ce, to which you have referred.

[28] 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 priv