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 tree-less plateau, over
which the winds cut like a whip. For miles and 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 there
was no timber, and but little irregularity of surface, you saw your
whole walk exposed to you from the beginning: there was nothing left
to fancy, nothing to expect, nothing to see by the wayside, save here
and there an unhomely-looking homestead, and here and there a
solitary, spectacled stone-breaker; and you were only accompanied, as
you went doggedly forward, by the gaunt telegraph-posts and the hum
of the resonant wires in the keen sea-wind.
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