8 EDINBURGH PAST AND PRESENT.
bright bubbles which arise when a stone disturbs the dark rivers of Africa,
and reveal their profundity. But finer than this is the aspect of the
city, especially of the Old Town, sleeping in the pale^ moonbeam, the
steady weathercocks and steeples, and churches ‘ steeped in silentness,’ the
leagues of light contrasted with the long black massive shadows, the hills
with the pillow of their repose softened and rounded by the ‘ holier day ’
which is in its turn sleeping upon them,-the statues of the mighty in the
squares looking supernaturally large and awful in the weird light, and the
sounds of solitary footsteps in distant streets, breaking the stillness with a far
unearthly shock of sound-the scene altogether so wild and fair
‘ You scarce would start to meet a spirit there,’
and can easily imagine that the City gf Palaces has become the City of the
Dead, and that you are one of the few last men,’ who are surviving the
catastrophe.
We had not the pleasure of seeing this great city set on fire, burning with
the loyalty of the 10th of March 1863, and as it were transfigured in the
gush of its self-kindled glory, nor had we the still greater luxury of witnessing
its environs or itself on the memorable day of the Volunteer Review in
August 1860, nor the unveiling of the Albert Memorial on the 17th of
August 1876. But twice we have seen Edinburgh on an occasion and in an
aspect worthy of itself. Once was, as already alluded to, when in September
1835 Daniel OConnell appeared on the Calton Hill. Never can we forget,
or cease often to remember, the glorious autumn day, the multitude assembled
from every part of the kingdom, the appearance of the orator and Member
for all Ireland, then turned sixty years of age, with his tall broad figure, his
keen crafty eye, his head concealed by a green cap with a golden binding,
the rich deep mellow tones of his voice, the careless grandeur of his diction,
the ease and power of the conversational manner he adopted, the blended
refinement and coarseness of his speaking-no poetry finer, no sarcasm or
invective fouler than that which came alternately from his lips,-the inspired
fervour of his pantomime, which, seen by thousands who could not hear a
syllable he uttered, yet told like the play of distant lightning, the silence of
his auditory, and at the close the deep sigh which broke from 30,000 hearts,
when what seemed a strain of matchless melody descending from the lofty
platform, or rather from the air above it, came to a close ! Never did that
familiar scene appear so beautiful as on that day; it seemed as if it too
were welcoming by its sweetest smiles and most gorgeous array the great
