the moon rise from behind Arthur's Seat and shine upon
the spires and monuments and the green tree-tops in the valley. Alas!
and the next morning the rain is splashing on the window, and the
passengers flee along Princes Street before the galloping squalls.

It cannot be denied that the original design was faulty and
short-sighted, and did not fully profit by the capabilities of the
situation. The architect was essentially a town bird, and he laid out
the modern city with a view to street scenery, and to street scenery
alone. The country did not enter into his plan; he had never lifted his
eyes to the hills. If he had so chosen, every street upon the northern
slope might have been a noble terrace and commanded an extensive and
beautiful view. But the space has been too closely built; many of the
houses front the wrong way, intent, like the Man with the Muck-Rake, on
what is not worth observation, and standing discourteously back-foremost
in the ranks; and in a word, it is too often only from attic windows, or
here and there at a crossing, that you can get a look beyond the city
upon its diversified surroundings. But perhaps it is all the more
surprising, to come suddenly on a corner, and see a perspective of a
mile or more of falling street, and beyond that woods and villas, and a
blue arm of sea, and the hills upon the farther side.

Fergusson, our Edinburgh poet, Burns's model, once saw a butterfly at
the Town Cross; and the sight inspired him with a worthless little ode.
This painted countryman, the dandy of the rose garden, looked far abroad
in such a humming neighbourhood; and you can fancy what moral
considerations a youthful poet would supply. But the incident, in a
fanciful sort of way, is characteristic of the place. Into no other city
does the sight of the country enter so far; if you do not meet a
butterfly, you shall certainly catch a glimpse of far-away trees upon
your walk; and the place is full of theatre tricks in the way of
scenery. You peep under an arch, you descend stairs that look as if
they would land you in a cellar, you turn to the back window of a grimy
tenement in a lane:--and behold! you are face-to-face with distant and
bright prospects. You turn a corner, and there is the sun going down
into the Highland hills. You look down an alley, and see ships tacking
for the Baltic.

For the country people to see Edinburgh on her hill-tops is one thing;
it is another for the citizen, from the thick o