be your case, Mr. Editor, let me implore you to notice one thing. Whatever deficiencies or extravagancies there may be in some of Mr. Spurgeon's sermons, there is one element of immense value in them that is, a testimony boiling hot out of his own great heart descriptive of the amazing grace of God which brought salvation to his own soul-and which has, by its constant and continued flowings, raised him to that high position he now occupies in the kingdom of Christ. Oh, dear Sir, do pray, that from this high pinnacle, he may never fall.

This leads me to observe that a rumour is running through the hosts of his friends, that America, and not England, will be the ultimate fixed scene of his labours. I ask you, my neighbour, friend, and Christian brother, to announce with much emphasis, that nothing is further from my esteemed pastor's mind. He will go to America this coming spring. He believes God calls him there. But he will return, the heavens permitting and build his tabernacle, and there devote to his Master and to the chosen tribes of Israel, all the powers of his consecrated mind; and all the years of his divinely appointed life on the earth.

Take from the sermon referred to, the following extract as a sample of the way in which Mr. Spurgeon so frequently speaks of himself; and believe me, your friend and brother,

A LISTENER AND A LEARNER IN ZION.

In No. 233, of "The New Park Street Pulpit," Mr. Spurgeon says,

"When meditating upon this text yesterday, the effect it had upon me was one of transport and joy, Oh! I thought, upon what other condition could I have been saved? And I looked back upon my past estate; I saw myself piously trained and educated, but revolting against all that. I saw a mother's tears shed over me in vain, and a father's admonition lost upon me, and yet I found myself saved by grace, and I could only say, 'Lord, I bless thee that it is by grace, for if it had been by merit I had never been saved? If thou hadst waited till there was something good in me, thou wouldst have waited till I sank into the hopeless per

dition of hell, for good in me there never would have been, unless thou hadst first put it there. And then I thought immediately, Oh! how I could go and preach that to the poor sinner!' Ah! let me try if I cannot. O sinner! you say you dare not come to Christ because you have nothing to recommend you. He does not want anything to recommend you; he will not save you, if you have anything to recommend you, for he says, 'Not for your sakes do I this.' Go to Christ with earrings in your ears, and jewels upon you; wash your face, and array yourself with gold and silver, and go before him and say, 'Lord, save me; I have washed myself and clothed myself; save me! 'Get you gone! Not for your sakes will I do this.' Go to him again, and say, 'Lord, I have put a rope about my neck, and sackcloth about my lions; see how repentant I am, see how I feel my need; now save me !' 'No,' saith he, 'I would not save you on account of your flaunting robes, and now I will not save you because of your rags; I will save you for nothing about you; if I do save you, it will be from something in my heart, not from anything you feel. Get ye gone!' But if to-day you go to Christ, and say, 'Lord Jesus, there is no reason in the world why I should be saved-there is one in heaven; Lord, I cannot urge any plea, I deserve to be lost, I have no excuse to make for all my sins, no apology to offer; Lord, I deserve it, and there is nothing in me why I should be saved, for if thou wouldst save me I should make but a poor Christian, after all; I fear that my future works will be no honour to thee-I wish they could be, but thy grace must make them good, else they will be still bad. But, Lord, though I have nothing to bring, and nothing to say for myself, I do say this: I have heard that thou hast come into the world to save sinners-O Lord, save me!

'I the chief of sinners am.'

I confess I do not feel this as I ought, I do not mourn over it as I ought; I have no repentance to recommend me; nay, Lord, I have no faith to recommend me either, for I do not believe thy promises as I ought; but oh! I cling to this text. Lord, thou hast said thou wilt not do it for my sake. I thank thee thou hast said that. Thou couldst not do it for my sake, for I have no reas

son why thou shouldst. Lord, I claim thy gracious promise. 'Be merciful to me, a sinner.' Ah! you good people, this doctrine does not suit some of you; it is too humbling, is it not? You that have kept your churches regularly, and been to meetings so piously, you that never broke the Sabbath, or never swore an oath, or did anything wrong, this does not suit you. You say it will do very well to preach to harlots, and drunkards and swearers, but it will not suit such good people as we are. Ah! well, this is your text-'I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.' You are 'whole,'-you are; you need not a physician, but they that are sick.' Go your way. Christ came not to save such as you are. You think you can save yourselves. Do it, and perish in the doing of it. But I feel that the same gospel that suits a harlot suits me, and that that free grace which saved Saul of Tarsus must save me, else I am never saved. Come, let us all go together. We are all guilty-some more, some less, but all hopelessly guilty. Let us go together to the footstool of his mercy, and though we dare not look up, let us lie there in the dust, and sigh out again, 'Lord have mercy upon us, for Jesus died.'

