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 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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