THE DOVE OF OUR STREET.
If Bulbul is our Lion, Young Oriel may be described as The Dove of our Colony. He is almost as great a pasha among the ladies as Bulbul. They crowd in flocks to see him at Saint Waltheof’s, where the immense height of his forehead, the rigid asceticism of his surplice, the twang with which he intones the service, and the namby-pamby mysticism of his sermons, has turned all the dear girls’ heads for some time past. While we were having a rubber at Mrs. Chauntry’s, whose daughters are following the new mode, I heard the following talk (which made me revoke by the way) going on, in what was formerly called the young lady’s room, but is now styled the Oratory.
THE ORATORY.
| MISS CHAUNTRY. MISS DE L’AISLE. | MISS ISABEL CHAUNTRY. 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 Wagstaff of Walthamstow.