I knew but slightly the Rev. William Jay of Bath. He has been incidentally noticed in these pages already, for he was old when I was young. He rose from a lowly rank in life to be regarded as teacher and companion by the intellectual and noble. Mrs. Hannah More valued his ministrations and cultivated his society. Wilberforce used to attend his chapel when staying at Bath; and an Indian ruler, when in England, went to hear him at Surrey Chapel, and expressed great admiration of the sermon. The next to be mentioned is John Angell James of Birmingham. I remember perfectly well the first sermon I heard him preach when I was a student. The text was: “Our conversation (or citizenship) is in heaven.” His voice was richly toned—a genuine birth gift improved by culture. He introduced the following illustration: A pilgrim in the Middle Ages, on his way to Jerusalem, passed through Constantinople. A friend took him from street to street, pausing to point out attractions, in magnificent buildings, and the rich scenery of the Golden Horn. He wondered the traveller was not enchanted. The latter replied: “Yes, all very fine, _but it is not the Holy City_.” The application was obvious and well enforced. Dr. Raffles of Liverpool—noticed already as one of my companions to Rome—and Dr. Hamilton of Leeds, well known throughout England, won the affections of their people by sympathetic intercourse, and interested them by eloquent instructions and appeals. The former enunciated his carefully prepared periods with a voice naturally musical, the latter delivered his thoughts in condensed sentences, which reminded one of a person taking very short steps. There was an intellectual power in the sermons of the last-named, not indicated in those of the former. John Alexander of Norwich I cannot pass by without notice. Like David, he was a youth with ruddy countenance. His speech throughout a sermon fell gentle as a snowflake, without any coldness of touch. He read much, and made good use of what he read. The charm of his private life and conversation exceeded the effect of his public ministry, though that was great. I must mention another name. John Harris was for some years a secluded pastor at Epsom, little known. He wrote “The Great Teacher,” but though far above the common level of such literature, it made little impression, compared with its merits. A prize was offered for an essay on Covetousness and Christian Liberality. Harris won the prize, and printed the essay. The effect was instantaneous. The book sold edition after edition, and the author’s name became generally familiar. Requests for his services were universal. He was everywhere talked about, and when he preached places were crowded. His popularity lasted as long as he lived, but he died when he was fifty-four. He was unassuming, kind-hearted, generous to poor ministers, genial in conversation, and beloved by all who knew him.