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 and I distinctly remember his saving, ' I do not know how it is, but I feel a solemn presentiment that this child will preach the gospel to thousands, and God will bless him to many souls. So sure am I of this, that, when my little man preaches in Rowland Hill's Chapel, as he will do one day, I should like him to promise me that he will give out the hymn commencing,—

'God moves in a mysterious way

His wonders to perform.'"

This sort of half-insinuated miracle is of not infrequent occurrence in Mr. Spurgeon's writings, and it is by no means the most satisfactory feature. Whenever I stumble on such things, I recall the stor3' of the unsanctified Yankee politician, who said he did not so much object to twaddle as to the people who ignominiously believed in it. Twaddle, he admitted, might have its uses. There were two taverns, in this shrewd man's town, of unequal repute. One of them was the headquarters of the anti-Masonic leaders (anti-Masonry was the "cry" of the hour); the other was the resort of the body of their followers. At the beginning of the legislative session our politician had taken up his quarters at the tavern frequented by the anti-Masonic rank and file. After a little while, however, he astonished the anti-Masonic leaders at the other tavern by presenting himself at their table. "What brings 3'ou here?" they asked: "we thought you had cut us to go to the other place."—"So I did," he replied; "but I can't stand, the nonsense of your d anti-Masons down there!"—"Well," they laughingly responded, "how have you bettered yourself here? for we are all anti-Masons too."—"True enough," said