But, when the specialities of the case are considered,—when it is borne in mind that the monarch, all-gracious and polite as he is, visited the Athens, as well to dazzle the Athenians by his grandeur, as to delight them by his bounty,—that the native luminaries of that centre of many twinkling lights were shorn of their beams by his overwhelming radiance,—that this instance of kingly condescension taught the ΔΕΜΟΣ of Athena to regard as haply something less even than men, those whom they had formerly looked upon as possessing some of the attributes of divinity; and when, on the other hand, it is taken into the account that the author of these pages made his visit solely with a view of seeing with his own eyes, hearing with his own ears, and proclaiming with his own lips, the truth of those reports which had come to him through so many channels, and of which the fruition had proved so much more delectable than the foretaste: then, assuredly, ought Athena herself, from all the castles of her strength, the halls of her wisdom, the drawing-rooms of her beauty, and the alleys of her retirement, to confess that she owes to the author of these pages more than kingly gratitude.—The King noticed but a few of her people, enriched not many, and ennobled almost none: those pages are intended to enwrap the whole in one pure and perennial blaze of glory.
It was on the evening of the same day that the Monarch took shipping at Greenwich amid the shouts of assembled multitudes, and the Author took his seat on the top of the Edinburgh mail, amid piles of tailors’ boxes, each containing a courtier’s habit, in which some fond, and fawning, and fortune-desiring son of Caledonia was to bend the supple knee in the presence of Majesty, within the ancient palace of the Holyrood. The voyages of kings, and the velocity of mail-coaches, are already known and appreciated; and thus there needs no more to be said, than that here also the Author had by several days the precedence of the King.
The jolting of the wooden cases of my courtly neighbours, together with forty-eight hours’ exposure to drought by day and damp by night, prepared me, in spite of all my burning anxiety to see the far-famed city, for the enjoyment of several hours of repose; and, as Athena was at this time too much excited for permitting me to enjoy this till towards morning, the sun had risen high before I left my chamber.
Upon hurrying into the street,—into that Princes’ street, which, as I afterwards learned, is at certain seasons of the year the favourite lounge of the Athenian dandies, and at certain hours of the day the favourite haunt of the Athenian fair, who resort thither as the clock strikes four, to feast their fair and anxious eyes upon the self-important forms of dashing advocates, the more dapper and pursey ones of pawkie writers to his Majesty’s signet, or the attenuated striplings of the quill—the future Clerks and Jefferys, who at that hour are returning from the harvest of law and profits to such feast as awaits them in ample hall or elevated cock-loft, according to their talents, their connexions, or their purses;—upon hurrying into that street, in the expectation of feasting my eyes upon the natural and architectural glories of the city, I found that those glories were in the mean time veiled in the maddening preparations of a whole people, who had come from every portion of the main land, and from the remotest isle of Thulè, to wonder at and to admire that mightiest marvel of human nature—a king.
So novel and so varied were the costumes, so unexpected and so singular were the features and expressions, and so uncouth and Babylonish were the voices, that the eye and the ear were confounded, the judgment could not understand, and the memory could preserve no record. Here you might see some brawny and briefless barrister—the younger son of a loyal family, with a pedigree at least twice as long as its rental, with trowsers and jacket à la Robin Hood, and huge blue bonnet adorned with the St. Andrew’s cross and a turkey-cock’s feather—looking for all the world like a chimney-sweep’s Jack-o’-the-Green, or a calf dressed entire and garnished with cabbage-leaves; while close by him trotted a loyal toast-composing crown-lawyer, with his hinder end cased in a phillibeg, a feathered bonnet, at least a third of his own height, an iron-hilted sword somewhat more than the whole, and a dirk that might have served for a plough-share, puffing and blowing under the weight of his own importance, and the accoutrements of the Celtic society. In close juxtaposition with these was a genuine Glhuine dhu, plaided, plumed, and whiskered, and looking as if all the kings of the earth were nothing to that swaggering chieftain, of whose tail he formed no inconsiderable portion. In another place you could catch the broad face and broader bonnet of a lowland farmer of the old school, cased in one uniform garb of home-made blue, with brass buckles to his shoes, a brass key suspended to his watch by a tough thong of black leather, greasy enough,—holding solemn colloquy with that reverend member of the Scottish Kirk, to whom he acted in the capacity of ruling elder, about the danger of compromising the interests of the Whig or high-flying part of that establishment, during the avatar of so many Tories. The reverend gentleman himself was no bad sight. His general-assembly coat and et cetera’s were duly kept at home,—that is to say, in his two-shillings-a-week apartments, up seven pair of stairs, in College-street, or haply in the house of that town acquaintance with whom he had found cheaper board,—till the eventful days should arrive. Thus he was habited in his parson’s grey, the breast of which, where it projected beyond the perpendicular, bore testimony to the fall, both of broth and of punch, while his inferior regions were shaded and shielded by dark-olive velveteens, a little tarnished, worsted hose furrowed as neatly as the turnip-division of his glebe, and cow-skin shoes of the most damp-defying power, which borrowed no part of their lustre from Mr. Robert Warren. Still the good man was clean in his linen; his chin was shorn like a new-mowed field; his visage beamed forth gratitude for “a competent portion of the good things of this life;” and his plump and ruddy hands slumbered with much orthodox ease in the capacious pockets of the velveteens. Anon, a highland laird, whose tail comprised only his lady and half a dozen of daughters, and who seemed to be meditating upon the roofless castle and ill-stored larder, to which the expense of parading full thirty-six feet of female charms before the King would subject him, during the weary moons of the Highland winter, hurried past, not at all at his ease.
