[1745-1845.]
[Illustration: Fortified Gate,
Nether Bow Port, from Canongate.]
Edinburgh was, at the beginning of George III.’s reign, a picturesque,
odorous, inconvenient, old-fashioned town, of about seventy thousand
inhabitants. It had no court, no factories, no commerce; but there
was a nest of lawyers in it, attending upon the Court of Session; and
a considerable number of the Scotch gentry—one of whom then passed
as rich with a thousand a year—gave it the benefit of their presence
during the winter. Thus the town had lived for some ages, during
which political discontent and division had kept the country poor. A
stranger approaching the city, seeing it piled ‘close and massy, deep
and high’—a series of towers, rising from a palace on the plain to
a castle in the air—would have thought it a truly romantic place;
and the impression would not have subsided much on a near inspection,
when he would have found himself admitted by a fortified gate through
an ancient wall, still kept in repair. Even on entering the one old
street of which the city chiefly consisted, he would have seen much
to admire—houses of substantial architecture and lofty proportions,
mingled with more lowly, but also more arresting wooden fabrics; a
huge and irregular, but venerable Gothic church, surmounted by an
aërial crown of masonry; finally, an esplanade towards the Castle,
from which he could have looked abroad upon half a score of counties,
upon firth and fell, yea, even to the blue Grampians. Everywhere he
would have seen symptoms of denseness of population; the open street a
universal market; a pell-mell of people everywhere. The eye would have
been, upon the whole, gratified, whatever might be the effect of the
_clangor strepitusque_ upon the ear, or whatever might have been the
private meditations of the nose. It would have only been on coming to
close quarters, or to quarters at all, that our stranger would have
begun to think of serious drawbacks from the first impression. For an
inn, he would have had the White Horse, in a close in the Canongate;
or the White Hart, a house which now appears like a carrier’s inn,
in the Grassmarket. Or, had he betaken himself to a private lodging,
which he would have probably done under the conduct of a ragged varlet,
speaking more of his native Gaelic than English, he would have had to
ascend four or five stories of a common stair, into the narrow chambers
of some Mrs Balgray or Luckie Fergusson, where a closet-bed in the
sitting-room would have been displayed as the most comfortable place in
the world; and he would have had, for amusement, a choice between an
extensive view of house-tops from the window and the study of a series
of prints of the four seasons, a sampler, and a portrait of the Marquis
of Granby, upon the wall.
[Illustration: House-tops.]
[Illustration: WHITE HART INN, GRASSMARKET.