It Is Hardly Possible To Imagine A Nobler Site
For A Town Than That Of Edinburgh, And It Is Built As Nobly.
You stand on
the edge of the deep gulf which separates the old and the new town, and
before you on the opposite bank rise the picturesque buildings of the
ancient city -
"Piled deep and massy, close and high,"
looking, in their venerable and enduring aspect, as if they were parts of
the steep bank on which they stand, an original growth of the rocks; as
if, when the vast beds of stone crystallized from the waters, or cooled
from their fusion by fire, they formed themselves by some freak of nature
into this fantastic resemblance of the habitations of men. To the right
your eyes rest upon a crag crowned with a grand old castle of the middle
ages, on which guards are marching to and fro; and near you to the left,
rises the rocky summit of Carlton Hill, with its monuments of the great
men of Scotland. Behind you stretch the broad streets of the new town,
overlooked by massive structures, built of the stone of the Edinburgh
quarries, which have the look of palaces.
"Streets of palaces and walks of slate,"
form the new town. Not a house of brick or wood exists in Edinburgh; all
are constructed of the excellent and lasting stone which the earth
supplies almost close to their foundations. High and solid bridges of this
material, with broad arches, connect the old town with the new, and cross
the deep ravine of the Cowgate in the old town, at the bottom of which you
see a street between prodigiously high buildings, swarming with the poorer
population of Edinburgh.
From almost any of the eminences of the town you see spread below you its
magnificent bay, the Frith of Forth, with its rocky islands; and close to
the old town rise the lofty summits of Arthur's Seat and Salisbury Crag, a
solitary, silent, mountainous district, without habitations or inclosures,
grazed by flocks of sheep. To the west flows Leith-water in its deep
valley, spanned by a noble bridge, and the winds of this chilly climate
that strike the stately buildings of the new town, along the cliffs that
border this glen, come from the very clouds. Beyond the Frith lie the
hills of Fifeshire; a glimpse of the blue Grampian ridges is seen where
the Frith contracts in the northwest to a narrow channel, and to the
southwest lie the Pentland hills, whose springs supply Edinburgh with
water. All around you are places the names of which are familiar names of
history, poetry, and romance.
From this magnificence of nature and art, the transition was painful to
what I saw of the poorer population. On Saturday evening I found myself at
the market, which is then held in High-street and the Netherbow, just as
you enter the Canongate, and where the old wooden effigy of John Knox,
with staring black eyes, freshly painted every year, stands in its pulpit,
and still seems preaching to the crowd.
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