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should we trouble ourselves about them?" He admitted the light was sufficient, but was improperly used, and thus explained :— "A farmer and his family are sitting round the large kitchen fire on a winter evening. The work of the day is over; the farmer is quietly smoking his pipe, and now and then interesting the children with his oft-repeated tales. The good wife is knitting at his side. At this moment of quiet domestic comfort, the ploughboy opens the door, and cries out in great alarm, Master, master, there are thieves in the yard.' All is immediate confusion. The farmer rushes to the closet to get his lantern; he supplies it with candle, and runs out, holding the light up to his head, and advancing with cautious steps in pursuit of the depredators. In the yard, the wheel-barrow has been improperly left, and over it the farmer tumbles. Why does he fall? Not because he is without light, but because he did not use it properly. So it is with the heathen."

He knew well how to turn an incident he had witnessed to good account. He took everything to the pulpit that could be of service to his congregation, in the way of instruction, reproof, or encouragement. Speaking on the government of the temper, he told the following story:-"I once took tea with a lady who was very particular about her china. The servant, unfortunately, broke the best bread-and-butter plate; but her mistress took very little notice of the circumstance at the time, only remarking, Never mind, Mary, never mind; accidents cannot be prevented. I shall have it by and by,' said the servant, when she got out of the room; and so it turned out. The good woman's temper was corked up for a season, but it came out with terrible vengeance when the company retired."

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A Christian gentleman was much concerned about the salvation of a young friend of his, who was about to leave England for India. The former requested the latter to spend the four last Sundays of his stay in this country with him. The young man complied, and went with his friend to the house of God. Earnest prayers went up to heaven that the sermons should be blessed to the conversion of the young gentleman's soul. But three Sundays had passed away, and no good impression appeared to be made upon the young man's mind. man's mind. On the last Sabbath, the Christian gentleman took his young friend to hear Rowland Hill; but prayed that the old minister should not indulge in any eccentricity, lest it should offend or disgust his young friend. As soon as the preacher had read his text-"We are not ignorant of his devices"he proceeded to say, "Many years since, I met a drove of pigs in one of the streets of a large town; and, to my surprise, they were not driven, but quietly followed their leader. This singular fact excited my curiosity, and I pursued the swine, until they all

quietly entered the butchery. I then asked the man how he succeeded in getting the poor, stupid, stubborn pigs so willingly to follow him; when he told me the secret. He had a basket of beans under his arm, and kept dropping them as he proceeded, and so secured his object. Ah! my dear hearers, the devil has got his basket of beans, and he knows how to suit his temptations to every sinner. He drops them by the way; the poor sinner is thus led captive by the devil, at his own will; and if the grace of God prevent not, he will get him at last into his butchery, and there he will keep him for ever." The gentleman was much grieved that he had brought his friend to hear this tale of the pigs; and when the service was over, he walked away, sad and silent, until at length his companion observed, "What a singular statement we had to-night about the pigs; and yet how striking and convincing it was." The story fastened upon his mind, and was made a blessing to his soul.

There were times when he threw the reins upon the neck of his wit and humour, and allowed them to run away with him, much to the grief of his best friends; and after his wild steeds had been brought to a stand, none grieved more than he, that he had so far forgotten the dignity and solemnity of his position, as a minister of the Gospel of Christ. But there are many things of this nature laid to his charge, of which he was never guilty-such as the story of the chest of drawers upon the head of his wife. He was too much of a gentleman, and loved his wife too well, to make any remark that could indicate a want of respect for the feelings of Mrs. Hill.

He was a moderate Calvanist, and was often blamed for not preaching to the elect only, when he would reply, "I don't know them, or I would preach to them. Have the goodness to mark them with a bit of chalk, and then I will talk to them." He stood up stoutly for the law as a rule of life; but observed, "I follow the law from the life within me, not for life." The doctrines of justification by faith, and sanctification by the Holy Spirit, were very clearly taught by him. He maintained that they were separate in their nature, but experienced at one and the same time by the believer, that he who was justified was also sanctified. He was opposed to the Millenium view of the personal reign of Christ on the earth. A gentleman who once called upon him to convince him of his supposed error, contended that the Saviour would personally dwell at Jerusalem. "Do you know, sir, the name of the street in which he will reside?" asked Mr. Hill. "Why do you ask that question?" said the gentleman. "Because his personal presence at Jerusalem will do me no good, unless I am with him," replied

Mr. Hill.

He was one of the most industrious and successful preachers of

his day. It is calculated, that during the sixty-six years of his ministry he preached not less than 23,000 sermons. How many souls were converted under those sermons is not known; but it is certain they were the means of gathering great numbers into the fold of Christ.

Rowland Hill was a remarkably happy man, and was very agreeable and cheerful in the company of his friends, and his letters were often racy and delightful epistles. He was in the receipt of a handsome income, and it was said that he gave away two-thirds of it for the support of the poor and for religious institutions. "A miser," he remarked, "is like a pig, of no use until he is dead and cut up."

