We have mentioned a coroneted door. But the house that owns it, and all above and below, are as wretched in their scale of original construction as they can be in their aspect of present misery. Story is piled above story, seeking the space which was denied below; but each story is so low that our companion's head is almost on a level with the second tier. And men and women with tangled locks, hardly to be distinguished the one from the other in the general gloom, are looking upon us from upper windows, with the ceiling evidently so close upon them that it is a wonder how they draw their heads back without striking them; while below, at the foundation, are shapeless holes leading into dark. rocky cavities, which one would take for the dens of animals only, were it not for the glare of fire which is seen deep within. At this moment, a woman, toiling slowly up from the opposite end of the wynd, calls out in the strong, harsh, drawling voice of the Edinburgh people,-"Can ye tell me how Mistress M'Culloch is the day?" And a voice from above as harshly answers,-"She deed last Sotherday was a week, and was buried yesterday." On which the woman ejaculates," Puir bodie! Ah, weel!" and goes slowly toiling on as before. But the words have struck with a ghastly sound upon our traveller's ear. He has been picking his way, and turning up his nose, and holding himself drawn up together, as one who fears contamination with all around, and wondering with an idle wonder how any fellow-creatures could exist in such loathsome living graves; but that note of death has stirred a deeper chord, and as he hastens back out of the narrow way, in which the coffin of the dead woman could hardly have turned, the memory of poor Mrs. M'Culloch has found a mourner she little thought of. "Puir body!" indeed, to have lived and to have died there! Domestic architecture is an incontrovertible tell-tale. As we look at the very construction of these miserable abodes of humanity, we are led to conclude, either that these closes and wynds are far more appropriately tenanted by their present race of possessors, or, that their original ones were not so superior to them as coronets, shields, and other insignia of rank and consequence, which are scattered about, would lead one to suppose: wretched as the scene may be now, it is one which, from the very nature of the dwellings, could never have been otherwise than barbarous. But now our traveller must return to the High street. Here, at least, that prestige of grandeur ever lingers which is extinguished in the deep, dirty defile of the wynd. How noble it looks, even with all its present apparel of poverty! an old aristocrat, though sunk now in the lowest misery. In one respect, it still triumphs over that young parvenu below: that can boast of no such churches, old or new, as here arrest the eye in the fine perspective of the Lawn Market and the High street. The Tron Church is no ornament, and the fire of 1824 has destroyed its prestige of antiquity; but that old St Giles', or High Church, in which royalty and vice-royalty have worshipped, with its picturesque coroneted tower seen from afar, has still that certain cathedral something about it which no Presbyterian renovations or innovations have been quite able to remove ! And then that other grand edifice, which, with its exquisitely formed and finished tower and steeple, one can hardly believe to be the work of the last ten years; far surpassing any other modern sacred building we know in beauty and courage of detail, and combining so marvellously with the peculiar character of the great and strange Past around it, that, in spite of the freshness and sharpness of the stone, it carries with it a look of antiquity; yet modern enough, in one sense, when we see that the tower is put at the wrong end of the building, and an out-and-out Presbyterian modern in another sense, as the name first sounds incredibly, and then astoundingly, and then, to say the least, discordantly, on the ear-Victoria Hall! With the deepest loyalty for our earthly sovereign, one can hardly bring one's self to pronounce these words in connection with a building, not only erected for the purpose of divine worship, but which is expressly stamped with every association of reverence and devotion towards the Lord of lords and King of kings that architecture can express. How strange that the holiness of purpose which has been so carefully uttered in stone should be denied in name! Victoria Hall! Why, Minerva Temple would hardly have a more heathenish twang! Pugin might place this building, with its name underneath it, as frontispiece to his volume of anomalies and contrasts. But let this pass; they must not throw stones who live in glass houses. Altogether, Catholic names, as may be supposed, are as little adopted as they are retained here in this stronghold of Knoxianity. There are St. Mary's Wynd, and Lady Wynd, and Blackfriars' Wynd still; and Abby Hill fur ther on; and another venerable precinct to which we are now approaching, whose significance of denomination is forgotten in the familiarity of custom. For we follow the gradual descent of the High street into a lower and narrower part, also redolent of old Catholic sound-the Canongate,-where signs of past importance crowd thicker around us; balconies, bas-reliefs, arches; high gates, with isolated houses within them; the ancient town-house, with its projecting clocktower, and the old cross half-buried in the wall; not to omit a cluster of more fragile tenements, with John Knox's pulpit, looking, like the Church he has instituted, as if it would tumble two