We may imagine Sydney Smith's reflections. With his versatile talent,
honorable ambition, and consciousness that he could have made a shining
name in political life, his object now was to find a sufficient sphere
for the exercise of all his powers in the Church. It was no fault of his
that he was unwilling to settle as curate and have no aim beyond his
parish except to go to heaven at last. With his superfluity of human
nature, for him to become a saint was out of the question. What then?
Should he enter the realm of dogmatics, and become a learned and
redoubted champion of the faith, passing his life amid exegesis? Should
he renounce thorough thinking, and become a polished and popular pastor,
an ornament of the pulpit and of society? Should he signalize himself
for gravity, orthodoxy, and ability, seek the earthly prizes of his
profession, and perhaps become Archbishop of Canterbury? Should he
become a jolly, vinous, and Friar-Tuck sort of clergyman? God forbid! he
said to each of these queries, and rushed forward into his profession.
Regarding himself as a lamb for the slaughter, yet tremendously in
earnest not to be sacrificed, he went into the Church groping and
fearing, but resolute. Trembling lest he should not do his duty both to
himself and to his sacred office, he yet determined to try. Thus the
thorn which troubled Sydney Smith was not an affliction, but was what he
regarded as a danger; and, though less patent and pointed than that
in the life of Charles Lamb, probably had not less influence in the
discipline of character.

Behold, then, the long and venerable line of the clergy opening to
receive him, and behold him entering it! The clergy, the priesthood,
the holy fathers, the strong bishops, the monks, the ghostly race, the
retired enthusiasts, now melancholy, now rapt, now merry-making, the
consolers of sorrow, the divine heroes in an earthly life,--even one