Over this, every afternoon, private carriages go spinning by, and ladies with card-cases pass to and fro about the duties of society.

And yet down below, you may still see, with its mills and foaming weir, the little rural village of Dean.

Modern improvement has gone overhead on its high-level viaduct; and the extended city has cleanly overleapt, and left unaltered, what was once the summer retreat of its comfortable citizens.

Every town embraces hamlets in its growth; Edinburgh herself has embraced a good few; but it is strange to see one still surviving--and to see it some hundreds of feet below your path.

Is it Torre del Greco that is built above buried Herculaneum?
Herculaneum was dead at least; but the sun still shines upon the roofs of Dean; the smoke still rises thriftily from its chimneys; the dusty miller comes to his door, looks at the gurgling water, hearkens to the turning wheel and the birds about the shed, and perhaps whistles an air of his own to enrich the symphony--for all the world as if Edinburgh were still the old Edinburgh on the Castle Hill, and Dean were still the quietest of hamlets buried a mile or so in the green country.
[Picture: In the Village of Dean] It is not so long ago since magisterial David Hume lent the authority of his example to the exodus from the Old Town, and took up his new abode in a street which is still (so oddly may a jest become perpetuated) known as Saint David Street.