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make one another savage. I've often thought, since they like so to print in the papers what clothes they wear, that at the same time they might let the world know what books they read, what pictures they look at-in fact, what sort of dresses they put on their minds. But, to be sure, this would make nobody savage." This is what Bill Fisher says; but mark, Kitty, I'm not quite of his way of thinking; though, after all, it does seem odd that a young lady should think it worth while to put all her clothes in print for the world to spell over.

But the Ball will have done a great deal of good in making us look a hundred years back. How I should like to see the thing tried upon a grand scale! Suppose that everybody in London, just for four-and-twenty hours, out of compliment to the great example set by the Court, should live as if it was 1745. Wouldn't it be droll? Droll to have the gas out, and set up oiltwinklers! Droll to make the new police put on drab coats, and call the hours like that "venerable institution," the watch! Droll to have all the rail-trains stopt, and only book passengers for York by the waggon! Droll to stop the steamboats on the river, the omnibuses in the streets; making folks move about in nothing but wherries, hackney-coaches, and sedan-chairs! Droll, too,

would it be, to start for Gravesend in the tiltboat on a two days' voyage! Well, I hope that all this will be brought about; for if all the folks in London were made to live only four-and-twenty hours of a hundred years ago, I do think that for the rest of their lives they'd shut their mouths about those precious good old times, that some people do now so like to cackle about.

There's no doubt that the Powdered Ball has been a very fine affair; but the Ball of next season will be the grand thing. A nobleman's footman, as I last night drove, told me that at the Ball of next year all true folks will wear supposed dresses from the time of 1915 to 1954-that is, about a hundred years ahead. There's a good many opinions as to what they'd be. Some folks declare they'll be as plain as drab, and some that we shall have all gone back again to the fashion of the painted Britons, as you see 'em in the "History of England." By that time, it's thought, soldiers' uniforms will have gone quite out-the electric gun and such nick-nacks having killed War, body and bones. Howsomever, 'twill be odd to see how people's fancy will dress themselves for a hundred years on; there'll be more cleverness in that, if well done, than in wearing the precise coat and petticoat of your grandfather and grandmother.-Your loving brother, JUNIPER HEDEGHOG.

LETTER XVI.-To Mrs Hedgehog, New York.

DEAR GRANDMOTHER,-The Maynooth Grant is granted, and the British Lion has once more gone to sleep. When either Sir Culling Smith, Mr M'Neile, or Dr Croly shall pinch his tail and make him roar again, you shall have due notice of the danger. I think, however, that the Lion is safe to sleep until next May, when, of course, he'll again be stirred up for the folks at Exeter Hall. In the meantime he must be tired, very drowsy, after the speeches that have been made at him; so let him sleep on.

Yes, Maynooth College has got the new grant; nevertheless, to the astonishment of the Duke of Newcastle and company, the sun rises every morning as if nothing had happened; and, so hard does the love of shillings make men's hearts, London tradesmen still smile behind their counters, never thinking that their tills are threatened with an earthquake. Newcastle and other peers--just out of consolation to their shades-have written what's called a "Protest" against the grant; and a hundred years hence, when England is blown to atoms by the measure, very comfortable it will be to their ghosts, as they walk among the ruins, to see men

reading the aforesaid "Protest," and hear them crying, "A prophet!" "a prophet!"

And now, grandmother, comes the Roman Catholic Bishops. They won't have Peel's plan of education unless all the masters are to be of their own faith. For they say "the Roman Catholic. pupils could not attend the lectures on history, logic, metaphysics, moral philosophy, geology, or anatomy, without exposing their faith or morals to imminent danger—unless a Roman Catholic professor shall be appointed for each of those chairs." You see, the lecturer on history, if a Protestant, might be making Queen Mary-Bloody Mary, as I was taught to call her at day-school-a very cruel wretch, indeed; whereas the Queen Mary of the Catholic might be a very nice woman, who never could abide fagots, and never knew where Smithfield was. And then for logic (you must, as I've said before, look dictionary for hard words); logic, it seems, is a matter of religion. What's logic to a Protestant isn't to a Catholic, or a Mahometan, or a Chinese! In the same way, I suppose, that a straight line in London would be what they call a curve in Dublin, and perhaps a whole circle at Canton. And then for "geology" and " anatomy," why, we all know that there's nothing certain in anatomy; that it's all a matter of faith. Thus, if a Catholic anatomist lectured, we'll say, upon

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the body of a Protestant pluralist, he might, out of blindness, declare that the said body never had a single atom of heart; that such pluralists always lived without the article. While on the other side, the real Protestant lecturer, discussing on the selfsame corcup, might declare that it was all heart, like a summer cabbage! "Professors' chairs!" when I read these things, I somehow do think of the baby-chair that I used to be set up in to take my meals, with a stick run through the arms to keep me from tumbling out, the talk is so childish!

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You ask me about your pet, the Bishop of Exeter. Well, the clergy of his diocese have just suffered what's called his "charge; a charge, grandmother, in which the Bishop generally contrives to put in a lot of small-shot to pepper about him right and left. As usual, he talked a good deal about himself; making Exeter out such a soft gentle person-such a lump of Christian butterthat in this hot weather it's wonderful he hasn't

melted long ago. Ha, grandmother! what a lawyer was spoiled in that bishop! what a brain. he has for cobwebs! How he drags you along through sentence after sentence-every one a dark passage-until your head swims, and you can't see your finger close to your nose! He talked about this Puseyite stuff-this play-acting of the Church -for I don't know how long; but whether he very

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