er guessing what a perfect picture it made.

What a strange power the perception of beauty is! It seems to ebb and
flow like some secret tide, independent alike of health or disease, of
joy or sorrow. There are times in our lives when we seem to go singing
on our way, and when the beauty of the world sits itself like a quiet
harmony to the song we uplift. Then again come seasons when all is well
with us, when we are prosperous and contented, interested in life and
all its concerns, when no perception of beauty comes near us; when we
are tranquil and content, and take no heed of the delicate visions of
the day; when music has no inner voice, and poetry seems a mere
cheerful jingling of ordered phrases. Then again we have a time of
gloom and dreariness; work has no interest, pleasure no savour; we go
about our business and our delight alike in a leaden mood of dulness;
and yet again, when we are surrounded with care and trouble, perhaps in
pain or weakness of body, there flashes into the darkened life an
exquisite perception of things beautiful and rare; the vision of a
spring copse with all its tapestry of flowers, bright points of radiant
colour, fills us with a strange yearning, a delightful pain; in such a
mood a few chords of music, the haunting melody of some familiar line
of verse, the song of a bird at dawn, the light 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mood is so utterly withdrawn at intervals, that the despondent spirit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withdrawn when the light was low; if it deserted me in seasons of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 whim