 | Outlines of Edinburgh, and Other Poems |  |
33
OUTLINE THE FOURTH.
“What do you read, my Lord?
“Words, words, words!
“What is the matter?”
Hamlet.
“Words, words, words!
“What is the matter?”
Hamlet.
A traveller always looks round him, to view
Either persons, or places, or things that are new,
To give a new turn to his thoughts, and secure
A few novel touches to heighten his tour:
I thus look around me, and there may be seen a
Vast number of notable things in Edina.
Either persons, or places, or things that are new,
To give a new turn to his thoughts, and secure
A few novel touches to heighten his tour:
I thus look around me, and there may be seen a
Vast number of notable things in Edina.
The craigs from their towering height, looking down
On the buildings and smoke of the Old and New Town,
Arthur's seat, like a giant, majestic and proud,
Soaring high in the heavens, and crown'd with a cloud.
And below the wild mixture of rock, hill, and dell,
St. Anthony's chapel—St. Anton's pure well;
Where I own that I almost expect to discern
Effie Deans and her lover at every turn:
And then Calton-hill with its exquisite view,
And its lofty and slim Nelson's monument too;
(A singular edifice rais'd for the dead,—
Where the living find dinners at so much a head;
A tavern and monument, strangely combin'd,
Where soups, beef, and porter, are snugly enshrin'd.)
It was lately put up by the taste of the town,
And they're talking already of taking it down;
'Tis so near to the edge, if they leave it alone
It threatens to sport a descent of its own;
They laid out some money in placing it there;
Query—What will it cost them to move it elsewhere?
On the buildings and smoke of the Old and New Town,
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Soaring high in the heavens, and crown'd with a cloud.
And below the wild mixture of rock, hill, and dell,
St. Anthony's chapel—St. Anton's pure well;
Where I own that I almost expect to discern
Effie Deans and her lover at every turn:
And then Calton-hill with its exquisite view,
And its lofty and slim Nelson's monument too;
(A singular edifice rais'd for the dead,—
Where the living find dinners at so much a head;
A tavern and monument, strangely combin'd,
Where soups, beef, and porter, are snugly enshrin'd.)
It was lately put up by the taste of the town,
And they're talking already of taking it down;
'Tis so near to the edge, if they leave it alone
It threatens to sport a descent of its own;
They laid out some money in placing it there;
Query—What will it cost them to move it elsewhere?
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On that spot shall the Parthenon proudly arise,
To charm Caledonian classical eyes;
The Parthenon form'd on the model sublime,
Of that Fane which outlives the rough usage of time;
Alike in its structure, stupendous and solemn,
In architrave, basement, frieze, cornice, and column,
But free from pollution of heathenish sin,
Without the vain worship of idols within.
To charm Caledonian classical eyes;
The Parthenon form'd on the model sublime,
Of that Fane which outlives the rough usage of time;
Alike in its structure, stupendous and solemn,
In architrave, basement, frieze, cornice, and column,
But free from pollution of heathenish sin,
Without the vain worship of idols within.
And yet in that National Fane may appear,
Some names to all true Caledonians so dear;
They might kneel on its pavement with pious emotion,
And saints would declare it a blameless devotion;
They would bend to no idols, cold, fragile, and hollow,
No marble Diana,—no golden Apollo;
They would bend to their fathers, whose valour or worth
Had render'd them almost immortals on earth.
Some names to all true Caledonians so dear;
They might kneel on its pavement with pious emotion,
And saints would declare it a blameless devotion;
They would bend to no idols, cold, fragile, and hollow,
No marble Diana,—no golden Apollo;
They would bend to their fathers, whose valour or worth
Had render'd them almost immortals on earth.
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And then there's the castle which seems to be part
Of the rock which it springs from, for nature and art
Have so closely cemented the rock and the stone,
Time has mingled the whole mighty mass into one:
And then there is Holyrood, once the resort
Of the greatest, the gayest,—the pride of the court.
There Mary—but hold, I leave others to sing
Of what Holyrood was, 'tis an easier thing
To describe what it is, while a sameness of gloom
Spreads o'er the dark pannels of every room;
And even the few regal relics still seen,
But prove what a sad dreary change there has been.
Of the rock which it springs from, for nature and art
Have so closely cemented the rock and the stone,
Time has mingled the whole mighty mass into one:
And then there is Holyrood, once the resort
Of the greatest, the gayest,—the pride of the court.
There Mary—but hold, I leave others to sing
Of what Holyrood was, 'tis an easier thing
To describe what it is, while a sameness of gloom
Spreads o'er the dark pannels of every room;
And even the few regal relics still seen,
But prove what a sad dreary change there has been.
But this will be endless; I'm making my book
A dull catalogue, shewing you where you should look
For the lions;—and guide books will tell where they lye,
And sketch books describe them far better than I.
A dull catalogue, shewing you where you should look
For the lions;—and guide books will tell where they lye,
And sketch books describe them far better than I.
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When looking for lodgings a stranger will see
Some customs abstruse to a Southron like me.
