Upon this, the Speaker, in one of his conciliatory moods, observed that “such observations were very personal. Would the honourable gentleman withdraw them?” Whereupon Mr Duncombe answered: “Sir, I applied those observations to the right honourable gentleman in his ministerial capacity: to those observations and to those topics I adhere; so they _must and shall remain_.” 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.”