And they do remain. And Sir James remains “as a minister,” a “mean,” “base,” cowardly agent! How strange is the distinction between the minister and the man!—they’re quite two different things, like the calipee and calipash of a turtle.
Sir James Graham rose to answer, with a confidence that would have honoured the Old Bailey. He said, “Mr Duncombe was a person quite indifferent to him.” This reminds me of the chap who, after he’d been flogged half a mile and more at the cart’s tail, with all the world looking on, said to the man that had flayed him, “Sir, you’re beneath my notice.” I could write more, but Lumpy’s called me for a fare. The fun, however, is not yet over; and you may hear more of Sir James in my next. Meantime, if you write, don’t either use wax or wafers; it’s only wasting property. Send your letters open, and believe me, your faithful friend,
Juniper Hedgehog.
Letter IX.—To Mrs Hedgehog of New York.
Dear Grandmother,—It was very kind of you, though away from Old England, to have prayers put up for the Bishops of Exeter and London, and Mr Courtenay and Mr Ward, with all the unfortunate young clergymen who’ve been frightening their good Mother Church, for all the world like young ducklings that, hatched by a hen, would take water. The bishops, you will be glad to learn, are much better; and now, Sunday after Sunday, the young parsons are taking off their white surplices and putting on their old gowns, just like idle, flashy, young dogs, who’ve been making a noise at a masquerade, but are once more prepared to go back to their serious counters. Mr Courtenay and two or three of his kidney did think of putting on chain-armour under their surplices, like the Templars that you once saw in the play of Ivanhoe; but whether the Bishop of Exeter has interfered or not, I can’t say: the thing’s given up.
Mr Ward, who has been turned out of Oxford for his ideal of a Christian Church—which means a Church with censers and candlesticks, and pictures of the Virgin, and martyrs’ bones, and other properties—is going to be married, if the business isn’t done already. I shouldn’t have written upon the matter, only Mr W. has printed a letter in all the papers, giving his notions of the holy state. They certainly are very sweet and complimentary to the lady chosen by Mr Ward, for he says—
“First, I hold it most firmly as a truth even of natural religion that celibacy is a higher condition of life than marriage.”
Now, if celibacy is the highest condition of life, how is it that Adam and Eve came together while they were yet in Paradise? Their union, according to Mr Ward, ought to have taken place after they both fell. Matrimony should have followed as a punishment for the apple. And then, when it was commanded, “Increase and multiply,” was it supposed that those who obeyed the command would not be in so “high a condition” as those who neglected it? But men read their Bibles through strange spectacles!
However, grandmother, as you like to hear all the chat about the Church, you must know that last week I took up a fare near the oyster-shop in Covent Garden—a very respectable sort of person—in fact, I’m sure one of the Established Church. When he had left the cab, I found that the Ecclesiastical Gazette (No. 18) had dropt from his pocket. I’ve gone through it, and found parts of it—I mean the Church advertisements—very odd indeed. You can’t think how strange they read after the New Testament. If you wouldn’t think the pulpit-cushion was a counter, after reading ’em. Look here, now:—
“A curate wanted in a large market-town forty miles from London, near a railroad, population five thousand, where the incumbent resides and takes his full share of the duty. He must be in Priest’s Orders, have a voice sufficiently loud for a very large church, and whilst holding moderately High Church views, be chiefly anxious to seek and save the lost by preaching Christ and Him crucified. Stipend one hundred pounds a year. The advertiser does not pledge himself to answer every letter.”