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 privacythat 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!
C. J.THE HUMBLE SPARROW'S ADDRESS TO T. S. A
(For the Mirror.)My dearest Sir, how great a change
Has pass'd upon the groves I range,
Nay, all the face of nature!
A few weeks back, each pendent bough,
The fields, the groves, the mountain's brow,
Were bare and leafless all, but now
How verdant ev'ry feature!
Each little songster strives to raise
Its highest warbling notes of praise,
For all these blessings given:
Ere Sol emerges from behind
The eastern hills, the lark we find
Soars, as it were on wings of wind,
With grateful notes to heaven.
A thousand others catch the strains,
Each bush and tree a tongue contains,
That offers up its praises.
From morn till the meridian day,
From noon till Sol has sunk away,
One ceaseless song, one grateful lay,
Each feather'd songster raises.
And when Night's grim and sable band,
Spreads her dim curtains o'er the land,
And all our prospect closes;
Then Philomela, queen of song,
The sweetest of the feather'd throng,
Takes up the theme the whole night long,
While nature all reposes.
Then surely I, the humblest bird,
That e'er among the groves was heard,
Should aid the thankful chorus;
With chirping note I'll join the sound,
For not a Sparrow, 'twill be found,
Without his will falls to the ground,
Who high above reigns o'er us.
But what avail my feeble powers,
When softer notes descend in showers,
Mine are not worth regarding;
No honour'd title gilds my name,
No dulcet notes I e'er could claim;
So worthless I, you may obtain
Two Sparrows for a farthing.
Besides, I ne'er was form'd to sing,
And so must soar on humbler wing,
Since nature saw it fitter;
But yet my feeble powers I'll try,
And sound my chatt'ring notes on high,
For I am sure you'll not deny
To hear my simple twitter.
My gratitude is doubly due,
For all the hedges2 in my view,
Afford a verdant cover;
I now can build my nest once more,
From childhood's prying glance secure,
And from the hawk's keen eye, tho' o'er
The sacred bush he hover.
Oh! had I Philomela's tongue,
The thrush's note, or warbling song
Of blackbird, lark, or linnet;
I'd then more gratitude display,
Striving to raise a sweeter lay,
I'd sing the fleeting hours away,
Nor silent be a minute.
But I must quit the trembling spray,
And to my duty fly away,
To pick a straw or feather;
My mate is somewhere on the wing,
I think she's gone some moss to bring,
For we must work while it is spring,
And build our nest together.
So now adieuI've chirp'd too long,
Must leave the finish of my song
To some more learned bird's son;
Whose mellow notes can charm the ear
With no discordant chatter near;
So now, dear Sir, I'm your sincere
And humble Sparrow.