[Illustration]
Up to the period of the building of the North Bridge, which connects
the Old with the New Town of Edinburgh, the Easter Road was the
principal passage to Leith. The origin of Leith Walk was accidental. At
the approach of Cromwell to Edinburgh, immediately before the battle of
Dunbar, Leslie, the Covenanting general, arranged the Scottish troops
in a line, the right wing of which rested upon the Calton Hill, and
the left upon Leith, being designed for the defence of these towns. A
battery was erected at each extremity, and the line was itself defended
by a trench and a mound, the latter composed of the earth dug from the
former. Leslie himself took up his head-quarters at Broughton, whence
some of his despatches are dated. When the war was shifted to another
quarter, this mound became a footway between the two towns. It is thus
described in a book published in 1748: ‘A very handsome gravel walk,
twenty feet broad, which is kept in good repair at the public charge,
and no horses suffered to come upon it.’ When Provost Drummond built
the North Bridge in 1769, he contemplated that it should become an
access to Leith as well as to the projected New Town. Indeed, he seems
to have been obliged to make it pass altogether under that semblance
in order to conciliate the people; for upon the plate sunk under
the foundations of the bridge it is solely described as the opening
of a road to Leith. At that time the idea of a New Town seemed so
chimerical that he scarcely dared to avow his patriotic intentions.
After the opening of the bridge, the _Walk_ seems to have become used
by carriages, but without any regard being paid to its condition or
any system established for keeping it in repair. It consequently fell
into a state of disorder, from which it was not rescued till after
the commencement of the present century, when a splendid causeway was
formed at a great expense by the city of Edinburgh, and a toll erected
for its payment.
One terrible peculiarity attended Leith Walk in its former condition.
It was overhung by a gibbet, from which were suspended all culprits
whose bodies at condemnation were sentenced to be hung in chains. The
place where this gibbet stood, called the Gallow Lee, is now a good
deal altered in appearance. It was a slight rising ground immediately
above the site of the toll[271] and on the west side of the road, being
now partly enclosed by the precincts of a villa, where the beautiful
Duchess of Gordon once lived. The greater part of the Gallow Lee now
exists in the shape of mortar in the walls of the houses of the New
Town. At the time when that elegant city was built, the proprietor of
this redoubtable piece of ground, finding it composed of excellent
sand, sold it all away to the builders, to be converted into mortar, so
that it soon, from a rising ground, became a deep hollow. An amusing
anecdote is told in connection with this fact. The honest man, it
seems, was himself fully as much of a sand-bed as his property. He was
a big, voluminous man, one of those persons upon whom drink never seems
to have any effect. It is related that every day, while the carts were
taking away his sand, he stood regularly at the place receiving the
money in return, and every little sum he got was immediately converted
into liquor and applied to the comfort of his inner man. A public-house
was at length erected at the spot for his particular behoof; and,
assuredly, as long as the Gallow Lee lasted this house did not want
custom. Perhaps, familiar as the reader may be with stories of sots who
have drunk away their last acre, he never before heard of the thing
being done in so literal a manner.
If my reader be an inhabitant of Edinburgh of any standing, he must
have many delightful associations of Leith Walk in connection with his
childhood. Of all the streets in Edinburgh or Leith, the _Walk_ in
former times was certainly the street for boys and girls. From top to
bottom, it was a scene of wonders and enjoyments peculiarly devoted
to children. Besides the panoramas and caravan-shows, which were
comparatively transient spectacles, there were several shows upon Leith
Walk, which might be considered as regular fixtures and part of the
_country-cousin sights_ of Edinburgh. Who can forget the waxworks of
‘Mrs Sands, widow of the late G. Sands,’ which occupied a _laigh_ shop
opposite to the present Haddington Place, and at the door of which,
besides various parrots and sundry birds of Paradise, sat the wax
figure of a little man in the dress of a French courtier of the _ancien
régime_, reading one eternal copy of the _Edinburgh Advertiser_? The
very outsides of these wonder-shops was an immense treat; all along
the Walk it was one delicious scene of squirrels hung out at doors,
and monkeys dressed like soldiers and sailors, with holes behind where
their tails came through. Even the half-penniless boy might here get
his appetite for wonders to some extent gratified.
Besides being of old the chosen place for shows, Leith Walk was the
Rialto of _objects_. This word requires explanation. It is applied by
the people of Scotland to persons who have been born with or overtaken
by some miserable personal evil. From one end to the other, Leith
Walk was garrisoned by poor creatures under these circumstances, who,
from handbarrows, wheelbarrows, or iron legs, if peradventure they
possessed such adjuncts, entreated the passengers for charity—some by
voices of song, some by speech, some by driddling, as Burns calls it,
on fiddles or grinding on hand-organs—indeed, a complete continuous
ambuscade against the pocket. Shows and _objects_ have now alike
vanished from Leith Walk. It is now a plain street, composed of little
shops of the usual suburban appearance, and characterised by nothing
peculiar, except perhaps a certain air of pretension, which is in some
cases abundantly ludicrous. A great number, be it observed, are mere
tiled cottages, which contrive, by means of lofty fictitious fronts,
plastered and painted in a showy manner, to make up a good appearance
towards the street. If there be a school in one of those receptacles,
it is entitled an _academy_; if an artisan’s workshop, however
humble, it is a _manufactory_. Everything about it is still showy
and unsubstantial; it is still, in some measure, the type of what it
formerly was.
