Chapter XIV: Closing Days (1)

For most of what is contained in this chapter we are indebted to Dr. Robert Roxburgh, brother-in-law of Mr. Balfour, who, being with him, had special opportunities of knowing his mind and bearing, during his closing days. He says:--“Sanguine and impetuous natures sometimes, under special strain, become clouded over with a gloom that is all the deeper because it is unwonted. According to the size and wealth of a man’s soul, are his capacities for joy and grief, for hope and discouragement. So also the most saintly and faithful of mankind are permitted at times to pass through depths of spiritual conflict and sorrow, to which those whose devotion is less real and ardent are strangers. Religious biography abounds in illustrations of this, and experiences such as Bunyan has recorded of himself are not without parallel, in the history of all to whom spiritual things have been as vividly real as they were to Bunyan.

“In 1885 Mr. Balfour underwent such a period of eclipse. The general commercial depression of that and the immediately preceding years had obliged him to limit the number of benefactions, which it was his delight to bestow on multitudinous objects dear to him, and seemed to his eager mind to hamper the development of those large schemes of benevolence which he loved to plan or to help. Probably he exaggerated to himself the fear that his usefulness might be seriously impaired, and his enthusiasm suffered a check. Other obscure influences may also have been at work, in giving his mind a morbid set. He began to lose the filial confidence and sense of the Divine favour, which were indispensable to him. With painful probings of conscience, he searched his heart for the sin which he thought must be lurking there, and averting from him the countenance of his Father in heaven.

“In this connection it may be noted that Mr. Balfour’s faith was of a peculiarly realistic type. He was quite untouched by those present-day tendencies which minimise the conception of a personal Deity, and under the domination of scientific ideas of force, create one that is vague and far distant. As in the saints of patriarchal times, reference to the will of God was a daily, hourly habit with him. He was wont to read the Divine purposes in the every-day circumstances of life, and perhaps he fell into the error of a too great readiness, to connect external events with inferences as to God’s favour or displeasure. When, therefore, the bright vision which was his constant inspiration, became veiled, and ‘the heavens,’ as he then expressed it, ‘became as brass,’ he was plunged into the deepest dejection. Conversing with him, I suggested that physical conditions probably underlay the mental troubles he was enduring. He strenuously opposed this view, declaring that, so far as bodily well-being was concerned, he was absolutely free from any trace of ill-health. The sequel hardly bore out this opinion, but he maintained it unchanged till the last. While repudiating the shallow materialism, which would attempt to explain all such mysterious moral conditions, by a reference to physical fact alone, and while convinced that Heaven-taught natures are the scene of moral conflicts, surprises, defeats, and victories which lie beyond the horizon of the unregenerate and earthly man, we have yet to acknowledge that in the strange interworkings of body and mind, these very struggles may take origin, which are pregnant with moral results to the individual soul.

“In September of the same year, Mr. Balfour became affected with symptoms which gave rise to anxiety in regard to his health. It was considered advisable that he should consult Sir Henry Thompson in London; and a characteristic episode occurred during that gentleman’s visit to him. Mr. Balfour was at that time much engrossed with the subject of a cheap and pure milk-supply for the poorer inhabitants of our large towns. Sir Henry is a well-known authority on matters of diet. He had to put Mr. Balfour under chloroform, in order to make the requisite exploration for what, it was feared, might be a dangerous source of mischief. His astonishment may be pictured when, on recovering from the anæsthetic, his patient did not stop to ask one question about the complaint, or the surgeon’s discoveries, but at once launched forth on the subject of milk, eagerly seizing the opportunity to enlist the medical man’s interest in the matter, and to secure his authority for his own views! The assistant who stood by whispered to Mrs. Balfour, ‘Not out of the chloroform yet;’--he was not accustomed to the sight of patients who treated their ailments with such serene indifference.

“It will be observed that the spiritual depression, under which Mr. Balfour was then labouring, did not hinder him in his continuous plans and efforts for the benefit of others, nor could he bear to think that business depression should cripple the many institutions which depended on his pecuniary support. Though at times walking in utter darkness of soul, he would not give way to self-absorption, nor relax his vigilance over the wants of his fellows. He still accounted himself but the steward of his possessions, and if current income did not meet the extent of his benevolent impulses, he still had capital to fall back upon.”

His condition of mind is portrayed by himself, in a letter addressed to his partner, Mr. Williamson, bearing date, Mount Alyn, 15th February 1885:--

“You have rendered me another true kindness in having written me as you have done, when sending me the reflection of Thomas à Kempis. The distress and suffering I endure, from a sense of the withdrawment of God’s favour and help, I cannot find language to express, and my inability to be helpful to others; it is beyond my power to portray. You write as if other people had suffered as I do, and that from their minds God had been pleased to lift the cloud after a time. Will you pray for me that this may occur to me. In God’s grace and mercy is my only hope. The lines are continually coming into my mind--

‘Where is the blessedness I knew
When first I saw the Lord?’

and I can only trust that former convictions may come back to me. Like the Psalmist, I most earnestly desire to wait on the Lord. Of His goodness and righteousness I am fully aware in all His dealings with myself, but His mercy is what I absolutely stand in need of. I shall do my best to put away from my mind moodiness and doubt. I cannot believe I have cherished these from mere mental speculations, but wave on wave of trouble has come on me, and I have been obliged to reflect as to what all this can mean. I shall do my best to follow your advice. Excuse these sad thoughts from your affectionate friend,

A. BALFOUR.”

* * * * *

Often the darkest hour is just before the dawn of day. By-and-by a change set in, which Mr. Balfour received with thankful heart, as a precious and undeserved gift from his Heavenly Father.

