Before leaving for Russia I met a part of the American colony in London at a reception given by Mr. Lincoln, our Minister to England.  We gathered to celebrate the Fourth of July.  Mrs. Mackey, Mrs. Paran Stevens, Mrs. Bradley Martin, and Mrs. Bonynge received among others.  Phillips Brooks and myself were among the clerical contingent, with such Americans abroad as Colonel Tom Ochiltree, Buffalo Bill, General and Mrs. Williams, A.M.  Palmer, Mrs. New, the Consul-General’s wife, Mr. and Mrs. John Collins, Senators Farwell and McDonald.

While travelling in England I saw John Ruskin.  This fact contains more happiness to me than I can easily make people understand.  I wanted to see him more than any other man, crowned or uncrowned.  When I was in England at other times Mr. Ruskin was always absent or sick, but this time I found him.  I was visiting the Lake district of England, and one afternoon I took a drive that will be for ever memorable.  I said, “Drive out to Mr. Ruskin’s place,” which was some eight miles away.  The landlord from whom I got the conveyance said, “You will not be able to see Mr. Ruskin.  No one sees him or has seen him for years.”  Well, I have a way of keeping on when I start.  After an hour and a half of a delightful ride we entered the gates of Mr. Ruskin’s home.  The door of the vine-covered, picturesque house was open, and I stood in the hall-way.  Handing my card to a servant I said, “I wish to see Mr. Ruskin.”  The reply was, “Mr. Ruskin is not in, and he never sees anyone.”  Disappointed, I turned back, took the carriage and went down the road.  I said to the driver, “Do you know Mr. Ruskin when you see him?” “Yes,” said he; “but I have not seen him for years.”  We rode on a few moments, then the driver cried out to me, “There he comes now.”  In a minute we had arrived at where Mr. Ruskin was walking toward us.  I alighted, and he greeted me with a quiet manner and a genial smile.  He looked like a great man worn out; beard full and tangled; soft hat drawn down over his forehead; signs of physical weakness with determination not to show it.  His valet walked beside him ready to help or direct his steps.  He deprecated any remarks appreciatory of his wonderful services.  He had the appearance of one whose work is completely done, and is waiting for the time to start homeward.  He was in appearance more like myself than any person I ever saw, and if I should live to be his age the likeness will be complete.

I did not think then that Mr. Ruskin would ever write another paragraph.  He would continue to saunter along the English lane very slowly, his valet by his side, for a year or two, and then fold his hands for his last sleep.  Then the whole world would speak words of gratitude and praise which it had denied him all through the years in which he was laboriously writing “Modern Painters,” “The Seven Lamps of Architecture,” “The Stones of Venice,” and “Ethics of the Dust.”  We cannot imagine what the world’s literature would have been if Thomas Carlyle and John Ruskin had never entered it.  I shall never forget how in the early years of my ministry I picked up in Wynkoop’s store, in Syracuse, for the first time, one of Ruskin’s works.  I read that book under the trees, because it was the best place to read it.  Ruskin was the first great interpreter of the language of leaves, of clouds, of rivers, of lakes, of seas.