Near the bottom of Leith Walk is a row of somewhat old-fashioned
houses bearing the name of Springfield. A large one, the second from
the top, was, ninety years ago, the residence of Mr M’Culloch of
Ardwell, a commissioner of customs, and noted as a man of pleasantry
and wit. Here, in some of the last years of his life, did Samuel
Foote occasionally appear as Mr M’Culloch’s guest—_Arcades ambo et
respondere parati_. But the history of their intimacy is worthy of
being particularly told; so I transcribe it from the recollection of a
gentleman whose advanced age and family connections could alone have
made us faithfully acquainted with circumstances so remote from our
time.
In the winter of 1775-6 [more probably that of 1774-5], Mr M’Culloch
visited his country mansion in the stewartry of Kirkcudbright, in
company of a friend named Mouat, in order to be present at an election.
Mr M’Culloch was a man of joyous temperament and a good deal of wit,
and used to amuse his friends by spouting half-random verses. He and
his friend spent a week or two very pleasantly in the country, and
then set out on their return to Leith; Mr M’Culloch carrying with him
his infant son David, familiarly called _Wee Davie_, for the purpose
of commencing his education in Edinburgh. To pursue the narrative of
my correspondent: ‘The two travellers got on pretty well as far as
Dumfries; but it was with difficulty, occasioned by a snowstorm, that
they reached Moffat, where they tarried for the night.
‘Early on a January morning, the snow having fallen heavily during
the preceding night, they set off in a post-chaise and four horses
to proceed on their perilous journey. Two gentlemen in their own
carriage left the _King’s Arms Inn_ (then kept by James Little) at the
same time. With difficulty the first pair of travellers reached the
top of Erickstane, but farther they could not go. The parties came
out of their carriages, and, aided by their postillions, they held
a consultation as to the prudence of attempting to proceed down the
vale of Tweed. This was considered as a vain and dangerous attempt,
and it was therefore determined on to return to Moffat. The turning
of the carriages having become a dangerous undertaking, Wee Davie
had to be taken out of the chaise and laid on the snow, wrapped in a
blanket, until the business was accomplished. The parties then went
back to Moffat, arriving there between nine and ten in the morning. Mr
M’Culloch and his friend then learned that, of the two strangers who
had left the inn at the same time, and had since returned, one was the
celebrated Foote, and the other either Ross or Souter, but which of the
two favourite sons of Thalia I cannot remember at this distant period
of time. Let it be kept in mind that Foote had lost a leg, and walked
with difficulty.
‘Immediately on returning Foote had entered the inn, not in
good-humour, to order breakfast. His carriage stood opposite the inn
door, in order to get the luggage taken off. While this was going
on a paper was placarded on one of the panels. The wit came out to
see how all matters were going on, when, observing the paper, he in
wrath exclaimed: “What rascal has been placarding his ribaldry on my
carriage?” He had patience, however, to pause and read the following
lines:
“While Boreas his flaky storm did guide,
Deep covering every hill, o’er Tweed and Clyde,
The north-wind god spied travellers seeking way;
Sternly he cried: ‘Retrace your steps, I say;
Let not _one foot_, ’tis my behest, profane
The sacred snows which lie on Erickstane.’”
The countenance of our wit now brightened, as he called out, with an
exclamation of surprise: “I should like to know the fellow who wrote
that; for, be he who he may, he’s no mean hand at an epigram.” Mrs
Little, the good but eccentric landlady, now stepped forward and spoke
thus: “Trouth, Maister Fut, it’s mair than likely that it was our
_frien’_ Maister M’Culloch of Ardwell that did it; it’s weel kent that
he’s a poyet; he’s a guid eneugh sort o’ man, but he never comes here
without poyet-teasing mysel’ or the guidman, or some are or other about
the house. It wud be weel dune if ye wud speak to him.” Ardwell now
came forward, muttering some sort of apology, which Foote instantly
stopped by saying: “My dear sir, an apology is not necessary; I am fair
game for every one, for I take any one for game when it suits me. You
and I must become acquainted, for I find that we are brother-poets,
and that we were this morning companions in misfortune on ‘the sacred
snows of Erickstane.’” Thus began an intimacy which the sequel will
show turned out to be a lasting one. The two parties now joined at the
breakfast-table, as they did at every other meal for the next twenty
days.
[Illustration: DYERS’ CLOSE.
Old houses being demolished to make room for extension of Heriot Watt
College.