We took a deck passage for three shillings, in preference to paying twenty for the cabin, and having secured a vacant place near the chimney, kept it during the whole passage.  The waves were as rough in the Channel as I ever saw them in the Atlantic, and our boat was tossed about like a plaything.  By keeping still we escaped sickness, but we could not avoid the sight of the miserable beings who filled the deck.  Many of them spoke in the Irish tongue, and our German friend (the student whom I have already mentioned) noticed in many of the words a resemblance to his mother tongue.  I procured a bowl of soup from the steward, but as I was not able to eat it, I gave it to an old man whose hungry look and wistful eyes convinced me it would not be lost on him.  He swallowed it with ravenous avidity, together with a crust of bread, which was all I had to give him, and seemed for the time as happy and cheerful as if all his earthly wants were satisfied.

We passed by the foot of Goat Fell, a lofty mountain on the island of Arran, and sped on through the darkness past the hills of Bute, till we entered the Clyde.  We arrived at Greenock at one o’clock at night, and walking at random through its silent streets, met a policeman, whom we asked to show us where we might find lodgings.  He took my cousin and myself to the house of a poor widow, who had a spare bed which she let to strangers, and then conducted our comrade and the German to another lodging-place.

An Irish strolling musician, who was on board the Dumbarton boat, commenced playing soon after we left Greenock, and, to my surprise, struck at once into “Hail Columbia.”  Then he gave “the Exile of Erin,” with the most touching sweetness; and I noticed that always after playing any air that was desired of him, he would invariably return to the sad lament, which I never heard executed with more feeling.  It might have been the mild, soft air of the morning, or some peculiar mood of mind that influenced me, but I have been far less affected by music which would be considered immeasurably superior to his.  I had been thinking of America, and going up to the old man, I quietly bade him play “Home.”  It thrilled with a painful delight that almost brought tears to my eyes.  My companion started as the sweet melody arose, and turned towards me, his face kindling with emotion.

Dumbarton Rock rose higher and higher as we went up the Clyde, and before we arrived at the town I hailed the dim outline of Ben Lomond, rising far off among the highlands.  The town is at the head of a small inlet, a short distance from the rock, which was once surrounded by water.  We went immediately to the Castle.  The rock is nearly 500 feet high, and from its position and great strength as a fortress, has been called the Gibraltar of Scotland.  The top is surrounded with battlements, and the armory and barracks stand in a cleft between the two peaks.  We passed down a green lane, around the rock, and entered