constantly planning a day's happiness for his friend, and the hours at
that pleasant season of the year were not long enough for our delights.
In London we strolled along the Strand, day after day, now diving into
Bolt Court, in pursuit of Johnson's whereabouts, and now stumbling
around the Temple, where Goldsmith at one time had his quarters.
Hawthorne was never weary of standing on London Bridge, and watching
the steamers plying up and down the Thames. I was much amused by his
manner towards importunate and sometimes impudent beggars, scores of
whom would attack us even in the shortest walk. He had a mild way of
making a severe and cutting remark, which used to remind me of a little
incident which Charlotte Cushman once related to me. She said a man in
the gallery of a theatre (I think she was on the stage at the time) made
such a disturbance that the play could not proceed. Cries of "Throw him
over" arose from all parts of the house, and the noise became furious.
All was tumultuous chaos until a sweet and gentle female voice was heard
in the pit, exclaiming, "No! I pray you don't throw him over! I beg of
you, dear friends, don't throw him over, but--_kill him where he is_."

One of our most royal times was at a parting dinner at the house of
Barry Cornwall. Among the notables present were Kinglake and Leigh Hunt.
Our kind-hearted host and his admirable wife greatly delighted in
Hawthorne, and they made this occasion a most grateful one to him. I
remember when we went up to the drawing-room to join the ladies after
dinner, the two dear old poets, Leigh Hunt and Barry Cornwall, mounted
the stairs with their arms round each other in a very tender and loving
way. Hawthorne often referred to this scene as one he would not have
missed for a great deal.

His renewed intercourse with Motley in England gave him peculiar
pleasure, and his genius found an ardent admirer in the eminent