"You would not like any of my friends I am afraid, who are certainly not _religious_ men. The Marquess cavils at holy writ: I was going to stand up its advocate, but found it better to hold my tongue. There are many good people here, but Turnstock calls them _Spoonies_, and I do not feel any ambition to be ridiculed as one of the fraternity. Remember that I am only talking of my own set; so my father need not take alarm, and accuse me of a libel on his favourite Oxford. Things, however, are changed every where since his day. The Marquess declares that religion is only a political consideration now with strong heads. The march of mind, he says, has outstripped superstition and all her train. I do not say that he is right, for I am not much versed as yet in matters of this nature. The miserable error of bringing me up at home has prevented me, amongst many other things, from knowing what general opinion really is. In fact, Turnstock, who gives me more insight into these subjects than any one else, and who ought to be good authority, is eloquent in decrying all narrow limitations of sect or nation. He says that all mankind should be considered as a great family, claiming equal rights, and entitled to equal privileges; that all qualifications which exclude any individual from the attainment of power are infractions of natural justice; and all religious establishments are the offspring of persecution. He speaks beautifully, and uses very convincing arguments. For instance, he says, that to be born and to die are common to the whole created species, and no favour or partiality distinguishes one man from another in these two extreme events. The same pangs usher every mortal into existence--helpless, naked, and like his fellows in all things. Death again sweeps away irrespectively the beggar and the king, who both lie down in the grave where all their thoughts perish, and both are resolved alike into dust. 'What right then,' reasons Turnstock, 'has man to play such antic tricks before high heaven, and parcel out the intermediate term so unequally in his generation, that some shall lord it triumphantly, while others starve? Some rule with tyrannous sway, while thousands cringe in chains, and are forced to obey the few who usurp dominion over them?' I wish that you could hear him declaim upon these topics. Caulfield, who is always ready with some vexatious question or remark, but who had listened, as I thought, with as much satisfaction as I did myself to the whole harangue yesterday evening, asked rudely enough at its close, 'And pray, good my Lord, why are you the Marquess of Turnstock? Your guardians went through a tedious litigation to procure the title for you which another claimed, and fiercely contested. Though not called, like