From the
castle down stretched Edinburgh, heaped upon its long, spinelike hill,
to the palace of Holyrood, and all its tall houses, tall and dark, and
all its wynds and closes, and all its strident voices, and all its
moving folk, seemed to have in mind that palace and the banner before
it. The note of the having rang jubilation in all its degrees, or with
a lower and a muffled sound distaste and fear, or it aimed at a middle
strain neither high nor low, a golden mean to be kept until there
might be seen what motif, after all, was going to prevail! It would
never do, thought some, to be at this juncture too clamorous either
way. But to the unpondering ear the jubilation carried it, as to the
eye tartans and white cockades made color, made high light, splashed
and starred and redeemed the gray town. There was one thing that could
not but appeal. A Scots royal line had come into its home nest at
Holyrood. Not for many and many and many a year had such a thing as
that happened! If matters went in a certain way Edinburgh might
regain ancient pomp and circumstance. That was a consideration that
every hour arranged a new plea in the citizen heart.
Excitement, restless movement, tendency to come together in a crowd,
were general, as were ejaculation, nervous laughter, declamation. The
roll of drum, call of trumpet, skirl of pipes, did not lack.
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