Hawthorne’s first visit to London afforded him great pleasure, but he kept out of the way of literary people as much as possible.  He introduced himself to nobody, except Mr. ——­, whose assistance he needed, in order to be identified at the bank.  He wrote to me from 24 George Street, Hanover Square, and told me he delighted in London, and wished he could spend a year there.  He enjoyed floating about, in a sort of unknown way, among the rotund and rubicund figures made jolly with ale and port-wine.  He was greatly amused at being told (his informants meaning to be complimentary) “that he would never be taken for anything but an Englishman.”  He called Tennyson’s “Charge of the Light Brigade,” just printed at that time, “a broken-kneed gallop of a poem.”  He writes:—­

“John Bull is in high spirits just now at the taking of Sebastopol.  What an absurd personage John is!  I find that my liking for him grows stronger the more I see of him, but that my admiration and respect have constantly decreased.”

One of his most intimate friends (a man unlike that individual of whom it was said that he was the friend of everybody that did not need a friend) was Francis Bennoch, a merchant of Wood Street, Cheapside, London, the gentleman to whom Mrs. Hawthorne dedicated the English Note-Books.  Hawthorne’s letters abounded in warm expressions of affection for the man whose noble hospitality and deep interest made his residence in England full of happiness.  Bennoch was indeed like a brother to him, sympathizing warmly in all his literary projects, and giving him the benefit of his excellent judgment while he was sojourning among strangers.  Bennoch’s record may be found in Tom Taylor’s admirable life of poor Haydon, the artist.  All literary and artistic people who have had the good fortune to enjoy his friendship have loved him.  I happen to know of his bountiful kindness to Miss Mitford and Hawthorne and poor old Jerdan, for these hospitalities happened in my time; but he began to befriend all who needed friendship long before I knew him.  His name ought never to be omitted from the literary annals of England; nor that of his wife either, for she has always made her delightful fireside warm and comforting to her husband’s friends.

Many and many a happy time Bennoch, Hawthorne, and myself have had together on British soil.  I remember we went once to dine at a great house in the country, years ago, where it was understood there would be no dinner speeches.  The banquet was in honor of some society,—­I have quite forgotten what,—­but it was a jocose and not a serious club.  The gentleman who gave it, Sir ——­, was a most kind and genial person, and gathered about him on this occasion some of the brightest and best from London.  All the way down in the train Hawthorne was rejoicing that this was to be a dinner without speech-making; “for,” said he, “nothing would tempt me to go if toasts and such confounded deviltry were