“In a letter dated 28th November 1885,” continues Dr. Roxburgh, “after referring to the announcement that his friend, Mr. Samuel Smith, had lost his seat for Liverpool, an event which he describes as ‘a calamity to the town, and a great discouragement,’ as ‘he was doing a work in Parliament on behalf of poor children, and in favour of social reform generally, that was unique of its kind,’ he goes on to say:--‘I know that you will join with me in deep thankfulness that the dark cloud under which for so many months I lived, is, through God’s mercy, I humbly believe, passing away, and that I am again allowed to take my place at the feet of the Saviour, a sinner--a forgiven sinner. Everything is beginning to be different, and I never can be grateful enough to sovereign goodness and grace.’ Again, on the 31st December he writes:--’ ... Meanwhile I want to write a line or two which may serve as conveying our benedictions on your mother and the household, as one year closes and another opens. Please thank your mother warmly for writing me as she has done, and assure her that her words and her example give the strongest support to some of us, who have not had such full experience of the sufficiency of God’s grace for every circumstance of our lives, as she has had. I wish you all to know, that the sympathy and prayers I know I had during my dark days from you all, were of incalculable value to me. I trust the affliction I passed through had, as one effect, the breaking down to the ground much in me that was displeasing to God. I have sought to lie at His feet, in the dust, and to remain there. I too would now “sing of mercy” as well as “of judgment.”’ These touching utterances from one who was both lion-hearted and transparently sincere in every word, are surely evidence of high attainment in that very ‘growth in grace’ for which he so earnestly longed. Cheered by new revelations of the sufficiency of God for every need, he threw himself into the winter’s work, and as the doctors disapproved of the daily journey from the country, he took a house in town, to be near the friends and the labours most congenial to him.”

One interesting circumstance should be mentioned, in connection with the removal of the cloud of spiritual depression which hung so darkly over him. Years before, he had been in the habit of attending the annual meetings of the Mildmay Conference. He greatly valued them, and wished others to participate in the benefit. Accordingly, at a fitting time, he put a cheque into the hands of various ministers and friends, and warmly invited them to go to London to attend the Conference, in the hope that they might catch something of the Christian warmth and enthusiasm which prevailed. On their return, he proposed the establishing of a Liverpool “Christian Convention,” founded somewhat on the same model. The plan was cordially entered into and carried out. A Convention is held each October in Hope Hall, Liverpool, Mr. Balfour’s friend, Mr. Thomas Matheson, being chairman of the Committee of Arrangement. Mr. Balfour delighted in these meetings. He was present at the Convention in October 1885, and it seems to have been there and then that the dark cloud rifted, and the smile of his Heavenly Father’s countenance was seen again. Thus did that Convention, of which he was the chief promoter, for the good of the community, become a well-spring of water to his own thirsty soul. The burden fell from his shoulders. For what he had done for others, the Lord rewarded him into His own bosom. He stayed, on the occasion referred to, with the present writer, and it was delightful to see refreshment fall upon him, like rain upon the mown grass. The joy and blessing of restoration to peace, and to a lively sense of his Redeemer’s favour, were to him beyond all price. They returned to him gradually, but the first dawn was now.

“Henceforth,” Dr. Roxburgh continues, “his mental peace was unclouded, and his useful activity unceasing; and no one who looked upon his lithe, agile figure, and came under the spell of his inspiring presence and genial smile, could have guessed that his earthly course was nearly run, and that, while to outward seeming, he was instinct with bodily energy, the seeds were already germinating of the disease which was to lay its swift arrest upon his beneficent career.

“In the beginning of March of the following year, 1886, while staying in bed for a slight cold, he was discovered by the medical man in attendance to be the subject of an internal growth, which had already assumed very serious dimensions, and which was of a peculiarly threatening character. This insidious malady, as was now clearly proved, had given rise to the symptoms before alluded to, although its presence had not been suspected. A consultation was immediately decided on. Four medical men were present, and the spokesman having candidly pronounced what was almost equivalent to a sentence of death, Mr. Balfour received the statement in silence, and without the slightest disquietude. After a moment’s pause, he said, ‘Well, Doctor, that is an announcement that must come to each of us sooner or later. The great thing is, that it should find us resting on the Rock of our salvation.’ When the doctors were gone, and he was left alone with his wife, whose distress was too deep for speech, after a time of silent and deep emotion, he recovered himself, and said, ‘I must communicate at once with Samuel Smith about the Y. M. C. A. They may need another trustee.’ Even at that solemn crisis the service of God and of man was uppermost in his thoughts.

