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