sight as stimulating as the hoariest summit of the Alps.
The solitude seems perfect; the patient astronomer, flat
on his back under the Observatory dome and spying
heaven's secrets, is your only neighbour; and yet from
all round you there come up the dull hum of the city, the
tramp of countless people marching out of time, the
rattle of carriages and the continuous keen jingle of the
tramway bells. An hour or so before, the gas was turned
on; lamplighters scoured the city; in every house, from
kitchen to attic, the windows kindled and gleamed forth
into the dusk. And so now, although the town lies blue
and darkling on her hills, innumerable spots of the
bright element shine far and near along the pavements and
upon the high facades. Moving lights of the railway pass
and repass below the stationary lights upon the bridge.
Lights burn in the jail. Lights burn high up in the tall
LANDS and on the Castle turrets, they burn low down in
Greenside or along the Park. They run out one beyond the
other into the dark country. They walk in a procession
down to Leith, and shine singly far along Leith Pier.
Thus, the plan of the city and her suburbs is mapped out
upon the ground of blackness, as when a child pricks a
drawing full of pinholes and exposes it before a candle;
not the darkest night of winter can conceal her high
station and fanciful design; every evening in the year
she proceeds to illuminate herself in honour of her own
beauty; and as if to complete the scheme - or rather as
if some prodigal Pharaoh were beginning to extend to the
adjacent sea and country - half-way over to Fife, there
is an outpost of light upon Inchkeith, and far to