Essays of Robert Louis Stevenson | Page 6

glasses. We are
ourselves a term in the equation, a note of the chord, and make discord
or harmony almost at will. There is no fear for the result, if we can but

surrender ourselves sufficiently to the country that surrounds and
follows us, so that we are ever thinking suitable thoughts or telling
ourselves some suitable sort of story as we go. We become thus, in
some sense, a centre of beauty; we are provocative of beauty,[4] much
as a gentle and sincere character is provocative of sincerity and
gentleness in others. And even where there is no harmony to be elicited
by the quickest and most obedient of spirits, we may still embellish a
place with some attraction of romance. We may learn to go far afield
for associations, and handle them lightly when we have found them.
Sometimes an old print comes to our aid; I have seen many a spot lit up
at once with picturesque imaginations, by a reminiscence of Callot, or
Sadeler, or Paul Brill.[5] Dick Turpin[6] has been my lay figure for
many an English lane. And I suppose the Trossachs would hardly be
the Trossachs[7] for most tourists if a man of admirable romantic
instinct had not peopled it for them with harmonious figures, and
brought them thither 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.
The country to which I refer was a level and treeless plateau, over
which the winds cut like a whip. For miles on miles it was the same. A
river, indeed, fell into the sea near the town where I resided; but the
valley of the river was shallow and bald, for as far up as ever I had the
heart to follow it. There were roads, certainly, but roads that had no
beauty or interest; for, as