He was much concerned that the right sort of young men should be educated for the ministry. Writing to his friend Bull, who had the charge of a number of students, he says, "I keep a look out for a student, but cannot say how soon I shall send you word that I have succeeded. Jesus rode into Jerusalem on an ass; that minister is not his who does not feel, and carry his Lord into the congregation. When I can meet with a colt of this description, that loves his Lord, and loves to bear his Lord among the people, I shall recommend him to you. You will pare his clumsy hoof, and combe his rough mane; but encourage him in his lusty, though uncouth bray, if he brays stoutly, with a single eye to the glory of God."

In Mr. Hill's day there was much opposition to lay preaching; but when he found laymen of undoubted piety and ability, he encouraged them to preach the word, and invited some of the most talented of them to preach occasionally to his own congregation. A number of his people were employed in holding prayer-meetings and delivering short addresses, in rooms and cottages. A complaint was made to Mr. Hill that these proceedings were irregular. "Let them alone," said the minister; "they are my ferrets; they go into the holes and corners where I cannot go, and drive out the poor sinner to hear the Gospel."

He was devotedly attached to the Church of England, but was no bigot. "If the church," said he, "happens to be favourable to the dictates of my conscience, it is my privilege to conform; if otherwise, it is my duty to dissent." He was opposed to the union of Church and State. These are his words:-" The connection of the Church of England with the State I sincerely regret, as it is impossible that she can be otherwise than corrupted thereby." "While Christianity was supported by her native purity, her beauties were all her own, and the dignity of her power on the hearts of millions had a glorious effect."

In those times, some of the best men who held different creeds attacked each other with great violence. The burning zeal dis

played in defence of the most momentous truths was often wasted in defence of human opinions, which affected no man's salvation. Yet, no doubt the earnest and conscientious combatants felt that every inch of territory for which they fought was holy ground-a part of the great and sacred whole; and that, therefore, it would be disloyal and treacherous to surrender the smallest portion to the adversary. Rowland Hill and John Wesley ought to have been true and loving friends, for they lived at the same time; they served the same Master, and worked in the same field; they were both clergymen of the Church of England by profession, and were both dissenters by practice; they both preached the same great fundamental doctrines of the Gospel, and wonderful success attended the labours of both. But there was one point on which they did not agree. Hill held the doctrine of election, and Wesley denied it. This was thought sufficient to obliterate the remembrance of their harmony on all other points of faith and practice. Neither was content to hold and defend his own; but each carried war into the other's camp, and each brought the heaviest artillery he could command to bear upon the fortifications of his opponent. It is true, the weapons used in this fierce warfare broke no bones, and shed no blood; but charity, who should have stood between them, and joined their hands and hearts together, was wounded in the house of her friends, and driven, for a time, out of their presence, while the world rejoiced to see these champions of truth and righteousness turning their swords against each other, in the form of bitter and furious pamphlets. But Mr. Hill lived long enough to deeply regret the spirit in which the dispute with Mr. Wesley had been carried on.

He published several sermons, and larger works; but his "Village Dialogues" was the largest, best, and most extensively read of all his writings.

Mr. Hill was a tall, strong, and healthy man, with a high flow of spirits, and even in his eighty-eighth year his voice could be heard by the largest congregation. But at this time of his life, the weakness and infirmities of his age made him feel that, at length he was indeed an old man, and that the time of his departure was at hand. Mrs. Hill had died some time before, at Wotton-under edge, and was buried there. Mr. Hill wished to die at the same place, and be buried by the side of his wife. He, therefore, ordered his carriage and horses to be ready to take him down to his country residence. He said good bye to his servants, telling them, "You'll not see your old master again." His friends and servants wept at parting with their true friend and kind master. He went out to take a last look at the chapel, observing, "There I have preached for fifty years; but my work is done." Having seated

himself in his carriage, he said, "Farewell, till bodies meet to part no more."

The change and country air appeared to revive him, and he lived to return to London and preach again to his old and favourite congregation. His weakness, for some time, had obliged him to sit while he delivered his sermon; but the people who had listened to him for fifty years still loved to hear him, and would remark at the close of a service, "Dear old gentleman, he was very sweet this morning; there is nobody like him after all." The last sermon he preached contained the following passage, beautifully adapted to the occasion, and his near approach to the heavenly country:"I do believe, that for the first ten thousand years after we enter the kingdom of glory, it will be all surprise; but will this surprise never end? Never, while we behold the person of the Lord."

When he had finished the work his Master had given him to do, he calmly laid himself down to die, with a bright prospect of immortality and eternal life, remarking, as he stood upon the borders of the eternal world, "I can only look upon death as a dreary curse, brought into the world by sin; but when I can look upon Christ as my life, then I can stand on the high hills of salvation, where I can sing, "O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory." The following lines were often repeated by him as he found death fast approaching:


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A day or two before his death the dying minister remarked to a ministerial friend, "Upon a review of my public life, and in the near prospect of eternity, if my time were to come over again, I would pursue exactly the same course which I have done." The last words he was heard to utter were, "Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him ;" and "Christ also hath once suffered for sins, the just for the unjust, that he might bring us unto God." Thus departed this good and faithful minister to his everlasting rest, in the 89th year of his age.

His mortal remains were buried in Surrey Chapel; his funeral was attended by many ministers of various denominations, and his nephew, Lord Hill, the Commander-in-chief of the British forces, was the chief mourner.

H. P.

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