Chapter II
Old Town — The Lands
The Old Town, it is pretended, is the chief characteristic, and, from a picturesque1 point of view, the liver-wing of Edinburgh. It is one of the most common forms of depreciation2 to throw cold water on the whole by adroit3 over-commendation of a part, since everything worth judging, whether it be a man, a work of art, or only a fine city, must be judged upon its merits as a whole. The Old Town depends for much of its effect on the new quarters that lie around it, on the sufficiency of its situation, and on the hills that back it up. If you were to set it somewhere else by itself, it would look remarkably4 like Stirling in a bolder and loftier edition. The point is to see this embellished5 Stirling planted in the midst of a large, active, and fantastic modern city; for there the two re-act in a picturesque sense, and the one is the making of the other.
The Old Town occupies a sloping ridge6 or tail of diluvial matter, protected, in some subsidence of the waters, by the Castle cliffs which fortify7 it to the west. On the one side of it and the other the new towns of the south and of the north occupy their lower, broader, and more gentle hill-tops. Thus, the quarter of the Castle over-tops the whole city and keeps an open view to sea and land. It dominates for miles on every side; and people on the decks of ships, or ploughing in quiet country places over in Fife, can see the banner on the Castle battlements, and the smoke of the Old Town blowing abroad over the subjacent country. A city that is set upon a hill. It was, I suppose, from this distant aspect that she got her nickname of Auld8 Reekie. Perhaps it was given her by people who had never crossed her doors: day after day, from their various rustic9 Pisgahs, they had seen the pile of building on the hill-top, and the long plume10 of smoke over the plain; so it appeared to them; so it had appeared to their fathers tilling the same field; and as that was all they knew of the place, it could be all expressed in these two words.
Indeed, even on a nearer view, the Old Town is properly smoked; and though it is well washed with rain all the year round, it has a grim and sooty aspect among its younger suburbs. It grew, under the law that regulates the growth of walled cities in precarious11 situations, not in extent, but in height and density12. Public buildings were forced, wherever there was room for them, into the midst of thoroughfares; thorough — fares were diminished into lanes; houses sprang up story after story, neighbour mounting upon neighbour’s shoulder, as in some Black Hole of Calcutta, until the population slept fourteen or fifteen deep in a vertical13 direction. The tallest of these Lands, as they are locally termed, have long since been burnt out; but to this day it is not uncommon14 to see eight or ten windows at a flight; and the cliff of building which hangs imminent15 over Waverley Bridge would still put many natural precipices16 to shame. The cellars are already high above the gazer’s head, planted on the steep hill-side; as for the garret, all the furniture may be in the pawn-shop, but it commands a famous prospect17 to the Highland18 hills. The poor man may roost up there in the centre of Edinburgh, and yet have a peep of the green country from his window; he shall see the quarters of the well-to-do fathoms19 underneath20, with their broad squares and gardens; he shall have nothing overhead but a few spires22, the stone top-gallants of the city; and perhaps the wind may reach him with a rustic pureness, and bring a smack23 of the sea or of flowering lilacs in the spring.
It is almost the correct literary sentiment to deplore24 the revolutionary improvements of Mr. Chambers25 and his following. It is easy to be a conservator of the discomforts27 of others; indeed, it is only our good qualities we find it irksome to conserve28. Assuredly, in driving streets through the black labyrinth29, a few curious old corners have been swept away, and some associations turned out of house and home. But what slices of sunlight, what breaths of clean air, have been let in! And what a picturesque world remains30 untouched! You go under dark arches, and down dark stairs and alleys31. The way is so narrow that you can lay a hand on either wall; so steep that, in greasy32 winter weather, the pavement is almost as treacherous33 as ice. Washing dangles34 above washing from the windows; the houses bulge35 outwards36 upon flimsy brackets; you see a bit of sculpture in a dark corner; at the top of all, a gable and a few crowsteps are printed on the sky. Here, you come into a court where the children are at play and the grown people sit upon their doorsteps, and perhaps a church spire21 shows itself above the roofs. Here, in the narrowest of the entry, you find a great old mansion37 still erect38, with some insignia of its former state — some scutcheon, some holy or courageous39 motto, on the lintel. The local antiquary points out where famous and well-born people had their lodging40; and as you look up, out pops the head of a slatternly woman from the countess’s window. The Bedouins camp within Pharaoh’s palace walls, and the old war-ship is given over to the rats. We are already a far way from the days when powdered heads were plentiful41 in these alleys, with jolly, port-wine faces underneath. Even in the chief thoroughfares Irish washings flutter at the windows, and the pavements are encumbered42 with loiterers.
