I first met him at Norwich where we took part in a Bible Meeting, and in the course of my remarks I spoke of “sinking ecclesiastical differences” on such an occasion. Dr. Magee, then Dean of Cork, made an amusing reference to this, and repeated it with kindness and humour the next day, as we travelled together by rail to London. We talked incessantly and at the end he pressed me to visit him at Cork. Several years passed without our meeting, and then at a funeral service in Westminster Abbey, he kindly accosted me, saying, that as I had not been to see him at Cork, I must go and see him at Peterborough, where, not long before, he had been appointed bishop. Several visits followed, which I greatly enjoyed. My impression of him as a brilliant talker, which I received on our journey from Norwich to London, was now increased, and nothing could exceed his hospitality and that of his amiable wife and daughters. We had several drives; and one day we sat down together in a picturesque churchyard to discuss ecclesiastical questions, where, as he said, the associations and “_genius loci_” were on his side. I forget altogether what passed between us, beyond a series of _pros_ and _cons_, and can only say that we finished as we began—he a Churchman, I a Nonconformist, but both good friends. Once when I was at Peterborough I heard him preach in the Cathedral for the Bible Society, on the jubilee of the auxiliary, when he took for his text two passages: “Is not this the carpenter’s son?” “The Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us, and we beheld His glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth.” He admirably brought out the Divine and human sides of our blessed Lord’s personality and then presented this as being in harmony with the Divine and human elements in Holy Writ. As is well known, he did not use a MS. in the pulpit; nor, as he told me, was he in the habit of _writing_ his sermons beforehand. He seems to have had the gift of mental composition, and also of expressing himself extemporaneously in felicitous diction and with quiet ease. Nor was he at all verbose, as many fluent speakers are. He could tell a story as few people can, sparkling with humour, and distinct in point. I remember two he told of Dean Mansel. Taking a lady round St. Paul’s, she paused to look at a figure of Neptune with his _trident_, remarking that she was shocked at seeing in a church such heathen mythology. “Why,” rejoined the Dean, “that looks more like _Tridentine_ theology.” At a public dinner, after a toast to Reform—the word on the paper had an _e_ at the end—“Reform,” the Dean remarked, “often ended in an _émeute_.”