and splendid his ability, Esmond for one would affect no love for him, and never desired to make his acquaintance. The Doctor was at Court every Sunday a.s.siduously enough, a place the Colonel frequented but rarely, though he had a great inducement to go there in the person of a fair maid of honor of her Majesty's; and the airs and patronage Mr.

Swift gave himself, forgetting gentlemen of his country whom he knew perfectly, his loud talk at once insolent and servile, nay, perhaps his very intimacy with Lord Treasurer and the Secretary, who indulged all his freaks and called him Jonathan, you may be sure, were remarked by many a person of whom the proud priest himself took no note, during that time of his vanity and triumph.

'Twas but three days after the 15th of November, 1712 (Esmond minds him well of the date), that he went by invitation to dine with his General, the foot of whose table he used to take on these festive occasions, as he had done at many a board, hard and plentiful, during the campaign.

This was a great feast, and of the latter sort; the honest old gentleman loved to treat his friends splendidly: his Grace of Ormonde, before he joined his army as generalissimo, my Lord Viscount Bolingbroke, one of her Majesty's Secretaries of State, my Lord Orkney, that had served with us abroad, being of the party. His Grace of Hamilton, Master of the Ordnance, and in whose honor the feast had been given, upon his approaching departure as Amba.s.sador to Paris, had sent an excuse to General Webb at two o'clock, but an hour before the dinner: nothing but the most immediate business, his Grace said, should have prevented him having the pleasure of drinking a parting gla.s.s to the health of General Webb. His absence disappointed Esmond's old chief, who suffered much from his wounds besides; and though the company was grand, it was rather gloomy. St. John came last, and brought a friend with him: ”I'm sure,”

says my General, bowing very politely, ”my table hath always a place for Dr. Swift.”