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 cafe, 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