his
Latin, he would drop off sleeping and the book roll in the ashes; some
days he would drag his foot, others stumble in speaking. The amenity of
his behaviour appeared more extreme; full of excuses for the least
trouble, very thoughtful for all; to myself, of a most flattering
civility. One day, that he had sent for his lawyer, and remained a long
while private, he met me as he was crossing the hall with painful
footsteps, and took me kindly by the hand. "Mr. Mackellar," said he, "I
have had many occasions to set a proper value on your services; and
to-day, when I re-cast my will, I have taken the freedom to name you for
one of my executors. I believe you bear love enough to our house to
render me this service." At that very time he passed the greater portion
of his days in slumber, from which it was often difficult to rouse him;
seemed to have lost all count of years, and had several times
(particularly on waking) called for his wife and for an old servant
whose very gravestone was now green with moss. If I had been put to my
oath, I must have declared he was incapable of testing; and yet there
was never a will drawn more sensible in every trait, or showing a more
excellent judgment both of persons and affairs.

His dissolution, though it took not very long, proceeded by
infinitesimal gradations. His faculties decayed together steadily; the
power of his limbs was almost gone, he was extremely deaf, his speech
had sunk into mere mumblings; and yet to the end he managed to discover
something of his former courtesy and kindness, pressing the hand of any
that helped him, presenting me with one of his Latin books, in which he
had laboriously traced my name, and in a thousand ways reminding us of
the greatness of that loss which it might almost be said we had already
suffered. To the end, the power of articulation returned to him in
flashes; it seemed he had only forgotten the art of speech as a child
forgets his lesson, and at times he would call some part of it to mind.
On the last night of his life he suddenly broke silence with these words
from Virgil: "_Gnatique patrisque, alma, precor, miserere_," perfectly
uttered, and with a fitting accent. At the sudden clear sound of it we
started from our several occupations; but it was in vain we turned to
him; he sat there silent, and, to all appearance, fatuous. A little
later he was had to bed with more difficulty than ever before; and some
time in the night, without any mor