THE BUILDER MARCH 1917

TRAVEL SKETCHES
BY JOSEPH FORT NEWTON

EDINBURGH

"Edina, Scotia's darling seat--
All hail thy palaces and towers,
Where once beneath a monarch's feet
Sat Legislation's sovereign powers."


NO sooner had the editor arrived in Edinburgh than he was arrested,
in due and ancient form. Why it came about, and for what, and how
he made his peace with the powers that be, such questions are
irrelevant, immaterial, if not impertinent -- or words to that
effect. His friends do not ask any explanation; his enemies, if he
has any, would not accept any--and there you are. Therefore he
adopts the wise policy of Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, when they
decided that "Mum" was the right word in such cases.

Anyway, it was late at night, which is a suspicious circumstance,
and the streets were dim, as all city streets are in Briton in
war-time. Lamps were shaded or turned low, and shadowy figures
moved to and fro, each finding his way as best he could. Above,
giant search-lights scanned the sky, darting like shining swords
through the clouds, as if stabbing at airy enemies that drop
death-dealing bombs on sleeping cities. Occasionally, there was a
rift in the veil of cloud and the moonlight shimmered down over the
old city like a fairy mist, soft as the summer air, filling the
valleys with silvery light. It was an hour of enchantment.

From whatever side Edinburgh is approached, it is singularly
picturesque, combining so happy a blend of hills and castles, of
rocky peaks and lofty spires, as to command admiration. It is the
most beautiful city that I ever saw. Whatever opinions may be held
respecting its antiquity, all agree that its Castle Rock was
fortified before the land fell under the sway of the Romans. It
derived its name from King Edwin of Northumbria, whose name the
Celtic residents moulded to fit their tongue as Dun-Edin--"the face
of a hill." Where now one walks in Princess Street Gardens was once
a bed of a lake, known as Nor' Loch. To describe the panoramic
scene which displays itself from the summit of Arthur's Seat, or
Castle Hills, baffles any words I have so far tamed or trained for
use.

Everywhere one sees the name of Sir Walter Scott, whose life and
genius are no small part of the tradition of the city he so much
loved. His monument, on Princess street--designed by a young artist
named Kemp, who died before he saw his dream realized in stone, as
so many mortals do--is one of the most graceful memorials on earth.
It is a cruciform Gothic spire, two hundred feet high, supported by
four arches, beneath which is a statue of the gentle Wizard, with
his favorite dog at his feet. Statuettes of the best known
characters from his works adorn the buttresses of the monument,
adding to its beauty and interest--all the dream of a self-taught
genius who graduated from a country shop to design a memorial to
match the fame of the man who vies with Burns as the greatest name
of Scotland.

First we went to see the Castle, which took us-- "us," that is my
dear, dear friend who journeyed with me as companion and
guide--into the older part of town, with its lofty houses and
numerous closes and pends, where dire poverty mixes with historical
associations. Up High Street we climbed, alongside the Cathedral,
and the old Parliament buildings, to the Esplanade where soldiers
were drilling--as, later, we saw them practicing trench warfare and
the use of the bayonet below the Holyrood Palace. The Esplanade was
once a place of public execution; and here Lord Forbes, Lady
Glammis, and some of the Reformers, as well as several persons
accused of witchcraft, suffered death. At the Castle Moat, we found
a guide, portly, rotund, with ponderous oratorical powers--until my
friend asked to reign his eloquence a bit, and not to address us as
if we two were an audience. He took it in good part, and for that
relief we expressed much thanks in our tips.

All the while we wandered in that grim, gray fortress, with its
battery, its armory, its ancient postern, its crown-room and royal
apartments whose walls could tell tales to break the heart, I
seemed to be walking in the far past. It was a unique sensation, so
little was there to suggest the modern world, save a soldier now
and then and the busy arts of war. No, we walked under the shadow
of history. How remote from our time, how pathetic withal, the tiny
Chapel of St. Margaret, the oldest building in Edinburgh, a gem of
Norman architecture. The Castle is a fortress of the past,
defending the history and tradition of a noble people whose
vicissitudes have more than once touched the depths of tragedy.

"There, watching high the least alarms,
Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar,
Like some bold vet'ran, grey in arms,
And marked with many a seamy scar."

From the Castle it is only a little way down High Street to St.
Giles Cathedral, the first parish in the city, standing on a site
dedicated to religion since the ninth century. How long that Tower
has stood, through what "changes and chances," one of the glories
of the old Town! What stormy scenes it has witnessed ! It is a
Gothic pile, its windows rich in colored recital of sacred scenes;
two row-s of pillars separating the nave from the aisles--the
capitals of those at the east end being beautifully foliated, while
the others are severely plain. Attached to the pillars in the nave
are some of the old colors of the principal Scottish regiments.
Above the arcades are two lines of clerestory windows, the glass of
which contains representations of the city arms and those of the
incorporated craftsmen of Edinburgh. The pulpit, of Caen stone, is
carved with symbols of the six cardinal virtues, and the Font is a
replica of that at Copenhagen by Thorwalden--an angel, holding a
large shell. Noble of form, mellow with age, rich in associations
pious and patriotic, it is a monument to the mighty faith of
Scotland !

Further down High Street we paused at the home of John Knox, and
then went on our winding way to Holyrood Palace where we wandered
for an hour. Of course, we saw the birth place of Stevenson
and-Scott, the University--now a vast hospital--and then back to
the Old Waverley for lunch in time to catch the train for London,
going down the East Coast via the cathedral towns, chief among them
York, known and beloved by Masons as one of the capital cities of
the Craft in the olden time.