I saw “Lodgings” put up, and began to explore
A dirty stone staircase; and came to a door,
With a name, and a bell, and a scraper complete,
(Like the doors which in England we have in the street.)
I rung—and was told there were lodgings next door,
So I turn'd, and went down the stone staircase once more;
And I search'd the next house for these lodgings of theirs,
But discover'd at length that next door meant up stairs;
And on the next story I speedily came,
To another street door with bell, scraper, and name;
And if you go up eight or nine stories more,
Each has scraper, and bell, and a perfect street door.
Some customs abstruse to a Southron like me.
I saw “Lodgings” put up, and began to explore
A dirty stone staircase; and came to a door,
With a name, and a bell, and a scraper complete,
(Like the doors which in England we have in the street.)
I rung—and was told there were lodgings next door,
So I turn'd, and went down the stone staircase once more;
And I search'd the next house for these lodgings of theirs,
But discover'd at length that next door meant up stairs;
And on the next story I speedily came,
To another street door with bell, scraper, and name;
And if you go up eight or nine stories more,
Each has scraper, and bell, and a perfect street door.
This custom at first could not fail to create a
Great marvel in me, for they all live in strata!
One over another, from bottom to top,
And beginning below with a stratum of shop!
And the mixture is such that we often may see an
Undoubted pure stratum, 'twixt strata plebeian:
You may call on a friend of some ton, and discover him,
With a shoemaker under, and a staymaker over him!
Great marvel in me, for they all live in strata!
One over another, from bottom to top,
And beginning below with a stratum of shop!
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Undoubted pure stratum, 'twixt strata plebeian:
You may call on a friend of some ton, and discover him,
With a shoemaker under, and a staymaker over him!
My dwelling begins with a perriwig maker,
I'm under a corncutter, over a baker;
Above the chiropodist, cookery too;
O'er that is a laundress, o'er her is a Jew;
A painter, and tailor, divide the eighth flat,
And a dancing academy thrives over that;
We'll leave higher circles unnam'd:—T'other night
My landlady enter'd my room in a fright,
And cried, half in tears, with a face full of woe,
“Your lumn's in a low, sir, your lumn's in a low.”
I laugh'd in her face, for her hasty oration,
To me, had convey'd very small information;
Indignant she bawl'd, when she saw that I laugh'd,
“You're foolish—your lumn's in a low—the man's daft!”
“The baker! the over!”—I now comprehended,
And join'd in the cry ere the uproar was ended,
“The baker! the oven! oh, oh! is it so?
“My chimney's on fire! my lumn's in a low!”
I'm under a corncutter, over a baker;
Above the chiropodist, cookery too;
O'er that is a laundress, o'er her is a Jew;
A painter, and tailor, divide the eighth flat,
And a dancing academy thrives over that;
We'll leave higher circles unnam'd:—T'other night
My landlady enter'd my room in a fright,
And cried, half in tears, with a face full of woe,
“Your lumn's in a low, sir, your lumn's in a low.”
I laugh'd in her face, for her hasty oration,
To me, had convey'd very small information;
Indignant she bawl'd, when she saw that I laugh'd,
“You're foolish—your lumn's in a low—the man's daft!”
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And join'd in the cry ere the uproar was ended,
“The baker! the oven! oh, oh! is it so?
“My chimney's on fire! my lumn's in a low!”
The New Town is fine, and 'tis seldom one meets,
With such long, and such spacious, and regular streets;
But if you remain here in March, you will find,
They expressly are built as conductors of wind;
And while a dense cloud along Princes-street flies,
You will peep at the beauties with dust in your eyes;
The gales are tremendous, and every gust,
Sends ashes to ashes, and adds dust to dust.
With such long, and such spacious, and regular streets;
But if you remain here in March, you will find,
They expressly are built as conductors of wind;
And while a dense cloud along Princes-street flies,
You will peep at the beauties with dust in your eyes;
The gales are tremendous, and every gust,
Sends ashes to ashes, and adds dust to dust.
The society here is divided in sets,
And a man should be cautious at first, if he gets
In a set which is doubtful, or not high enough,
He in vain will endeavour to set himself off;
Though he may be a gem, the good people forgetting
The worth of the gem, only think of the setting.
And a man should be cautious at first, if he gets
In a set which is doubtful, or not high enough,
He in vain will endeavour to set himself off;
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The worth of the gem, only think of the setting.
Few stars of first magnitude shine in this sphere;
Second-rate ones are thought very luminous here;
And if you mark second-rate stars, 'tis their plan
To shine, and to twinkle as much as they can.
And little high people astonish us greatly,
They're vastly more wooden, reserv'd, stiff, and stately,
Than those, who aware that there can be no doubt
Of their sterling pretensions, let you find them out;
Without a display of reserve, which receding
From you—recedes equally far from good breeding.
Second-rate ones are thought very luminous here;
And if you mark second-rate stars, 'tis their plan
To shine, and to twinkle as much as they can.
