So little do I give in to calling this outside of me, me, that I should not mind presenting a minute description of my own person such as would at once clear me from any suspicion of vanity in so introducing myself.  Not that my honesty would result in the least from indifference to the external—­but from comparative indifference to the transitional; not to the transitional in itself, which is of eternal significance and result, but to the particular form of imperfection which it may have reached at any individual moment of its infinite progression towards the complete.  For no sooner have I spoken the word now, than that now is dead and another is dying; nay, in such a regard, there is no now—­only a past of which we know a little, and a future of which we know far less and far more.  But I will not speak at all of this body of my earthly tabernacle, for it is on the whole more pleasant to forget all about it.  And besides, I do not want to set any of my readers to whom I would have the pleasure of speaking far more openly and cordially than if they were seated on the other side of my writing-table—­I do not want to set them wondering whether the vicar be this vicar or that vicar; or indeed to run the risk of giving the offence I might give, if I were anything else than “a wandering voice.”

I did not feel as I feel now when first I came to this parish.  For, as I have said, I am now getting old very fast.  True, I was thirty when I was made a vicar, an age at which a man might be expected to be beginning to grow wise; but even then I had much yet to learn.

I well remember the first evening on which I wandered out from the vicarage to take a look about me—­to find out, in short, where I was, and what aspect the sky and earth here presented.  Strangely enough, I had never been here before; for the presentation had been made me while I was abroad.—­I was depressed.  It was depressing weather.  Grave doubts as to whether I was in my place in the church, would keep rising and floating about, like rain-clouds within me.  Not that I doubted about the church; I only doubted about myself.  “Were my motives pure?” “What were my motives?” And, to tell the truth, I did not know what my motives were, and therefore I could not answer about the purity of them.  Perhaps seeing we are in this world in order to become pure, it would be expecting too much of any young man that he should be absolutely certain that he was pure in anything.  But the question followed very naturally:  “Had I then any right to be in the Church—­to be eating her bread and drinking her wine without knowing whether I was fit to do her work?” To which the only answer I could find was, “The Church is part of God’s world.  He makes men to work; and work of some sort must be done by every honest man.  Somehow or other, I hardly know how, I find myself in the Church.  I do not know that I am fitter for any other work.  I see no other work to do.  There is work here which I can do after some fashion.  With God’s help I will try to do it well.”