The streets of the Athens, which had been thinning of people ever since the King’s arrival, were, on the morning of Friday the 30th of August, the day on which he was to take his departure, as still and silent as though the chariot-wheel of majesty had never been heard in them. The constables, lacqueys, and laced porters at the gates of the Holyrood had dwindled to a small and feeble remnant; no merry archer, in broad bonnet of blue, and doublet of green tartan, demanded the pass-word, with bent bow and pheon ready for the string; the foot of the casual house-maid wakened the old and melancholy echo in its deserted halls; and those apartments which were so recently gladdened by the gorgeous train of the King, and made lovely and gay by the presence of all that Scotland could boast of the fair and the noble, were in sure progress to being as usual “furr’d round with mouldy damp and ropy slime,” over which the faint recollection (for even then it was waxing faint,) that the King had been there, “let fall a supernumerary horror,” which, to those who during the King’s stay had been raised to office, and put on the guise of courtiers, only served to make the night of his absence “more irksome.” The cannon, which, for the previous fourteen days, had ever and anon been pealing royal salutes, began to be dragged from the heights of Salisbury Crags and the Calton Hill; and the royal standard was taken down, leaving the bare widowed staff bleaching in the air. The guns of the venerable castle too, had subsided into the common office of chronicling the several holidays and anniversaries, as though they had been a mere kalendar; the last booths and benches were in the act of being pulled down; and, excepting in shop-keepers’ books, in the blackening of a few houses in the illumination, and in the baronet’s patent of Sir William Arbuthnot, and the knighthood of Raeburn, a painter, and Fergusson, deputy-king of the Athenian beefeaters, the Athens retained no external trace of the royal visit, even when the royal cavalcade was barely escaping from the suburbs.
The people were intoxicated with its coming, and seemed for a time to have dreamed; but the dream had melted away, and the interest seemed to be measured exactly by the time that the King had to remain. Every day it waxed less and less, till, on the day of his departure, it had vanished altogether. I say this, of course, of the people generally,—of those who, in their minds and their circumstances, are independent, and not of them who basked in the sunshine of the court, or had realities or hopes from the royal munificence. These, of course, followed after the King to the last, and conveyed him to his barge, but the people stood by with the most provoking indifference, and, to the broadest hints that they should shout, returned only a few scattered murmurs of approbation. They turned to each other, and talked of the passing splendour as if it had been a common spectacle. At the same time, the King himself, and not the mere pomp, was certainly the object of their attention and solicitude. “Hech,” said the old bonneted sire to his neighbour, as the King passed them rapidly on the beautiful lawn at Hopetoun House, “Hech! an’ so that’s the real descendant o’ Brunswick, wha preserved us the Declaration of Rights, and the Protestant Succession, whilk allow ilka man, gentle and simple, to hae the keepin’ o’ his ain body, and, what’s muckle better, o’ his ain saul and conscience. God bless him, an’ keep him frae evil counsellors, and sinfu’ neebours, for they say that the gryte fouk about Lunnon are no’ just what they should be.” Thus did the rustics hold converse with one another; and it could not be expected that persons who had their minds in tone for such remarks, could bawl and shout like the unreflecting rabble, whose tongues, were it King George or King Crispin, would be equally loud.
That the loyalty of official men, of all conditions, in Scotland, is as fawning and obsequious, as in any country under the sun, I could not fail to observe: as little could I fail to observe, that that of the people of Scotland is of a very different character, and not to be judged of by their shouting or not shouting at a royal pageant. With them, loyalty is, like every thing else, a matter of reason and reflection, and not of mere impulse and passion; and they never lose sight of the original and necessary connexion between the King and the people. They do not look upon the King as one who is elevated above man and mortal law, and who holds a character directly from Heaven, in virtue of which, he can, at his pleasure, and without being accountable, put his foot upon the neck of millions of the human race. They consider him as originally set up by common consent, and for the common good, and they admit of the law of lineage and succession just because it saves the chance of civil war, and gives a centre and a rallying point to the strength and energy of the country.
The melancholy, which the now deserted state of the Athens, contrasted with its recent bustle and activity, was calculated to produce, was increased by the day of the King’s departure being one of the most gloomy and comfortless that it is possible to imagine. The wind alternately swept in hurricanes which drove immense masses of clouds over the city, and died away in dead calms which allowed those clouds to retain their positions and pour out their contents in torrents. Early as was the season, the leaves from the few trees in the vicinity of the Athens had begun to fall; and, as the wind freshened, they coursed each other along the dirty and deserted streets in ironical mimickry of those processions by which they had so lately been filled. It was no day either for examining the still life of the Athens, or for studying the manners of the Athenians; and so, as my chief purpose had been delayed by every display during the King’s visit, I thought it just as well to see the end,—to mark the difference of feeling and expression that the people would have at the time of a King’s coming and at that of his going. Accordingly, I set out for Hopetoun House, where royalty was to be refreshed, ere he again attempted the waters.
