tion and charm of manner, his
humour, and his unfailing sympathy and encouragement, made one feel
toward him as to a familiar friend, yet, of his actual life I saw but
little, and have few reminiscences to contribute. One can only speak of
that singular geniality of his, that temper of goodness and natural
tolerance and affection, which, as Scotsmen best know, is not universal
among the Scots. Our race does not need to pray, like the mechanic in
the story, that Providence will give us "a good conceit of ourselves."
But we must acknowledge that the Scotch temper is critical if not
captious, argumentative, inclined to look at the seamy side of men and of
their performances, and to dwell on imperfections rather than on merits
and virtues. An example of these blemishes of the Scotch disposition,
carried to an extreme degree in the nature of a man of genius, is offered
to the world in the writings and "Reminiscences" of Mr. Carlyle.

Now, Dr. John Brown was at the opposite pole of feeling. He had no
mawkish toleration of things and people intolerable, but he preferred not
to turn his mind that way. His thoughts were with the good, the wise,
the modest, the learned, the brave of times past, and he was eager to
catch a reflection of their qualities in the characters of the living, of
all with whom he came into contact. He was, for example, almost
optimistic in his estimate of the work of young people in art or
literature. From everything that was beautiful or good, from a summer
day by the Tweed, or from the eyes of a child, or from the humorous
saying of a friend, or from treasured memories of old Scotch worthies,
from recollections of his own childhood, from experience of the stoical
heroism of the poor, he seemed to extract matter for pleasant thoughts of
men and the world, and nourishment for his own great and gentle nature. I
have never known any man to whom other men seemed so dear--men dead, and
men living. He gave his genius to knowing them, and to making them
better known, and his unselfishness thus became not only a great personal
virtue, but a great literary charm. When you met him, he had some "good
story" or some story of goodness to tell--for both came alike to him, and
his humour was as unfailing as his kindness. There was in his face a
singular charm, blended, as it were, of the expressions of mirth and of
patience. Being most sensitive to pain, as well as to pleasure, he was
an exception to that rul