The first time I ever saw Dr. Horatius Bonar was in May, 1872, when I was attending the Free Church General Assembly of Scotland as a delegate from the Presbyterian Church in the United States.  A warm discussion was going on in the Assembly anent proposals of union with the U.P. body, and the Anti-Unionists sat together on the left hand of the Moderator’s chair.  In the third row sat a short, broad-shouldered man with noble forehead and soft dark eyes.  But behind that benign countenance was a spirit as pugnacious in ecclesiastical controversy as that of the Roman Horatius “who kept the bridge in the brave days of old.”  I was glad to be introduced to him, for I was an enthusiastic admirer of his hymns, and I had a personal affection for his brother, Andrew, the author of the delightful “Life of M’Cheyne.”  Although Horatius had won his world-wide fame as a composer of hymns, he was, at that time, stoutly opposed to the use of anything but the old Scotch version of the Psalms in church worship.  During my address to the Assembly I said:  “We Presbyterians in America sing the good old psalms of David.”  At this point Dr. Bonar led in a round of applause, and then I continued:  “We also sing the Gospel of Jesus Christ as versified by Watts, Wesley, Cowper, Toplady and your own Horatius Bonar!" There was a burst of laughter, and then I rather mischievously added:  “My own people have the privilege, not accorded to my brother’s congregation, of singing his magnificent hymns.”  By this time the whole house came down in a perfect roar, and the confused blush on Bonar’s face puzzled us—­whether it was on account of the compliment, or on account of his own inconsistency.  However, before his death he consented to have his own congregation sing his own hymns, although it is said that two pragmatical elders rose and strode indignantly down the aisle of the church.

In August, 1889, when I was on a visit to Chillingham Castle, Lady Tankerville said to me:  “Our dear Bonar is dead.”  I left the next day for Edinburgh and reached there in time to bear an humble part in the funeral services.  On the day of his obsequies there was a tremendous downpour, which reminded me of the story of the Scotchman, who, on arriving in Australia, met one of his countrymen, who said to him:  “Hae ye joost come fra Scotland and is it rainin’ yet?” But in spite of the storm the Morningside Church, by the entrance to the Grange Cemetery, was well filled by a representative assembly.  The service was confined to the reading of the Scriptures, to two prayers and the singing of Bonar’s beautiful hymn, the last verse of which is

   “Broken Death’s dread hands that bound us,
   Life and victory around us;
   Christ the King Himself hath crown’d us,
   Ah, ’tis Heaven at last.”

As I was the only American present I was requested to close the service with a brief word of prayer; and I rode down to the Canongate Cemetery with grand old Principal John Cairns (who Dr. McCosh told me “had the best head in Scotland"), and Bonar’s colleague, the Rev. Mr. Sloane.  On our way to the place of burial Mr. Sloane told me that Bonar’s two finest hymns,