t sends me nothing
but a deep and mysterious satisfaction, which seems to make light of my
sullen and petty moods.

I was reading the other day, in a strange book, of the influence of
magic upon the spirit, the vague dreams of the deeper mind that could
be awakened by the contemplation of symbols. It seemed to me to be
unreal and fantastic, a manufacturing of secrets, a playing of
whimsical tricks with the mind; and yet I ought not to say that,
because it was evidently written in good faith. But I have since
reflected that it is true in a sense of all those who are sensitive to
the influences of the spirit. Nature has a magic for many of us--that
is to say, a secret power that strikes across our lives at intervals,
with a message from an unknown region. And this message is aroused too
by symbols; a tree, a flash of light on lonely clouds, a flower, a
stream--simple things that we have seen a thousand times--have
sometimes the power to cast a spell over our spirit, and to bring
something that is great and incommunicable near us. This must be called
magic, for it is not a thing which can be explained by ordinary laws,
or defined in precise terms; but the spell is there, real, insistent,
undeniable; it seems to make a bridge for the spirit to pass into a
far-off, dimly apprehended region; it gives us a sense of great issues
and remote visions; it leaves us with a longing which has no mortal
fulfilment.

These are of course merely idiosyncrasies of perception; but it is a
far more difficult task to attempt to indicate what the perception of
beauty is, and whence the mind derives the unhesitating canons with
which it judges and appraises beauty. The reason, I believe, why the
sense is weaker than it need be in many people, is that, instead of
trusting their own instinct in the matter, they from their earliest
years endeavour to correct their perception of what is beautiful by the
opinions of other people, and to superimpose on their own taste the
taste of others. I myself hold strongly that nothing is worth admiring
which is not admired sincerely. Of course, one must not form one's
opinions too early, or hold them arrogantly or self-sufficiently. If
one finds a large number of people admiring or professing to admire a
certain class of objects, a certain species of scene, one ought to make
a resolute effort to see what it is that appeals to them. But there
ought to come a time, when one has imbibed sufficient experience, wh