Much as Rowland Hill owed to his father, he owed scarcely less to his mother. She, though the inferior of her husband in quick intelligence and originality, was his superior in shrewd common sense and in firmness of purpose. She was as practical as he was theoretical, and as cautious as he was rash. To his father Rowland owed his largeness of view and his boldness of conception. But it was his mother from whom he derived his caution, his patience, and his unwearying prudence. Had he not had such a father, he would not have devised his plan of Penny Postage. Had he not had such a mother, he would not have succeeded in making what seemed the scheme of an enthusiast a complete and acknowledged success. He was never weary in his old age of sounding her praises, and acknowledging how much he owed to her. He could scarcely speak of her without the tears starting into his eyes, while his utterances, broken through strong emotion, could hardly discharge the fulness of his heart. The last record that I have of my conversations with him ends with her praises. “My mother was,” he said, “a most admirable woman in every respect. She had great natural intellect. She had a willingness to exert herself for the good of her family, and she did exert herself beyond her powers.” My record thus ends:—“Here he became so affected that I thought a longer talk might be hurtful to him, and so I came away.” [Illustration: SARAH HILL. (MOTHER OF SIR ROWLAND HILL.)] Her husband was no less mindful of her high merits. “Her children arise up, and call her blessed;—her husband also, and he praiseth her.” After her death he more than once told his daughter that the only merit he claimed in bringing up his family was that of letting their mother do exactly as she liked. “It was to her influence—an influence of the most beneficial kind—that he attributed the merit of their becoming good and useful members of society.” “As a theme for eloquence,” he one day wrote to one of his sons, “you may sound the trumpet of past success and long experience in your _transcendent_ mother.” “She was,” said her daughter, “a large-hearted woman, taking upon herself all duties that lay within her reach, whether properly belonging to her or not.” To her great courage her son thus bears testimony:— “Many instances fell under my own observation, but the one I mention was of earlier date. Happening to be present when, in the midst of a violent thunderstorm, an imperious mistress ordered her terrified maidservant to go and take down the clothes that were hanging out to dry, my mother at once volunteered for the service, and performed it in full, though not without imminent risk of her life; for before she could regain the house a tree, from which she had detached one of the lines, was struck by lightning.”[16]