have said, written, and printed, that I was specially cut out for
a country parson, and specially adapted to relish a quiet country
life. Not more, believe me, reader, than yourself. It is in every
man who sets himself to it to attain the self-same characteristics.
It is quite true I have these now: but, a few years since, never
was mortal less like them. No cockney set down near Sydney Smith
at Foston-le-Clay: no fish, suddenly withdrawn from its native
stream: could feel more strange and cheerless than did I when I
went to my beautiful country parish, where I have spent such happy
days, and which I have come to love so much.

I have said that the parson is for the most part saved the labour
of determining where he shall pitch his tent: his place and his
path in life are marked out for him. But he has his own special
perplexity and labour: quite different from those of the man to
whom the hundred thousand pounds to invest in land are bequeathed:
still, as some perhaps would think, no less hard. His work is to
reconcile his mind to the place where God has set him. Every mortal
must, in many respects, face one of these two trials. There is all
the world before you, where to choose; and then the struggle to
make a decided choice with which you shall on reflection remain
entirely satisfied. Or there is no choice at all: the Hand above
gives you your place and your work; and then there is the struggle
heartily and cheerfully to acquiesce in the decree as to which you
were not consulted.

And this is not always an easy thing; though I am sure that the
man who honestly and Christianly tries to do it, will never fail to
succeed at last. How curiously people are set down in the Church;
and indeed in all other callings whatsoever! You find men in the