secondly, because we shall otherwise mutually lose the pleasure of each other’s company.  Besides, I consider it my duty, towards Ticknor and towards Boston, and America at large, to take you into custody and bring you home; for I know you will never come except upon compulsion.  Let me know at once whether I am to use force.

“The book (The Marble Faun) has done better than I thought it would; for you will have discovered, by this time, that it is an audacious attempt to impose a tissue of absurdities upon the public by the mere art of style of narrative.  I hardly hoped that it would go down with John Bull; but then it is always my best point of writing, to undertake such a task, and I really put what strength I have into many parts of this book.

“The English critics generally (with two or three unimportant exceptions) have been sufficiently favorable, and the review in the Times awarded the highest praise of all.  At home, too, the notices have been very kind, so far as they have come under my eye.  Lowell had a good one in the Atlantic Monthly, and Hillard an excellent one in the Courier; and yesterday I received a sheet of the May number of the Atlantic containing a really keen and profound article by Whipple, in which he goes over all my works, and recognizes that element of unpopularity which (as nobody knows better than myself) pervades them all.  I agree with almost all he says, except that I am conscious of not deserving nearly so much praise.  When I get home, I will try to write a more genial book; but the Devil himself always seems to get into my inkstand, and I can only exorcise him by pensful at a time.

“I am coming to London very soon, and mean to spend a fortnight of next month there.  I have been quite homesick through this past dreary winter.  Did you ever spend a winter in England?  If not, reserve your ultimate conclusion about the country until you have done so.”

We met in London early in May, and, as our lodgings were not far apart, we were frequently together.  I recall many pleasant dinners with him and mutual friends in various charming seaside and country-side places.  We used to take a run down to Greenwich or Blackwall once or twice a week, and a trip to Richmond was always grateful to him.  Bennoch was 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