o him all honour, I have
sacrificed him upon this occasion, to appease the manes of the Latin
poet in his anger at your bad translations. But for yourselves, I have
still something to award. My pig has two cheeks--there is one for each,
and you shall have them put before you at breakfast to-morrow morning;
and thus, I think, you will agree with me that I have duly countenanced
you both. And I hope my pig will have both sharpened your appetites and
your wit, 'sus Minervam.' Good-night!

'To-morrow to fresh fields and turnips new.'"

POSTSCRIPT.

I here send you, Eusebius, the last of our Horae Catullianae, which has
been lying by a week or more. This little delay enables me to wind up
the Curate's affair to your satisfaction. Our friend Gratian gave
verbally the Bishop's reply to Mathew Miffins, who, seeing himself
deserted by his principal witness and informer, Prateapace, was not
sorry to veer round with the weather-cock, and was obsequiously civil.
It was characteristic of our friend Gratian, that he should settle it as
he did with that huckster. Going through, as it is called, the main
street, I saw him engaged with Miffins, in his shop, and went in. He was
talking somewhat familiarly with the man--of all subjects, on what do
you suppose?--on fishing. Gratian had been a great fisherman in his day,
as his rheumatic pains can now testify. As he afterwards told me,
fearing he might have given the Bishop's message rather sharply, and not
liking to pain the man, he turned off the subject, and talked of
fishing, to which he knew Miffins was addicted; and so it ended by
Gratian's obtaining his good-will for ever, for he sent him some choice
hackles. Prateapace and Gadabout have returned to the church, whereupon
the Rev. the cow-doctor has stirred up the wrath of the chapel by a very
strong discourse upon backsliding. A poor woman spoke of it as very
affecting, adding, "Some loves 'sons of consolation,' but I loves 'sons
of thunder.'" Doubtless there was lightning too; and there is of that
vivid kind which bewilders and leaves all darker than before. The Curate
_has_ found bouquets in the vestry and the desk, and has been in danger
of becoming "a popular."

A subscription has actually been set on foot, by Nicholas Sandwell, at
the instigation, it is said, of certain ladies, and even encouraged by
Miffins, to purchase a coffee-pot and tea-spoons for the Curate; but an
event a few days ago has put an end to the affai