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,
when one should begin to decide and to distinguish, and to form
one's own taste. And then I believe it is better to be individual
than catholic, and better to attempt to feed one's own genuine