ways; and crossing the imaginary line of Sanctuary, find ourselves before the ancient towers of the old palace of Holy Rood. The left-hand side attracts our chief attention, with its more time-worn aspect, and smaller-sashed, deep-set windows; for this was the Holyrood of that sovereign of Scotland whose beauty and misfortunes are matters of certainty, and whose errors (at least the worst of them) it seems impossible to prove. We cannot refuse to let our traveller enter in here, for not all the sentimentdisturbing companionship of sight-showers and fee-takers can dispel the excessive interest that invests these ancient apartments. The bed, the chairs, the relies of old furniture, may have belonged, as antiquarians aver, to the unfortunate and scarcely less beautiful Mary of Modena, for whom the additional quadrangle was built; but the miserable rooms themselves are sufficient memorial of the life and history of her who was Mary Stuart, queen of France and Scotland. There is that first state-room and the one bed-room through it, not half so big as any of the usual two drawing-rooms of a modern Edinburgh lady; and then that scanty, wretched closet, which an average-sized woman must stoop her head to enter, where Mary-if not wickedly, yet not wisely,-and if not wisely, yet most naturally-threw off the restraints of royalty, and enjoyed the society of those more congenial with herself in habits and education than the highest peers and peeresses in Scotland. And if the apartment be not memorial sufficient, there is that other witness which calls aloud to Heaven, and has told the tale from generation to generation of the ruthless barbarity which environed the unfortunate queen. Who can look at those thick, dim stains, sunk deep into the old oak floor, who can examine the antiquity of that partition which shuts out this portion of the apartment from the queen's sight, or remark the local evidence of the vicinity to the door to which the victim was dragged, without acknowledging that this is, indeed, the blood which flowed from the fifty-six wounds of the hapless Rizzio? There is something in the silent solemnity of such a stain which the archest skepticism or the silliest levity cannot withstand. We have seen them both hushed over the heart's blood of poor Mary's murdered musician, though they might be renewed on the other side of the door. 66 And though we have thrown out a sneer at the tribe of sight-showers who infest such places, and though we believe Mr. Hume has established the right of the public to a free entry into Holyrood Palace, yet we must make an exception for that worthy individual who, if she be not the very original of the Mrs. Policy of Holyrood memory mentioned in the inimitable preface to the Chronicles of the Canongate, is her undoubted descendant; for she would defend the blood of Rizzio, or any other relic intrusted to her care, at the expense of her own. It is edifying to hear the reverence with which she articulates the name of Queen Mary's Apartments !" as she ushers you solemnly in; to see the faith with which she shows a glove of Darnley's, which may have belonged to one of Cromwell's soldiers; a picture of Rizzio, in the school of Sir Peter Lely; and a miniature of Mary herself, executed, to all appearance, by a living artist: and then the equanimity with which, observing the doubting expression on our companion's countenance, she remarks to us, in Mrs. Malaprop language, "That gentleman appears to be sceptible of everything." But she has her triumphs, for the blood of Rizzio converts him at last. The rest of the palace is uninteresting, unless we could show our companion that night vision of it we have seen, when the shortlived regality of the Lord High Commissioner revives something of its ancient barbaric splendor, and the Lady High Commissioner summons all loyal lieges to attend her court on the queen's birthnight; when the great deserted court-yard swarms with guards and attendants, and the crimson of the vice-royal liveries; and beneath every arch of the arcade are seen groups of youthful pages and uncouth "body-men," now vanishing in the deep shadow of the moonlight, now emerging into the glimmer of the widely-scattered lamps; and figures uncouther still, half-soldier and half-savage, stand like mutes on the great stairs, and point the way upward; 124 VIEWS OF EDINBURGH. and ladies, with their long dresses, go sweeping along the Throne Room through rows of statue-like halberdiers, and are received with dignity by a queen-like, diamond-decked woman; and the echoes of a whole suite of desolate royal apartments are disturbed with the feet of a thousand guests; and tapestries brighten beneath the unusual light; and fires blaze in the vast chimneys; and thoughts of Charles Edward in his short-lived glory, and Charles X. in his exile, accompany us wherever we turn; till, throwing open a window to escape from the heat of a crowd, that ruined chapel, with its east-end cross and tracery, outlined clear against the moonlight, rises before us, and from that moment the ghost of Mary Stuart seems alone to preside over the scene. than ever. But if we cannot show our traveller this night picture, we must introduce him to another of more frequent occurrence. reader must forgive us if we return once more, The and for the last time, into the High street of our affections, and that between the hours of nine and eleven at night. The general effect of the scene is grander and more peculiar The houses have that ghostly appearance which a glare from below always imparts, for the chief light proceeds from the gas in the shop