Perhaps, after all, Saxon rule has not been such an injury to the Western Isles of Scotland as some people think. At Kintyre there are plenty of schools, and parsons and policemen instead of robber chiefs; and if there are few freebooting expeditions to Ireland and elsewhere, it is quite as well that people have taken to a more decent mode of life.
Alas! my “to-morrow”—unlike that of the poet, which “never comes”—is at hand. Under a smiling sky, and on a summer sea, we thread our way past Arran, or the Land of Sharp Pinnacles, down the Kyles of Bute, where the scenery is of exquisite beauty; past Rothesay, the Hastings of the West, and with an aquarium said to be the finest in the world, and almost as flourishing as that Hastings of the South which rejoices in a yatchsman for M.P. of unrivalled fame; past Dunoon, till we drop anchor at
Hunters’ Quay. We seem all at once to have come into the world again. On every side of us there are steamers bearing tourists, and holiday-makers, and health-seekers to the crowded bathing-places and health resorts. As we approach our journey’s end, the Clyde seems covered with rowing-boats, and music and laughter echo along its waters. I feel a little sad to think that my brief holiday is over. The Doctor and the Doctor’s lady tell me we shall meet in London, and that is a consolation. Yes, we shall meet, but no more as equals on deck. He will be in the pulpit or on the platform, I beneath. There is no equality when a man puts on the black gown, and begins lecturing to the pew. The mutual standpoint vanishes like a dream. But when, oh, when shall I sail in such a model yacht as the Elena again, or meet with such hospitality as I enjoyed at its worthy owner’s hands? His sons, amphibious as are all the Scotchmen, apparently, in these parts, row out to meet us. The greeting is as affectionate as mostly the greetings of the British race are. “What did you come back for? We were getting on very well without you,” were the first words I heard.
CHAPTER IX.
back again.
As next morning I crossed the Clyde, and took my seat in a crowded and early train, it seemed to me that rain was not far off, and that at Edinburgh Royalty might be favoured with a sight of what in England is known as Scotch mist. Nor were my forebodings wrong. The modern Athens was under a cloud, and many were the heavy-hearted who had come from far and near to do honour to the day. The Glasgow men have but a poor opinion of the citizens of Edinburgh. They took a very unfavourable view of the matter. If Edinburgh desired to have a statue of Albert the Good, why not? If the Queen liked to be present at its inauguration, there was no harm in that; if there were a little fuller ceremonial on the occasion, it was only what was to be expected; but that Edinburgh should hasten to wash her statues and decorate her streets; that she should clean up her shop-fronts,
and drape her balconies; that she should devote a day to holiday-making; that she should go to the expense of Venetian masts and scarlet cloth—in short, that in this way Edinburgh should attempt to rival a London Lord Mayor’s Show, was one of those things no Glasgow fellow could understand.
And I own at first sight there seemed to be a good deal in the Glasgow criticism. Few cities have so fair a site as the noble metropolis of our northern brethren; few cities less require ornamentation. Hers emphatically is that beauty which unadorned is adorned the most. To stand in Princes Street, with the castle frowning on you on one side, and with the Calton Hill in front; to loiter under the fair memorial to Sir Walter Scott (by the side of which I am pleased to see a statue of Livingstone has just been placed); to look from the bridge which connects the New Town with the Old—on the distant hills and the blue sea beyond—is a pleasure in itself. With its far-reaching associations, with its memories of Wilson and Brougham, and Jeffery and Walter Scott, with its dark churches, in which John Knox thundered away at the fair and frail Mary, with its
ancient palaces grim and venerable with stirring romance or startling crime, it seemed almost profane to send for the upholsterer, and to bid him deck out the streets and squares with gaudy colours and gay flowers. When on Thursday the morning opened cloudily on the scene, it seemed as if all this preparation had been thrown away; and bright eyes were for awhile dark and sad, and refusing to be comforted. However, the thing went on, nevertheless. The crowd turned out into the streets, the railways brought their tens of thousands from far and near; balconies were full, and all the windows; and the sight was one such as has not feasted the eyes of the oldest inhabitant for many a year. There were the soldiers to line the streets, there were the archers to guard the daïs, there were the Town Council and Lord Provost in their scarlet robes, there were the men whom Edinburgh delights to honour all before them, and, above all, the Duke of Connaught, the Princess Beatrice, Prince Leopold, Brown—the far-famed Highlander—and the Queen. The ceremony itself was not long. When Charlotte Square was reached, Her Majesty took the place assigned to her, and the work was speedily performed. As
Her Majesty went back by Princes Street, an additional interest was created, and Princes Street looked very well; its hotels and fashionable shops rejoiced in crimson and yellow banners, and the Walter Scott memorial even broke out in honour of the day. It was decorated with flags, which waved gaily in the sun—for the sun did come out, after all. But Princes Street was not the chief route. It was down George Street that Royalty drove, and it was there that the efforts of the decorative artist had been most effective. Some of them were very beautiful, and full of taste; but the lettering was rather small. Nor did the inscriptions display much ingenuity. They were mostly “Welcomes,” or invitations to “Come again.” It was the advertising tradesmen who were most ingenious in that way, and it was in the papers that their efforts appeared. As, for instance, an enterprising shoemaker writes:—
“Welcome, Victoria! Queen of Scottish hearts!
In many a breast the loyal impulse starts”—