Scotland, and the world, needs only one Holyrood; and Linlithgow, were it
still a perfect palace, must have been second in interest to that, from
its lack of association with historic events so grand and striking.
After tea we took another walk, and this time went along the High Street,
in quest of the house whence Bothwellhaugh fired the shot that killed the
Regent Murray. It has been taken down, however; or, if any part of it
remain, it has been built into and incorporated with a small house of
dark stone, which forms one range with two others that stand a few feet
back from the general line of the street. It is as mean-looking and
commonplace an edifice as is anywhere to be seen, and is now occupied by
one Steele, a tailor. We went under a square arch (if an arch can be
square), that goes quite through the house, and found ourselves in a
little court; but it was not easy to identify anything as connected with
the historic event, so we did but glance about us, and returned into the
street. It is here narrow, and as Bothwellhaugh stood in a projecting
gallery, the Regent must have been within a few yards of the muzzle of
his carbine. The street looks as old as any that I have seen, except,
perhaps, a vista here and there in Chester,--the houses all of stone,
many of them tall, with notched gables, and with stone staircases going
up outside, the steps much worn by feet now dust; a pervading ugliness,
which yet does not fail to be picturesque; a general filth and evil odor
of gutters and people, suggesting sorrowful ideas of what the inner
houses must be, when the outside looks and smells so badly; and, finally,
a great rabble of the inhabitants, talking, idling, sporting, staring
about their own thresholds and those of dram-shops, the town being most
alive in the long twilight of the summer evening.
Pages:
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751