concerning which so many pious exordiums had been preached. Till the debt was paid, the vicar showed every friendliness to the person in question—but afterwards—well!—one can only suppose it was a case of "Othello's occupation gone!" He could beg no more,—not for that particular object. But I understand he has started fresh "restorations" lately, so till he finds another trusting sheep in the way of a too sympathetic parishioner, he will be quite happy.
There are some clerics who, to their sacred duties add "a little literary work." They are not literary men,—indeed very frequently they have no idea whatever of literature—they are what may be called "literary jobbers." Many clergymen have been, and are still, greatly distinguished in the literary calling—but I am not alluding to past or future Kingsleys. The men I mean are those who "do a bit of writing"—and help in compiling books of reference to which few ever refer. They are apt to be the most pertinacious beggars of their class,—beggars, not for others' needs, but for their own. They want introductions to "useful" people—people of "influence"—and they ask for letters to publishers, which they sometimes get. The publishers are not grateful. They are over-run, they say, with clergymen who want to write guide-books, books of travel, books of reference, books of reminiscence. One of these "reverend" individuals, pleading stress of poverty, was employed by a lady to do some copying work, for which, in a well-meant wish to satisfy the immediate needs of his wife and children, she paid him in advance the sum of Fifty Pounds. He sent her a signed receipt for the money with the following gushing epistle:
