"You know his Tale of a Tub, Tom?
Monstrous clever thing that! It tickles one to death reading it. So
do his pamphlets--sharpest things out. Some talk of Defoe as his
rival; but, for my part, I never read anything that rivals Swift's
writings! Pity he has such a sharp edge to his temper. They say he
will never get promotion."
Tom took up the pamphlet, and tried to look as though he were
reading it with appreciation; but he had never been much of a
student, and the comings and goings of a constant stream of
visitors engrossed him far more than the printed words, the meaning
of which he understood no whit.
It was much more interesting to him to listen to what the
frequenters of the coffee house were saying amongst themselves; and
greatly did he admire the ease and readiness with which Harry took
his share in the conversation.
"Has my Lord Godolphin found a worthy pen to sing the praise of the
victor of Blenheim yet?" he asked of a man who appeared to be a
referee on matters literary. "The last I heard was that he was
scouring London, tearing his periwig in pieces in despair that the
race of poets was extinct, and he could only find the most wretched
doggerel mongers, whose productions were too vile to be tolerated.
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