But, to describe the individuals, strongly marked as they were, would be altogether out of the question; and, indeed, to give any thing like even a sketch of the groups and classes and knots of men, women, and children, in all habits, of all ages, and in almost every variety of shape, would bankrupt even a German vocabulary, although in that language one be allowed, for clearness sake, to lump a score of sentences into a single epithet. The cry was still “they come,” and Caledonia, from fertile plain and far mountain,—from toiling city and tiresome wilderness,—from rock, and glen, and river,—upon the wings of the wind, urged on by steam, drawn in coach, chaise, waggon, cart, and hurdle, riding upon horses, mules, and donkeys, and running upon feet, shod and unshod,—came scudding and smoking, and creaking and crashing, and reeking and panting, in one conglomerating cloud, and one commingling din, to distract the attention from the attic glories of Edinburgh, and for a time drown her classic sounds in the discordant and untunable din of all the provinces. Here you had the broad shoulders and bold bearing of the borderer, delving an elbow, of the size and substance of a sirloin of beef, into the skinny ribs of an Aberdonian professor of humanity, who all the time kept squeaking like a sick fiddle, in response to the bellow of the other, which reminded you of a bull confined in the vaulted hall of an old castle. There grinned the fat face of an East Lothian farmer, between a Perth baillie on the one hand, and a Stonehaven scribe on the other, like a ram’s tail between the blades of a shepherd’s sheers. And, yonder gaped and wondered the great face of a Glasgow negro-driver, like a Gorgon’s head—not upon the shield of Minerva. Still there was something interesting in the mighty and motley throng: it put one in mind of Noah’s ark, which contained “clean beasts, and beasts that are not clean, and fowls, and every thing that creepeth upon the earth.”
The most delectable part of the gathering was the combined clans and the burgh corporations. The former belted like warriors and bellied like weasels, and tricked out for the occasion in their respective tartans of their names, each bearing a sprig of the symbolic tree in his bonnet, a huge claymore in the one hand, and a relay of brogues and stockings in the other, with a great horn snuff-mull thrust into his sporran—open and ready for action—hurried along at the pas de charge to their headquarters for the time-being, where they were instantly dispersed into the crowd, thence to reassemble when the bagpipe should frighten the last shadow of night.
The corporation-men came in less military but more important guise. Glasgow, the queen of the west, Aberdeen, the glory of the north, Dundee and Perth, the rival empresses of the centre, with Cupar-Fife, Crail, and a hundred others, each charged with a loyal and dutiful address, which had been composed by the town-clerk, revised in the spelling by the schoolmaster, and was to be discharged at the King, in a manner so powerful and point-blank, as to procure knighthood if not earldom for such candle-selling provost, breeches-manufacturing baillie, or other chief magistrate “after his kind,” came on with a splendour and an importance that Scotland never before witnessed.
Glasgow, as became her purse and her pride, came blazing like the western star—or rather like a comet whose tail would have girdled half the signs of the zodiac. The van was led by the magistrates, in a coach which previously knew every street and lane of the city, but which was relackered for the occasion, had the city arms emblazoned upon it as large as a pullicate handkerchief, and was drawn by eight grey horses of the genuine Lanarkshire breed,—the thunder of whose feet as they dashed along shook the kirk of Shotts, and had nearly laid Airdrie and Bathgate in ruins. The clatter which they made along Princes’ Street was astounding; the crowd collected in thousands at the din; some cried it was the king himself; but the final opinion was, that it was “naebody but the magestrates o’ Glasgow.”
In the train of this goodly leading, there followed full fifty thousand,—or to speak by measure, as number was quite out of the question, full forty-four miles of merchants and makers of muslin; and the vehicles which carried the car-borne part of them were more strange and varied than ever appeared at the triumph of a Roman emperor upon his return from smiting the barbarous nations, and carrying themselves and all their utensils captive. Here you would see the equipage of a rich dealer in turmeric or tobacco, fashionable enough except in its contents; there you were presented with a Glasgow Noddy, squeezing forward its lank form like a tile, and dragged by a steed with three serviceable legs, and one eye the worse for the wear; in another place you would meet with a hearse, with a tarpaulin over it to hide the death’s head and the bones, and crammed full of the saints of the Salt-market laid lengthways for the convenience of stowage; while the rear was brought up by an enormous tilted waggon, which, though it was at first conjectured to contain Polito’s collection of wild beasts, was, upon examination, found to be charged very abundantly with that more important and polished matter—the ladies and gentlemen of Paisley and Greenock.