He was so different in style and finish from the tall, pale,
spiritual Henry Bright (whom my mother speaks of as "shining like a
star" during an inspiring sermon) that I almost went to sleep in the
unending effort to understand why God made so sharp a variety in
types. Mr. Bennoch wrote more poetry than Mr. Bright did, even, and
he took delight in breathing the same air with writers. But he himself
had no capacity more perfected than that of chuckling like a whole
brood of chickens at his own jokes as well as those of others. The
point of his joke might be obscure to us, but the chuckle never failed
to satisfy. He was a source of entire rest to the dark-browed,
deep-eyed thinker who smiled before him. The only anecdote of Mr.
Bennoch which I remember is of a Scotchman who, at an inn, was
wandering disconsolately about the parlor while his dinner was being
prepared. A distinguished traveler--Dickens, I think--was dashing off
a letter at the centre-table, describing the weather and some of the
odd fellows he had observed in his travels. "And," he wrote, "there
is in the room at the present moment a long, lank, red-headed,
empty-brained nincompoop, who looks as if he had not eaten a square
meal for a month, and is stamping about for his dinner. Now he
approaches me as I sit writing, and I hear his step pause behind my
chair. The fool is actually looking over my shoulder, and reading
these words"--A torrent of Scotch burst forth right here: "It's a lee,
sir,--it's a lee! I never read a worrd that yer wrort!" Screams from
us; while Mr.
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