each writer that peculiar manner of expressing himself, which the poverty of our language forces me to call their style. When the Guardian changed his title, and professed to engage in faction, I was sure the word was given; that grand preparations were making against next session; that all advantages would be taken of the little dissensions reported to be among those in power; and that the Guardian would soon be seconded by some other piqueerers from the same camp. But I will confess my suspicions did not carry me so far, as to conjecture, that this venerable champion would be in such mighty haste to come into the field, and serve in the quality of an enfant perdu[1], armed only wdth a pocket-pistol, before his great blunderbuss could be got ready, his old rusty breastplate scoured, and his cracked headpiece mended.
I was debating with myself, whether this hint of producing a small pamphlet to give notice of a large folio, was not borrowed from the ceremonial in Spanish romances, where a dwarf is sent out upon the battlements, to signify to all passengers what a mighty giant there is in the castle; or whether the bishop copied this proceeding from the fanfaronmade[2] of monsieur Boufflers, when the earl of Portland and that general had an interview. Several men were appointed, at certain periods, to ride in great haste toward the English camp, and cry out, monseigneur vient, monseigneur
