But this language of things is not wholly auditory. It is made up
of other symbols also, which are faintly traced on our souls. The
impression is still too faint, but, perhaps, it will be stronger when
we are better prepared to receive God.

It is objects which have been my consolation in the grievous events of
my life. At such moments some thing will catch my eye particularly.
I who know not how to make my soul bow before men have prostrated it
before things. A radiance emanates from them which may be outside the
memories that I attach to them, and it is like a thrill of love. I
have felt them. I feel them now living around me. They are part of
my obscure realm. I feel a responsibility toward them like that of an
elder brother. At this instant while I am writing I feel the souls of
these divine sisters leaning upon me with love and trust. This chair,
this chest of drawers, this pen _exist_ as I do. They touch me, and
I feel prostrated before them. I have their faith ... I have their
faith, which is beyond all systems, beyond all explanations, beyond
all intelligence. They give me a conviction such as no genius could
give me. Every system is vain, every explanation erroneous, the moment
I feel living in my heart the knowledge of these souls.

When I entered this cobbler's home I knew at once that I was welcome.
Without a word I sat down before the hearth near the children and the
dog and I opened my soul to the thousand shadowy voices of things.

In this communion the falling of a half charred twig, the grating of
the poker with which the fire was stirred, the blow of the hammer,
the flickering of the candle, the creak of the dog's collar, the
round bulging spot of blackness which was the sleeping blackbird,
the singing of the cover of the pot, all combined to form a sacred