There are two ways of reaching the coast from Glasgow.  We may sail all the way down the Clyde, in steamers generally remarkably well-appointed and managed; or we may go by railway to Greenock, twenty-three miles off, and catch the steamer there.  By going by railway we save an hour,—­a great deal among people with whom emphatically time is money,—­and we escape a somewhat tedious sail down the river.  The steamer takes two hours to reach Greenock, while some express trains which run all the way without stopping, accomplish the distance in little more than half an hour.  The sail down the Clyde to Greenock is in parts very interesting.  The banks of the river are in some places richly wooded:  on the north side there are picturesque hills; and the huge rock on which stands the ancient castle of Dumbarton, is a striking feature.  But we have never met any Glasgow man or woman who did not speak of the sail between Glasgow and Greenock as desperately tedious, and by all means to be avoided.  Then in warm summer weather the Clyde is nearly as filthy as the Thames; and sailing over a sewer, even through fine scenery, has its disadvantages.  So we resolve to go with our friend by railway to Greenock, and thus come upon the Clyde where it has almost opened into the sea.  Quite opened into the sea, we might say:  for at Greenock the river is three miles broad, while at Glasgow it is only some three hundred yards.

‘Meet me at Bridge-street station at five minutes to four,’ says Mr. B—­, after we have agreed to spend a few days on the Clyde.  There are a couple of hours to spare, which we give to a basin of very middling soup at McLerie’s, and to a visit to the cathedral, which is a magnificent specimen of the severest style of Gothic architecture.  We are living at the Royal Hotel in George Square, which we can heartily recommend to tourists; and when our hour approaches, Boots brings us a cab.  We are not aware whether there is any police regulation requiring the cabs of Glasgow to be extremely dirty, and the horses that draw them to be broken-winded, and lame of not more than four nor less than two legs.  Perhaps it is merely the general wish of the inhabitants that has brought about the present state of things.  However this may be, the unhappy animal that draws us reaches Bridge-street station at last.  As our carriage draws up we catch a glimpse of half-a-dozen men, in that peculiar green dress which railway servants affect, hastening to conceal themselves behind the pillars which decorate the front of the building, while two or three excited ticket-porters seize our baggage, and offer to carry it up-stairs.  But our friend with Scotch foresight and economy, has told us to make the servants of the Company do thein work.  ‘Hands off,’ we say to the ticket-porters; and walking up the steps we round a pillar, and smartly tapping on the shoulder one of the green-dressed gentlemen lurking there, we indicate to him the locality of our port-manteau.  Sulkily he shoulders it, and