of sunset on lonely fields, thrill us with an inexpressible
rapture. Perhaps some of those who read these words will say that
it is all an unreal, a fantastic experience of which I speak. Of
course there are many tranquil, wholesome, equable natures to whom
such an experience is unknown; but it is to me one of the truest
and commonest things of my life to be visited by this strange
perception and appreciation of beauty, which gives the days in
which I am conscious of it a memorable quality, that seems to make
them the momentous days of my life; and yet again the mood is so
utterly withdrawn at intervals, that the despondent spirit feels
that it can never return; and then a new day dawns, and the sense
comes back again to bless me.

If the emotion which I describe followed the variations of bodily
health; if it came when all was prosperous and joyful, and was
withdrawn when the light was low; if it deserted me in seasons of
robust vigour, and came when the bodily vitality was depressed, I
could refer it to some physical basis. But it contradicts all
material laws, and seems to come and go with a whimsical
determination of its own. When it is with me, nothing can banish
it; it pulls insistently at my elbow; it diverts my attention in
the midst of the gravest business; and, on the other hand, no
extremity of sorrow or gloom can suspend it. I have stood beside
the grave of one I loved, with the shadow of urgent business, of
hard detailed arrangements of a practical kind, hanging over me,
with the light gone out of life, and the prospect unutterably
dreary; and yet the strange spirit has been with me, so that a
strain of music should have power to affect me to tears, and the
delicate petals of the very funeral wreaths should draw me into a
rapturous contemplation of their fresh curves, their lovely