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THE ORATORY.

MISS CHAUNTRY. MISS ISABEL CHAUNTRY.

MISS DE L’AISLE. MISS PYX.

REV. L. ORIEL. REV. O. SLOCUM–[In the further room.]

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.

THE BUMPSHERS.

No. 6, Pocklington Gardens, (the house with the quantity of flowers in the windows, and the awning over the entrance,) George Bumpsher, Esquire, M.P. for Humborough (and the Beanstalks, Kent).

For some time after this gorgeous family came into our quarter, I mistook a bald-headed, stout person, whom I used to see looking through the flowers on the upper windows, for Bumpsher himself, or for the butler of the family; whereas it was no other than Mrs. Bumpsher, without her chestnut wig, and who is at least three times the size of her husband.

The Bumpshers and the house of Mango at the Pineries vie together in their desire to dominate over the neighborhood; and each votes the other a vulgar and purse-proud family. The fact is, both are City people. Bumpsher, in his mercantile capacity, is a wholesale stationer in Thames Street; and his wife was the daughter of an eminent bill-broking firm, not a thousand miles from Lombard Street.

He does not sport a coronet and supporters upon his London plate and carriages; but his country-house is emblazoned all over with those heraldic decorations. He puts on an order when he goes abroad, and is Count Bumpsher of the Roman States–which title he purchased from the late Pope (through Prince Polonia the banker) for a couple of thousand scudi.