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.