_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. 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 Beaustalks, 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 chesnut wig; and who is at least three times the size of her husband.