“Those only, who have lived through similar experiences, can imagine the crushing weight of anxiety which now fell upon those nearest and dearest to Mr. Balfour, or can picture their intense desire to cling to every shred of hope, and appeal to every human resource which pointed even to the possibility of recovery. The tidings soon spread to those with whom he had been specially associated in good works, and came upon many with the weight of a stunning blow. ‘We could spare any one better than him,’ was the ejaculation of hearts wrung with grief and astonishment. Then it was that those who had been leaning on him, as on a rock, who had been cheered on by the sunshine of his smile, and moved by the talisman of his deep and warm sympathy, began to realise how much he was to them, and how unspeakably poorer the world would be without him. Special meetings were held in many quarters for intercession that a life so precious might yet be preserved. Private prayers of deep earnestness were offered up in many a household throughout the country where his name was revered, though in some he was personally unknown, and hope, bred of desire, began to be entertained, that something might yet be done to avert the impending blow.

“The result of the consultation already referred to was a resolution to obtain the opinion of Dr. Thomas Keith, the eminent Edinburgh surgeon, as to the possibility of a remedial operation, and a journey to Edinburgh was accordingly undertaken. Most happily, the malady was wholly unattended with suffering, and interfered in a very slight degree with Mr. Balfour’s customary activity. This was a cause of special thankfulness, as he was of peculiarly sensitive organisation, and could hardly bear either to suffer severe physical pain himself, or to hear about it in others. He had, indeed, an exceptional dislike to all subjects of conversation bearing, however distantly, on bodily suffering, a fact which rendered the more remarkable his perfect composure in the prospect of a dangerous operation. When in Edinburgh, he unburdened himself daily to God in prayer, seeking only that His will should be done, and that a right decision should be arrived at; and having thus cast his care upon God, he seemed to take no further thought on the matter. Those who then enjoyed the privilege of very intimate communion with him can never forget that spectacle of childlike faith and Christian heroism. His thoughtfulness for others, even in the minutest details, and his entire unconsciousness of self, were associated with a docility and gentleness which, in one of such forcible and commanding will, were singularly lovely. A divine peace seemed to possess the man, and the glory of heaven was already irradiating his brow.

“After several anxious interviews, Dr. Keith pronounced that the risk of operating would be so serious that, on his own responsibility, he could not incur it. While fully convinced that without an operation death was inevitable, he yet hesitated to plunge such a man as he saw before him into extreme and immediate danger. His advice was, that the greatest surgical authority in the county, Sir James Paget, should be asked to give the final decision, Dr. Keith agreeing to abide by it, whatever it might be. This counsel, though it prolonged the period of suspense, was so manifestly generous and wise, that it was at once followed.

“A circumstance clings to my memory in connection with the journey to London. When we left Edinburgh, Dr. Keith happened to be travelling by the same train to Cumberland. Mr. Balfour had observed him drive up to the station, and immediately invited him to travel in our carriage. “Just look at Alexander!” exclaimed my sister; and there I saw him, as if in the days of full health, carrying Dr. Keith’s valise to the railway carriage. His old instinct for giving help would take no denial.

“The result of our visit to London was that, after careful deliberation, Sir James Paget advised the operation, as offering the only alternative to certain, and probably painful, death. On the receipt of this judgment, Dr. Keith wrote to me:--‘Now that I am away from the personal influence of Mr. Balfour, I quite agree that it should be done.’ The integrity and kindness of both these distinguished men were deeply felt by Mr. Balfour, and their agreeing in opinion was a source of much satisfaction to him.

“From this time forward he preserved the habitual calm and cheerfulness of ordinary life. A few minutes after the crucial judgment had been given by Sir J. Paget, he accompanied one or two near friends to the exhibition of Holman Hunt’s pictures then being held in Bond Street. One of the party afterwards said, ‘I remember how he stood before “The Light of the World,” with the light of another world reflected on his face. I felt that heaven was very near.’ The day was stormy and cold, and he was repeatedly heard to deplore that a friend, who was to cross the Channel that day from the Continent, should have such trying weather. His friend’s welfare appeared to be present to his mind much more than his own destiny.”

The following brief extracts from letters written by Mr. Balfour during his illness, and some of them on the very brink of eternity, to Mr. Christopher Bushell, will serve to illustrate the unruffled tranquillity of his spirit and his unwavering trust in his Saviour.

“BELLEVUE, PRINCE’S PARK, LIVERPOOL, _January 2, 1886_.

“Having been out of sorts for a little while back, I have not been
regularly at business, and have not been across to see you; but you
know how much I desire that you should both be well and in the
enjoyment of every blessing, now and always. We have had the boys
at home from school, which has kept the house lively, and we have
had a quiet and happy Christmas with them and the little ones, who,
I am thankful to say, are all well. I often look back on our
Christmas last year, with the illnesses which our children then
had, and contrast that dark time with the brightness and
tranquillity we now enjoy, so that if any one should sing a new
song, I am the person.”

“BELLEVUE, _March 22, 1886_.

“MY DEAR MR. BUSHELL,--How very kind of you to think of me as you
do. I almost grudge to use those beautiful grapes, as they might be
more useful to some other person. Do accept our earnest, best
thanks, and understand that by your prayers, you do me a greater
service than can be rendered by the angels in heaven. I continue
carefully to follow out the orders of the doctor. Yesterday
afternoon I attended church with my wife.”

“BELLEVUE, _March 26, 1886_.

