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which I took passage—from Portrush, three miles

from the Causeway—carried us, along the north

coast of Ireland. The waves of the wild North Sea seem everywhere to have washed it to precipices. That of Fair Head is the most imposing cliff I have ever seen. I must not forget to mention the ruins of the Castle of Dunluce, on this coast, a little above the Causeway. It stands upon, and completely covers, a small island which is about twenty feet from the shore, and is now permanently joined to it by a stone bridge for foot passengers. This island is

itself a craggy precipice rising three hundred feet

from the water, and on the very verge of the precipice stand the castle walls. How impregnable it must have been may be easily judged. And yet it was once taken by a ladder of ropes; not, however, without treachery in the garrison. It has been the scene of much romantic story in the Antrim family—this name having been conferred, with an earldom, upon the family of Dunluce. An earl of Antrim married the wife of George Williers, duke of Buckingham. The castle is in ruins of course, but the forms of the rooms, the chimney flues, &c., are preserved. I found a usage prevailing on board the steamer which conveyed us to Glasgow, which

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GLASGOW STEAMER. 51

marks the difference between English institutions and ours.” Every steamboat, stage coach, and hotel has its aristocratic place de reserve. Those who occupied the quarter deck of this boat, paid, I think, four times as much for their passage, as those who stood two feet below them on the main deck. Were such an arrangement to be made in one of our boats, the end of it, I suppose, would be, that everybody would go on the quarter deck.

*I am told, however, that such a usage does prevail in the boats on the Mississippi.

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ence between objects of Romance and of real Life—Holyrood i

CHAPTER III. *

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As I took my place on the top of the coach at Glasgow for Edinburgh, I found a handsome young man seated opposite to me—a boy of twelve years and a modest looking Scotch girl, with eyes sparkling like diamonds, and a freckled cheek, which coloured and changed at every turn; and to whom the young gallant was evidently attempting to make himself agreeable. On the fore part of the coach sat a young fellow, who I soon saw was much given to ranting sentiment. We took up on the way a sturdy looking middle aged man, dressed in coarse but substantial broadcloth, who said, to my surprise, as he took his seat, “This is

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STAGE COACH CONVERSATION. 53

the first time I ever was on a coach.” What American that ever was dressed at all, could say that? However, this made up our dramatis personae; for we had a dialogue on the way, in which I took so much interest, that I shall record it. I forget how the conversation began, but I soon observed some sharp sparring between the gallant and the sentimentalist, in which the former was expressing some ideas of the strongest skeptical taint, and especially insisting that there was no life beyond the present. “Ay,” said the sentimentalist, “I know what you are; I have seen such as you before; you be. lieve nothing, and destroy everything. Do you believe there is a God?” - “Oh I certainly I don't deny that,” was the reply. - “Well,” said the other, “you'll find there is a God . yet, and you'll find what it is to die yet, and you'll see that after death cometh the judgment;” and he then, without much delicacy, warned the Scotch girl to beware of such a fellow. “You may talk,” said the gallant, “but you know nothing about it, and nobody knows anything about it. I know as much as you do, and that is nothing. There is a man dying ! Now look at

him. Everything that you know about him dies

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with him. His speech dies; his thoughts die; the man dies, and there is an end of him.” It was easy to see that our rustic fellow-traveller was very much shocked. He seemed never to have heard anything like this before. He was evi. dently a representative of the true homebred Scotch faith, who had duly learned his catechism in child. hood, and duly attended upon the kirk ever since, and never thought there was anything to be mentioned in religion, but the kirk and catechism. He looked this way, and that way, and shifted from side to side on his seat, and at length said, without addressing any one in particular, “I am sure this man does not know what he says; he is demented I’m thinking.” He then adverted to the little boy sitting by, and said that “he ought not to hear such things.” I have more than I wish I had, of the English aversion to taking part in conversation with strangers in a coach; but as I saw that both our rustic and ranter were rather failing and sinking before the firm assurance of the young skeptic, I thought I ought to speak. So I said to him, “You seem, from your confident assertions, to know much about death—what is death!” “Why, death,” said he—“what is death? Why

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