And little high people astonish us greatly,
They're vastly more wooden, reserv'd, stiff, and stately,
Than those, who aware that there can be no doubt
Of their sterling pretensions, let you find them out;
Without a display of reserve, which receding
From you—recedes equally far from good breeding.
There's a coldness for ever unchangingly cool,
Like the long chilling lapse of a morning at school;
Freezing on—freezing on—by no kind look made pleasing,
Till hopeless of comfort, we fly from the freezing.
These are not the manners, oh, nothing like these,
Which in greatness can make even dignity please,
But the graceful good breeding, which never forgets
Itself—or its guests.—
Like the long chilling lapse of a morning at school;
Freezing on—freezing on—by no kind look made pleasing,
Till hopeless of comfort, we fly from the freezing.
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Which in greatness can make even dignity please,
But the graceful good breeding, which never forgets
Itself—or its guests.—
—We were speaking of sets;
A belle of one set, if she happens to hear
Of a party or ball given out of her sphere;
Cries, “really—we have not the honor of knowing
“Those people; who are they? of course you're not going.”
The others profess an indifference too,—
“We are not acquainted, oh dear me, are you?
“I never knew any of that set,—but if
“I could go there,—I wou'dn't—you'll find it so stiff.”
A belle of one set, if she happens to hear
Of a party or ball given out of her sphere;
Cries, “really—we have not the honor of knowing
“Those people; who are they? of course you're not going.”
The others profess an indifference too,—
“We are not acquainted, oh dear me, are you?
“I never knew any of that set,—but if
“I could go there,—I wou'dn't—you'll find it so stiff.”
In all other respects, in its cards and quadrilles,
In its “pretty well thank you's”—and “terrible ill's”
In the exquisite near sighted beaus who advance,
All hoping the honor of hands in the dance;
In the Chaperons who patiently sit through a ball,
Like tapestry hangings arrang'd round the wall;
In the very queer fashions which ladies approve,
Though like nothing in earth, nor the heavens above,
In these, folly moves in the regular path,
'Tis “a picture in little” of London or Bath.
In its “pretty well thank you's”—and “terrible ill's”
In the exquisite near sighted beaus who advance,
All hoping the honor of hands in the dance;
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Like tapestry hangings arrang'd round the wall;
In the very queer fashions which ladies approve,
Though like nothing in earth, nor the heavens above,
In these, folly moves in the regular path,
'Tis “a picture in little” of London or Bath.
But here they've no knockers! there can be no doubt
That this greatly destroys the effect of a rout:
The coachmen, and chairmen, and footmen, may bawl,
They can scarcely disturb your next neighbour at all;
Only think of a Dutchess from London! 'twould shock her
To enter a room unannounc'd by the knocker!
The actors are here much the same as elsewhere;
They've the mothers so fond; and the daughters so fair;
And the heiresses so very rich, its not known
What they really possess,—all securely their own,
And all the flash gentlemen dress'd out for show,
So knowing—('tis hard to describe what they know;)
In their stables they'll show you their nice bits of blood,
As for study—they never get farther than stud.
That this greatly destroys the effect of a rout:
The coachmen, and chairmen, and footmen, may bawl,
They can scarcely disturb your next neighbour at all;
Only think of a Dutchess from London! 'twould shock her
To enter a room unannounc'd by the knocker!
The actors are here much the same as elsewhere;
They've the mothers so fond; and the daughters so fair;
And the heiresses so very rich, its not known
What they really possess,—all securely their own,
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So knowing—('tis hard to describe what they know;)
In their stables they'll show you their nice bits of blood,
As for study—they never get farther than stud.
Some say, if you wish for hearts open and warm,
Who will welcome a stranger in kindness, not form,
And will give you a share in the homes they possess;
Their homes undeform'd by its company dress;
If you seek hospitality,—not the display
Which receives you in form on a festival day;
But that easy good nature towards strangers who roam
Far—far from their own happy circles at home;
Which so tenderly smiles, that your sadness is o'er,
And the stranger—is nam'd as a stranger no more;
If your heart sighs for kindness so warm, and endearing,
—Take the steam-boat at Glasgow, and sail off to Erin.
Who will welcome a stranger in kindness, not form,
And will give you a share in the homes they possess;
Their homes undeform'd by its company dress;
If you seek hospitality,—not the display
Which receives you in form on a festival day;
But that easy good nature towards strangers who roam
Far—far from their own happy circles at home;
Which so tenderly smiles, that your sadness is o'er,
And the stranger—is nam'd as a stranger no more;
If your heart sighs for kindness so warm, and endearing,
—Take the steam-boat at Glasgow, and sail off to Erin.
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But hear not the slander, pause ere you depart,
You may leave behind you much goodness of heart;
And if they are fearful of loving too fast,
The compliment's great—if they love you at last.
You may leave behind you much goodness of heart;
And if they are fearful of loving too fast,
The compliment's great—if they love you at last.
| Outlines of Edinburgh, and Other Poems | |