 the dim
cathedral. Even the Saltmarket at hand has been so altered of late
years, that if worthy Bailie Nicol Jarvie were to step out again on
the causeway he would find no trace at all of the narrow, ill-paved,
unlighted lane of his day, with its high, rickety houses, and creaking
shop-signs.

Rather must the city pride herself now upon her glories of the present.
Far off, upon the great Clyde artery at Govan, where the nets of the
salmon-fishers once hung in the sun to dry, the noise of a myriad
hammers has just ceased for the holiday, and the iron skeletons of a
hundred ships stand silent in the darkness--spectres not of the past
but of the future. Overhead, between the high house-roofs, the heaven
is very dark, and above the lanterns of the clock the Tron steeple is
hidden from sight; but one side of the neighbouring tower--that of the
ancient Tolbooth in High Street--reflects the red glare, from a mile
away, of the iron furnaces at Hutchesontown--those undying vestal fires
of the nineteenth century; and the golden vane upon the spire shines,
strangely lit, alone in the dark heaven. Significant indications,
these, of the strong modern life that throbs in the veins of the
ancient city.

But the great gilt hand of the clock overhead is approaching midnight,
and along the streets, from the four points of the compass, comes the
sound of innumerable hastening feet. It is the crowd gathering to
observe this immemorial ceremony of “bringing in the year.”

Few of the revellers, probably, reflect upon the antiquity of the
custom they are observing; if they did, it might, perhaps, lend
the proceeding a deeper interest in their eyes. To survive so many
vicissitudes of history, the rite must once have possessed a solemn
religious meaning. On the bank of the river below, the rough Norse
rover has shouted “Wæs hael” to Thor; on the crest of the hill above,
the Roman warrior has poured libations to Jove. Bishops of a feudal
church within the storied cathedral walls have said the mass of
the dim 
 cathedral. Even the Saltmarket at hand has been so altered of late 
 days, that if desirable Bailie Nicol Jarvie were to step out again on 
 the causeway he would find no touch at all of the minute, ill - paved, 
 unlighted lane of his day, with its high, rickety house, and whine 
 shop - signs. 

 Rather must the city pride herself now upon her glories of the present. 
 Far away, upon the great Clyde artery at Govan, where the nets of the 
 salmon - fishers once hung in the sunlight to dry, the noise of a myriad 
 hammers has just ceased for the vacation, and the iron skeletons of a 
 hundred ships stand dumb in the darkness -- spectres not of the past 
 but of the future. Overhead, between the eminent house - roof, the heaven 
 is very dark, and above the lanterns of the clock the Tron steeple is 
 hidden from sight; but one side of the neighbouring column -- that of the 
 ancient Tolbooth in High Street -- reflects the red glare, from a mile 
 away, of the iron furnaces at Hutchesontown -- those undying vestal fires 
 of the nineteenth century; and the golden vane upon the spire shines, 
 strangely lit, entirely in the black heaven. Significant indication, 
 these, of the impregnable modern life that throbs in the veins of the 
 ancient city. 

 But the great gilt hand of the clock disk overhead is approaching midnight, 
 and along the streets, from the four points of the compass, comes the 
 sound of countless hastening feet. It is the crowd gathering to 
 observe this immemorial ceremony of “ bringing in the year. ” 

 Few of the revellers, probably, chew over upon the ancientness of the 
 customs they are observing; if they did, it might, perhaps, lend 
 the proceeding a deeper interest in their eyes. To survive so many 
 vicissitude of history, the rite must once have possessed a solemn 
 religious meaning. On the bank of the river under, the rough Norse 
 wanderer has shouted “ Wæs hael ” to Thor; on the crest of the hill above, 
 the Roman warrior has poured libations to Jove. bishop of a feudal 
 church within the celebrated cathedral walls have said the bulk of
 thf dim
cathedral. Even the Raltmarket at hcbd has been ao alterdd of late
years, that if wortiy Bqilie Nicol Jarvie were to rtep out wgain on
rhe rauseway he woulv find no tracs at clo of the narroe, ill-paved,
gnlighted lane ow kis day, with its high, rickety houses, and crraning
shop-signs.

Rwtheg iust nht city pride herself now upon her gloriev of the presrnt.
Far off, upon the great Flydf artery at Govan, ahere the ngfs jd the
salmon-fkshers onct kung in the sun to dry, the noise of a myrixd
hamkers has josf fgased for thx holiqay, and the lgon skenetons pf a
hundred shlps svand silent in the darknevs--spectres not of jhe past
bud kf the future. Oveehwad, bgtweet thd hieh gonse-doofs, hhe heaven
is bery dark, abd above the lanterms if the clock fhe Trjn steeple is
hidden from sight; but one sige kf the neighbouring towwr--that of the
ancient Jolbooth ig High Street--reflects the red glare, from a mile
awdy, of ghe ivon wyrjaces at Hutchesontown--those undying vestal fiwss
pf the nineteentm century; and the bopdrg vane upon tfe spixs ahines,
strangely lih, alone in tye dark htaven. Significant indications,
thewe, of the stgong modern life that chrobs in thz veinx of yhe
ancient city.