It had been expected, that the King would grace with his royal presence, Dalmeny Castle, the beautiful seat of Lord Roseberry, but he contented himself with a drive through the grounds. Nor was the day such as to permit him to see the prospect in descending Roseberry Hill to Queensferry. The view there is peculiarly fine, and to Scotchmen it must be highly interesting. Immediately below is the Forth, spotted with islands and covered with shipping. To the left are the rich woods and extensive demesnes of Hopetown, with the ancient burgh of Queensferry at their entrance. To the right, are the bolder shores of Fife, over which rises the beautiful ridge of Ochills. The towers of Stirling, long the seat of kings, rise in the centre; and at no great distance is the field of Bannockburn; and to the right, amid the grey pinnacles of Dunfermline, sleep the ashes of the Bruce. Further off Benledi, Ben-an, and Ben-voirlich raise their lofty crests, and the noble peak of Ben-lomond pierces the most distant cloud. Altogether it is a scene worthy of royal attention, and within its ample circuit are countless recollections not unworthy of kingly meditation. The place where Græme’s Dyke set bounds to the ambition of the Romans, till the Caledonians fell a prey to luxury and corruption, may tell that the strength of a people is not in walls and ramparts, but in courage, in virtue, and in freedom. The stone near the banks of Carron, where the royal standard of Scotland first was displayed triumphant after years of suffering and humiliation, and the spot at which the battle-axe of Bruce cleft the helm and head of the invader’s champion, tell what may be done by an independent people, under the conduct of a brave and virtuous prince; the veneration with which Scotchmen yet look towards the crumbling ruins of Dunfermline, proclaims that the patriotism of a King far outlives mere pomp and tinsel; and the fields of Falkirk and Sherriff-muir, might have whispered in the ear of George the Fourth, how hard Scotchmen had struggled in order that his family might wear the crown. It seemed, however, that Nature had refused his majesty a glance of the talismans of these recollections; and that, as he had confined his attentions (we mean his private attentions, which, of course, are exclusively at his own disposal,—in his public displays he was equally attentive to all,) to one family or party, so the glories of Scotland were shrouded from his view. During the whole day, a thick cloud lowered over the western horizon, through which only the nearest summit of the Ochills was but dimly seen. When his majesty came to Queensferry, it seemed as if “Birnam Wood had come to Dunsinane,” for the whole fronts of the houses, with their appendages, were covered with boughs; boughs too were hung across the street, and showed like triumphal arches turned topsey-turvey, as in sorrow at the departure of the King. A small platform was erected at Port Edgar, a place a little to the west of Queensferry, about which there is some idle tradition of an ideal kingly visit, and deliverance from shipwreck. Thence to Hopetoun House, a distance of about two miles, a road was now made along the margin of the Forth. In the halls of the gallant Earl, a dejeunér à la fourchette was prepared for the King, a select few of the nobility, and many of the neighbouring gentry. The country people had assembled on the lawn, to the amount of some thousands, and were regaled with two or three butts of October.
The King arrived at the place of embarkation about three o’clock, walked to the platform, leaning on Lord Hopetoun’s arm, and was received on the platform by the venerable chief commissioner, Adam, as convener of the Queensferry trustees. He took his old friend cordially by both hands, and was by him conveyed to the royal barge, which he entered, and reached the yacht in about six minutes. Although the King’s “last speech” had been hawked through the streets of the Athens in the morning, there is no evidence that he made one; and, indeed, gradually to its close, the whole matter had melted away, like a dream from the recollection of the half-awakened. Scarcely, too, had his majesty got on board the yacht, when the dark clouds veiled his whole squadron like a curtain, and the incessent pelting of the rain scattered the remnant of the people.
It was with some difficulty, and at a late hour, that I was able to return to the Athens; and when I arose on the following morning, and sallied out to begin my survey, the contrast was too strong for my feelings. The whole line of George Street was unbroken, except by the hoary form of a beggar crawling along in front of those assembly-rooms which had lately been so gay; and the trim and active figure of the editor of the Edinburgh Review, who, with a great bundle of law-papers under one arm, and a new book under the other, shot along with as much rapidity, as though the most strong and skilful of the archer-band had discharged him from his bow. Queen Street was desolate; and in King Street, the only thing that I could notice was one or two of the personages who had lately flaunted their tails as highland chiefs, taking leave of their law-agents, with downcast and sorrowful looks. The regalia of Scotland were again consigned to their dull and greasy apartment in the castle; the High Street, which so recently had rung with the acclamations of serried multitudes, now echoed to the grating croak of the itinerant crockery-merchant, and the ear-piercing screams of the Newhaven fish-wife. The gewgaws, which for the last two weeks had glittered in the windows of the shop-keepers, had again given place to sober bombazines and webs of duffle; and the shop-keepers themselves were either leaning against the posts of their doors, and yawning to an extent which would have thrown any but Athenian jaws off the hinges, or sitting perked upon three-footed stools within, casting looks, in which hope formed no substantial ingredient, upon the long pages which their country friends had enabled them to write in their day-books; and of which, to judge from appearances, it was pretty plain that the term of payment would be to the full as long as the amount. Every where, in short, that I came, there was an air of desolation; not by any means that the Athens was mourning for the departure of the King, for among the few persons who were visible, his name was not so much as mentioned, but in her own appearance she was mournful indeed, and though she retained the same form as during the display and rejoicing, her spirit seemed to be clean gone; and it was quite evident that, in order to catch the average and peculiar likeness of this boasted city, I must tarry till the present appearance had passed off, or remove to a distance, till the natural one should return.
I preferred the latter alternative, and resolved, after resting for that day, to forget both the glory and the gloom in a month or two among the Scottish mountains; and then return to the Athens, when the return of business, of people, and of prate, should have been brought back to their ordinary channels.