and yet to men worthy of it he could be heartily cordial and friendly.  The inscription on the stone erected to his memory at Cornell University is “Above all nations is humanity.”  In his thought any limitation of the sympathies within the comparatively narrow bounds of one country was a vice rather than a virtue, and no nation was worthy to endure which did not stand for the good of the world at large; into love for all humanity narrower affections should emerge.  He invited me to spend some days at the Grange at Toronto in his beautiful home, but circumstances made it impossible.  I am glad to have seen Goldwin Smith at Niagara; that majestic environment befitted the subduing stateliness of his presence, his intellect, power, and elevation of view.  He was one of the most exalted men I have ever known.

Of my friend Bishop Phillips Brooks, I hope to say something by-and-by.  I only mention now that when I asked him in 1886 for a letter or two to friends in England, whither I was going to collect material for a life of the colonial governor, he heartily said, “I will give you a letter to the best Englishman I know, and that is James Bryce.”

Arriving one July day in London, I posted my letter and received at once an invitation from Mr. Bryce to call upon him in Downing Street, where, as Under Secretary of State, he then made his official home.

Mark Twain’s tears over the grave of Adam, a relative buried in a strange land, all will recall.  On a basis as good perhaps, I walked through Downing Street with a certain sense of proprietorship, for did it not bear the name and had it not been the home of my brother in the pleasant Harvard bond, Sir George Downing, of the class of 1642?  In the ante-room with its upholstery of dark-green leather I mused for a few minutes alone, over diplomatic conferences of which it had probably been the scene, but Mr. Bryce quickly entered, slight and sinewy, in his best years, kindly, courteous to the man sent by a friend whom he held among the closest.  Bryce at that time was on the threshold of his fame.  He had written The Holy Roman Empire which I knew well.  He had been Regius Professor at Oxford, whose shades he had not long before forsaken for politics.  That he had a special interest in and knowledge of America, the world did not know.  He apologised for turning me off briefly then, but “Come to dinner,” said he, “at my house to-night in Bryanstone Square.”  I was prompt to keep the appointment.  A drizzle filtered through the night as the cab arrived at the door, but there was a cheery light in the windows and a warm welcome to the entering guest.  There were three or four besides myself; a young officer just home from the campaign in the Soudan, Dr. Richter the authority in music and art, and the brother and sister of the host.  I felt it a high distinction that I handed out to dinner the stately lady, the mother of my host.  The conversation was general.  Bits of African