six o'clock
If an angel of light , a veritable ` Son of the Morning ' rebels , he must fall from Heaven . There is no alternative ; until of his own free-will he chooses to rise again . My friend and I had often talked together on these knotty points which tangled up what should be the straightness of many a life 's career , and as we mutually knew each other 's opinions we did not discuss them at the moment . Time passed quickly , -- the train rushed farther and farther north , and by six o'clock on that warm , sunshiny afternoon we were in the grimy city of Glasgow , from whence we went on to a still grimier quarter , Greenock , where we put up for the night . The ` best ' hotel was a sorry affair , but we were too tired to mind either a bad dinner or uncomfortable rooms , and went to bed glad of any place wherein to sleep . Next morning we woke up very early , refreshed and joyous , in time to see the sun rise in a warm mist of gold over a huge man-o ' - war outside Greenock harbour , -- a sight which , in its way , was very fine and rather suggestive of a Turner picture . `` Dear old Sol ! ''