We do not know as yet the mechanical means, so to speak, by which
the connection can be established, the door set wide. But we can at
least open our soul to every breathing of divine influences; and
when the great wind rises and thunders in our spirits, we can see
that no claim of business, or weakness, or comfort, or convention
shall hinder us from admitting it.
And thus when one of these sweet, high, uplifting thoughts draws
near and visits us, we can but say, as the child Samuel said in the
dim-lit temple, "Speak, Lord, for Thy servant heareth." The music
comes upon the air, in faint and tremulous gusts; it dies away
across the garden, over the far hill-side, into the cloudless sky;
but we have heard; we are not the same; we are transfigured.
Why then, lastly, it may be asked, do these experiences befall us
so faintly, so secretly, so seldom; if it is the true life that
beats so urgently into our souls, why are we often so careful and
disquieted, why do we fare such long spaces without the heavenly
vision, why do we see, or seem to see, so many of our fellows to
whom such things come rarely or not at all? I cannot answer that;
yet I feel that the life is there; and I can but fall back upon the
gentle words of the old saint, who wrote: "I know not how it is,
but the more the realities of heaven are clothed with obscurity,
the more they delight and attract; and nothing so much heightens
longing as such tender refusal.
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