More lessons from Elfland

Chapter four of 'Orthodoxy' relates the lessons Chesterton has known from his youth, from fairy tales. Personally, I find this a very hard chapter to grasp (or summarize), so I will rely on a lengthy quote to summarize the whole.
Before that, I will shortly relate some ideas: first, Chesterton's mention of specific and unexplained conditions (you can go to every room in the house except ...). Rules like this are not odd to Chesterton: rather they seem to belong to this magical world we live in. Second: a mere repetition of an occurrence (such as a sunrise) does not give us reasons for determinism or fatalism: they are rather expressions of an ever repeating life and joy (just as children can continue to ask 'do it again'). Chesterton finally compares this fairy-like way of viewing the world to a much more limited 'modern' worldview.
In his own words:

These are my ultimate attitudes towards life; the soils for the seeds of doctrine. These in some dark way I thought before I could write, and felt before I could think: that we may proceed more easily afterwards, I will roughly recapitulate them now. I felt in my bones; first, that this world does not explain itself. It may be a miracle with a supernatural explanation; it may be a conjuring trick, with a natural explanation. But the explanation of the conjuring trick, if it is to satisfy me, will have to be better than the natural explanations I have heard. The thing is magic, true or false. Second, I came to feel as if magic must have a meaning, and meaning must have someone to mean it. There was something personal in the world, as in a work of art; whatever it meant it meant violently. Third, I thought this purpose beautiful in its old design, in spite of its defects, such as dragons. Fourth, that the proper form of thanks to it is some form of humility and restraint: we should thank God for beer and Burgundy by not drinking too much of them. We owed, also, an obedience to whatever made us. And last, and strangest, there had come into my mind a vague and vast impression that in some way all good was a remnant to be stored and held sacred out of some primordial ruin. Man had saved his good as Crusoe saved his goods: he has saved them from a wreck. All this I felt and the age gave me no encouragement to feel it. And all this time I had not even thought of Christian theology.