and I determined thus to wind my way to
the mountain bulwarks of its spring, instead
of taking the course through Perthshire, by
Blair Athol, which is nearer even to those
who, not choosing to try a passage of valour
with the Ducal Lord of Glen Tilt, avoid that
perilous avenue of the central Highlands.

The railway time allowed some hours for
lingering in Edinburgh—the most beautiful
city in my known world. He who first
expatiates in its near aspect from the Calton
Hill, whence the Castle rock, the bright wilderness
of houses, monuments, and palace-like
buildings are seen in true proportions, with the
blue water stretching out to sea beyond its
guardian rock, and Arthur's Seat towering
in mountain guise above all; and who afterwards
ascends that height, and looks on the
city as part only of a vaster scene, in which
the Pentland Hills expand on one side, and
the dim shapes of the outer Grampians gleam
in the northern distance, will drink in as much
of varied beauty as the world can offer in the
space of two hours, which will amply suffice to
enjoy it. There is some magic in the structure
of Arthur's Seat, which I cannot explain
—it is, according to measurement, only eight
hundred and fourteen feet above the sea-level,
and so close to the town that an hour's gentle
walking will enable an idle stroller to ascend
it from Holyrood House, and return to the
park entrance, stopping to drink at St.
Anthony's Well—and yet it towers in the air
above the massive circlet of Salisbury Craigs,
like a mountain summit of three thousand
feet, ten miles away; something in the form
and colour, giving the impression at once of
height and distance, which could not be
singly conveyed. Ascend either of its upland
valleys, and the interior will be found to
prolong the impression, while it proves its
fallacy. In ten minutes you will find yourself
in a noble hollow of short grass, pierced with
frequent granite, which fills the imagination
almost as well as a cove of Helvellyn; and
passing over the ridge below the summit, you
will tread a mountain gully, allowing glimpses
of two tarn-like pools, lying below at
Duddingston; and thus you will be transported in
half-an-hour from the literary luxury of
Prince's Street to Highland solitude, peopled
with the silent creations of genius for on
the hill's foot rises the spectral ruins of St.
Anthony's Chapel; before you is the spot
where Muschet's Cairn once marked the
interview of Jeannie Deans with her sister's
desperate lover; and beside you are Salisbury
Craigs, where Reuben Butler watched the
sunrise of the day after the murder of Porteus.
"Why," said I to myself, in this grand and
storied scene, " should I go farther? Is not the
spirit of the remotest Highlands here? Are
there not forms as bold, and colours as solemn,
and distances as refined, as can be embraced by
the eye on the summits above Glencoe 1?And if
there is nothing to suggest the awful grandeur
of that tragic pass, is not that, when seen once,
seen for ever ? Why not remain, then, for
my little holiday, among the comforts and
glories of Edinburgh, and supply my Highland
tour by daily excursions to these genial wilds?
I paused on the question; but soon felt a
sad and conclusive answer; a change has come
over Edinburgh in the few years which have
elapsed since I saw it last, which will not
allow me, thus first again beholder, to enjoy
it as of old; a change not in its external
aspects surely, for these the sternest of its
utilitarian philosophers would spare. No!
—the range of its old nine-storied houses,
which has " withstood a thousand storms, a
thousand thunders," looks as if it had been a
little contracted by the New Free Church
College which towers beyond the mound; but
enough remains for remembrance—and the
substitute nobly completes the lofty line which
the Castle rock crowns; the Monument of Sir
Walter, which, when I last saw it, seemed to
me a gorgeous mistake, now puts to shame
my misgivings by the image of its immortal
tenant, which has changed a richly figured
alcove to a temple, where, beneath an open
canopy, the genius which rendered the cities
of Scotland classical, and her glens romantic,
seems embodied in majestic repose, to receive
her homage with every breathing of her common
air;— and the verdure embraces the
black declivities of the Castle rock with
luxuriance as fresh as ever.—No; Edinburgh
is as fair to the eye as of old; but the spirit
which gave its finest impulse to the enjoyments
of its society has been quenched for this life
since I last beheld it; Francis Jeffrey is gone;
and these forms of beauty associated with
the graces of his mind, strike me with the
dullness of the grave. When I was here
last, the intellect which had cast its varied
lights on British Literature for many years,
glanced with graceful vividness on its ample
range, illuminating all things by its genial
wisdom, and the affections, sometime curbed
by the habits of despotic criticism, expanding
with time, delightedly recognised every young
effort, indulgently rebuked every cavil, grew
proud in the successes of strangers, and
happy in those of friends: now, all that power
of enjoying and diffusing the most refined
pleasure is suspended, and the place which
"knew him once" living, knows him too well
dead. To me, standing here, the loss seems
as of yesterday. I know that Edinburgh is
still the home of great thoughts and noble
impulses; I know that, while Wilson flourishes,
there is not wanting a power which, still
"redolent with joy and youth," may "breathe
a second spring;" and I hope another year to
enjoy as well as to admire; but now I will
welcome the railway which shall bear me
hence to yet unvisited Highlands.

The line of railway from Edinburgh to
Aberdeen, though it passes by Stirling and
Perth, supplies scarcely a hint of the beautiful
regions near it, except one lovely glimpse of a
rich brown stream foaming over ledges of rock,