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 Wagstatf 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's 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 honors.
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 neighbor 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 neighbor'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.