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