These loiterers are a true character of the scene. Some shrewd Scotch43 workmen may have paused on their way to a job, debating Church affairs and politics with their tools upon their arm. But the most part are of a different order — skulking44 jail-birds; unkempt, bare-foot children; big-mouthed, robust45 women, in a sort of uniform of striped flannel46 petticoat and short tartan shawl; among these, a few surpervising constables47 and a dismal48 sprinkling of mutineers and broken men from higher ranks in society, with some mark of better days upon them, like a brand. In a place no larger than Edinburgh, and where the traffic is mostly centred in five or six chief streets, the same face comes often under the notice of an idle stroller. In fact, from this point of view, Edinburgh is not so much a small city as the largest of small towns. It is scarce possible to avoid observing your neighbours; and I never yet heard of any one who tried. It has been my fortune, in this anonymous50 accidental way, to watch more than one of these downward travellers for some stages on the road to ruin. One man must have been upwards51 of sixty before I first observed him, and he made then a decent, personable figure in broad-cloth of the best. For three years he kept falling — grease coming and buttons going from the square-skirted coat, the face puffing52 and pimpling, the shoulders growing bowed, the hair falling scant53 and grey upon his head; and the last that ever I saw of him, he was standing54 at the mouth of an entry with several men in moleskin, three parts drunk, and his old black raiment daubed with mud. I fancy that I still can hear him laugh. There was something heart-breaking in this gradual declension at so advanced an age; you would have thought a man of sixty out of the reach of these calamities55; you would have thought that he was niched by that time into a safe place in life, whence he could pass quietly and honourably56 into the grave.
One of the earliest marks of these Degringolades is, that the victim begins to disappear from the New Town thoroughfares, and takes to the High Street, like a wounded animal to the woods. And such an one is the type of the quarter. It also has fallen socially. A scutcheon over the door somewhat jars in sentiment where there is a washing at every window. The old man, when I saw him last, wore the coat in which he had played the gentleman three years before; and that was just what gave him so pre-eminent an air of wretchedness.
It is true that the over-population was at least as dense57 in the epoch58 of lords and ladies, and that now-a-days some customs which made Edinburgh notorious of yore have been fortunately pretermitted. But an aggregation59 of comfort is not distasteful like an aggregation of the reverse. Nobody cares how many lords and ladies, and divines and lawyers, may have been crowded into these houses in the past — perhaps the more the merrier. The glasses clink around the china punch-bowl, some one touches the virginals, there are peacocks’ feathers on the chimney, and the tapers60 burn clear and pale in the red firelight. That is not an ugly picture in itself, nor will it become ugly upon repetition. All the better if the like were going on in every second room; the Land would only look the more inviting61. Times are changed. In one house, perhaps, two-score families herd62 together; and, perhaps, not one of them is wholly out of the reach of want. The great hotel is given over to discomfort26 from the foundation to the chimney-tops; everywhere a pinching, narrow habit, scanty63 meals, and an air of sluttishness and dirt. In the first room there is a birth, in another a death, in a third a sordid64 drinking-bout, and the detective and the Bible-reader cross upon the stairs. High words are audible from dwelling65 to dwelling, and children have a strange experience from the first; only a robust soul, you would think, could grow up in such conditions without hurt. And even if God tempers His dispensations to the young, and all the ill does not arise that our apprehensions66 may forecast, the sight of such a way of living is disquieting67 to people who are more happily circumstanced. Social inequality is nowhere more ostentatious than at Edinburgh. I have mentioned already how, to the stroller along Princes Street, the High Street callously68 exhibits its back garrets. It is true, there is a garden between. And although nothing could be more glaring by way of contrast, sometimes the opposition69 is more immediate70; sometimes the thing lies in a nutshell, and there is not so much as a blade of grass between the rich and poor. To look over the South Bridge and see the Cowgate below full of crying hawkers, is to view one rank of society from another in the twinkling of an eye.
