Besides beings rude and unmannerly, that was distinctly illegal; but Simeon put up with the affront for the sake of peace.

When necessary he could be firm.  The young men threw stones at the church windows and broke them.  On one occasion Simeon discovered the offender, and obliged him to read a public confession of his fault.

The church was crowded.  The young man read the paper which Simeon had prepared for him, but did so in a voice low and partially inaudible.  Then Simeon himself, taking the paper from him, read the apology in such tones that none could fail to hear.

The young men were impressed, and the congregation listened to the sermon that followed with more than usual attention.

He was of all men the most humble; yet this did not prevent his speaking honestly and openly when he considered by so doing he could be of service.  Thus a friend once asked him, after having preached a showy sermon with which he himself was remarkably satisfied, “How did I speak this evening?”

“Why, my dear brother,” said Simeon, “I am sure you will pardon me; you know it is all love, my brother—­but, indeed, it was just as if you were knocking on a warming-pan—­tin, tin, tin, tin, without any intermission!”

Once a party of undergraduates laid an ambush for Simeon, intending to assault him.  He, however, by accident happened to go home that night another way.

Not only had he to put up with active but also with much passive opposition.  But he went on in faith and charity, till his enemies became his friends—­his friends, his ardent and reverent admirers.

We must pass over without further comment a life of humility, love, and holiness—­a life full of good works at home, and ardently interested in missions abroad.

In 1831, when Simeon was seventy-two years old, he preached his last sermon before the university.  The place was crowded.  The heads of houses, the doctors, the masters of art, the bachelors, the undergraduates, the townsmen, all crowded to hear the venerable preacher.  They hung on his words and listened with the deepest reverence.

His closing days were singularly bright and happy.  Three weeks before his death a friend, seeing him look more than usually calm and peaceful, asked him what he was thinking of.

“I don’t think now,” he answered brightly; “I enjoy.”

At another time his friends, believing the end was at hand, gathered round him.

“You want to see,” he remarked, “what is called a dying scene.  That I abhor....  I wish to be alone with my God, the lowest of the low.”

One evening those watching beside him thought he was unconscious, his eyes having been closed for some hours.  But suddenly he remarked:—­

“If you want to know what I am doing, go and look in the first chapter of Ephesians from the third to the fourteenth verse; there you will see what I am enjoying now.”