“I send a line or two that you may know that Dr. Dobie and Mr.
Bickersteth were here yesterday evening. They, as well as my
brother-in-law, Dr. Roxburgh, examined me, and they agree, I am
sorry to tell you, that a tumour has been formed, on which Mr.
Bickersteth refuses to operate. Dr. Dobie and Dr. Roxburgh
recommend us to go to Edinburgh, that Dr. Keith may see me, and we
think of going to-day at 1.45. We hope to return soon. Dr. Roxburgh
goes with us, which is a great comfort. May I hope for your
continued prayers that God’s will may be my will. His will is best,
whatever we poor mortals may think.”

“BRUNSWICK HOUSE, HANOVER SQUARE, LONDON, _March 31, 1886_.

“You and others are overwhelming me by your kindness; and all I can
say is, I am deeply conscious how unworthy of it I am. Thank you
indeed for having written my wife as you have done. Yesterday
morning we left Edinburgh for this, and Dr. Keith, having
professional duties at Penrith, accompanied us so far; and as Dr.
Roxburgh is with us, you will say I am well attended. Sir James
Paget was here this morning, and has given it as his opinion that
an operation should be performed. We therefore place the whole
subject in Dr. Keith’s hands, and have left him to decide regarding
everything. No doubt we shall hear the result on Friday. Meantime,
we go to Bellevue to-morrow morning, all being well. We hear Mr.
Williamson may cross the Channel to-day, and I am sorry the weather
is likely to be rough. I am glad he is returning so much benefited
by his stay at Cannes. My wife joins me in loving messages to Mrs.
Bushell and yourself; and I wish you always to believe me your
grateful, affectionate friend,

“A. BALFOUR.”

So ends the correspondence between these two friends, of whom it would be difficult to say which admired and loved the other most. Sickness did not interrupt, it rather deepened, this fellowship of heart and mind; and death itself suspended it only for a little season. During this waiting time Mr. Balfour’s thoughts were bent as eagerly as ever on the welfare of his beloved city. Shortly before the operation was decided upon, in taking leave of his old friend, the Rev. Thomas M’Pherson of Liverpool, he said, looking on him with his earnest eyes, “Liverpool is better, and will be better; and if it be God’s will that I should go, He will raise up others for the work.”

After church, on the Sunday evening before the operation, the present writer called upon him. His mind was full of the old familiar themes; the good of Liverpool, the repression of intemperance, the milk-supply, the condition of the sailors, and the like. Then he spoke of the great goodness of the Saviour to himself. When we had prayed and given thanks together, his anxious wife kneeling beside us, he accompanied us to the door, poured out the expression of gratitude for kindness which “he could never, while he lived, forget,” though to us it seemed that all the kindnesses had been on the other side. He took his hat, and, late as it was, would fain have walked with us part of the way, with the old warm-hearted courtesy which was inseparable from his nature. It was with difficulty that he was restrained on the plea of prudence. He spoke the word “farewell,” and we saw his face no more.

The notes of engagements, &c., in his pocket diary, during the closing weeks of his life, indicate that his accustomed thoughts kept their ordinary channel, and that his accustomed employments, though necessarily restricted, were not given up.

In March 1886 we find such entries as the following:--

“_March 12._ Strangers’ Rest at 3.30 and 7 P.M.

“_March 18._ Committee of Orphanage; Mersey Mission annual meeting.”

The closing memoranda in the beginning of April, as entered in his firm unaltered handwriting, are these:--

“_April 1._ Home to Liverpool.

“_April 2._ Resting quietly.

“_April 3._ Dr. Keith writes he is willing to come to Mount Alyn to perform operation about 12th or 13th.

“_April 4._ Sunday. Had a Bible-reading with my wife--1 Pet. i. 1-12. Thankful for truths. Dr. Dobie came about 5 P.M.”

And there the record ceases, with the expression of thankfulness to the last, and thankfulness for truths of unutterable preciousness to the living and the dying man:--“That the trial of your faith, being more precious than of gold that perisheth, though it be tried with fire, might be found unto praise and honour and glory, at the appearing of Jesus Christ, whom having not seen ye love; in whom, though now ye see Him not, yet believing, ye rejoice with joy unspeakable and full of glory; receiving the end of your faith, even the salvation of your souls.”

“Christianity,” continues Dr. Roxburgh, “as exemplified in Alexander Balfour’s career, was essentially a practical religion, whose issues did not exist only in futurity. His whole life had borne conspicuous testimony to the fact that the faith of Christ, when accompanied by the Spirit of Christ, instead of impoverishing, greatly enriches the natural resources of a man’s being. It was through it that he had been able to become at once, an accomplished man of the world, and the most unworldly of men. As in the case of the heroic General Gordon, who predeceased him, and with whose character his had many affinities, constant communion with Heaven rendered him a better citizen of earth. To him secular activities were not inconsistent with sacred aspirations. An entire submission to the will of God implied no ascetic withdrawal from social occupations and duties. Nay, rather it enforced the doing of these, with the authority of Divine sanction. This striking characteristic now shone out with singular beauty. The fact that he stood so near the brink of death made no appreciable difference, either in his demeanour or his interests. He pursued his accustomed avocations with the same hearty zeal as before; interested himself keenly in political questions, those especially which concerned the moral well-being of the people; threw himself with his habitual freshness of sympathy into the plans for ameliorating the lot of his fellow-creatures, which were never absent from his mind; and in private converse at home, was as full of wholesome content and happiness of spirit, as if he had not a care. The milk question still greatly occupied his mind, his desire being that an adequate scheme should be launched, although he might be unable to co-operate. Early in the morning his happy laugh could be heard, as he paid his nursery visits to the children, and only by a painful effort, could those who saw him then, grasp the fact that a perilous ordeal lay in his immediate future, and that in a very few days his voice might be hushed for ever.

