358 MEMOIR OF JOHN WILSON. 



' Vernon' in a jingle ; and I hear that we sail to-morrow (Saturday, 

 the 15th), at five o'clock a. m. Indeed, Sir F. Collier told me so 

 before I left the ship. I thought it would or might seem unkind 

 not to see Grace when I was in Ireland, and therefore I travelled 

 160 miles for that purpose, being with them just twenty hours. 

 You must not be incensed with the shortness of this letter, for you 

 must perceive that I have been in a dreadful racket. I intend 

 writing another letter to Sym on our way up to Portsmouth ; but 

 do not say any thing about it. If your letter has come thus far, it 

 will be lying for me to-night on board the ' Vernon.' Tenderest 

 love to the Graces, and also to the lads at Elleray. I hope you will 

 be kind to the old man on his return — all of you. Yours ever, most 

 affectionately, John Wilson." 



" Union Hotel, Charing Cross, 

 Tuesday Afternoon, September 25tt, 1832. 



" My dearest Jane : — The ' Vernon' anchored at Spithead this 

 day week, and the day following I wrote to Sym, who would tell 

 you of my welfare. I got your Cork letter on the Thursday, and 

 on Friday I bade farewell to the ' Varmint' (as she is called), and 

 dined on shore with the William ses, who have a house at Ports- 

 mouth. That night I took coach to London, where I arrived 

 about six o'clock, and went to bed for some hours. I found your 

 letter lying for me soon after breakfast, and was rejoiced to find 

 you were all well. On Saturday, Dr. Maginn dined.with me ; and 

 on Sunday I called on Mrs. S. C. Hall and husband, Miss Landon, 

 and Thomas Campbell, with the last, not least, of whom I passed 

 the evening. There is a Captain Cory ton (of the Marines) on board 

 the ' Vernon,' whose wife and family five at Woolwich. I promised 

 to call on them to tell them about him, and his mode of life, and 

 did so on Monday, having walked thither and back (about twenty 

 miles). He is to be absent for three years in South America. I 

 returned to London by seven, and dined with a German Baron, 

 whose name I can neither spell nor pronounce, a Polish Patriot, 

 (not Shirma), and a French royalist. On Tuesday, that is, this day*> 

 after some business connected with my cruise, I called on Mrs. 

 Jamieson, author of King Charles's Beauties. She is very clever, 

 middle-aged, red-haired, and agreeable, though I suspect you would 

 call her a conceited minx. She is to send some Italian airs to 