windows. Like grim giants are they arrayed on each side, their uncouth feet illuminated, and their lofty tops lost in the darkness; for no lights burn in those upper stories and garrets, or something so faint that it gives the idea of double the distance. The tower, too, of Victoria Hall looms above us like a huge, dim being, and the steeple elongates itself into immeasurable infinitude, while just where the tip should be a bright planet is gleaming, like the star over the tomb of the Three Kings at Cologne. part of the Lawn Market is silent and dreary, The upper like a deserted city; those deep dens look more unfathomable, and those open stairs more mysterious; no loiterers are upon them, and if a figure descends them it glides quickly past, as if it had an errand to fulfil. As for the wynds, it is rather a comfort that they are hidden from sight by that veil of night which can hardly increase their horror, though their black, cavern-like abysses yawn upon us as we pass, like the descent into Avernus. As we descend, however, into the High street, signs of that dense population which swarmed around us in the morning begin to appear, and thicken as we proceed, till, at length, we can hardly make our way for the press and numbers. But the noise and din are hushed, [Jan., The truth and the chief sound that meets the ear is the scraping of those that have shoes along the pavement, or the dull stroke of the far number of feet that have none. is, it is Saturday night. The men, such as have work, have brought home their wages; greater and the beldames and vixens of the morning are transformed into careful housekeepers, purchasing provisions for the Sabbath, which, even in this Old Town, is so far outwardly respected. But a spell seems to and gossipping seems forgotten; a quieter have come over the people; all quarrelling and more decorous crowd was never collectcareful demeanor, as if they were thinking ed. They move about with a thoughtful, what they could contrive to do without, and to go; and if we catch sight of their Scotch weighing how far a shilling could be made physiognomies by that uncertain light, we find them looking more Scotch than ever. Or we stumble all in the open street. Stalls innumerable ple are buying. The broad pavements are a cap stuck on the top of the handle by | way of a sign, and caps lying one over the other in each compartment, and a light flaring in the midst, which it is a wonder does not set fire to them all. Altogether, the scene possesses the double attraction of a market and a fair, for pleasures and luxuries are not forgotten. Peep-shows are there, and fascinating transparencies of horrible murders; and a man raised on a tub selling old books: "Scott's Elocution, as good as new, for one shilling! The Geography of the World, Europe, Asia, Africa, and America, complete for elevenpence! Scott's Elocution for tenpence! Scott's Elocution, hardly soiled, for eight pence-for sixpence! not to be slighted because going so cheap! Scott's Elocution for fourpence-for threepence! an ornament to any gentleman's library!" And at last, with a desperate flap of the leaves, "Scott's Elocution for one penny-for one penny! Scott's Elocution for one penny! and, if I once pass it out of my hand, I won't take a pound for it." While the people stand in a dense, mute crowd, around, and the auctioneer trims his smoking torch, and lets a shower of sparks fall into a quantity of old paper at his feet, and sets to work with Europe, Asia, Africa, and America, complete, for sixpence !" These lights are the most wonderful things of all; a peculiar spell of forbearance seems to preside over them. They flicker, and flare, and tumble, among all sorts of combustible articles, but nothing takes fire. A candle falls directly against an old, dry wicker-basket, but does not seem to singe it; a great resinous torch is flaming close to bunches of dry straw, which if at sea, in a crowded emigrant ship, would soon have wrapped the vessel in flames, but here not a spark is communicated. Meanwhile, they are an endless source of the picturesque. The Wilkies, and Hogarths, and Mulreadys of the morning, have vanished; but, at every step, some other artist of strong light-and-shadow effect is presented to our view,-some Schalken-like picture of a broad, ruddy cheek, and yellow hair, illuminated by an unseen lamp,-some uncouth Teniers' figure and face, strengthened in all its lines of ugliness, as it stoops over tub or barrow, by the upward glare of the light deep within it, or some genuine Rembrandt arrangement, with intense shadows and transparent chiaro oscuros, and only one-eighth of light admitted, as Burnet has calculated, and that falling upon some trivial object. But now these self-same lights burn low, indeed; and the stalls are folding up; and the illuminated clock of the Tron Church, which has presided, like a great, low, yellow harvest moon, over the scene, points to an hour when travellers should be in bed; and we wend our way back to more civilized haunts with tired limbs, but with eyes before which the fitful pictures of that evening are for ever passing. And ruminations, moral, philanthropic, and artistic, occupy our minds as we go. But, to our shame be it spoken, the artistic prevail; and we confess to ourselves and to our companion, that though that Old Town may be the haunt of vice and the hot-bed of fever, we would not willingly have one stone of it removed from its place. AUTHORSHIP OF TOM CRINGLE'S LOG.We can easily understand upon what principle Junius sought to conceal his identity, but for what reason, save personal vanity and private