to meet Bennoch, who had asked me thither to dine with him. I had never
visited Manchester before, though now so long resident within twenty
miles of it; neither is it particularly worth visiting, unless for the
sake of its factories, which I did not go to see. It is a dingy and
heavy town, with very much the aspect of Liverpool, being, like the
latter, built almost entirely within the present century. I stopped at
the Albion Hotel, and, as Bennoch was out, I walked forth to view the
city, and made only such observations as are recorded above. Opposite
the hotel stands the Infirmary,--a very large edifice, which, when
erected, was on the outskirts, or perhaps in the rural suburbs, of the
town, but it is now almost in its centre. In the enclosed space before
it stands the statue of Peel, and sits a statue of Dr. Dalton, the
celebrated chemist, who was a native of Manchester.
Returning to the hotel, I sat down in the room where we were to dine, and
in due time Bennoch made his appearance, with the same glow and friendly
warmth in his face that I had left burning there when we parted in
London. If this man has not a heart, then no man ever had. I like him
inexpressibly for his heart and for his intellect, and for his flesh and
blood; and if he has faults, I do not know them, nor care to know them,
nor value him the less if I did know them. He went to his room to dress;
and in the mean time a middle-aged, dark man, of pleasant aspect, with
black hair, black eyebrows, and bright, dark eyes came in, limping a
little, but not much. He seemed not quite a man of the world, a little
shy in manner, yet he addressed me kindly and sociably. I guessed him to
be Mr. Charles Swain, the poet, whom Mr. Bennoch had invited to dinner.
Soon came another guest whom Mr. Swain introduced to me as Mr. ------,
editor of the Manchester Examiner. Then came Bennoch, who made us all
regularly acquainted, or took for granted that we were so; and lastly
appeared a Mr. W------, a merchant in Manchester, and a very intelligent
man; and the party was then complete. Mr. Swain, the poet, is not a man
of fluent conversation; he said, indeed, very little, but gave me the
impression of amiability and simplicity of character, with much feeling.
Mr. W------ is a very sensible man. He has spent two or three years in
America, and seems to have formed juster conclusions about us than most
of his countrymen do. He is the only Englishman, I think, whom I have
met, who fairly acknowledges that the English do cherish doubt, jealousy,
suspicion, in short, an unfriendly feeling, towards the Americans. It is
wonderful how every American, whatever class of the English he mingles
with, is conscious of this feeling, and how no Englishman, except this
sole Mr. W------, will confess it. He expressed some very good ideas,
too, about the English and American press, and the reasons why the Times
may fairly be taken as the exponent of British feeling towards us, while
the New York Herald, immense as its circulation is, can be considered, in
no similar degree or kind, the American exponent.
We sat late at table, and after the other guests had retired, Bennoch and
I had some very friendly talk, and he proposed that on my wife's return
we should take up our residence in his house at Blackheath, while Mrs.
Bennoch and himself were absent for two months on a trip to Germany. If
his wife and mine ratify the idea, we will do so.
The next morning we went out to see the Exchange, and whatever was
noticeable about the town. Time being brief, I did not visit the
cathedral, which, I believe, is a thousand years old. There are many
handsome shops in Manchester; and we went into one establishment, devoted
to pictures, engravings, and decorative art generally, which is most
perfect and extensive. The firm, if I remember, is that of the Messrs.
Agnew, and, though originating here, they have now a house in London.
Here I saw some interesting objects, purchased by them at the recent sale
of the Rogers collection; among other things, a slight pencil and
water-color sketch by Raphael. An unfinished affair, done in a moment,
as this must have been, seems to bring us closer to the hand that did it
than the most elaborately painted picture can. Were I to see the
Transfiguration, Raphael would still be at the distance of centuries.
Seeing this little sketch, I had him very near me. I know not why,--
perhaps it might be fancied that he had only laid down the pencil for an
instant, and would take it up again in a moment more. I likewise saw a
copy of a handsome, illustrated edition of Childe Harold, presented by
old John Murray to Mr. Rogers, with an inscription on the fly-leaf,
purporting that it was a token of gratitude from the publisher, because,
when everybody else thought him imprudent in giving four hundred guineas
for the poem, Mr. Rogers told him it would turn out the best bargain he
ever made.
There was a new picture by Millais, the distinguished Pre-Raphaelite
artist, representing a melancholy parting between two lovers. The lady's
face had a great deal of sad and ominous expression; but an old brick
wall, overrun with foliage, was so exquisitely and elaborately wrought
that it was hardly possible to look at the personages of the picture.
Every separate leaf of the climbing and clustering shrubbery was
painfully made out; and the wall was reality itself, with the
weather-stains, and the moss, and the crumbling lime between the bricks.
It is not well to be so perfect in the inanimate, unless the artist can
likewise make man and woman as lifelike, and to as great a depth, too, as
the Creator does.
Bennoch left town for some place in Yorkshire, and I for Liverpool. I
asked him to come and dine with me at the Adelphi, meaning to ask two or
three people to meet him; but he had other engagements, and could not
spare a day at present, though he promises to come before long.
Dining at Mr. Rathbone's one evening last week (May 21st), it was
mentioned that