their minds rightly prepared for the impression.  There is half the battle in this preparation.  For instance:  I have rarely been able to visit, in the proper spirit, the wild and inhospitable places of our own Highlands.  I am happier where it is tame and fertile, and not readily pleased without trees.[8] I understand that there are some phases of mental trouble that harmonise well with such surroundings, and that some persons, by the dispensing power of the imagination, can go back several centuries in spirit, and put themselves into sympathy with the hunted, houseless, unsociable way of life that was in its place upon these savage hills.  Now, when I am sad, I like nature to charm me out of my sadness, like David before Saul;[9] and the thought of these past ages strikes nothing in me but an unpleasant pity; so that I can never hit on the right humour for this sort of landscape, and lose much pleasure in consequence.  Still, even here, if I were only let alone, and time enough were given, I should have all manner of pleasure, and take many clear and beautiful images away with me when I left.  When we cannot think ourselves into sympathy with the great features of a country, we learn to ignore them, and put our head among the grass for flowers, or pore, for long times together, over the changeful current of a stream.  We come down to the sermon in stones,[10] when we are shut out from any poem in the spread landscape.  We begin to peep and botanise, we take an interest in birds and insects, we find many things beautiful in miniature.  The reader will recollect the little summer scene in Wuthering Heights[11]—­the one warm scene, perhaps, in all that powerful, miserable novel—­and the great feature that is made therein by grasses and flowers and a little sunshine:  this is in the spirit of which I now speak.  And, lastly, we can go indoors; interiors are sometimes as beautiful, often more picturesque, than the shows of the open air, and they have that quality of shelter of which I shall presently have more to say.

With all this in mind, I have often been tempted to put forth the paradox that any place is good enough to live a life in, while it is only in a few, and those highly favoured, that we can pass a few hours agreeably.  For, if we only stay long enough, we become at home in the neighbourhood.  Reminiscences spring up, like flowers, about uninteresting corners.  We forget to some degree the superior loveliness of other places, and fall into a tolerant and sympathetic spirit which is its own reward and justification.  Looking back the other day on some recollections of my own, I was astonished to find how much I owed to such a residence; six weeks in one unpleasant country-side had done more, it seemed, to quicken and educate my sensibilities than many years in places that jumped more nearly with my inclination.