Edinburgh -- Glasgow's Opinion thereof, and vice versa. -- High
Street. -- The old Town. -- John Knox's House. -- The old
Parliament House. -- Holyrood Palace. -- Mary Stuart. --
Arthur's Seat. -- The University. -- The Castle. -- Princes
Street. -- Two Greek Buildings. -- The Statues. -- Walter Scott.
-- The inevitable Wellington again. -- Calton Hill. -- The
Athens of the North and the modern Parthenon. -- Why did not the
Scotch buy the ancient Parthenon of the modern Greeks? -- Lord
Elgin. -- The Acropolis of Edinburgh. -- Nelson for a Change.
A railway journey of an hour and ten minutes transports you from
darkness into light. You leave Glasgow in gloom, wrapped in its eternal
winding-sheet of fog and mud, and you arrive at Edinburgh to find clean
streets, pure air, and a clear beautiful sky. Such at least was my own
experience, six times repeated. The prospect delights the eyes and
heart; your lungs begin to do their work easily; you breathe freely once
more, and once more feel glad to be alive.
You alight at Waverley Station in the centre of the city. You cannot do
better than go straightway and take up your quarters at the Royal Hotel,
Princes Street, opposite the gigantic Gothic monument erected to Walter
Scott. Ask for a room looking on the street. Take possession of it
without delay, and open your window: the sight that will meet your gaze
is truly enchanting. At your feet, the most elegant street imaginable.
No houses opposite: only large gardens, beautifully kept, sloping
gracefully away to the bottom of a valley, whence the ground rises
almost perpendicularly, bearing on its summit houses of a prodigious
height. It is the old town of Edinburgh, where everything will bring
back memories of Mary Stuart and the novels of Scott. On the right the
famous castle perched on a sheer rock nearly four hundred feet high; the
whole bathed in a blue-grey haze that forms a light veil to soften its
colouring and contour. It is impossible to imagine a more romantic sight
in the midst of a large modern city.
Whether your tastes be archaeological or artistic, you will be able to
satisfy them in one of the two towns of Edinburgh, the old city to the
south, or the modern town to the north.
The Glasgow folks say there is not much money made in Edinburgh, and
speak of the place with a certain contempt, which the Edinburgh people
return with interest.
It is always amusing to hear the dwellers in neighbouring towns run each
other down: Manchester and Liverpool, Brighton and Hastings. The nearer
the rival towns are to each other, the livelier and more diverting is
the jealousy. Go and ask a Saint-Malo man what he thinks of
Saint-Servan, and _vice versa_!
"Ah! you are going to Edinburgh," the Glasgow people say to you; "it is
full of snobs, who give themselves airs and are as poor as Job. Ours is
a substantial place, sir. We've no time to waste on nonsense here; we go
in for commerce and manufactures."
"Ah! you have just come from Glasgow," say the Edinburgh people. "What
do you think of the illiterate parvenus that are for ever rattling their
money bags? You will find no worship of the golden calf here; we
cultivate the beautiful, and go in for science and literature, not
manufactures; our town is essentially one of learning."
This is true. Edinburgh is one of the most important intellectual
centres of the world, and its celebrated university, and learned
societies, have justly earned for it the appellation of "the Athens of
the North," a name which this unique city deserves also on account of
its natural features, the style in which it is built, and the numerous
monuments it possesses.
* * * * *
Edinburgh has a population of 350,000 inhabitants, including the sentry
at Holyrood Palace.
According to d'Anville, the city stands on the site of the Roman station
of Alata Castra. Towards the year 626 the fortress became the residence
of Edwin, King of Northumbria, who gave it his name.
The old city was entirely destroyed by fire in 1537. That which now
bears the name of _old town_ dates from the end of the sixteenth century
and the beginning of the seventeenth.
The modern part of Edinburgh was begun at the close of last century, and
the handsomest streets are of a quite recent date.
_A tout seigneur tout honneur._ Let us commence our inspection by a
visit to Holyrood Palace.
I should like to transform this little volume into a guide-book, and
give you the history of all the houses we are passing, as we go through
the old town, for almost every one has its history. There on your left
is the house of John Knox, with its flight of steps, its overhanging
stories, and, over the door, the inscription, "Love God above all, and
your neighbour as yourself." Here is the house where Cromwell decided on
the execution of Charles I.; there Hume and Smollett wrote history.
At the end of Canongate, the prolongation of High Street, we come out on
a large open square. The palace of Holyrood is before us.
Standing in a hollow, and surrounded by high hills, the aspect of the
palace is most sombre. From the moment you cross the threshold, a
thousand sad thoughts assail you. You are in the home of Mary Stuart.
