Summer has leaped suddenly on Edinburgh like a tiger. The air is still and hot above the houses; but every now and then a breath of east wind startles you through the warm sunshine--like a sudden sarcasm felt through a strain of flattery--and passes on detested of every organism. But, with this exception, the atmosphere is so close, so laden with a body of heat, that a thunderstorm would be almost welcomed as a relief. Edinburgh, on her crags, held high towards the sun--too distant the sea to send cool breezes to street and square--is at this moment an uncomfortable dwelling-place. Beautiful as ever, of course--for nothing can be finer than the of the Old Town etched on hot summer azure--…
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