Chapter 2 - Page 2

The tallest of these LANDS, as they are locally termed,
have long since been burnt out; but to this day it is not
uncommon to see eight or ten windows at a flight; and the
cliff of building which hangs imminent over Waverley
Bridge would still put many natural precipices to shame.
The cellars are already high above the gazer's head,
planted on the steep hill-side; as for the garret, all
the furniture may be in the pawn-shop, but it commands a
famous prospect to the Highland hills. The poor man may
roost up there in the centre of Edinburgh, and yet have a
peep of the green country from his window; he shall see
the quarters of the well-to-do fathoms underneath, with
their broad squares and gardens; he shall have nothing
overhead but a few spires, the stone top-gallants of the
city; and perhaps the wind may reach him with a rustic
pureness, and bring a smack of the sea or of flowering
lilacs in the spring.

It is almost the correct literary sentiment to
deplore the revolutionary improvements of Mr. Chambers
and his following. It is easy to be a conservator of the
discomforts of others; indeed, it is only our good
qualities we find it irksome to conserve. Assuredly, in
driving streets through the black labyrinth, a few
curious old corners have been swept away, and some
associations turned out of house and home. But what
slices of sunlight, what breaths of clean air, have been
let in! And what a picturesque world remains untouched!
You go under dark arches, and down dark stairs and
alleys. The way is so narrow that you can lay a hand on
either wall; so steep that, in greasy winter weather, the
pavement is almost as treacherous as ice. Washing
dangles above washing from the windows; the houses bulge
outwards upon flimsy brackets; you see a bit of sculpture
in a dark corner; at the top of all, a gable and a few
crowsteps are printed on the sky. Here, you come into a
court where the children are at play and the grown people
sit upon their doorsteps, and perhaps a church spire
shows itself above the roofs. Here, in the narrowest of
the entry, you find a great old mansion still erect, with
some insignia of its former state - some scutcheon, some
holy or courageous motto, on the lintel. The local
antiquary points out where famous and well-born people
had their lodging; and as you look up, out pops the head
of a slatternly woman from the countess's window. The
Bedouins camp within Pharaoh's palace walls, and the old
war-ship is given over to the rats. We are already a far
way from the days when powdered heads were plentiful in
these alleys, with jolly, port-wine faces underneath.
Even in the chief thoroughfares Irish washings flutter at
the windows, and the