We passed the Giant's Causeway after dark, and about eleven o'clock
reached the harbor of Port Rush, where, after stumbling up a strange old
street, in the dark, we found a little inn, and soon forgot the Irish
Coast and everything else.

In the morning when we arose it was raining, with little prospect of
fair weather, but having expected nothing better, we set out on foot for
the Causeway. The rain, however, soon came down in torrents, and we were
obliged to take shelter in a cabin by the road-side. The whole house
consisted of one room, with bare walls and roof, and earthen floor,
while a window of three or four panes supplied the light. A fire of peat
was burning on the hearth, and their breakfast, of potatoes alone, stood
on the table. The occupants received us with rude but genuine
hospitality, giving us the only seats in the room to sit upon; except a
rickety bedstead that stood in one corner and a small table, there was
no other furniture in the house. The man appeared rather intelligent,
and although he complained of the hardness of their lot, had no sympathy
with O'Connell or the Repeal movement.

We left this miserable hut, as soon as it ceased raining--and, though
there were many cabins along the road, few were better than this. At
length, after passing the walls of an old church, in the midst of older
tombs, we saw the roofless towers of Dunluce Castle, on the sea-shore.
It stands on an isolated rook, rising perpendicularly two hundred feet
above the sea, and connected with the cliffs of the mainland by a narrow
arch of masonry. On the summit of the cliffs were the remains of the
buildings where the ancient lords kept their vassals. An old man, who
takes care of it for Lord Antrim, on whose property it is situated,
showed us the way down to the castle. We walked across the narrow arch,