Well, it was quite plain that he hoped to be one of ’em, for he said the places would be open to anybody, really pious, of the humblest parts. He was very talkative, and said these deacons would have all the comforts of the monks, without any of their vows; going to people’s houses; worming themselves into their families, and learning all their business carnal--yes, I think carnal was his word--and spiritual. When I asked him if, like the monks, they were to wear gowns and hoods (as I’d seen ’em at the Coburg), he winked very knowingly, and said, with the blessing of Providence, that might come. At all events, they might begin with letters and numbers worked in gold or silver in their collars; and, something after the new police, have a pink or purple strap about their cuffs when upon spiritual duty. Folks are in a mighty stir about the matter; but I think Exeter and London might bring all the people of their own minds, if they only knew how to go about the business. I’ve just been reading Miss Martineau about mesmerism, and she says this: “It is almost an established opinion among some of the wisest students of mesmerism, that the mind of the somnambule [you must ask somebody about these words] mirrors that of the mesmerist.” And then she goes on to say, “It certainly is true to a considerable extent, as is pretty clearly proved when an ignorant child--ignorant, especially, of the Bible--_discourses of the Scriptures and divinity when mesmerised by a clergyman_.” Now the bishops have nothing to do but to mesmerise the people--I’m sure I’ve known parsons who’ve done wonders with sleepy congregations--have only to get ’em “to mirror _their_ minds,” and they may do as they please with crosses, and surplices, and saints, and offertory, and all that. In a word, the Bishops of Exeter and London have only to send all their flocks well to sleep, to shear ’em after what fashion they like. As yet, my dear grandmother, I haven’t given nothing to the offertory, and I won’t agree to the move about the surplice. But flesh is weak. I can’t tell how long I may hold out. Fashion’s a strong thing, and always strongest when it sets towards the Church. The day may come when I may take my grey mare--as I’m told they take all the animals in Italy--to be blessed and sprinkled on the feast of St Anthony, and the Bishop of London may do the job for her. But I’ll hold out as long as I can. In the mean time, let me have your prayers, and believe me your affectionate grandson, JUNIPER HEDGEHOG. _P.S._--I did intend to write to cousin Bridget, but Lumpy’s called me away for a long job. LETTER III.--_To Mrs Hedgehog of New York._