visible at one extremity.  To the south of it, and barely distinguishable, so completely was it blended in hue with the veiling cloud, loomed up a lofty mountain.  I shall never forget the sight!  As we drew nearer, the dim and soft outline it first wore, was broken into a range of crags, with lofty precipices jutting out to the sea, and sloping off inland.  The white wall of the light-house shone in the morning’s light, and the foam of the breakers dashed up at the foot of the airy cliffs.  It was worth all the troubles of a long voyage, to feel the glorious excitement which this herald of new scenes and new adventures created.  The light-house was on Tory Island, on the north-western coast of Ireland.  The Captain decided on taking the North Channel, for, although rarely done, it was in our case nearer, and is certainly more interesting than the usual route.

We passed the Island of Ennistrahul, near the entrance of Londonderry harbor, and at sunset saw in the distance the islands of Islay and Jura, off the Scottish coast.  Next morning we were close to the promontory of Fairhead, a bold, precipitous headland, like some of the Palisades on the Hudson; the highlands of the Mull of Cantire were on the opposite side of the Channel, and the wind being ahead, we tacked from shore to shore, running so near the Irish coast, that we could see the little thatched huts, stacks of peat, and even rows of potatoes in the fields.  It was a panorama:  the view extended for miles inland, and the fields of different colored grain were spread out before us, a brilliant mosaic.  Towards evening we passed Ailsa Crag, the sea-bird’s home, within sight, though about twenty miles distant.

On Sunday, the 28th, we passed the lofty headland of the Mull of Galloway and entered the Irish Sea.  Here there was an occurrence of an impressive nature.  A woman, belonging to the steerage, who had been ill the whole passage, died the morning before.  She appeared to be of a very avaricious disposition, though this might indeed have been the result of self-denial, practised through filial affection.  In the morning she was speechless, and while they were endeavoring to persuade her to give up her keys to the captain, died.  In her pocket were found two parcels, containing forty sovereigns, sewed up with the most miserly care.  It was ascertained she had a widowed mother in the north of Ireland, and judging her money could be better applied than to paying for a funeral on shore, the captain gave orders for committing the body to the waves.  It rained drearily as her corpse, covered with starred bunting, was held at the gangway while the captain read the funeral service; then one plunge was heard, and a white object, flashed up through the dark waters, as the ship passed on.