(_For the Mirror._)
Rotterdam and Erasmus.--Holyrood and Mary Queen of
Scots.--Scotland.--Switzerland and Rousseau.--Pope's
Grotto.--Chiswick, &c.
There is perhaps no sentiment more generally felt, or more delightful, than
that indescribable interest with which we are led to contemplate places and
scenes, immortalized in historical renown, or hallowed by genius.
The propensity for moving from place to place, so observable in mankind,
derives, no doubt, its chief zest from the anxiety we feel to visit
countries of which in the course of our historical researches, we have
heard and read so much to awaken our interest, and excite our admiration.
Without the early reverence which we as boys imbibe for the departed
splendour of Greece and Rome, we should not as men be found wandering among
the ruins of the Pyræus, or the deserted streets of Pompeii. We find it
impossible to behold unmoved the sad, the astonishing changes which time,
the arch-destroyer has effected with his giant arm. Our exuberant fancies
carry us back to those remote periods when all was glory and magnificence,
where now ruin and desolation have established their melancholy empire.
Abandoning ourselves to the potent influence of classical contemplations of
the past, we revel in the full indulgence of antiquarian enthusiasm.
Imagination, however, needs not in general so wide a field for the exercise
of her magic powers. We desire perhaps more of pleasurable excitement from
the recollections attached to spots identified in our minds with events of
individual or ideal interest, than from the loftier train of thoughts
produced by a pilgrimage to countries which have become famous in ancient
or modern story. Thus we experience more delight in visiting places,
remarkable as having once been the resort or habitations of distinguished
men, than in viewing the ruins of an ancient citadel, or the site of a
celebrated battle. The events achieved on the latter may indeed, in their
time, have turned the scale of empires; but the association of ideas in the
former instances, speak a thousand times more feeling to our individual
sympathies. I remember when passing a couple of days in the opulent city of
Rotterdam, that after walking all the morning along its crowded streets,
and paying the accustomed stranger's tribute of admiration to its quays,
its port, and its commercial magnificence, I at length halted before the
statue of Erasmus. It stands on a pedestal in the middle of a large market,
and represents the celebrated scholar, clothed in his professor's gown, and
seemingly gazing with dignified unconcern at the busy multitude around. I
remained looking at the effigy before me, with a reverential feeling akin
to that of the devotee at the shrine of a patron saint. Imagination
transported me back to the eventful times in which Erasmus flourished,
opening to my mind's eye a long vista of historical recollections, till my
absorbed demeanour attracted observation. I found myself exposed to that
vacant stare with which people are so apt to disconcert your composure, if
they observe you contemplating with curiosity and interest, objects which
they have seen every day of their lives, and for that very reason always
pass unnoticed. Leaving then my position, yet anxious to follow up the
train of ideas it had inspired, I sought, and by dint of inquiry,
discovered the habitation of Erasmus. It is in a dirty street, and consists
of one moderately sized, low roofed apartment, on the first floor of an old
fashioned, ill-built house, which the vicissitudes of time have converted
into an _Estaminet_.[1] I was conducted up a dark, narrow staircase into
the close, dingy room, by an ugly, ignorant frau, who seemed to wonder what
earthly inducement I had to visit her dwelling-house. Lumber and
moth-eaten furniture were carelessly scattered around. A solitary window,
partly blocked up by an old mattress, barely admitted light sufficient to
make objects visible. All was neglect and desolation. It seemed almost
impossible that so obscure and dismal a lodging could have been occupied by
so illustrious a tenant. I fancied I beheld the most learned man of his
age, the counsellor and companion of princes, and the contemporary and
rival of Sir Thomas More, indulging his classical reveries in this
comfortless chamber, regardless of its forlorn and squalid aspect. The
charm was omnipotent. Seated in an ancient leathern-bottomed chair, my
hostess, and the dust and darkness of the place were overlooked or
forgotten. The spirit of the mighty dead seemed to hover around, as a sort
of _genius loci_, rescuing the wretched tenement from otherwise deserved
oblivion, and making its very dinginess venerable!
[1] A low resort, something between a French café, and an English
pot-house.
On another occasion I recollect experiencing very strikingly, the force of
local impressions. It was when visiting the apartments of Mary Queen of
Scots, in the palace of Holyrood. Recalling to mind, with the enthusiasm of
one of her warmest admirers, every circumstance connected with the eventful
history of that unfortunate princess, it was impossible for me not to feel
penetrated with the deepest interest. I traversed the very rooms in which
she had sat, and conversed, and passed her hours of peaceful privacy. My
fancy pictured that privacy rudely and brutally invaded by Darnley and his
ruffian associates, when bent on the murder of the ill-fated Rizzio. I
mentally compared the circumstances of that deed of blood, as related by
historians, with the facilities for committing it, afforded by the
distribution of apartments. They tallied exactly. There was the little room
in which sat the queen with her ladies and the devoted secretary. Close to
the door appeared the dark, narrow, turret staircase, which Darnley
ascended before he rushed into Mary's presence. The struggle must have been
desperate, for the murder was not effected in that chamber, Rizzio being
either dragged, or escaped into an adjoining and very obscure anteroom in
which the crime was perpetrated. They pretend to show you marks of his
blood yet visible on the floor. Although all such horrible vestiges have
been most probably long since obliterated, it is yet just possible that
some may remain. To believe so, at the moment, was a lawful indulgence of
my previous illusion. I could have followed the train of associations thus
created much further, had not the person appointed to act as Cicerone
hurried me through the apartments. Their doors closed against me, and the
spell was broken.
