the past, with the famous beauties who have stood behind the footlights and the splendid audiences that have sat before them, that it is an admirable nucleus for remembrances to cluster around.  It was but a vague spot in memory before, but now it is a bright centre for other images of the past.  That one evening seems to make me the possessor of all its traditions from the time when it rose from its ashes, when Byron’s poem was written and recited, and when the brothers Smith gave us the “Address without a Phoenix,” and all those exquisite parodies which make us feel towards their originals somewhat as our dearly remembered Tom Appleton did when he said, in praise of some real green turtle soup, that it was almost as good as mock.

With much regret we gave up an invitation we had accepted to go to Durdans to dine with Lord Rosebery.  We must have felt very tired indeed to make so great a sacrifice, but we had to be up until one o’clock getting ready for the next day’s journey; writing, packing, and attending to what we left behind us as well as what was in prospect.

On the morning of Wednesday, June 16th, Dr. Donald Macalister called to attend us on our second visit to Cambridge, where we were to be the guests of his cousin, Alexander Macalister, Professor of Anatomy, who, with Mrs. Macalister, received us most cordially.  There was a large luncheon-party at their house, to which we sat down in our travelling dresses.  In the evening they had a dinner-party, at which were present, among others, Professor Stokes, President of the Royal Society, and Professor Wright.  We had not heard much talk of political matters at the dinner-tables where we had been guests, but A——­ sat near a lady who was very earnest in advocating the Irish side of the great impending question.

The 17th of June is memorable in the annals of my country.  On that day of the year 1775 the battle of Bunker’s Hill was fought on the height I see from the window of my library, where I am now writing.  The monument raised in memory of our defeat, which was in truth a victory, is almost as much a part of the furniture of the room as its chairs and tables; outside, as they are inside, furniture.  But the 17th of June, 1886, is memorable to me above all the other anniversaries of that day I have known.  For on that day I received from the ancient University of Cambridge, England, the degree of Doctor of Letters, “Doctor Litt.,” in its abbreviated academic form.  The honor was an unexpected one; that is, until a short time before it was conferred.

Invested with the academic gown and cap, I repaired in due form at the appointed hour to the Senate Chamber.  Every seat was filled, and among the audience were youthful faces in large numbers, looking as if they were ready for any kind of outbreak of enthusiasm or hilarity.

The first degree conferred was that of LL.D., on Sir W. A. White, G.C.M., G.C.B., to whose long list of appended initials it seemed like throwing a perfume on the violet to add three more letters.