time; but when he came to the great door of the Royal Infirmary, where upon a board was this inscription, 'Clean your feet,' he turned about slily and said, 'There is no occasion for putting this at the doors of your churches.'" Pennant also had noticed "the slovenly and indecent manner in which Presbytery kept the houses of God. In many parts of Scotland," he said, "our Lord seems still to be worshipped in a stable, and often in a very wretched one."[1] Nevertheless, it seemed likely that some improvement would soon be made, and that orthodoxy and dirt would not be held inseparable companions. In one or two highly favoured spots the broom and scrubbing-brush had, perhaps, already made their appearance; for according to Smollett "the good people of Edinburgh no longer thought dirt and cobwebs essential to the house of God."[2] It might still have been impossible "for the united rhetoric of mankind to prevail with Jack to make himself clean;"[3] yet example must at last have an effect. Scotchmen had travelled and had returned from their travels, and no doubt had brought back a certain love for decency and cleanliness even in churches. In one respect, it was noticed, they surpassed their neighbours. Their conduct during service was more becoming. "They did not make their bows and cringes in the middle of their very prayers as was done in England." They always waited till the sermon was over and the blessing given before they looked round and made their civilities to their friends and persons of distinction.[4]
I inquired in vain when I was in Edinburgh for the Post-house Stairs, down which Johnson on leaving St. Giles was taken to the Cowgate. Together with so much that was ancient they have long since disappeared. He was now at the foot of the highest building in the town. As he turned round and looked upwards he saw a house that rose above him thirteen storeys high, being built like James's Court on a steep slope. It has suffered the same fate as Boswell's house, having been destroyed by fire more than sixty years ago.[5] From the Cowgate Robertson led the way up the steep hill to the College of which he was the Principal. They passed through "that narrow dismal alley," the College Wynd, famous to all time as the birthplace of Sir Walter Scott. Johnson would
