clever-looking, sailor-like men. As we sleep on board I am glad of this.
With Gonsalo I exclaim, "The wills above be done; but I had rather die a
dry death."

And now, after skirting the greater and the lesser Cumbraes, and the cave
where Bruce hid himself, &c., &c., we are coaling off Ardrossan,
apparently a busy town on the Ayrshire coast. I have been on shore, and
have seen no end of coal and lumber ships in the docks, and in the
streets are many shops with all the latest novelties from town, and with
ladies lounging in and out. I know I am in Scotland, as I hear the
bagpipes droning in the distance, and stop to judge the beef and mutton
exposed for sale at the shop of the nearest "flesher." On a hill behind
me is a monument which, the natives inform me, is in memory of Dr.
Mac-something, of whom I never heard, and respecting whom no one
apparently can tell me anything. I know further I am in Scotland, as I
see everywhere Presbyterian places of worship, and hear accents not
familiar to an English ear. I know also I am in Scotland, as I see no
gaudy public-house with superfine young ladies to attract my weak-kneed
brethren to the bar, but instead dull and dark houses, in which only sots
would care to go. I know I am in Scotland, because it is only there I
read of "self-contained houses" to let or sell; and as to Ardrossan in
particular, let me say that it is much frequented by the Glasgow
merchants in the season; that it, with its neighbour Saltcoats, supports
a _Herald_, published weekly for a penny; that from it, as a local poet
writes--

"We see bold Arran's mountains gray,
In dark sublimity, stand forth in grandeur day by day."

The poet speaks truly. As I write I see the heights of the Scottish
Alps, whose feet are fringed with the white villas of the Glasgow
merchants for miles, and washed by the romantic waters of the Clyde.

Anciently Ardrossan was a hamlet of miserable huts, says Mr. Murray--Mr.
Thomas, of Glasgow, not Mr. John, of London--gathered around an old
castle on Castle Hill, the scene of some of Wallace's daring
achievements, and destroyed by Cromwell. It was said to have belonged to
a warlock, known as the Deil of Ardrossan. The present town was
originated in 1806 as a seaport for Glasgow, but, like Port Glasgow,
proved a failure in this respect. It is, however, generally well filled
with shipping. The Pavilion, a residence of the Earl of Eglinton,
adjoins the tow