of my visits to London since that time I have enjoyed an afternoon with him at his home.  His first residence was Helensburg House in Nightingale Road, Clapham, a Southwest District of London.  That beautiful home was his only, luxury; but he spent none of his ample income on any sort of social enjoyment, and what did not go for household expenses went for the support of his many religious enterprises.  On my first visit to him he greeted me in his free and easy, open-handed way.  I noticed that he was growing stouter than ever.  “In me,” he jocularly said, “that is in my flesh, dwelleth no good thing,” We spent a joyous hour in his well filled library; he showed me fifteen stately volumes of his printed sermons which have since been more than doubled, besides several of his works translated into French, German, Swedish, Dutch and other languages.  The most interesting object in the library was a small file of his sermon notes, each one on a half sheet of note paper, or on the back of an ordinary letter envelope.  When I asked him if he “wrote his sermons out,” his answer was:  “I would rather be hung.”  His usual method was to select the text of his Sunday morning sermon on Saturday about six or seven o’clock, and spend half an hour in arranging a skeleton and put it on paper; he left all the phraseology until he reached the pulpit.  During Sunday afternoon he repeated the same process in preparing his evening discourse.  “If I had a month assigned me for preparing a sermon,” said he to me, “I would spend thirty days and twenty-three hours on something else and in the last hour I would make the sermon, and if I could not do it then I could not do it in a month.”

This sounds like a risky process, but it must be remembered that if Spurgeon occupied but a few minutes in arranging a discourse he spent five days of every week in thoroughly studying God’s Word—­in thorough thinking—­and in the perusal of the richest old writers on theology and experimental religion.

He was all the time, and everywhere filling up his cask, so that he had only to turn the spigot and out flowed the pure Gospel in the most transparent language.  A stenographer took down the sermon, and it was revised by Mr. Spurgeon on Monday morning.  He told me that for many years he went to his pulpit under such nervous agitation that it often brought on violent attacks of vomiting and produced outbreaks of perspiration, and he slowly outgrew that remarkable sort of physical suffering.

Twenty years ago Mr. Spurgeon exchanged Helensburgh House for the still more elegant mansion called “Westwood” on Beulah Hill, near Crystal Palace, Sydenham.  It is a rural paradise.  At each of the visits I paid him there, he used to come out with his banged-up soft hat, which he wore indoors half of the time, and with a merry jest on his lips.  On my last visit, accompanied by my brother Hall, I found him suffering severely from his neuralgic malady, but it did not affect his buoyant humor.  When I told