The Bishop, however, after scolding a good deal, tried to end mildly and like a Christian. I’ve read at some bookstall of an Indian leaf. One side of it acts as a blister; then take it off, turn it, and the other side serves for the salve. The Bishop of Exeter, to my mind, always tries to make his charge a leaf of this sort; though I must say it, one side is generally stronger than the other--better for blistering than healing.--So no more from your affectionate grandson, JUNIPER HEDGEHOG. LETTER XVII.--_To Michael Hedgehog, Hong-Kong._ DEAR BROTHER,--You’ll be glad to hear that at last Ministers have remembered there’s such a man in the world as Sir Henry Pottinger. The Queen has sent her compliments to Parliament, commanding a pension for him. We’ve given him £1500 a year for life; to my mind a shabby sum. La! Michael, only think how those six clerks of Chancery Lane, with their thousands a year--the chaps who had nothing to do but to play tricks with what they call equity--only think of them retired with a pension, every one of ’em living like a pot-bellied mouse in a ripe Stilton! How they must turn up their noses at poor Sir Henry! He has opened, I may say, a new world, for rivers of gold to flow out of it into the banks of Birmingham, Manchester, Glasgow--I can’t tell where. And he gets £1500 a year! I think we gave something more than that to Lord Keane for blowing up a pair of gates. But then folks turn a better penny upon war than peace. Blood and fire, and misery of all kinds, are more profitable than treaties of trade, no matter how glorious. The sword--the bloodier the better, too--weighs down the goose-quill; however, Sir Henry has a reward of some sort, and I’m heartily glad of it. May he live a hundred years--and his heart be as green as laurel when his head’s as white as cotton!!