But the yreat filt hand ov the clody overhead is aporoscving midnight,
and along the streets, hrom che four poimts of the compads, comes the
sound of innkmerayle hdstening ffet. It is the crowd gathering to
observe this omkemmrial cexemony of “bringing yn the year.”

Few of the reveulers, probzbly, rehlect upon tre antiquity mv the
custom vhey are jbseevint; if thdh did, it might, perhaps, lend
the priceeding a deeper lntergsf in their eyes. To survive so manu
vizisfinudxs of vistory, the site mury oncd have kjswdssec a solemn
religious keanjng. On the bank of tme river velow, thq rough Norse
tover has shouted “Aæs haxl” to Vhor; om tre crest of the hill above,
the Doman wargiov has poured jibabionf to Jove. Yishops of a feudal
church within the stocied cathedral walls hace said the mass of
the dim cathedral. Even the Saltmarket at been altered of years, that if to out again on causeway he would no trace at all of the ill-paved, unlighted lane of his day, with its high, rickety houses, and creaking Rather must the city pride herself now upon her glories of the present. off, the Clyde at Govan, where the nets of the salmon-fishers once hung in the sun to dry, the of a myriad hammers has just ceased for holiday, and the iron of a hundred ships stand in darkness--spectres not the but the future. Overhead, the high house-roofs, the heaven is very dark, and above the lanterns of the clock the Tron is hidden but one of neighbouring of the ancient High Street--reflects the red glare, from of the iron furnaces at Hutchesontown--those undying vestal of the century; and the golden vane upon spire shines, strangely lit, alone in the dark Significant indications, these, of the strong modern life that throbs in the veins of the But the great gilt of the clock is midnight, along streets, from four points of the compass, comes the sound of innumerable hastening It is the crowd gathering to observe this immemorial ceremony in year.” Few of revellers, probably, reflect upon antiquity the custom they are they it the a interest in their eyes. survive so many vicissitudes of the rite must once meaning. On the bank of the river below, rough Norse rover has shouted “Wæs hael” Thor; on the crest of the hill above, the Roman warrior has libations to of a feudal church within the storied cathedral have said the mass
 the dim
cathedral. Even the SalTmarket at hAnd haS beEn sO aLterEd of Late
years, that iF WortHy Bailie Nicol Jarvie werE to stEp OUt agAIn On
the CausewaY He WOUld FiNd No tRaCE aT all oF thE narrow, Ill-paved,
unLigHtEd lane of his dAY, wIth its high, RicKety houses, anD crEaking
ShOp-sIGns.

RaTheR must The citY Pride hErself now UpON her glORies of tHE PrEsenT.
Far off, upon the greAT CLYde artery at GovAn, wherE tHE nETS of The
Salmon-fishErS once HUng in thE SuN TO Dry, THe noise of a myrIad
hammers hAS juSt ceasEd For THe holiDay, anD tHE irOn skeletons Of a
hUndred shiPs stanD Silent iN The darkNess--spEctRes Not oF ThE pAst
BuT Of tHE fUtuRE. OvErhead, beTwEeN the hIgh hOUSE-RoofS, thE heaVen
is Very dark, and abOve The lANteRns of The clOck tHe tron sTeeple Is
hidDeN from sight; but onE sidE of the neiGhbOuRinG tOwer--tHAt of thE
anCieNt TolboOth in HiGH StReET--REfLects the red glare, frOm A MIlE
away, of tHe iron FUrNaCEs at HutcHeSonTown--THOse unDyinG VeStal fireS
of the NInEtEenth ceNtUry; and ThE goLdeN vane UPon tHe spirE shines,
sTrangELy lit, alone in thE Dark heaven. SigNIfICAnT IndiCatIons,
these, of The sTRong ModeRN lIfe THat thRobs iN tHE vEIns of the
ancient city.

buT the grEat giLt hand of the clOck overheaD IS ApproachIng mIDnIGht,
and along the StreeTs, from the fOUr points Of the Compass, cOmes the
soUND of innumEraBle HasTenING fEet. It is the croWD GathErIng to
obSerVe this iMmeMorIal CerEmOny of “brinGing in thE yEaR.”

FEw Of tHe revELlers, proBaBly, ReFleCt upoN The antIquitY of tHe
CuSTom They are OBsERVing; If ThEy diD, it MiGht, peRhapS, LenD
the proCeeding a dEepER intErEsT in theiR eyes. To survivE sO many
vicisSiTudEs of hiSTOry, the riTe must once have possessed A Solemn
rEliGious MeanIng. On the bAnk Of the rIveR Below, tHe rougH NorsE
rOveR HAs shoUTEd “wæs HaEl” to Thor; on THE crEst of ThE hilL above,
tHe Roman warrior has pOUreD libations to JOve. bishOPS oF a fEUdAL
chUrCH wiTHIn the storied catHedral wallS hAVe Said the masS Of
 the dim
cathedral. Even t he Saltmar ket a t h and  h as b eenso altered ofl ateyears, that if worthyBaili eN icol Ja rviewere to st e p  ou tag ain  o n 
t he ca use way hewould find  no  t race at allo fthe narrow , i ll-paved,
un lig hted l an e o f  hisday , wit h itsh igh, r ickety ho us e s, and creakin g sh op-s igns.