Everything speaks to you of her. Her sweet, tragic face, her noble
presence, her thoughtful brow--you see all again in these halls instinct
with her souvenir. They haunt the place as they still haunt the memory
of the Scotch. In spite of her bigotry, in spite of all the crimes
historians have imputed to her, the Scotch cherish her memory, think
only of her misfortunes and sufferings, and will not hear you speak of
her with anything but respect. One may easily imagine the ascendency
which this woman must have had over those who came in contact with her.
But let us go in, and first we must get our sixpences ready; for in this
country, where _l'hospitalite se donne_, you must pay everywhere, and on
entering too, for fear you may not be pleased when you come out: _to
avoid misunderstandings_, as the Scotch put it.
On the first floor we enter the picture gallery. It is here that the
Scotch peers are elected. The room contains portraits of the Scottish
kings, from Fergus I. to James VII. At the end of it we find a door
which leads to the apartments occupied by the unfortunate princess.
Small windows throw a feeble light on the sombre tapestries; though the
day is fine, it is difficult to distinguish the various objects of
furniture. There is an air of mystery about the place. Poor Mary! After
the gay French court, what a tomb must this palace have seemed! Between
two windows is a little mirror that must often have reflected back the
image of that beautiful countenance, stamped with sadness, the fair head
that was one day to roll at the feet of the executioner. Close by, a
portrait which must be a libel on so gracious an original. At the two
extremities of the bedroom two little closets--I had almost said,
cells--formed in the towers which overhang from the outside. The one on
the left is the dressing-room; that on the right the supper-room. Near
the latter a door leads to the secret staircase. You can reconstruct for
yourself the scene of the murder of the favourite Italian secretary, who
paid with his blood for the honour of having now and then cheered the
heart of the queen with his songs. On the floor of the audience-room you
are shown the stains of the unhappy Rizzio's blood. It was here, too,
that Chastelard, grandson of Bayard, declared his love to his royal
mistress, whom he had accompanied to Scotland on her departure from the
French court. Poor Chastelard! he, too, payed with his life for the love
which the enchantress had inspired in him, not for this first
declaration, which was forgiven him, but for a graver offence, committed
at Rossend Castle, of which I shall have occasion to speak presently.
A visit to Holyrood always leaves a painful impression. It is the temple
of misfortune, and I can understand Queen Victoria's preference for the
bright breezy Highlands.
On our return through Canongate and High Street, we shall come to the
Castle. Without going much out of our way, we can go and see the
Parliament House and the University; but first, let us go to the summit
of Arthur's Seat, a hill eight hundred and twenty-two feet high,
situated behind the Palace of Holyrood. The ascent is not difficult,
and the magnificence of the panorama that meets the eyes is beyond
description.
The House where the Scotch Parliament met before the union of the Scotch
and English Crowns, is now transformed into Courts of Law. This building
is interesting not only on account of the souvenirs it evokes, but also
on account of the hopes it keeps alive in the hearts of the Scotch.
Before many years have elapsed, the representatives of Scotland will
probably sit there to manage the local affairs of the nation.
Edinburgh University, which dates from the year 1582, is the finest
edifice of the kind in Europe: two hundred and fifty-five feet long, by
three hundred and fifty-eight broad. A library of one hundred and fifty
thousand volumes (sixpence entrance). Rare manuscripts. Magnificent
lecture rooms. Over three thousand students work under most eminent
professors.
Facing the University is the Museum of Arts and Science. For a list of
the innumerable treasures it contains, I must refer the reader to guides
to Scotland.
The Royal Infirmary, with its numerous buildings, in the midst of which
rises a tower thirty-three feet high, arrests our attention a few
moments. From here we can turn down High Street to admire the Cathedral
of Saint Giles, so full of souvenirs of the Reformation, and then
continue our course up the great street of the old city, as far as the
famous Edinburgh Castle, a feudal edifice standing on the summit of a
perpendicular rock, from whence you can survey the old and new towns.
The Crown Room contains the insignia of the Scottish sovereigns. Close
to it is the room where Mary Stuart gave birth to the son who was to
unite the crowns of England and Scotland. In this rapid glimpse of
Edinburgh, it would be out of place to enter into all the history of the
Castle, the sieges it has stood, and so on. Historical castles all
resemble each other a little; but that which makes the interest of this
one unique is its marvellous position: the sixteenth century at your
right; the hills and the sea beyond; on your left, the parks; in front,
nearly four hundred feet below you, the beautiful modern town, with its
elegant buildings, straight, wide streets, and its statues; a little in
the distance, Calton Hill, with its Greek monuments; beyond again, Leith
with its harbour bristling with masts; you are chained to the spot in
admiration.
Following the castle terrace, we will descend towards the new town, and
come out at the west of Princes Street.
