always the power of doing so; its
particles being everlastingly so arranged by its Maker. And,
therefore, the gentian and the sky are always verily blue, whatever
philosophy may say to the contrary; and if you do not see them blue
when you look at them, it is not their fault but yours.

Sec. 3. Hence I would say to these philosophers: If, instead of using the
sonorous phrase, 'It is objectively so,' you will use the plain old
phrase, 'It _is_ so;' and if instead of the sonorous phrase, 'It is
subjectively so,' you will say, in plain old English, 'It does so,' or
'It seems so to me;' you will, on the whole, be more intelligible to
your fellow-creatures: and besides, if you find that a thing which
generally 'does so' to other people (as a gentian looks blue to most
men), does _not_ so to you, on any particular occasion, you will not
fall into the impertinence of saying, that the thing is not so, or did
not so, but you will say simply (what you will be all the better for
speedily finding out), that something is the matter with you. If you
find that you cannot explode the gunpowder, you will not declare that
all gunpowder is subjective, and all explosion imaginary, but you will
simply suspect and declare yourself to be an ill-made match. Which, on
the whole, though there may be a distant chance of a mistake about it,
is, nevertheless, the wisest conclusion you can come to until farther
experiment.

Sec. 4. Now, therefore, putting these tiresome and absurd words quite out
of our way, we may go on at our ease to examine the point in
question--namely, the difference between the ordinary, proper, and
true appearances of things to us; and the extraordinary, or false
appearances, when we are under the influence of emotion, or
contemplative fancy; false appearances, I say, as being entirely
unconnected with any real power or character in the object, and only
imputed to it by us.

For instance--

The spendthrift crocus, bursting through the mould
Naked and shivering, with his cup of gold.

This is very beautiful, and yet very untrue. The crocus is not a
spendthrift, but a hardy plant; its yellow is not gold, but saffron.
How is it that we enjoy so much the having it put into our heads that
it is anything else than a plain crocus?

It is an important question. For, throughout our past reasonings about
art, we have always found that nothing could be good, or useful, or
ultimately pleasurable, which was untrue. But he