Edinburgh is full of interesting localities; particularly the old town. In
its ancient "wynds and closes," now tenanted by the veriest of the plebeian
race, in former days resided men of the most distinguished rank and
celebrity. Before the stupendous improvements of later times had justly
entitled the Scottish metropolis to the appellation of the modern Athens,
the princes and nobles of the land, its judges and senators, were obliged
to dwell in those dirty streets and alleys, from which "Auld Reekie"
derived its then appropriate appellation. When in progress of time they
removed to more splendid and suitable abodes, their abandoned tenements
became habitations of wretchedness. Much however remained in them to remind
posterity of their former proprietors; and whoever is not afraid of
encountering the spectacle of a swarming population in a state of abject
and squalid poverty, will find an abundant field for his antiquarian
researches in the old town of Edinburgh. Like Switzerland, and other
mountainous countries, Scotland is by nature formed to be a land of
romantic associations; but how wonderfully have her historians, poets, and
novelists contributed to create and preserve them! The author of Waverley
has thrown a classic halo around the wild beauties of his native land, and
communicated to stranger minds a national enthusiasm which _his_ soul alone
could have felt, _his_ pen alone inspired! In Scotland, almost every step
we take is on hallowed ground, and the lover of historical recollections
may enjoy to its full extent the delight of visiting places immortalized by
the achievements of her heroes, or the pen of her poets.
To a man fond of localities, travelling either on the continent or in
England, will furnish numerous opportunities of indulging the reveries to
which they give birth. It would be hardly possible to name a town, or a
village, utterly destitute of local interest. In almost every instance,
some memento would be discovered to hallow its site, and to engage the
observation of an intelligent traveller. With a mind predisposed to enjoy
mental associations, they will crowd on us wherever we go, and be suggested
by the veriest trifles. Rousseau could not contain his ecstacy at
beholding a little flower (_la parvenche_) in bloom, which thirty years
before, Madame de Warens had first pointed out to his notice. That simple
incident summoned up a train of exquisite reminiscences. No one, indeed,
ever yielded so entirely to the influence of local enthusiasm as the author
of the _Nouvelle Heloise_. No one has so successfully attempted to invest
scenes, in themselves beautiful, with the additional and powerful interest
of ideal recollections. Picturesque as are the shores of Leman, Meillerie,
and Vevai, yet to Rousseau's sublime conceptions and eloquent descriptions,
they are chiefly indebted for the celebrity which they enjoy. Nature made
Switzerland a land of rugged magnificence. To complete the charm, nothing
was wanted, but that its mountains should be peopled by the creations of
Rousseau.
It were needless, however, to travel to foreign countries in search of
interesting localities. Our own island teems with them. In the metropolis
and its environs, a diligent inquirer will find them at every step. How
many coffeehouses and taverns are there in London which at one time or
another have been frequented by celebrated characters, and how many houses
in which others equally celebrated have resided; such as that of Milton, in
Westminster; and of Johnson, in Bolt Court. How many old gable-ended
tenements do we see in the eastern parts of the town that were standing
before the fire, and which, if explored, might be found to contain the most
interesting relics of antiquity. What a number of streets, courts, and
alleys, bearing names at once indicative of their ancient origin, and of
scenes, and persons, and local circumstances long since forgotten!
Then, if we extend our perambulations to the vicinity of London, how many
hallowed places shall we meet with? Where can we find a palace like Windsor
Castle, to which attach the historical recollections of many centuries,
adding, if possible, yet more solemnity to Gothic grandeur? Again, can
there be conceived a spot more entirely consecrated to classical
associations than the grotto, at Twickenham; that retreat in which gazing
on "Thames translucent stream," Pope passed so many hours of undisturbed
privacy--that spot
"Where British sighs from dying Wyndham stole,
And the bright flame was shot thro' Marchmont's soul."
I have visited it in summer, when the warmth of a mid-day sun has rendered
the "_frigus amabile_" of the interior doubly inviting, and on such
occasions, have quite revelled in local enthusiasm.
I remember, some years since, visiting the Duke of Devonshire's beautiful
villa, at Chiswick, in company with a friend, whose sentiments on the
subject of local impressions are similar to my own. While I was admiring
books and paintings in the library, my companion was contemplating in mute
emotion, the bed upon which Charles Fox breathed his last. That one object
engrossed all the powers of his soul; every other was forgotten!