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PAGE 27

My Father’s Memoir
by [?]

[Footnote 20: On one occasion, Mr. Hall of Kelso, an excellent but very odd man, in whom the ego was very strong, and who, if he had been a Spaniard, would, to adopt Coleridge’s story, have taken off or touched his hat whenever he spoke of himself, met Dr. Belfrage in the lobby of the Synod, and drawing himself up as he passed, he muttered, “high and michty!” “There’s a pair of us, Mr. Hall.”]

It was one of the turning-points of my father’s history. Dr. Belfrage, though seldom a speaker in the public courts of his church, was always watchful of the interests of the people and of his friends. On the Rose Street question he had from the beginning formed a strong opinion. My father had made his statement, indicating his leaning, but leaving himself absolutely in the hands of the Synod. There was some speaking, all on one side, and for a time the Synod seemed to incline to be absolute, and refuse the call of Broughton Place. The house was everywhere crowded, and breathless with interest, my father sitting motionless, anxious, and pale, prepared to submit without a word, but retaining his own mind; everything looked like a unanimous decision for Rose Street, when Dr. Belfrage rose up and came forward into the “passage,” and with his first sentence and look, took possession of the house. He stated, with clear and simple argument, the truth and reason of the case; and then having fixed himself there, he took up the personal interests and feelings of his friend, and putting before them what they were about to do in sending back my father, closed with a burst of indignant appeal–“I ask you now, not as Christians, I ask you as gentlemen, are you prepared to do this?” Every one felt it was settled, and so it was. My father never forgot this great act of his friend.

This remarkable man, inferior to my father in learning, in intensity, in compactness and in power of–so to speak–focussing himself,–admiring his keen eloquence, his devotedness to his sacred art, rejoicing in his fame, jealous of his honor–was, by reason of his own massive understanding, his warm and great heart, and his instinctive knowledge of men, my father’s most valued friend, for he knew best and most of what my father knew least; and on his death, my father said he felt himself thus far unprotected and unsafe. He died at Rothesay of hypertrophy of the heart. I had the sad privilege of being with him to the last; and any nobler spectacle of tender, generous affection, high courage, child-like submission to the Supreme Will, and of magnanimity in its true sense, I do not again expect to see. On the morning of his death he said to me, “John, come and tell me honestly how this is to end; tell me the last symptoms in their sequence.” I knew the man, and was honest, and told him all I knew. “Is there any chance of stupor or delirium?” “I think not. Death (to take Bichat’s division) will begin at the heart itself, and you will die conscious.” “I am glad of that. It was Samuel Johnson, wasn’t it, who wished not to die unconscious, that he might enter the eternal world with his mind unclouded; but you know, John, that was physiological nonsense. We leave the brain, and all this ruined body, behind; but I would like to be in my senses when I take my last look of this wonderful world,” looking across the still sea towards the Argyllshire hills, lying in the light of sunrise, “and of my friends–of you,” fixing his eyes on a faithful friend and myself. And it was so; in less than an hour he was dead, sitting erect in his chair–his disease had for weeks prevented him from lying down,–all the dignity, simplicity, and benignity of its master resting upon, and, as it were, supporting that “ruin,” which he had left.