“A lady who visited him at this time, and only two days before the portentous operation, wrote immediately after seeing him:--‘I cannot help saying that on Sunday I felt that there was a grandeur, even a glory, about Mr. Balfour in his utter self-forgetfulness. I really felt that in his presence, I understood the nature of our Saviour as I had never done before.’

“His prayers in family worship, at this time, were very beautiful in their simplicity. He would pray for the children separately by name; for the boys, that they might be attentive to their lessons, and grow up to be true and Christian men; that the medical men might be guided and make no mistake; and that acquiescence in all God’s will might be granted. Then, having unburdened himself, he was just as natural, as bright, and as interested in all practical affairs, and all that related to social improvement, as if he had not a thought or a trouble on his own account. During all the time I was with him, he was neither gloomy nor exalted, but just his natural self. He spoke little about himself. I noticed a wonderful gentleness about him during these last weeks, as if the land that is afar off were in view. His affectionate devotion to his friends, whose prayers, he said, ‘were his best cordial,’ and still more to those united to him by the dearest ties, was now more tender than ever.

“His character seemed daily ripening into completeness, and even his denunciations of what he considered grievous wrong were free from all asperity and haste, as if he were in sight of the Eternal and the Unchangeable.

“It was decided that the operation should take place in his own house, Mount Alyn. On the evening preceding it, Mr. Balfour was in the drawing-room, and his discussion of the Irish question, then prominently brought to the front by Mr. Gladstone’s Home Rule measure, was as animated as if no other subject preoccupied his thoughts. The following morning found him walking with me among the spring flowers of his garden, talking of his plans for the future, should life be spared. He said that he would have to give up journeying to and from Liverpool. ‘Under existing circumstances,’ he said, ‘there is no question at all in my mind as to the course to be pursued. My heart is in Liverpool; my dearest friends are there, people whose friendship I value above everything. My work and interest are there. In Liverpool I wish to live and die.’ At family worship that morning, he read the passage which tells of the communion in spirit between the dying thief and the dying Saviour. When he came to the words, ‘Lord, remember me, when Thou comest into Thy Kingdom,’ and the Redeemer’s answer, “Verily I say unto thee, To-day shalt thou be with Me in Paradise,” he paused over them, and repeated them, remarking, ‘How kind it was in Jesus, when asked by the thief to remember him, to give so much more than he asked: “To-day shalt thou be _with Me_, in Paradise”!’ When he spoke these words, there were thoughts in his heart too deep for speech. He then prayed with touching simplicity for each member of his family by name, and with especial earnestness for his youngest little boy, whose birthday it was. One sentence of his prayer still lingers in the recollection of those present--‘We commit ourselves to Thee, body, soul, and spirit, desiring to acquiesce in Thy will, whatever that may be.’ With deep fervour, too, he pleaded for the town whose interests lay so near his heart--‘Lord, remember that great community.’ How profound was his desire for personal holiness was evidenced by a remark made that morning in private converse with his wife--‘I wish sin to be eradicated from my being, just as the doctors are going to cut this disease out of my body.’

“He had already provided for every contingency in the disposal of his affairs, and while awaiting the arrival of the surgeons, he wrote several letters of friendship, the last of which was one of kindly counsel to a young clerical friend, enclosing a cheque for him to use in enjoying a holiday change. After giving some final directions to his dear wife, he retired with her to their room, and tenderly, on bended knee, commended her and her children to the care of their Father in heaven. When the surgeons drove up, accompanied by his valued friend and medical adviser, Dr. Dobie of Chester, he met them at the door with his usual hearty greeting, and in a few minutes had prepared himself for the fateful ordeal. As the anæsthetic was about to be administered, he asked for one minute’s delay, ‘to get his mind into a right state,’ and then said, ‘Now I am ready.’ He had been strengthening himself with thoughts of his Divine Master, and His prayer, John xii. 27, 28, and as he became anæsthetised, he several times called out in a clear voice, ‘Father, glorify Thy name.’

“The terrible task of the surgeons occupied an hour and a half. When it was over, a time of great weakness, but of comparative immunity from suffering, ensued, and for the first two days all went well. No expressions but those of thankfulness and consideration for others escaped his lips. Though extremely feeble, he rewarded every trifling service with a grateful smile, and a courteous word of thanks. He besought his devoted nurse, who would not leave him by night or day, to go out and enjoy the sunshine and air, and lay in his darkened room in perfect tranquillity. High hopes began to be entertained that, as he had been safely brought through a dangerous illness before, he might weather even this violent storm. These hopes were doomed to disappointment. Towards the evening of the third day grave symptoms showed themselves, and deepened in severity as night came on. It was a night of much distress and weariness, but there was no impatience. His lips often moved in prayer, and it was sometimes possible to distinguish the words, ‘For Jesus Christ’s sake. Amen.’ At last he gradually sank into unconsciousness, and at four o’clock in the peaceful spring morning, as the song-birds began to usher in another day to the toilers of earth, his spirit awoke to the light of a day that has no ending, to the tearless life where he shall be ‘for ever with the Lord,’ whom he had loved and served so faithfully.

