It was a grotesque scene to behold
Madame Bouiller pacing after Holloway up and down the gallery, with
all the grimaces and vivacity of a Frenchwoman, and re-echoing his
furious lamentations.
* * * * *
_Edinburgh_ (by Mr. Cobbett).--I thought that Bristol, taking in its
heights and Clifton, and its rocks and its river, was the finest city
in the world; but Edinburgh, with its castle, its hills, its pretty
little sea-port, conveniently detached from it, its vale of rich land
lying all around, its lofty hills in the back ground, its views across
the Frith;--I think little of its streets and rows of fine houses,
though all built of stone, and though everything in London and Bath is
beggary to these; I think nothing of Holyrood House; but I think a
great deal of the fine and well-ordered streets of shops--of the
regularity which you perceive everywhere in the management of
business; and I think still more of the absence of all that
foppishness, and that affectation of carelessness, and that insolent
assumption of superiority, that you see in almost all the young men
that you meet with in the fashionable parts of the great towns in
England. I was not disappointed; for I expected to find Edinburgh the
finest city in the kingdom. Conversations at Newcastle, and with many
Scotch gentlemen for years past, had prepared me for this; but still
the reality has greatly surpassed every idea that I had formed about
it.
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