A Journey to London in 1840. 137 



birthplace, the abode, the last resting spot of genius and learning. 

 I would rather be a Homer than an Alexander, a Milton than a 

 Cromwell, a Scott than a Wellington. 



After having slept soundly I arose next morning at about 

 seven o'clock, when I found that the vessel was halfway between 

 the Isle of Man and Liverpool, in other words we were within a 

 few hours of our destination. The morning was beautiful. 

 Satisfaction seemed to beam on every countenance. Breakfast 

 was at nine, but was soon discussed as every person was anxious 

 to retain a distinct impression of what could be seen or what 

 might take place. Now reserve was banished for the first time. 

 Everybody talked with his neighbour, and acquaintanceship and 

 familiarity were general. We all felt at home and all happv and 

 unsuspecting. We learned, or rather inferred, that all had been 

 willing to converse, but that none liked to begin, and there 

 seemed to have been no citizen of the world on board who could 

 break through the .silence and lead the conversation. But the 

 passengers had no sooner laid all restraint aside than they had to 

 part. ' We got into the Clarence Dock at Liverpool at twelve 

 o'clock noon exactly, liaving been 23| hours on the passage; or 

 exclusive of a stoppage of an hour at Greenock taking goods on 

 board 22^ hours. The time from Greenock to Liverpool had 

 occupied a little more than 20 hours. I believe the passage has 

 been accomplished in three hours less. Three gentlemen and I 

 jfiined and hired a cab, which took us, including our luggage, 

 to the Wellington Hotel, Dale Street, for sixpence each. On 

 arriving at this elegant hostelry we found that there was daily a 

 table d'hote at half-jiast one, and though we had not break- 

 fasted till nine we resolved to dine with mine host at that early 

 hour. Meanwhile, after drinking a bottle of soda water, I sat 

 down to address a letter to my sister-in-lav/, Mrs Andrew Murray, 

 Jamaica, which was to accompany the miniature portraits of her 

 two children, Jessie and William, who live under my roof in 

 Edinburgh. I had not proceeded far with my epistle till dinner 

 was announced. The room in which we dined was large and a 

 table was spread which would have accommodated about thirty 

 guests. My steamboat companions and I formed at first the 

 whole company, but one after another dropped in till the party 

 numbered eleven or twelve. They were all men in business, 

 who, as is customary in the great commercial towns in England, 