éclat, the author of a work not involving personal responsibility or danger remains incognito, we cannot discover. The following relates to the writer of that splendid rescript of the sea and sea-faring men, "Tom Cringle's Log:"The author of this very successful work, (originally published in Blackwood's Magazine,') was a Mr. Mick Scott, born in Edinburgh in 1789, and educated at the High School. Several years of his life were spent in the West Indies. Heultimately married, returned to his native country, and there embarked in commercial speculations, in the leisure between which he wrote the 'Log.' Notwithstanding its popularity in Europe and America, the author preserved his incognito to the last. He survived his publisher for some years, and it was not till Mr. Scott's death that the sons of Mr. Blackwood were aware of his name." SAFETY OF RAILWAY TRAVELLING.-The queen, in her late journey from Scotland, travelled over 500 miles by railway, and when it is known that over this distance her majesty was conveyed without any previous notice, at the rate of thirty-five miles an hour, including stoppages, at a rate amounting to, but not exceeding, at any time, 50 miles an hour, over a country rising twice to an elevation of 1,000 feet above the level of the sea, and descending at intermediate stations nearly to the level of the sea, so conveyed, without the slightest cause of alarm, we may be permitted to say that the railways of Britain have reached an amount of perfection, re ularity, and security, unsurpassable and Imost unhoped for. From Fraser's Magazine. GENERAL CAVAIGNAC AND HIS FATHER. THERE is no country in the world where the manufacture of talent is so necessary as in France, because there is none which flings aside its instruments with such facility, or is so continually craving for new ones. Every popular favorite is twice judged, and each time meets an unjust sentence. He is received, at first, with a favor which partakes of doting, and is perched on a pedestal too rapidly built, only to be cast down again, and every good quality denied him. The fault of this rests, to a certain extent, as well with the choosers as the chosen. The latter, however, is perhaps most to blame, because he promises, it may be in the sincerity of a sanguine heart, arrangements which cannot be accomplished; while the former, laying out of view the difficulties of his position, forthwith denounce him as a deceiver. The men who flung down all and erected nothing, did not all know that a few months, such as they provided for their country, may suffice to demoralize a people and ruin its resources. The one who followed found the wreck of finance and national character advancing to its accomplishment amid the horrors of civil war actually in the capital, and anticipated in the provinces. Whether or not General Cavaignac be the fit man to govern France in its present state, remains to be proved. But one thing is certain, that his ungovernable countrymen, who received him a few months ago as a god, are already turning towards him looks of suspicion which grow continually darker. It is not our business to say how far the change may be called for or justifiable. We have to deal only with the fact, and the fact itself appears to be established by the bearing of the man. Why are his recent speeches imbued with an affectation of Republicanism which is considerably beyond nature? His speech of the 3d of September, for example, seemed made with ntent to brave rather than to conciliate opinion. Why else, having ascended the tribune to affirm that which many others believe as well as he, that there would be danger to the un born constitution, and to the country, in ceasing the état de siege, did he add, gratuitously, that "he had not forgotten he was himself the son of a man who sat in the National Convention, and was proud of having such a father?" Was it General Cavaignac's deliberate intention to adopt, by approving all the proceedings of his father? Is it possible that he who, after the bloody days of June, exclaimed, "Hitherto I have seen conquerors and conquered-may God punish me if I now consent to see a victim !"-is it possible that the man who could thus express himself was yet conversant with the career of Jean Baptiste Cavaignac, advocate at the parliament of Toulouse, deputy to the National Convention in 1792, and one of nine members who, on the king's trial, voted for death sans appel et sans sursis? We are by no means prepared to say that he was not, because the human mind is marvellously open to self-deception; and it is so much the fashion to excuse murder, provided the good man put to death were born a king, that General Cavaignac may have reasoned himself into a persuasion that his father's cruel vote deserved praise. But why, at such a moment, recall men's minds to past atrocities? Was he afraid of an attack from the Mountain, and desirous of strengthening himself in other quarters by a display of hostility to its sentiments? Surely not. The Mountain can accept only as an act of conciliation, any expression laudatory of the men and measures of 1793 and 1794. Or, having put an incendiary press under wise restraint, was it necessary, in order to guard against any mistake in regard to his motives, that he should celebrate the praises of times when freedom ran into licentiousness, and the grossest tyranny was exercised in the name of liberty? We really cannot tell; but there are rumors afloat which go far beyond even this, and seem, at least, to attribute to less worthy impulses an act of which all right-thinking Frenchmen are ashamed. It may not be |