'Just as I am, without one plea,

But that thy blood was shed for me,
And that thou bidst me come to thee,
O Lamb of God, I come, I come.'

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE CARPENTER'S SON. LETTER XII.

ἡ γὰρ Αφροσυνη τοῖς ανθρώ ποις Σφίγξ ἐσιν.

NAM AMENTIA SPHINX EST HOMINIBUS.

-Tabula Cebetis.

THE end of Courtenay is a matter of sad history, of history written in blood! But at the time I met him, and during my acquaintance with him, he seemed a harmless man; a man without money, and under clouds from which those who felt for him, hoped he would come forth as the clear shining sun after rain.

It is of my acquaintance with him then that I have to write, and I shall write but little more than is necessary to connect my own history.

It might be a stroke of economical policy, or, it might be, as I always understood that, one of his sureties wishing to be clear of his bond, Courtenay, on his discharge from Westgate Gaol found it convenient to accept an asylum with widow Grundy, in Northgate.

I believe it was almost as soon as he reached the widow's house, that I was requested to call upon him, and when I did so, he begged me to undertake the superintendence of a small weekly paper, called "The British Lion," which he had commenced a few weeks before.

I undertook this work, and in the discharge of it, I remember going to him in the night for matter to finish an article of the paper which was to appear the next morning. When he was aroused from his deep repose, and informed of the need, he asked me to give him his desk. Then having arranged that on his knees, and having the paper ready, he desired to know the last word of the subject on which he had been writing, and had left unfinished, then he continued it till he thought he had written enough; when ceasing, as without a "regard or concern," he was suddenly wrapped as before in sleep.

Courtenay had been a close inmate of the widow's for a fortnight; then at the invitation of my commiserating mother in our house another fortnight; at the close of which period, he removed one Saturday night to a spot in Boughton, which he named Paradise, and took up his residence with a family that seemed made up of happy spirits.

It was soon after this remove, that the "British Lion" ceased to roar. Courtenay not being visible, the gentleman, on whose premises the types and press had been placed, one morning padfocked the door and claimed the property. He said Courtenay had given the whole to him, and he had sold the plant. This gentleman was then a young swell, a Coach-builder and an Alderman's son, but

In the paradisaical spot at Boughton, Courtenay did not long

remain. It was soon determined, I know not by whose will, that he and I should travel into Devonshire to inspect, if not to take possession of, the estate of Powderham.

Great secresy always attended our movements; and therefore late one evening, we set out from Paradise across the fields to Faversham, where we found a coach awaiting us, which conveyed us from that place, and on the road as far as Sittingbourne; whence the mail, that I used to watch trotting into London, trotted us up.

It has often been a marvel, how Courtenay moved about, and went through so much without a banker. No one could ever learn where the money came from which must have been expended. Courtenay had friends! Not great and mighty in wealth or influence, but in attachment. They had in their simplicity, nailed their colors to the mast of a ship which they believed had been too much weather beaten, and they endeavoured to get this ship into harbour; and they did it with disinterested benevolence to a fellow-creature.

I will only take my brother Robert as a sample of the rest. He, like many, defended the honour of Courtenay, and spent his money to clear his fame. Soon after I undertook the management of" The British Lion," the Barrack master of the place applied to me for the repayment of £10 which he said had been lent by him to Courtenay on the morning, the fatal morning, he set off for Chatham. My brother heard of this demand, and urged me to pay it; and he gave me the ten golden sovereigns to do it. Courtenay while I knew him, never borrowed money, and I never knew him to be the possessor of a penny.

Sir William and I went into Devonshire by one of the splendid packets from London. One day, over the dinner table, a gentleman voyager aspersed the character of Lord Courtenay and Sir William took up the matter, and silenced the detractor with all the warmth of a defender of his father. He afterwards said to me, “I am his son, my child, I can tell you that!"

This was the thing we wished him to prove; and therefore though I was delighted with Exeter, and our walk through Daw