Imagine, if you can, a city of three hundred thousand inhabitants, having in its heart an immense rock, with a castle on top of it.
Edinburgh is rich in landmarks, in spite of the fact that it has been burned to the ground twice since 1300. Its natural beauty surpasses that of either London or Paris. It is built upon two ridges, divided by a valley, which is now a park. The new town is situated to the north of the park, and in this portion are found the modern buildings and principal hotels. From my window I look out on the marble features of Scott, whose monument is at the end of the park.
The picturesque "Old Town" begins with the castle on its huge embankment and slopes down toward the south. It is here one finds the historic landmarks crowding each other in dramatic interest. Here, too, is brought vividly to mind the sad story of poor Queen Mary.
In the valley between the old and new towns is found a wealth of art and architecture not duplicated anywhere, for these Scots are strong in their originality.
It was from the esplanade overlooking one of the perpendicular sides of the castle rock, but which is now used as a drill-ground for the soldiers in the barracks, that I had my first view of that man-devised wonder, the Forth Bridge. I crossed it afterwards _en route_ to Glasgow.
A few days is but scant time to do justice to the landmarks of Edinburgh, and it puzzles one to choose from among those orthodox and those otherwise. St. Giles, the old Gray Friars and John Knox vie with the haunts of Burns, Scott, Johnson and Boswell. The shops, too, form no small part of the attractiveness of the street scene, and the windows filled with articles done in plaids of the different clans are alluring.
[Illustration: NATIONAL GALLERY, EDINBURGH, CASTLE ON HILL IN BACKGROUND]
The chief difference, I find, between the English and Scottish castles lies in the fact that the former are simply residences—walled to be sure—while the latter are strongholds, generally perched on some gigantic rock, and, incidentally, royalty resided in them long enough to have their heads under the guillotine. Stirling Castle is no exception to the rule, and it is therefore not visited by many women.
There is a long, hard climb up the hill leading to the fortifications, for Stirling is still a garrisoned town, and the castle stands on the edge of a steep, isolated rock overhanging the Forth. Here are the steps where Mary, Queen of Scots, stood to survey her possessions, the window out of which the body of Douglas was thrown, and the raised dais, on the battlements, from which Queen Victoria reviewed her troops. From the battlements there is a fine view of the country for miles around, with the statue of Wallace to be seen in the far distance. Just before crossing the drawbridge at the entrance to the castle stands a bronze Robert Bruce, whose features, even in iron, bring back the foremost of Scottish chiefs.