But a man who goes up a steeple must take care how he behaves, for the eyes of the world are upon him.  He is not lost in a crowd, where he is seen only by his next neighbours.  That man must pull off his cap and be affable; but he must not do even that to extravagance.  When the Queen was passing up the Clyde, an American seaman got on the topgallant, and stood on his head.  What was that for, I should be glad to know?  Suppose her Majesty was coming along Princes Street, just to take the air like a lady, and look into the shop-windows, and I was to go right up to her, and stand on my head—­what would she say?  I surmise, that she would turn round to her Lord Gold Stick, and order him to give me a knock on the shins.  I know she would, for she is a regular trump, and knows how people in every station should behave.  I am ashamed of that American:  he is a Yankee Noodle!

It may be said, that the Queen has the same advantage as myself—­that she is up the steeple; but so is every ordinary bricklayer or emperor.  The thing is to be able to look and understand when you are up.  I once saw a curious sight as I sat with the swallows flying far under my feet.  The people did not wander about the street here and there as usual, but hundreds after hundreds of small objects came on in regular array.  Then I could see long lines of Lilliputian soldiers marching in the procession, with their tiny bayonets glancing in the sun; and every now and then came up a soft swell of music, feeble but sweet.  ‘What is all this about?’ thought I.  ’Are they going to set one of these little creatures over them for a bailie or a king?’ And one did march in the middle with a small space round him; ‘but perhaps,’ thought I again, ‘he is only a trumpeter.’  Howbeit, the procession at last halted, and gathered, and closed, and stood still for a time; and there was another small swell of the instruments, with a feeble shout from the throng, and then they all stirred, and broke, and dispersed, and disappeared.  This was just like the view from the mast-head:  it made me feel grand.  But when I came down, I had not replaced one prejudice with another.  I did not despise the creatures I came among; for they were then of the same size as myself.  I pulled off my cap to them, and was affable; only it did give me a queer thought—­not a merry one—­when I heard that the official they had made that day, on going home to his house, out of the grandeur and the din, was heard to commune with himself, saying:  ‘And me but a mortal man after all!’

Poetry?  No, sirs, I have learned no poetry.  I had poetry enough of my own without learning it, and so has everybody else.  I once knew a fellow who wrote very good poetry; but few of us understood it.  That man lost his labour.  It is nature that makes poetry; the poet has merely found out the art of stirring it in the hearts of men, where it lies ready-made, like the perfume of a flower.  A poet who is not understood only makes a noise; and