Nor does the scenery any more affect the thoughts than the
thoughts affect the scenery. We see places through our humours as
through differently coloured 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, 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. Dick Turpin has been my lay
figure for many an English lane.
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