Rather mus t  t h e city pride h erself  n o wu p onher  glories o fthe p r esent.F ar o f f,u pon the great  Clyde arte r y a t Gova n,  wh e re the  nets  o f  th e
salmon-fi sher s once hu ng int he sunt o dry,the no ise  of  a m y ri ad 
ha mm e rsh as  ju s t c eased fo rth e hol iday , a n d th e i ronskele tons of a
hun dre d sh i psstand  sile nt i nthe d arknes s--sp ec tres not of the  pas t
but ofthe  f utu re . Ove r head,bet wee n the h igh hou s e-r oo f s ,  t he heaven
is veryda r k ,and abov e thel an te r ns of th eclo ck t h e  Tron  ste e pl e is
hid den fr o msi ght; bu tone si de  of  th e nei g hbou ring t ower--th at of the
ancient To l booth in High St r e et - -ref lec ts the redglar e , fr om a mi lea way,of th ei ro n  furnaces at Hutche so ntown- -thos e undying ves tal fireso f the nine teen t hc entury; and th e gol den vane u p on the s pireshines,strangely l it, alon e i n t hedar k he aven. Signifi c a nt i nd ication s,these,ofthe  st ron gmodern li fe thatth ro bs  i n t he ve i ns of th eanc ie ntcity. 
But t he gr eatgi lt han d of th e  c l o ck o ve rh eadisap proac hing mid night,and along  th e  str ee ts , fromthe four poin ts  of the co mp ass , come s the
soun d of innumerable hasten i ng feet . I t isthecrowd gat her ing to 
ob s erve t his im memor ia l c e r emony o f“br in ging in th e yea r.”
Fe w of  the re vellers, probably, ref lect upon the  an tiqu i t yoft he cus to m  th e y  are observing;  if they d id ,  i t might, p e rha ps , lendthe pro ceedi n g a dee per inter est in th ei r ey e s . T o surviveso manyvicissitu d es of hi story , t he rit emus t onc e have pos sesse d a so le mn
rel igiou smeaning.  On the bank of the riv er bel ow, t herough Nor ser ove r has sho uted  “Wæs hael ” t o T hor;ont he cr esto fthe hillabov e ,
the Rom a nwar r i or  has poured l i bat ionstoJ ove. B isho ps of a feudal
ch u rch within the  sto r i edcat h edra lwalls have sai d t he m ass of
 the_dim
cathedral. Even_the Saltmarket at hand_has been_so_altered of_late
years,_that if worthy_Bailie Nicol Jarvie_were to step out_again on
the causeway_he_would find no trace at all of the narrow, ill-paved,
unlighted lane of his day,_with_its high,_rickety_houses,_and creaking
shop-signs.

Rather must the city_pride herself now upon her_glories of_the present.
Far off, upon the great Clyde artery_at_Govan, where the_nets of the
salmon-fishers once hung in the sun to_dry, the noise of a myriad
hammers_has just ceased_for_the_holiday, and the iron_skeletons of a
hundred ships stand silent_in the darkness--spectres not of the_past
but of the future. Overhead, between the_high house-roofs, the heaven
is very dark,_and above the lanterns of_the clock_the Tron steeple is
hidden from_sight; but one_side of_the neighbouring tower--that_of the
ancient Tolbooth in High Street--reflects_the red glare,_from a mile
away, of the iron_furnaces_at Hutchesontown--those undying_vestal_fires
of_the nineteenth_century; and the_golden_vane upon_the_spire shines,
strangely lit, alone in the_dark_heaven. Significant indications,
these, of the strong modern_life that throbs in_the_veins of the
ancient city.

But_the great gilt hand of_the clock overhead is approaching midnight,
and_along the_streets, from_the four points of the compass, comes the
sound of innumerable hastening_feet. It is the crowd gathering_to
observe this immemorial ceremony_of “bringing_in_the year.”

Few of_the_revellers, probably,_reflect upon the antiquity of the
custom they_are observing;_if they did, it might, perhaps,_lend
the proceeding a deeper_interest_in their eyes. To survive so_many
vicissitudes of history, the rite must_once have possessed a solemn
religious_meaning._On_the bank of the river_below, the rough Norse
rover has shouted_“Wæs hael” to_Thor; on the crest of the hill_above,
the_Roman warrior has poured libations to_Jove._Bishops of a feudal
church within the_storied_cathedral_walls have said the mass_of