_Miss Chauntry_ (_sighing_).--Is it wrong to be in the Guards, dear Mr.
Oriel?
_Miss Pyx._--She will make Frank de Boots sell out when he marries.
_Mr. Oriel._--To be in the Guards, dear sister? The church has always
encouraged the army. Saint Martin of Tours was in the army; Saint Louis
was in the army; Saint Waltheof, our patron, Saint Witikind of
Aldermanbury, Saint Wamba, and Saint Walloff were in the army. Saint
Wapshot was captain of the guard of Queen Boadicea; and Saint Werewolf
was a major in the Danish cavalry. The holy Saint Ignatius of Loyola
carried a pike, as we know; and----
_Miss de l’Aisle._--Will you take some tea, dear Mr. Oriel?
_Oriel._--This is not one of _my_ feast days, Sister Emma. It is the
feast of Saint Wagstaff of Walthamstow.
_The Young Ladies._--And we must not even take tea!
_Oriel._--Dear sisters, I said not so. _You_ may do as you list; but I
am strong (_with a heart-broken sigh_); don’t ply me (_he reels_). I
took a little water and a parched pea after matins. To-morrow is a flesh
day, and--and I shall be better then.
_Rev. O. Slocum_ (_from within_).--Madam, I take your heart with my
small trump.
_Oriel._--Yes, better! dear sister; it is only a passing--a--weakness.
_Miss I. Chauntry._--He’s dying of fever.
_Miss Chauntry._--I’m so glad De Boots need not leave the Blues.
_Miss Pyx._--He wears sackcloth and cinders inside his waistcoat.
_Miss De l’Aisle._--He’s told me to-night he is going to--to--Ro-o-ome.
[_Miss De l’Aisle bursts into tears._]
_Rev. O. Slocum._--My lord, I have the highest club, which gives the
trick and two by honours.
* * * * *
Thus, you see, we have a variety of clergymen in Our Street. Mr. Oriel
is of the pointed Gothic school, while old Slocum is of the good old
tawny port-wine school; and it must be confessed that Mr. Gronow, at
Ebenezer, has a hearty abhorrence for both.
As for Gronow, I pity him, if his future lot should fall where Mr Oriel
supposes that it will.
And as for Oriel, he has not even the benefit of purgatory, which he
would accord to his neighbour Ebenezer; while old Slocum pronounces both
to be a couple of humbugs; and Mr. Mole, the demure little beetle-browed
chaplain of the little church of Avemary Lane, keeps his sly eyes down
to the ground when he passes any one of his black-coated brethren.
There is only one point on which, my friends, they seem agreed. Slocum
likes port, but who ever heard that he neglected his poor? Gronow, if he
comminates his neighbour’s congregation, is the affectionate father of
his own. Oriel, if he loves pointed Gothic and parched peas for
breakfast, has a prodigious soup-kitchen for his poor; and as for little
Father Mole, who never lifts his eyes from the ground, ask our doctor at
what bedsides he finds him, and how he soothes poverty and braves misery
and infection.