“Those who now gazed for the last time on the form of him, who during life had been as an inspiration to them, cannot forget how placid and how grand he was in death. Like a warrior he lay, taking his rest, no mark of illness or pain upon his brow. To speak of “death” in connection with him seemed impossible. The limbs so active in loving service, the hands so bounteous in generous deeds, seemed only resting, not dead.

‘O strong soul, by what shore
Tarriest thou now? For that force
Surely has not been left vain!
Somewhere, surely, afar,
In the sounding labour-house vast
Of being, is practised that strength,
Zealous beneficent firm!’

To those left behind it was as if a dream, from whose bands one had to shake oneself free, were closing a great chapter of life, and veiling the beginning of a new epoch, when all should be changed, and that radiant presence should no more be seen to help, to stimulate, to sympathise. After a time they learned to thank God for that sudden transition, for the short and painless interval between the fulness of earthly life and the glories of the Heavenly life, and for the fresh conviction gained, of the reality of that ‘continuing City,’ to whose very gates they seemed to have followed their beloved one.

“The news that this good man had passed away produced a profound impression wherever his name was known. Signs of public mourning were at once visible in Liverpool, where the daily press gave warmly appreciative expression to the prevailing feeling. The multitudes of letters which now, in increasing volume, poured in from all quarters upon the bereaved wife and family, from individuals of every degree of social influence, spoke but one voice of deep personal loss and sorrow. Some of these were from public men engaged in the work of legislation; others from humble friends, to whom, all unknown even to those in his closest confidence, he had been a benefactor; others again from Christian workers in many spheres.”

Let a few sentences from letters of sorrow and sympathy suffice.

The Bishop of Sodor and Man writes:--“My last interview with him was but a few days before his death. He wrote to ask Mr. Clarke Aspinall and myself to lunch quietly with him, to discuss some question of temperance legislative reform--but in truth to say good-bye. To each of us was present the knowledge, that in a few days he might be called to pass within the veil. To the fact no reference, however, was made; and it was only the prolonged clasp of the hand, at bidding farewell, which revealed the mutually conscious truth.

“It is a privilege and a responsibility to have known the inner life of such a man. It is the life of such a man which, as it can be read by all, is one of the strongest evidences of the truth of the Christian religion, and it is well that for many years to come, the proposed statue should testify that Liverpool is not unmindful of the good gift, which God bestowed upon her in the person of Alexander Balfour.”

Mr. Clarke Aspinall, who shared with Mr. Balfour some of his delightful summer tours to Sweden and elsewhere, and not a few of his beneficent and self-denying labours, in a letter to us thus refers to “our most valued friend, the good Alexander Balfour, one of the most remarkable men I ever knew:”--“So lion-hearted, and yet so sweet and gentle; so full of energy, and yet so patient; in a word, so Christ-like in his many-sided Christian benevolences;--his friendship did very much to brighten and strengthen many years of my own life. And now, ‘the sweet memory of the past’ often gives me comfort and encouragement. May God grant us more men like him in Liverpool; and in His own good time He will.”

Mrs. Josephine Butler, with whose difficult and often distressing work Mr. Balfour warmly sympathised, says of him, “He was one of those men who seem to shed a radiance all around them.”

The following lines by a mourning fellow-citizen appeared at this time:--

ALEXANDER BALFOUR.

Finish’d his work on earth, his life of love
And Christian sympathy. Ours, ours the grief,
The sorrow, and the void; but his the joy--
The joy unspeakable and full of bliss.
Finish’d the struggle here, the mortal pain.
We wonder and are still, because we see
Darkly, as through the glass of earthly sight.
We miss the heart so full of sympathy,
So touched by tender love for human-kind,
The wealth of Christian charity, the deep
Unchang’d devotion of his life and means
To lift the fallen, dry the widow’s tear,
Bring sunshine into many a darkened home,
And hope and joy to many a sinking heart.
His the rare gift to differ far and wide
From some around him; yet by word or deed
Never to wound, never to lose a friend.
He has left footprints on the sands of time
Down to the water’s edge, where that dark wave
Bore him away beyond our mortal ken.
“The Lord hath need of him;” and he is gone
Into the presence-chamber of his King.
Who, who will fill his place--stand in the gap
Where he so nobly stood? The Lord hath need
Of many such as he--with fervent zeal
To lift on high the Standard of the Cross,
And consecrate their lives as he has done.
--T. D. B.

