was also an oracle in his district, to whom many had the wisdom to go to take as well as ask advice, and who was never weary of entering into the most minute details, and taking endless pains, being like Dr. Chalmers a strong believer in 'the power of littles.' It would be out of place, though it would be not uninteresting, to tell how this great resident power-this strong will and authority, this capacious, clear, and beneficent intellect-dwelt in its petty sphere, like an oak in a flower-pot; but I cannot help recalling that signal act of friendship and of power in the matter of my father's translation from Rose Street to Broughton Place, to which you have referred.

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 honour-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 'I think not. Death

chance of stupor or delirium?'

(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 Argyleshire 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.

I cannot end this tribute to my father's friend and mine, and my own dear and earliest friend's father, without recording one of the most extraordinary instances of the power of will, under the pressure of affection, I ever witnessed or heard of. Dr. Belfrage

F

was twice married. His second wife was a woman of great sweetness and delicacy, not only of mind, but, to his sorrow, of constitution. She died, after less than a year of singular and unbroken happiness. There was no portrait of her. He resolved there should be one; and though utterly ignorant of drawing, he determined to do it himself. No one else could have such a perfect image of her in his mind, and he resolved to realize this image. He got the materials for miniature painting, and, I think, eight prepared ivory plates. He then shut himself up from every one, and from everything, for fourteen days, and came out of his room, wasted and feeble, with one of the plates (the others he had used and burnt), on which was a portrait, full of subtle likeness, and drawn and coloured in a way no one could have dreamt of having had such an artist. I have seen it; and though I never saw the original, I felt that it must be like, as indeed every one who knew her said it was. I do not, as I said before, know anything more remarkable in the history of human sorrow and resolve.

I remember well that Dr. Belfrage was the first man I ever heard speak of Free-trade in religion and in education. It was during the first election after the Reform Bill, when Sir John Dalrymple, afterwards Lord Stair, was canvassing the county of MidLothian. They were walking in the doctor's garden,

Sir John anxious and gracious. Dr. Belfrage, like, I believe, every other minister in his body, was a thoroughgoing Liberal, what was then called a Whig ; but partly from his natural sense of humour and relish of power, and partly, I believe, for my benefit, he was putting the Baronet through his facings with some strictness, opening upon him startling views, and ending by asking him, 'Are you, Sir John, for free-trade in corn, free-trade in education, free-trade in religion? I am.' Sir John said, 'Well, doctor, I have heard of free-trade in corn, but never in the other two.' 'You'll hear of them before ten years are gone, Sir John, or I'm mistaken.’

I have said thus much of this to me memorable man, not only because he was my father's closest and most powerful personal friend, but because by his word he probably changed the whole future course of his life. Devotion to his friends was one of the chief ends of his life, not caring much for, and having in the affection of his heart a warning against the perils and excitement of distinction and energetic public work, he set himself far more strenuously than for any selfish object, to promote the triumphs of those whom his acquired instinct--for he knew a man as a shepherd knows a sheep, or Caveat Emptor' a horse-picked out as deserving them. He rests in Colinton churchyard,

'Where all that mighty heart is lying still,'