Dear Abraham,--A worthier and better man than yourself does not
exist; but I have always told you, from the time of our boyhood,
that you were a bit of a goose. Your parochial affairs are governed
with exemplary order and regularity; you are as powerful in the
vestry as Mr. Perceval is in the House of Commons,--and, I must say,
with much more reason; nor do I know any church where the faces and
smock-frocks of the congregation are so clean, or their eyes so
uniformly directed to the preacher. There is another point, upon
which I will do you ample justice; and that is, that the eyes so
directed towards you are wide open; for the rustic has, in general,
good principles, though he cannot control his animal habits; and,
however loud he may snore, his face is perpetually turned towards
the fountain of orthodoxy.

Having done you this act of justice, I shall proceed, according to
our ancient intimacy and familiarity, to explain to you my opinions
about the Catholics, and to reply to yours.

In the first place, my sweet Abraham, the Pope is not landed--nor
are there any curates sent out after him--nor has he been hid at St.
Albans by the Dowager Lady Spencer--nor dined privately at Holland
House--nor been seen near Dropmore. If these fears exist (which I
do not believe), they exist only in the mind of the Chancellor of
the Exchequer; they emanate from his zeal for the Protestant
interest; and, though they reflect the highest honour upon the
delicate irritability of his faith, must certainly be considered as
more ambiguous proofs of the sanity and vigour of his understanding.
By this time, however, the best-informed clergy in the neighbourhood
of the metropolis are convinced that the rumour is without