to gain, and
much to lose. Worldly considerations would have prompted him to remain
where he was. I honour him that he obeyed the dictates of conscience.
Men do so rarely, and, when they do so, they are but rarely honoured.
The religious world made much more of Baptist Noel when he was in the
Church than now. Scarcely a religious public meeting was held in the
metropolis without Mr. Noel being put down in the bills as one of the
speakers: now his voice is rarely heard.

This is strange, but true. Regret it as we may, such is the fact. It
was when Baptist Noel preached at St. John's that he was run after. What
crowds filled that dreary place! How difficult it was to get a seat
there! The dingy, dirty old building itself was enough to draw a crowd.
It was built for that fiery, foolish priest, Sacheverell. Scott, famed
for his Commentary on the Bible, was a curate there. There also preached
the scarcely less celebrated Cecil. In his steps followed Daniel Wilson,
the Bishop of Calcutta. Wilberforce had worshipped there. The building
itself was a fact and a sermon as well. The place had a religion of its
own. The neighbouring pulpit in which Baptist Noel now officiates has
nothing of the kind. Perhaps, however, the less Dissent is encumbered
with tradition or history the better. As it is, the soul is sluggish
enough. Leaden custom lies too heavy on us all.

THE REV. C. H. SPURGEON.

I fear there is very little difference between the Church and the world.
In both the tide seems strongly set in favour of ignorance, presumption,
and charlatanism. In the case of Mr. Spurgeon, they have both agreed to
worship the same idol. Nowhere more abound the vulgar, be they great or
little, than at the Royal Music Hall on a Sunday morning. Mr. Spurgeon's
service commences at a quarter to eleven, but the doors are opened an
hour and a half previously, and all the while there will be a continuous
stream of men and women--some on foot, some in cabs, many in
carriages--all drawn together by this world's wonder. The motley crowd
is worth a study. In that Hansom, now bearing a decent country deacon
staying at the Milton, you and Rose dashed away to Cremorne. Last night,
those lovely eyes were wet with tears as the Piccolomini edified the
fashionable world with the representation of the Harlot's career. That
swell was drinking pale ale in questionable company in the
Haymarket--that gay Lorette was sinning on a gorge