been removed, and amid a general confusion and noise of packing.
The church is crowded in a fashion never seen before. You go through
the service, I think, with a sense of being somewhat stunned and
bewildered. And in the closing sentences of your sermon, you say
little of yourself; but in a few words, very hard to speak, you
thank your old friends for their kindness to you through the years
you have passed together; and you give them your parting advice, in
some sentence which seems to contain the essence of all you meant
to teach in all these Sundays; and you say farewell, farewell.

You are happy, indeed, if after all, though quitting your country
parsonage, and turning over a new leaf in life, you have not to make
a change so entire as that from country to town generally is: if,
like me, you live in the most beautiful city in Britain: a city
where country and town are blended together: where there are green
gardens, fields, and trees: shady places into which you may turn
from the glaring streets, into verdure as cool and quiet as ever,
and where your little children can roll upon the grass, and string
daisies as of old; streets, from every opening in which you look
out upon blue hills and blue sea. No doubt, the work is very hard,
and very constant; and each Sunday is a very exciting and exhausting
day. You will understand, my friend, when you go to such a charge,
what honour is due to those venerable men who have faithfully and
efficiently done the duty of the like for thirty or forty years.
You will look at them with much interest: you will receive their
kindly counsel with great respect. You will feel it somewhat trying
and nervous work to ascend your pulpit; and to address men and women
who in mental cultivation, and in things much more important, are
more than equal to yourself. And as you walk down; always alone,
to church each Sunday morning, you will very earnestly apply for