Dr. Vaughan spent more time at home than in visiting his people, not always to the satisfaction of the latter; but his profiting appeared unto all men, and his more intelligent hearers appreciated the results of his diligent study. He gradually rose into fame as an author, and his “Life of Wickliffe” won for him a high reputation. Other historical works, which it is needless to specify, made him still more widely known, and literary men honoured the Kensington pastor as an ornament to their profession. His authorship led to his London University professorship. History was his _forte_, and as Professor of Modern History in the new academical institute, he did good service. All these laurels served to attract thoughtful and cultivated people to Hornton Street. Inferior in numbers to many, the congregation, perhaps, in reference to the educated class, was inferior to none. Some of the aristocracy might now and then, during the latter part of his ministry, and afterwards, be seen within the humble walls. The Duchess of Sutherland and Lady Mary Fox were, I know, great admirers of the Doctor; and the former of these ladies—so queen-like in her appearance and manners—was once, I am told, present at a prayer meeting in the little Kensington schoolroom. The pastor was thankful to have opportunities of usefulness amongst people of rank, but he had no idea of flattering the great and seeking their patronage. I am quite sure from what I knew of him, and from conversation on the subject, he valued an occasional attendance of distinguished persons, much talked of at the time, only on account of the good he hoped to do them, not at all on account of any assistance they rendered, or any _éclat_ they conferred. Though of humble extraction, he was one of Nature’s nobility, without assumption or servility, he could bear himself well amongst the noblest of the land. One word ought to be said about his son—a member of the Church, and whom I think I now see sitting in the table pew, with his intellectual face, and long raven locks, looking up with loving eyes to his parent and pastor. The Doctor was proud of his son, and well he might be. But thankfulness for such a treasure went beyond all pride. The youth won the praises of such men as Sir James Stephen and Charles Kingsley, and had he been spared he would have proved a great blessing to the Church of God. But his “sun went down whilst it was yet day,” and this bereavement proved the greatest trial and sorrow of the father’s life. The son resembled the father, not much in his mental habits, but very much in his pulpit appearance and manners. I remember an old deacon saying, after he had heard “Alfy,” as his father called him, preach for me after I came to Kensington, “He’s a chip of the old block.”