In front of
our hotel, in an enclosed green space, stands a tall column surmounted by
a statue of Sir Walter Scott,--a good statue, I should think, as
conveying the air and personal aspect of the man. There is a bronze
equestrian statue of the Queen in one of the streets, and one or two more
equestrian or other statues of eminent persons. I passed through the
Trongate and the Gallow-Gate, and visited the Salt-Market, and saw the
steeple of the Tolbooth, all of which Scott has made interesting; and I
went through the gate of the University, and penetrated into its enclosed
courts, round which the College edifices are built. They are not Gothic,
but of the age, I suppose, of James I.,--with odd-looking, conical-roofed
towers, and here and there the bust of a benefactor in niches round the
courts, and heavy stone staircases ascending from the pavement, outside
the buildings, all of dark gray granite, cold, hard, and venerable. The
University stands in High Street, in a dense part of the town, and a very
old and shabby part, too. I think the poorer classes of Glasgow excel
even those in Liverpool in the bad eminence of filth, uncombed and
unwashed children, drunkenness, disorderly deportment, evil smell, and
all that makes city poverty disgusting.
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