without, a beckoning of some large and loving power to the soul.
The primal instincts of which I have spoken all tend to concentrate
the mind upon itself, to strengthen it for a selfish part; but the
beauty of nature seems to be a call to the spirit to come forth,
like the voice which summoned Lazarus from the rock-hewn sepulchre.
It bids us to believe that our small identities, our limited
desires, do not say the last word for us, but that there is
something larger and stronger outside, in which we may claim a
share. As I write these words I look out upon a strange
transfiguration of a familiar scene. The sky is full of black and
inky clouds, but from the low setting sun there pours an intense
pale radiance, which lights up house-roofs, trees, and fields, with
a white light; a flight of pigeons, wheeling high in the air,
become brilliant specks of moving light upon a background of dark
rolling vapour. What is the meaning of the intense and rapturous
thrill that this sends through me? It is no selfish delight, no
personal profit that it gives me. It promises me nothing, it 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