The barefooted business may suit superstitious ages and gentlemen of Alcantara, but does not become Mayfair and the nineteenth century.

If St.Pedro walked the earth now with his eyes to the ground he would know fashionable divines by the way in which they were shod.

Charles Honeyman's is a sweet foot.

I have no doubt as delicate and plump and rosy as the white hand with its two rings, which he passes in impassioned moments through his slender flaxen hair.
A sweet odour pervades his sleeping apartment--not that peculiar and delicious fragrance with which the Saints of the Roman Church are said to gratify the neighbourhood where they repose--but oils, redolent of the richest perfumes of Macassar, essences (from Truefitt's or Delcroix's) into which a thousand flowers have expressed their sweetest breath, await his meek head on rising; and infuse the pocket-handkerchief with which he dries and draws so many tears.

For he cries a good deal in his sermons, to which the ladies about him contribute showers of sympathy.
By his bedside are slippers lined with blue silk and worked of an ecclesiastical pattern, by some of the faithful who sit at his feet.
They come to him in anonymous parcels: they come to him in silver paper: boys in buttons (pages who minister to female grace!) leave them at the door for the Rev.C.Honeyman, and slip away without a word.