although the town lies blue and darkling on her hills, innumerable spots of the bright element shine far and near along the pavements and upon the high facades.  Moving lights of the railway pass and repass below the stationary lights upon the bridge.  Lights burn in the jail.  Lights burn high up in the tall Lands and on the Castle turrets, they burn low down in Greenside or along the Park.  They run out one beyond the other into the dark country.  They walk in a procession down to Leith, and shine singly far along Leith Pier.  Thus, the plan of the city and her suburbs is mapped out upon the ground of blackness, as when a child pricks a drawing full of pinholes and exposes it before a candle; not the darkest night of winter can conceal her high station and fanciful design; every evening in the year she proceeds to illuminate herself in honour of her own beauty; and as if to complete the scheme — or rather as if some prodigal Pharaoh were beginning to extend to the adjacent sea and country — half-way over to Fife, there is an outpost of light upon Inchkeith, and far to seaward, yet another on the May.

And while you are looking, across upon the Castle Hill, the drums and bugles begin to recall the scattered garrison; the air thrills with the sound; the bugles sing aloud; and the last rising flourish mounts and melts into the darkness like a star:  a martial swan-song, fitly rounding in the labours of the day.

CHAPTER IX.  WINTER AND NEW YEAR.

The Scotch dialect is singularly rich in terms of reproach against the winter wind.  Snell, BLAE, NIRLY, and SCOWTHERING, are four of these significant vocables; they are all words that carry a shiver with them; and for my part, as I see them aligned before me on the page, I am persuaded that a big wind comes tearing over the Firth from Burntisland and the northern hills; I think I can hear it howl in the chimney, and as I set my face northwards, feel its smarting kisses on my cheek.  Even in the names of places there is often a desolate, inhospitable sound; and I remember two from the near neighbourhood of Edinburgh, Cauldhame and Blaw-weary, that would promise but starving comfort to their inhabitants.  The inclemency of heaven, which has thus endowed the language of Scotland with words, has also largely modified the spirit of its poetry.  Both poverty and a northern climate teach men the love of the hearth and the sentiment of the family; and the latter, in its own right, inclines a poet to the praise of strong waters.  In Scotland, all our singers have a stave or two for blazing fires and stout potations:- to get indoors out of the wind and to swallow something hot to the stomach, are benefits so easily appreciated where they dwelt!