Letters from England/Edinburgh
A JOURNEY TO SCOTLAND
AND now to the north, to the north! County flits after county, in some of which the cows are lying down, in others of which they are standing up; in some places sheep are grazing, elsewhere horses and elsewhere only crows. 
Then comes into view the grey sea with rocks and marshes, the quickset hedges cease, and in place of them small stone walls range along. Small stone walls, stone villages, stone towns; beyond the river Tweed is the land of stone.
An English friend of mine was almost right when he declared Edinburgh to be the finest city in the world. It is a fine place, stonily grey and strange of aspect. Where in other cities a river flows, there a railway runs; on one side is the old town, on the other side the new one, with streets wider than any where else, every vista showing a statue or a church; and in the old town the houses are appallingly high, a thing which exists no where in England, and the washing is flaunted upon clothes-lines above the streets like the flags of all nations—and this also does not exist down in England; and there are dirty, red-headed children in the streets—this also does not exist down in England; and black smiths, carpenters and all sorts of fellows, this also does not exist in England; and strange little streets, wynds or closes, this also does not exist in England; and fat, dishevelled old women, this also does not exist in England. Here the people begin to be as in Naples or in Czechoslovakia. What a funny thing it is to see old houses here with chimneys on the gable, apparently instead of towers, as I have shown in my drawing. Such a thing exists nowhere in the world except at Edinburgh. And the city is situated on hills; you are hurrying along somewhere or other, and all at once beneath your feet have a deep green chasm with a fine you river below; you are taking a walk and all of a sudden there is another street located on a bridge above your head, as at Genoa; you are taking a walk, and you reach a perfectly circular open space, as at Paris. The whole time there is something for you to be surprised at. You make your way into the Parliament, and there whole troops of lawyers are rushing about in wigs with two tails behind, just like two hundred years ago. You go to have a look at the castle, which is situated so picturesquely on a vertical rock, and on your way you meet a whole band of pipers and a company of Highlanders; they have striped plaid trousers, and caps with ribbons, but the pipers have red and black skirts, and on them leather bags, and on their pipes they play a bleating and exciting song to the accompaniment of a whole band of drummer. 
The drumsticks are brandished above the heads of the drummers, they twist and leap up in a strange and savage dance; and the pipers bleat a war-song and march bare-kneed along the castle esplanade with the tripping step of ballet-girls. And bang, bang, the drumsticks twist more rapidly, are crossed, fly up, and suddenly this turns into a funeral march, the pipers whistle an endless and trailing melody, the Highlanders stand at attention, behind them the castle of the Scottish kings, and still farther behind them the whole blood-stained and dreadful history of this land. And bang, bang, the drumsticks dance a wild and wise dance overhead-here the music has remained a spectacle as in the earliest times; and the pipers lift themselves, as if with the impatience of a stallion they were dancing into battle.
Another land and other people. It is a province, but a monumental one; a poorer land, but a sturdy one; a russet and angular type of people, but the girls are prettier than down in England; beautiful and dirty-nosed children, a life ample and jolly in spite of all Calvinism. Upon my soul, I quite took a fancy to it; and to show how pleased I was I will give you as make-weight a strip of sea near Leith and Newhaven, a cold and steely sea, and blue sea-shells as a keepsake and a greeting from the fishing-smacks; and on top of that I will add for you the entire old-fashioned and picturesque town of Stirling with the castle of the Scottish kings. If you stand near the old cannon on the castle rampart, you hold in your hand the key to the Scottish mountains; suppose we went there and had a look at them?
In front of the castle a ballet-girl moves to and fro with a bayonet and a striped kilt; ten paces to the gate, then back, attention, present arms, order arms; the ballet-girl shakes her skirts and dances back again. In the south the battle-field of Robert Bruce, in the north the blue mountains; and below on the green meadow the river Forth twines as no river in the world twines; and I have drawn it so that everybody may see what a beautiful and gratifying river it is.
