It is a difficult task to sketch “the man in his habit as he lived,” but a few words may be written. The portrait which forms our frontispiece is almost life-like, with its thoughtful, quiet, and, if one looks carefully enough, intent and humorous face. In person he was small, but not too obviously so; fragile-looking, but yet compact and vital in appearance and movement; he had brown hair and beard, delicate features, deft and supple hands; he thought calmly, was a rapid, consistent, and persevering worker; what he began he finished. His writings have been pronounced by Dr E. A. Baker to possess unmistakable quality, although “he scoffed at the word ‘style’ as denoting some futile kind of verbal legerdemain” (I think he must have done so jokingly, as his own personal library showed that he was by no means blind to the qualities of literary expression). “Shrewd, practical common sense, rough on cranks and sentimentalists, unmerciful to muddlers, impervious to a good many ideas, but a steady assertor of those he had tried and approved--this was the stuff of Brown’s writing,” is Dr Baker’s estimate, and in the main it coincides with my own. His personal tastes may be inferred from his work. “He once told me,” writes Mr Aldred, “he knew three subjects only, viz., library economy, music, and Scotland. I forget the order in which he placed them. Being a Scotsman, probably Scotland came first. In many respects, however, J. D. B.’s knowledge was of the encyclopædic order--he appeared to know a little of any subject named.” In early life he was pronounced to be consumptive, but he told me, “I have lived to see the doctors who condemned me in their graves,” by careful living, and probably by sheer will power. But in his later years he had to meet many difficulties at Islington, where the libraries became the sport of a political party and he had a committee which was unable to assess his powers. It is useless to revive this now, but it probably helped to bring about his early death. He first became seriously ill in 1911, and with a few intervals, when we believed him to be practically himself again, he gradually weakened. In the last few months of his life a stay at Bournemouth was tried as a final resource, and here he read musical biography assiduously and maintained the keenest outlook upon all things; but no improvement ensued in his health, and he returned to London a dying man. The end came at his house, 15, Canonbury Park South, Islington, on 26th February 1914; and he was buried, amid every sign of regret and affection, at New Southgate Cemetery. His only memorial to the present are his works; I believe they will be an enduring one.