One night I went along the Cowgate after every one was a-bed but the policeman, and stopped by hazard before a tall Land. The moon touched upon its chimneys, and shone blankly on the upper windows; there was no light anywhere in the great bulk of building; but as I stood there it seemed to me that I could hear quite a body of quiet sounds from the interior; doubtless there were many clocks ticking, and people snoring on their backs. And thus, as I fancied, the dense life within made itself faintly audible in my ears, family after family contributing its quota71 to the general hum, and the whole pile beating in tune49 to its timepieces, like a great disordered heart. Perhaps it was little more than a fancy altogether, but it was strangely impressive at the time, and gave me an imaginative measure of the disproportion between the quantity of living flesh and the trifling72 walls that separated and contained it.
There was nothing fanciful, at least, but every circumstance of terror and reality, in the fall of the land in the High Street. The building had grown rotten to the core; the entry underneath had suddenly closed up so that the scavenger’s barrow could not pass; cracks and reverberations sounded through the house at night; the inhabitants of the huge old human bee-hive discussed their peril73 when they encountered on the stair; some had even left their dwellings74 in a panic of fear, and returned to them again in a fit of economy or self-respect; when, in the black hours of a Sunday morning, the whole structure ran together with a hideous75 uproar76 and tumbled story upon story to the ground. The physical shock was felt far and near; and the moral shock travelled with the morning milkmaid into all the suburbs. The church-bells never sounded more dismally77 over Edinburgh than that grey forenoon. Death had made a brave harvest, and, like Samson, by pulling down one roof, destroyed many a home. None who saw it can have forgotten the aspect of the gable; here it was plastered, there papered, according to the rooms; here the kettle still stood on the hob, high overhead; and there a cheap picture of the Queen was pasted over the chimney. So, by this disaster, you had a glimpse into the life of thirty families, all suddenly cut off from the revolving78 years. The Land had fallen; and with the LAND how much! Far in the country, people saw a gap in the city ranks, and the sun looked through between the chimneys in an unwonted place. And all over the world, in London, in Canada, in New Zealand, fancy what a multitude of people could exclaim with truth: ‘The house that I was born in fell last night!’
收听单词发音 |
1
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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depreciation
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| n.价值低落，贬值，蔑视，贬低 | |
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adroit
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| adj.熟练的，灵巧的 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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embellished
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| v.美化( embellish的过去式和过去分词 )；装饰；修饰；润色 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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fortify
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| v.强化防御，为…设防；加强，强化 | |
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auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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density
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| n.密集，密度，浓度 | |
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13
vertical
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| adj.垂直的，顶点的，纵向的；n.垂直物，垂直的位置 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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fathoms
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| 英寻( fathom的名词复数 ) | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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discomforts
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| n.不舒适( discomfort的名词复数 )；不愉快，苦恼 | |
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conserve
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| vt.保存，保护，节约，节省，守恒，不灭 | |
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labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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34
dangles
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| 悬吊着( dangle的第三人称单数 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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bulge
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| n.突出，膨胀，激增；vt.突出，膨胀 | |
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outwards
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| adj.外面的，公开的，向外的；adv.向外；n.外形 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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40
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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skulking
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的现在分词 ) | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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constables
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| n.警察( constable的名词复数 ) | |
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48
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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49
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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50
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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51
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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52
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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53
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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54
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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56
honourably
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| adv.可尊敬地，光荣地，体面地 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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58
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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aggregation
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| n.聚合，组合；凝聚 | |
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tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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callously
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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quota
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| n.（生产、进出口等的）配额，（移民的）限额 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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