Dr. Roxburgh thus describes the sad solemnities of the funeral:--

“The 20th of April, the day when the remains were committed to the earth, witnessed a memorable scene. Multitudes of friends and admirers flocked to Mount Alyn from different quarters of the country, to join in a last tribute to the memory of a ‘man greatly beloved.’ A special train from Liverpool brought hundreds of leading citizens, as well as deputations and representatives of innumerable institutions and charities which had counted him as their unfailing friend, a hundred of the orphans from the Seamen’s Orphanage being among the number. The Young Men’s Christian Association had written, asking that they might bear the body of their beloved President to the churchyard, but that was considered impracticable. A large number of the members, however, followed on foot. The day was bright with sunshine and the twitter of birds. It was on such days as this that the genial host had often delighted to welcome his friends to his ever-hospitable country-house, and as the _cortège_ slowly wended its way to the village of Rossett, every shady tree, every peep of the beautiful prospect of hill, and dale, and river, brought vividly to memory the man with whom the whole was so indissolubly associated. The Parish Church of Rossett was thronged with hushed and reverent mourners of every degree and of many creeds. At the churchyard gates the procession was met by the Bishop of Liverpool, the Vicar of Rossett, Rev. T. V. Wickham, and other clergymen; and thence to the church door, the Bishop, with the Rev. R. H. Lundie (Presbyterian) on his right, led the procession, and recited the opening sentences. Within the church the burial service was conducted by the Bishop and the Vicar, the Rev. R. H. Lundie reading the lesson, in happy harmony with what had ever been the desire of the departed, to sink ecclesiastical distinctions, in promoting the fraternal union of Christians for all holy purposes. At the grave the Bishop requested Mr. Lundie to say a few words. After he had spoken, the service concluded with the singing, by the deeply-moved gathering, which filled the churchyard and the adjacent roads, of Mr. Balfour’s favourite hymn:--

‘Peace, perfect peace in this dark world of sin?
The blood of Jesus whispers peace within.

Peace, perfect peace, by thronging duties pressed?
To do the will of Jesus, this is rest.

Peace, perfect peace, with sorrows surging round?
On Jesus’ bosom nought but calm is found.

Peace, perfect peace, with loved ones far away?
In Jesus’ keeping we are safe, and they.

Peace, perfect peace, our future all unknown?
Jesus we know, and He is on the throne.

Peace, perfect peace, death shadowing us and ours?
Jesus has vanquished death and all its powers.

It is enough: earth’s struggles soon shall cease,
And Jesus call us to Heaven’s perfect peace.’

“It was a scene of tears and sighing, but the note of triumph was almost as loud as that of grief. With the mourning was mingled a thankful joy, that God had given such a man to bless and to ennoble the world, and that he had so victoriously faced death, and passed to his reward.

“A few words remain to be said on the manner in which Mr. Balfour disposed of his property. True to a favourite principle of his, he left no bequests to public charities. He had throughout life consistently opposed posthumous liberality, asserting that, as a general rule, there was neither wisdom nor virtue in hoarding money during life, and then bestowing it on charities, when the donor could not help leaving it behind him, and when he could not interest himself either in its administration or its good fruits. He frequently urged that those who thus saved their possessions, that they might bequeath large sums to benevolent objects, were depriving themselves of the chief happiness possible to men, that of seeing their fellow-creatures benefited, and their burdens lightened, and of sympathising with, as well as pecuniarily aiding, them. He also desired that the members of his family should enjoy this great privilege; and in view of his repeated declaration that he wished to give in his own life-time all that he intended thus to bestow, it was no surprise to his friends, to find that his will contained no other provisions than those of a private nature. He left a legacy far more precious and enduring than gold, in innumerable lives stirred to self-sacrifice, and kindled to warmer love and brighter faith.”

Soon after his death, it was resolved that a statue of Mr. Balfour should be erected in a public position, if possible, near the river and the sailors for whom he toiled so earnestly. Great, alas! as must be the disparity between the active form, the mobile features, the ever-changing expression of the departed, and the most skilful portraiture in marble or in bronze the citizens as they pass, will be reminded of the noble character and the devoted life of one, than whom none ever loved their city more.

_APPENDIX A._

LIFE:

A SERMON PREACHED, AFTER THE DEATH OF

ALEXANDER BALFOUR, BY THE

REV. R. H. LUNDIE, M.A.

ALEXANDER BALFOUR,

DIED AT MOUNT ALYN, ON FRIDAY, 16TH APRIL, 1886,

IN HIS SIXTY-SECOND YEAR,

AND WAS INTERRED AT ROSSETT, DENBIGHSHIRE,

ON TUESDAY, 20TH APRIL.

* * * * *

_The following Sermon was preached in Fairfield Presbyterian Church, Liverpool, on Sabbath the 25th April._

LIFE.

“He asked life of Thee, and Thou gavest it him, even length of days
for ever and ever.”--PSALM xxi. 4.

I doubt whether more prayer or more earnest prayer was ever offered in Liverpool for any life than for that of Alexander Balfour. I doubt if ever with better reason, the Heaven-taught plea for life was pressed at the Throne of Grace, “Blessed is he that considereth the poor: the Lord will deliver him in time of trouble: the Lord will preserve him, and keep him alive.” When illness first threatened he himself asked for recovery, if it were the Lord’s will, and sought it, as he was bound to do, by taking the best advice and using the prescribed means. His family, his kindred, in private asked life; his fellow-workers--and they were many--gathered in groups, and with hushed earnestness asked life. Friends to whom he was dear, young men whose prospects he had furthered, sailors whose interests he had guarded, widows whose store he had replenished, orphans to whom he had been as a father, joined in one deep though trembling utterance: they asked life for him. The day appointed for his serious operation came and went, the next day the report was favourable, and the next; with brightening hope we continued our plea, we asked for his life. And yet he died. In many hearts the shock of grief is mingled with the dull pain of disappointment.

What then? Hath the Lord forgotten to be gracious? Were these prayers unheard? Hearken to our text and judge whether a broader, fuller answer has not been vouchsafed to these prayers than we desired when we uttered them: “He asked life of Thee, and Thou gavest it him, even length of days for ever and ever.”

