martyrs' monument, we may be sure they will find a safe haven somewhere
in the providence of God. It is not well to think of death, unless we
temper the thought with that of heroes who despised it. Upon what
ground, is of small account; if it be only the bishop who was burned for
his faith in the antipodes, his memory lightens the heart and makes us
walk undisturbed among graves. And so the martyrs' monument is a
wholesome heartsome spot in the field of the dead; and as we look upon
it, a brave influence comes to us from the land of those who have won
their discharge and, in another phrase of Patrick Walker's, got "cleanly
off the stage."

CHAPTER VI

NEW TOWN: TOWN AND COUNTRY

It is as much a matter of course to decry the New Town as to exalt the
Old; and the most celebrated authorities have picked out this quarter as
the very emblem of what is condemnable in architecture. Much may be
said, much indeed has been said, upon the text; but to the
unsophisticated, who call anything pleasing if it only pleases them, the
New Town of Edinburgh seems, in itself, not only gay and airy, but
highly picturesque. An old skipper, invincibly ignorant of all theories
of the sublime and beautiful, once propounded as his most radiant notion
for Paradise: "The new town of Edinburgh, with the wind the matter of a
point free." He has now gone to that sphere where all good tars are
promised pleasant weather in the song, and perhaps his thoughts fly
somewhat higher. But there are bright and temperate days--with soft air
coming from the inland hills, military music sounding bravely from the
hollow of the gardens, the flags all waving on the palaces of Princes
Street--when I have seen the town through a sort of glory, and shaken
hands in sentiment with the old sailor. And indeed, for a man who has
been much tumbled round Orcadian skerries, what scene could be more
agreeable to witness? On such a day, the valley wears a surprising air
of festival. It seems (I do not know how else to put my meaning) as if
it were a trifle too good to be true. It is what Paris ought to be. It
has the scenic quality that would best set off a life of unthinking,
open-air diversion. It was meant by nature for the realization of the
society of comic operas. And you can imagine, if the climate were but
towardly, how all the world and his wife would flock into these gardens
in the cool of the evening, to hear cheerful music, to sip pleasant
drinks, to see