in the twelve-month; and as, moreover,
innumerable little pledges of affection had to be
christened in each similar space of time, the
curate must needs be " a working man." The
friends of the rector passed from one to
another the demand, " Wanted—a Curate;"
but curates seemed to know what sort of a
place St. George's-in-the-East must be, and
the attractions of one hundred and fifty pounds
a year as the reward for burying a little army
of dead, marrying no end of "happy couples,"
and christening hundreds of young cockneys,
did not secure a crowd of applicants for the
vacant post. Days ran into weeks, and the
rector felt desperate. The grave-yard was
dank and clayey, and air blew coldly through
the masts and rigging of the shipping moored
in the Thames and the docks, and amongst
the smoky chimneys all round about. The
perpetual iteration of the services was more
laborious than chimed with the idea of the
rector, and " Wanted a Curate " became day
by day a more pressing necessity of his case.
At last a stray letter, explaining the reverend
gentleman's necessities, found its way into an
out-of-the-way Wiltshire parish, in which
there was a young curate who had
distinguished himself by zeal in getting up schools
and clubs for the poor. These humble
establishments in their quiet way had done much
good, and had obtained for their promoter and
superintendent, the curate, quite a reputation
in their locality; but he had got them into
good trim, and as they worked well and there
were no more difficulties to be encountered,
the curate felt a longing for a wider sphere.
His patron, the parish clergyman, had often
said that London was the place for a mind
so active as his, and when the intelligence
came that a curacy might be had " in St.
George's, London," the proper moment seemed
to have arrived for moving the curate to his
natural sphere of usefulness. A friend was
found to do temporary duty in the church, to
"give an eye to the schools, and to look after
the sick," and off set the curate to ascertain if
he could secure the vacant post in the modern
Babylon.

Arrived in town, his first duty was to call
upon the writer of the letter that had
induced him to quit the country in search of a
new field for his labours. His reception was
cordial and encouraging. The post was still
vacant; indeed the reverend gentleman in
whose gift it was had kept it specially for
our young friend, for he had heard of the
Wiltshire schools, and of the industry
displayed by their promoter, and was sure he
was just the man to encounter the labour of
a metropolitan cure of souls. After much
more of such conversation, it was proposed
that they should go together to the rector,
to settle the affair, and few minutes more
found them on their way.

They passed street after street, but they
were all city streets; and one after the other
they grew dirtier and dirtier, until at last a

climax of abominations greeted eye and
nostril and well-polished shoe as they threaded
Rag Fair.

"Surely," interposed the curate, "this
cannot be the way to. St. George's?"

"Certainly it is," was the reply; " and this
very place is in the district you are to take
charge of."

"This!" gasped the curate with astonishment.
And he stood still as he spoke, half
shuddering amidst the crowd of Jews, thieves,
rags, filth, foul smells, and wretchedness, as
his mind and spirit flew back to the country
scenes and country friends, he had that morning
left.

"Here! I could never live here. The
air seems thick with impurity. I thought
St. George's meant St. George's, Hanover
Square."

His companion laughed. " You longed
for fashion, did you? You wanted to live
amongst lofty people; to change the rural
sounds of Wilts for the clatter of dashing
vehicles, and to marry and bury lords and
ladies ? No, no. St. George's-in-the-East
it is that wants a curer of souls, and believe
me you are just the man for the place."

Forward they went in silence, until they
reached the rector's door.

"I cannot undertake it," repeated the
country curate. "The smells, and sights,
and noises, are frightful. I could not live
in this atmosphere, I'm sure."

"But the rector has kept the place vacant
for you," was the response; and as he spoke,
they were ushered into the presence of that
dignitary himself.

More friendly greetings and kind speeches
The curate was the thing; he would soon be
used to the neighbourhood. He firmly
declared his repugnance. But what was he, the
rector, to do? He had been waiting for the
curate. He should be greatly put out of his
way if he were to be disappointed at this
critical moment. Indeed he was very ill.
He really hoped he should not hear of
anything like refusal. And a great deal of
talk resulted in an arrangement that the
curate should try for a month, whilst the
rector sought for another to succeed him.

In a little old house close by, some little
rooms were selected as a cheap temporary
lodging, and there our country friend soon
located himself. The occasional funeral duty
of the country was changed for the constant
day by day, week by week, repetitions of a
gorged London grave-yard. Work, work,
work, was become the order of his life, and
work too without knowing the people for
whom he was ministering, and in a field so
vast that there seemed little chance of his ever
gaining a knowledge of the souls now under
his spiritual charge. Whilst yet astonished
at the change, and whilst longing for the day
that should release him for his return, a letter
reached him, saying the incumbent of his
Wiltshire parish was—dead! Ease and abundance