These words, if applicable in a sense to David, only reach their fulfilment in the Son of David. We have His experience depicted here; and in Him the experience of His children. “Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from Me.” To this conflict the Apostle refers when he says, in Hebrews v. 7: “In the days of His flesh, when He had offered up prayers and supplications with strong crying and tears unto Him that was able to save Him from death, He was heard in that He feared.” He was heard when He asked life, and yet He died. Through death He reached the “endless life,” “even length of days for ever and ever.”

Let us consider how, in the experience of His servant, the life we asked was given. Life was peculiarly characteristic of our friend. Some men vegetate; he lived. Intense, eager, sanguine, enthusiastic, his copious life flowed over into the beings of those he met. His presence often proved as a tonic or restorative to them.

But in sickness, and with the shadow darkening over him of what he well knew to be a terrible and perilous ordeal, did this life continue? I shall never forget the impression made upon my mind by his bearing an hour or two after the critical visit and consultation of four surgeons. The spokesman among them had frankly stated the true and grave nature of the case. I mentioned at his grave, but will repeat it now, that his reply was this, “Well, Doctor, that is an announcement that must come to each of us sooner or later, the great thing is, that it should find us resting on the Rock of our salvation.” When left alone with the partner of his joys and sorrows, his first word was this, “Then Mr. Samuel Smith must be communicated with at once about the Y. M. C. A.; they may need another trustee.” All this had taken place in the evening. At ten o’clock that night I went with a heavy heart to his bedside, and started to see his countenance not peaceful only, almost radiant. Even then his life knew no abatement. “We asked life, and God gave it him.” He said to me, “You know that a year ago I passed under a time of darkness. But God has chased that all away: and this (he added), _this_ is only physical. If you want to know my experience, you will find it in the 116th Psalm, verse by verse, step by step: ‘I love the Lord because He hath heard my voice and my supplications.’” And he repeated from memory the verses till he came to this, which he uttered with peculiar tenderness and delight, “I was brought low, and He helped me. Return unto thy rest, O my soul, for the Lord hath dealt bountifully with thee.” “He helped me,” he repeated, “and now it is all peace.”

I came away marvelling at his quiet fortitude and joy, yet thinking perhaps that the excitement of that evening had thrown him into an abnormal condition of mind which would pass away. It never passed away as long as he lived. He was full of keen interest in the themes that occupied his mind. About himself he spoke little, and that always with tranquil, happy trustfulness. But when he touched upon the young men of Liverpool, or the Sheltering Home for our city arabs, or the Bible in the elementary schools of the city, or his desire to have the new Gordon Institution for Boys based on a thoroughly Christian foundation, or a subject which occupied him much in his later weeks, the provision of a far ampler supply of milk for the working-classes, he glowed with all his old enthusiasm. So was it if the conversation turned on matters of public policy or the welfare of India, from which his friend, Mr. S. Smith, returned during his illness, and about which they talked together. I may mention, as singularly characteristic of the man, that when Mr. and Mrs. Smith left him on one of these occasions, he remarked, “I thought they would have come home in high spirits; did you not think them very much subdued to-day?” The weight that pressed upon their spirits when they saw their friend, did not seem to burden his own mind. A near relative, whose presence was an unspeakable solace to the family in the closing period of Mr. Balfour’s life, writes to me thus: “I was struck with his happiness during these last weeks. Every morning his jovial, cheery voice could be heard, as he played with the children; and he was in all points so completely natural, so entirely himself, that one could not fail to see that the near prospect of death made no appreciable change in his thought or conduct. He had lived so long in the unseen, that its near approach involved no sudden transition.” When his first warning came, no abrupt change was needed; no laying down of accustomed occupations or substitution of others, more fitting for the borders of eternity. He just pursued the work he was doing, and the thoughts he was thinking: he went on as he had done; he delighted, as was his wont, with singular relish in the society of his friends, he discussed his favourite plans--sometimes with a far-off look in his eye--he asked God’s blessing on all. Living as he had lived, the call found him watching. Here too we can say, “He asked life, and Thou gavest it him.”

The glory of God was the prevailing thought in his mind when the operation was about to be performed. The morning of the operation found him walking among the spring flowers of his garden, with a loved relative, and then writing letters to his friends. When all was prepared, in few and simple words, he bade his wife farewell. A surgeon--it was the same relative with whom he had just been walking in the garden--was about to administer an anæsthetic. “Wait a moment,” he said, “till my mind is in a right state.” After a solemn silence of a minute or two, “Now I am ready,” he said. And after he had begun to inhale the anæsthetic, in a loud voice he exclaimed, “Father, glorify Thy Name,” and again, and once again, repeated the same prayer. After the operation, feeble as he was, his words were sometimes words of prayer to his Father in heaven, sometimes words of love to his friends on earth. On any service rendered he would say, “Thank you, thank you; how kind you all are!” With his dying voice he begged his faithful nurse, who would not leave him day or night, to go out to get the fresh air. His last night was one of great weariness and distress. “This body of humiliation!” he was once heard to whisper; and often he was seen to be in prayer, though no more was distinctly heard than “for Jesus Christ’s sake,” repeated many times. He was not taken by surprise: in love to God and man he fell asleep. He was not, for God took him.