this country.  On my arrival in Edinburgh, July, 1862, he called on me at the Waverly Hotel and invited me to breakfast with him.  He had the fair Saxon features of Scotland, with a smile like a Summer morning.  Not tall in stature, his head was somewhat bald, and he bore a striking resemblance to our ex-President, Van Buren.  He showed me in his house some choice literary treasures; among them a little Greek Testament, given to his great-grandfather, the famous John Brown, of Haddington, the eminent commentator.  Its history was curious:  Brown of, Haddington, was a poor shepherd boy, and once he walked twenty miles through the night to St. Andrews to get a copy of the Greek Testament.  The book-seller at first laughed at him and said:  “Boy, if you can read a verse in this book, you may have it.”  Forthwith the lad read the verse off glibly, and was permitted to carry off the Testament in triumph.  You may well suppose that the little volume is a sacred heirloom in the Brown family, which for four generations has been famous.  Of course, the author of “Rab and His Friends” had several pictures of the illustrious dog that figured in his beautiful story, and I noticed a pet spaniel lying on the sofa in the drawing room.  A day or two after, Dr. Brown called on me, and kindly took me on a drive with him through Edinburgh; and it was pleasant to see how the people on the sidewalk had cheery salutes for the author of “Rab” as he rode by.  We went up to Calton Hill and made a call on Sir George Harvey, the famous artist, whom we found in his studio, with brush in hand, and working on an Highland landscape.  Sir George was a hearty old fellow, and the two friends had a merry “crack” together.  When I asked Harvey if he had seen any of our best American paintings, he replied “No, I have not; the best American productions I have ever seen have been some of your missionaries.  I met some of them; they were noble characters.”  On our return from the drive Dr. Brown gave me an elegant edition of “Rab,” with Harvey’s portrait of the immortal dog, whose body was thickset like a little bull, and who had “fought his way to absolute supremacy,—­like Julius Caesar or the Duke of Wellington.”

When in Edinburgh ten years afterwards, as a delegate to the General Assemblies, I was so constantly occupied that I was able to see but little of my genial friend, Dr. Brown.  I sent him a copy of the little book, “The Empty Crib,” which had been recently published, and received from him the following characteristic reply: 

     25 RUTLAND STREET, EDINBURGH, May 25, 1872.

     My Dear Dr. Cuyler

Very many thanks for your kind note, and the little book.  It will be my own fault if I am not the better for reading it.  I have seen nothing lovelier or more touching than the pictures of those twin heads “like unto the angels”; even there Georgie looks nearer the better world than his brother.  There is something perilous about his eyes with their