“As if I could interpret!

“‘Behold,’ I said, ’forest and mountain, the little copse and the grass under it, and delicate little flowers among the grass.  List to the lark’s song in the heavens, the wind soughing in the trees, the whispering of the leaves.  In the air there is a mysterious incense spread from God’s censers, the very language of mystery.  Now you see far into the beauty of the world and hear tidings from afar.  All the horizons of your senses have been extended.  Are you not glad for all these impressions, these pictures and songs and perfumes?  Every impression is a shrine, where you may kneel to God.’

“‘It is a beautiful world,’ said he.

“‘It is beautiful in all its parts and beautiful every moment,’ I replied.  ’My soul constantly says “Yes” to it.  Its beauty is the reminder of our immortal essence.  The town is dangerous in that it has little beauty.  It causes us to forget.  It is exploring the illusion of trade, and its whole song is of trade.  If you understand this, you have a criterion for Life—­

“’The sacred is that which reminds us; the secular is that which bids us forget.

“’When you have impressions of sight, noise, and smell, and these impressions have no shrine where one may kneel to God, it is a sure sign that you have forgotten Him, that you are dwelling in the courts of idols.’

“‘But it is painful to remember,’ said my companion, ’and even now I have great pain.  It is hard to leave the old, and painful to receive the new.  My heart begins to ache for loneliness, and I long for the gaiety of the town and its diversions.  I should like once more to drown my remembrances.’

“I bade him have courage, for he was in the pains of birth.  The old never lets out the new without pain and struggle, but when the new is born it is infinitely worthy.  And my new friend was comforted.  We spent many days upon the road, looking at beauty, conversing with one another, worshipping and marvelling.  Along the country paths flowers looked up, and beautiful suns looked out of strange skies.  Often it seemed we had been together upon the same road a thousand years before.  Was it a remembrance of the time before my entering into the coach?  The flowers by the roadside tried to whisper a word of the answer to my question.  It seemed that we were surrounded by mysteries just about to reveal themselves.  Or, anon, it seemed as if we had missed our chance, as if an unseen procession had just filed by and we had not distinguished it.

“My friend was leaving behind all his idols.  We sat upon a ridge together, and looked back upon the valley and the city which we had left.  There was what my soul abhorred, and what I feared his soul might be too weak to face—­the kaleidoscope of mean colours turning in the city, tickling our senses, striving to bind our souls and to mesmerise.  Some colours would have drawn our tears, some would have persuaded smiles over our lips.  Combinations of colours, groupings, subtle movements and shapings sought to interest and absorb our intellects.