resisting wrong feelings and tendencies, such as these.  It is a noble end to attain, and it is well worth all the labour it costs, to resolutely be resigned, cheerful, and kind, when you feel a strong inclination to be discontented, moody, and bitter of heart.  Well said a very wise mortal, ’Better is he that ruleth his spirit, than he that taketh a city.’  And that ruling of the spirit which is needful to rightly meet disappointment, brings out the best and noblest qualities that can be found in man.

Sometimes, indeed, even in the parson’s quiet life, he may know something of the first perplexity of which we have been thinking:  the perplexity of the man who is struggling to make up his mind where he is to settle down for the remainder of life.  And it is not long since such a perplexity came my way.  For I had reached a spot in my onward path at which I must make a decided choice.  I must go either to the right or the left:  for, as Goldsmith has remarked with great force, when the road you are pursuing parts into several roads, you must be careful to follow only one.  And I had to decide between country and town.  I had to resolve whether I was to remain in that quiet cure of souls about which I formerly told you; or go into the hard work and hurry of a large parish in a certain great city.

I had been for more than five years in that sweet country place:  it seemed a very long time as the days passed over.  Even slow-growing ivy grew feet longer in that time, and climbing roses covered yards and yards of wall.  And for very many months I thought that here I was to live and die, and never dreamt of change.  Not indeed that my tastes were always such.  At the beginning of that term of years, when I went down each Sunday morning to preach in the plain little church to a handful of quiet rustic people, I used to think of a grand edifice where once upon a time, at my first start in my profession, I had preached each afternoon for many months to a very large congregation of educated folk; and I used to wonder whether my old friends remembered and missed me.  Once there was to me a fascination about that grand church, and all connected with it:  now it is to me no more than it is to every one else, and I pass near it almost every day and hardly look at it.  Other men have taken my old place in it, and had the like feelings, and got over them.  Several of these men I never saw:  how much I should like to shake each man’s hand!  But all these fancies were long, long ago:  I was pleased to be a country parson, and to make the best of it.  Friends, who have held like stations in life, have you not felt, now and then, a little waking up of old ideas and aspirations?  All this, you thought, was not what you once had wished, and pictured to yourself.  You vainly fancied, in your student days, that you might reach a more eminent place and greater usefulness.  I know, indeed, that even such as have gone very unwillingly to a little remote