g that the business of the country is
carried on as well as it is, under the influence of this corrupting
system.

HORAE CATULLIANAE.

LETTER TO EUSEBIUS.

You are far more anxious, my dear Eusebius, to know somewhat of the
progress or the result of the Curate's misfortune, than to read his or
my translations from Catullus. I have a great mind to punish that love
of mischief in you, by burying the whole affair in profound secresy. It
is fortunate for him that you are not here, or you would surely indulge
your propensity, and with malicious invention put the whole parish, with
the Curate, into inextricable confusion. It is bad enough as it is.
There!--it cannot be helped--I must tell you at once the condition we
are in, if I would have you read the rest of my letter with any
patience.

A committee has been sitting these two days, to sift, as they pronounce
them, "the late disgraceful proceedings;" so that you see, they are of
the school of Rhadamanthus,--condemn first, and hear afterwards. We
have, in this little township, two "general shopkeepers," dealers in
groceries, mops, calicoes, candles, and the usual "_omnium-gatherum_" of
household requirements.

These are great rivals--envious rivals--back-biting rivals; both, in the
way of tale-bearing, what Autolicus calls himself, "pickers-up of
unconsidered trifles." And truly, in the trade of this commodity, if in
no other, this may be called a "manufacturing district." Now the Curate,
unhappily, can buy his tea and sugar, and trifling matters, but of
one--for to patronise both, would be to make enemies of both; the poor
Curate, then, in preferring the adulterated goods of Nicolas Sandwell,
to the adulterated goods of Matthew Miffins, has made an implacable
enemy. Really, Eusebius, here is machinery enough for a heroic poem: for
Virgil's old Lady Fame on the top of the roof we have three, active and
lusty--and you may make them the Fates or the Furies, or what you
please, except the Graces. Prateapace, Gadabout, and Brazenstare--there
are characters enough for episodes; and a hero--but what, you will say,
are we to do for a heroine? Here is one, beat out of the brain of Mathew
Miffins, a ready-armed Minerva. You will smile, but it is so. The three
above-named ladies first made their way to the shop of Mr Miffins,
narrated what had passed and what had not. Having probably just
completed "sanding the sugar and watering the tobacco," he raised both
his hands a