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The reputation which Mr. Andrew had acquired for pacifying quarrels—by giving good suppers—drew upon him last week a singular visit. A dark-complexioned man, shabbily enough dressed, rather crook-backed, with his head leaning toward one shoulder, a haggard eye and dirty hands, asked to be invited to a supper with his enemies.

"Who are your enemies?" said Mr. Andrew, "and who are you?"

"Alas, sir," said he, "I am forced to confess that I am taken for one of those wretches that compose libels to get bread, and who are forever crying out, 'Religion! religion! religion!' in order to come into some little benefice. I am accused of having calumniated some of the most truly religious subjects, the most sincere adorers of divinity, and the most honest men of the kingdom. It is true, sir, that in the heat of composition there often fall from the pen of those of my trade certain little inadvertencies or slips, which are taken for gross errors, and some liberties taken with the truth, which are termed impudent lies. Our zeal is looked upon in the light of a horrid mixture of villainy and fanaticism. It has been alleged that while we are ensnaring the easy faith of some silly old women, we are the scorn and execration of all the men of worth who can read.