spection. They all inculcate pure virtue, and practise mutual
kindness; and they exert great force of reason in rescuing their
doctrines from the absurd or pernicious consequences which naturally
flow from them. Much of this arises from the general nature of religious
principle--much also from the genius of the Gospel.'

Nothing could present a greater contrast with the comforts of Orchard
Street than the place on which Sydney Smith's 'lines' had now 'fallen.'
Owing to the non-residence of the clergy, one-third of the parsonage
houses in England had fallen into decay, but that of Foston-le-Clay was
pre-eminently wretched. A hovel represented what was still called the
parsonage-house: it stood on a glebe of three hundred acres of the
stiffest clay in Yorkshire: a brick-floored kitchen, with a room above
it, both in a ruinous condition was the residence which, for a hundred
and fifty years, had never been inhabited by an incumbent. It will not
be a matter of surprise that for some time, until 1808, Sydney Smith,
with the permission of the Archbishop of York, continued to reside in
London, after having appointed a curate at Foston-le-Clay.

The first visit to his living was by no means promising. Picture to
yourself, my reader, Sydney Smith in a carriage, in his superfine black
coat, driving into the remote village, and parleying with the old parish
clerk, who after some conversation, observed, emphatically, shaking his
stick on the ground, 'Master Smith, it stroikes me that people as comes
froe London is such _fools_.--'I see _you_ are no fool,' was the prompt
answer; and the parson and the clerk parted mutually satisfied.

The profits, arising from the sale of two volumes of sermons, carried
Sydney Smith, his family, and his furniture, to Foston-le-Clay in the
summer of 1809, and he took up his abode in a pleasant house about two
miles from York, at Heslington.

[Illustration: SYDNEY SMITH'S WITTY ANSWER TO THE OLD PARISH CLERK.]

Let us now, for a time, forget the wit, the editor of the 'Edinburgh
Review,' the diner out, the evening preacher at the Foundling, and
glance at the peaceful and useful life of a country clergyman. His
spirits, his wit, all his social qualities, never deserted Sydney Smith,
even in the retreat to which he was destined. Let us see him driving in
his second-hand carriage, his horse, 'Peter the Cruel,' with Mrs. Smith
by his side, summer and winter, from Heslington to Foston-le-Clay. Mrs.
Smi