As with all other refined pleasures, there is no doubt that the pleasure derived from the observation of nature can be, if not acquired, immensely increased by practice.  I am not now speaking of the pursuit of natural history but the pursuit of natural emotion.  The thing to aim at, as is the case with all artistic pleasures, is the perception of quality, of small effects.  Many of the people Who believe themselves to have an appreciation of natural scenery cannot appreciate it except on a sensational scale.  They can derive a certain pleasure from wide prospects of startling beauty, rugged mountains, steep gorges, great falls of water—­all the things that are supposed to be picturesque.  But though this is all very well as far as it goes, it is a very elementary kind of thing.  The perception of which I speak is a perception which can be fed in the most familiar scene, in the shortest stroll, even in a momentary glance from a window.  The things to look out for are little accidents of light and colour, little effects of chance grouping, the transfiguration of some well-known and even commonplace object, such as is produced by the sudden burst into greenness of the trees that peep over some suburban garden wall, or by the sunlight falling, by a happy fortune, on pool or flower.  Much of course depends upon the inner mood; there are days when it seems impossible to be thrilled by anything, when a perverse dreariness holds the mind; and then all of a sudden the gentle and wistful mood flows back, and the world is full of beauty to the brim.

Here, if anywhere, in this town of ancient colleges, is abundant material of beauty for eye and mind.  It is not, it is true, the simple beauty of nature; but nature has been invoked to sanctify and mellow art.  These stately stone-fronted buildings have weathered like crags and precipices.  They rise out of dark ancient embowered gardens.  They are like bright birds of the forest dwelling contentedly in gilded cages.  These great palaces of learning, beautiful when seen in the setting of sunny gardens, and with even a sterner dignity when planted, like a fortress of quiet, close to the very dust and din of the street, hold many treasures of stately loveliness and fair association; this city of palaces, thick-set with spires and towers, as rich and dim as Camelot, is invested with a romance that few cities can equal; and then the waterside pleasaunces with their trim alleys, their air of ancient security and wealthy seclusion, have an incomparable charm; day by day, as one hurries or saunters through the streets, the charm strikes across the mind with an incredible force, a newness of impression which is the test of the highest beauty.  Yet these again are beauties of a sensational order which beat insistently upon the dullest mind.  The true connoisseur of natural beauty acquiesces in, nay prefers, an economy, an austerity of effect.  The curve of a wood seen a hundred times before, the gentle line of a fallow, a little pool among the pastures, fringed with rushes, the long blue line of the distant downs, the cloud-perspective, the still sunset glow—­these will give him ever new delights, and delights that grow with observation and intuition.