arise that our apprehensions may forecast, the sight of
such a way of living is disquieting to people who are
more happily circumstanced. Social inequality is nowhere
more ostentatious than at Edinburgh. I have mentioned
already how, to the stroller along Princes Street, the
High Street callously exhibits its back garrets. It is
true, there is a garden between. And although nothing
could be more glaring by way of contrast, sometimes the
opposition is more immediate; sometimes the thing lies in
a nutshell, and there is not so much as a blade of grass
between the rich and poor. To look over the South Bridge
and see the Cowgate below full of crying hawkers, is to
view one rank of society from another in the twinkling of
an eye.

One night I went along the Cowgate after every one
was a-bed but the policeman, and stopped by hazard before
a tall LAND. The moon touched upon its chimneys, and
shone blankly on the upper windows; there was no light
anywhere in the great bulk of building; but as I stood
there it seemed to me that I could hear quite a body of
quiet sounds from the interior; doubtless there were many
clocks ticking, and people snoring on their backs. And
thus, as I fancied, the dense life within made itself
faintly audible in my ears, family after family
contributing its quota to the general hum, and the whole
pile beating in tune to its timepieces, like a great
disordered heart. Perhaps it was little more than a
fancy altogether, but it was strangely impressive at the
time, and gave me an imaginative measure of the