Part 26 (1/2)

He loves his pigeons; and here in the garden near them he has built himself an arbour and smoking-room, from the windows of which he has them all in view.

We started about two pm. I would willingly have gone sooner, but the Wanderer was surrounded on the square by a crowd of the most pleasant and kindly people I ever met in my life. Of course many of these wanted to come in, so for nearly an hour I held a kind of _levee_. Nor did my visitors come empty-handed; they brought bouquets of flowers and baskets of strawberries and gooseberries, to say nothing of vegetables and eggs.

Even my gentle Jehu John was not forgotten, and when at length we rolled away on our road to Musselburgh, John had a bouquet in his bosom as large as the crown of his hat.

G.o.d bless old Haddington, and all the kindly people in it!

CHAPTER TWENTY.

EDINBURGH--THE FISHER FOLKS O' MUSSELBORO'--THROUGH LINLITHGOW TO FALKIRK--GIPSY-FOLKS.

”Edina! Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and towers, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sov'reign powers.

From marking wildly-scattered flowers, As on the banks of Ayr I strayed, And singing, lone, the lingering hours I shelter in thy honour'd shade.”

Burns.

So sang our immortal Burns. And here lies the Wanderer snugly at anchor within the grounds of that great seminary, the High School of Edinburgh.

This by the courtesy of the mathematical teacher and kindness of the old janitor, Mr Rollo. She is safe for the midday halt, and I can go shopping and visiting with an easy mind. Sight-seeing? No. Because I have learnt Edinburgh, ”my own romantic town,” by heart long ago.

Besides, it is raining to-day, an uncomfortable drizzle, a soaking insinuating Scotch mist. But the cathedral of Saint Giles I must visit, and am conducted there by W. Chambers, Esq, of _Chambers's Journal_. I think he takes a pride in showing me the restorations his father effected before death called him away. And I marvel not at it.

The day before yesterday, being then lying in Musselburgh, in the tan-yard of that most genial of gentlemen, Mr Millar, I took my servants to the capital of Scotland by way of giving them a treat. They were delighted beyond measure, and I did not neglect them in the matter of food and fluid. Remember, though, that they are English, and therefore not much used to climbing heights. I took them first, by way of preparation, to the top of Scott's monument. What a sight, by the way, were the Princes Street gardens as seen from here! A long walk in the broiling suns.h.i.+ne followed, and then we ”did” (what a hateful verb!) the castle.

”The pond'rous wall and ma.s.sy bar, Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock, Have oft withstood a.s.sailing war, And oft repelled th' invader's shock.”

Another long walk followed, and thus early I fancied I could detect symptoms of f.a.g and lag in my gentle Jehu.

But I took them down to ancient Holyrood, and we saw everything there, from the picture gallery to Rizzio's blood-stain on the floor.

Another long walk. I showed them old Edinburgh, some of the scenes in which shocked their nerves considerably. Then on and up the Calton Hill, signs of f.a.g and lag now painfully apparent. And when I proposed a run up to the top of Nelson's monument, my Jehu fairly struck, and laughingly reminded me that there could be even too much of a good thing. So we went and dined instead.

I was subjected to a piece of red-tapeism at the post-office here which I cannot refrain from chronicling as a warning to future Wanderers.

I had hitherto been travelling incog. Letters from home had been sent in registered packets, addressed to ”The Saloon Caravan Wanderer,” to be left at the post-offices till I called for them; but those sent to Edinburgh were promptly sent back to Twyford, because, according to these clever officials, the name was fict.i.tious. It was really no more so than the name of a yacht is, the Wanderer being my land-yacht.

When a clerk showed me a letter from some bigwig anent the matter, I indignantly dashed my pen through the word ”fict.i.tious.” You should have seen that clerk's face then. I believe his hair stood on end, and his eyes stuck out on stalks.

”Man!” he cried, ”you've done a bonnie thing noo. I'll say no more to you. You must go round and speak to that gentleman.”

As _that_ gentleman was at one end of the counter and _this_ gentleman at the other, _this_ gentleman refused to budge, albeit he _had_ done ”a bonnie thing.” For, I reasoned, _this_ gentleman represents the British public, _that_ gentleman is but a servant of the said British public.

So it ended. But was it not hard to be refused my letters--not to be able to learn for another week whether my aged father was alive, whether my little Inie's cough was better, or Kenneth had cut that other tooth?

If further proof were needed that Midlothian is a smart country, it was forthcoming at Corstorphine, a pretty village some miles from Edina. I had unlimbered on the side of the road, not in any one's way. Soon after there was a rat-tat-tat-tat at my back door--no modest single knock, mind you.

A policeman--tall, wiry, solemn, determined.

”Ye maun moove on. Ye canna be allooed to obstruct the thoro'fare.”

I told the fellow, as civilly as I could, to go about his business, that my horses should feed and my own dinner be cooked and eaten ere I ”mooved on.”

He departed, saying, ”Ye maun stand the consekences.”