We are walking towards the East. On our left, we shall have the shops;
on our right, the public gardens, a mixture of _Boulevard des Italiens_
and _Champs Elysees_. Everything here is in perfect taste. Look at the
statues judiciously placed about the public gardens, streets, and
squares!
O George Square!
Here is a shop-window full of photographs. Let us stop and look in: they
are not portraits of actresses and fashionable beauties, but chiefly of
professors of the University, of which Edinburgh is so proud. Remarkable
among them is Professor Blackie, his fine head recalling a likeness of
Lizst. It was this same Professor Blackie on whom the people of Glasgow
made such an attack about two years ago, for having given, one Sunday in
Saint Andrew's Hall, a most charming and poetical discourse on the Songs
of Scotland.
The sweep of the public gardens on the right is agreeably broken by two
specimens of the most elegant Greek architecture: they are the buildings
of the Royal Institution and the National Gallery. Nothing could be more
graceful, more Attic, than these twin structures. The first contains
thousands of national relics, from the pulpit of Knox to the Ribbon of
the Garter worn by Prince Charles Stuart. The second is an admirable
museum of painting and sculpture.
The most striking monument of Princes Street is the one which was
erected to Walter Scott in 1844. It has the form of a Gothic steeple,
and is not less than two hundred feet high. It resembles somewhat the
Albert Memorial in Hyde Park, but with this difference, that, while
designed with ten times as much taste, it cost about a tenth of the
money. The novelist's heroes and heroines are gracefully placed in the
niches; the author himself is seated in an attitude of contemplation in
the midst of his creations. Now for the comic side of the thing. A
staircase conducts to the summit of the monument, to which you may mount
for the sum of twopence.
On the East of Princes Street are two very fine buildings--the Post
Office and the Register Office, or resting-place of the national
archives. This latter building has a magnificent flight of steps, in
front of which is an equestrian statue--you guess whose, of course: the
inevitable, the eternal, the never-to-be-sufficiently-paraded.
What a bore that creature is!
I am quite willing to admit that Wellington did exist, and that he
rendered his country service; but is that a reason for turning him into
a bore? He is a very nightmare!
Napoleon, surely, was as great a general as Wellington. We have placed
him on the top of the Vendome Column, but we had the good taste not to
stick him up in every provincial city.
That is true, you will perhaps say; but Wellington saved his country,
whereas Napoleon ruined his. That is not my opinion; but we will not
argue.
Joan of Arc saved France. We have her statue at Domremy, where she was
born; at Orleans, where she handed over to her king his kingdom; and at
Rouen, where she suffered death.
I should understand every Scotch town having a statue of Burns, and
another of Scott. These two geniuses personify Scotland; they remind
the Scotch that Scotland is a nation, with a literature of her own;
they keep up patriotism in every heart. But what did Wellington do for
Scotland? If, in 1840, for instance, the Scotch had asked the English to
give them their national rights and their parliament, Wellington is
probably the general who would have gone to reduce them to order.
But let us say no more about it. We will continue our walk to the end of
Princes Street. Here we are at the foot of Calton Hill. By means of
flights of steps and paths we pass the Observatory, and reach the top,
to see the monument erected to Nelson's memory (threepence entrance).
Between this monument and the Observatory, there stands a reproduction
of the Parthenon. This is what chiefly suggested the idea of calling
Edinburgh the Athens of the North. Calton Hill does its best to play the
part of the Acropolis. But, unhappily, this Parthenon, built to
commemorate the victory of Waterloo, remains unfinished for want of
funds. It is true that this lends it a ruined look, which does not give
a bad effect to the scene. But L20,000 to make a ruin is dear. In that
time the Greeks would have sold the Scots the real Parthenon for half
the money. Half the money! What am I talking about? for a timepiece. Go
to the British Museum and see what Lord Elgin got for a clock: the
marbles and frieze of the Parthenon, the bas-reliefs of Phidias, columns
from the temple of Diana at Ephesus, the epitaph of the Athenians who
died at Potidoea, the bas-reliefs of the temple of AEgina. Lord Elgin was
a business-like Scotchman. In 1816 the English bought his collection of
him for L36,000. They would not sell it to-day for L500,000.
Going round the Acropolis we will descend near the High School, the most
important school in Edinburgh, opposite which stands the monument to
Robert Burns (twopence entrance). It is rather insignificant-looking,
and reminds one of that erected by the Athenians in memory of
Lysicrates. Cost, L2,600.
I pass over many museums and institutions; but I hope I have succeeded
in showing that Edinburgh is a place to be seen, and quite repays one
for the trouble of a long journey.
And now let us see what kind of people one meets in the streets of
Edinburgh. After that, I will ask your permission to take you across the
Firth of Forth, and show you a castle little known in England, where I
hope we shall be able to pass a little time pleasantly.