Note 190 — Chapter XXX · 1868.

These pastoral conferences—horæ vespertinæ they might be called, held as they were mostly in the autumnal twilight, on what seemed to be for us the utmost verge of time—were peculiarly interesting and solemn to myself, as they were always most cordially welcomed also by Mr. Buchanan. There was no reserve or hesitation in his manner. His habitual diplomatic caution was gone. At the same time there was no excitement or agitation in his mind. He was perfectly calm, and had no fear of death whatever. Still it was full before him, and he had no disposition to hide from himself its awful presence. He wished to be talked with as a man who felt himself to be on the borders of the eternal world, and who was fully awake to the dread issues of the life to come. But with all this, his spirit abode in quiet confidence and peace, and the ground of his trust throughout was the mercy of God through the righteousness of Jesus Christ. There was nothing like enthusiasm, of course, in his experience; the general nature of the man made that impossible. His religion showed itself rather in the form of fixed trust in God, thankfulness for His past mercy, and general resignation to His holy will. In these twilight hours, thus circumstanced, it could not be but that central regard was had continually to the person of Jesus Christ, and the significance of the Christian redemption as comprehended in the idea of His coming in the flesh. This Christological way of looking at the gospel was in some measure new to Mr. Buchanan, or at least it had not taken hold of his mind, as he confessed, in the same manner before. Now, however, it gave him great satisfaction, and he considered it one special benefit of his sickness, that it had taught him to see in the simple exercise of “looking to Jesus” what he found to be, for himself, at least, the most consoling and the most strengthening practice of Christian faith.