hining of a divine light, that
glimmers on the ark and touches the taper wings of the adoring angels.
The contents indeed of the sacred chest are of the simplest; a withered
branch, a pot of food, two slabs of grey stone, obscurely engraved.
Nothing rich or rare. But those who have access to the inner shrine
are face to face with the mystery. Some have the skill to hint it,
none to describe it. And there are some, too, who have no skill to
express themselves, but who have visited the place, and bring back some
touch of radiance gushing from their brows.

Milton, in his youth, had looked within the shrine, but he forgot, in
the clamorous and sordid world, what he had seen. Only those who have
visited the Holiest place know those others who have set foot there,
and they cannot err. I cannot define exactly what it is that makes the
difference. It cannot be seen in performance; for here I will humbly
and sincerely make the avowal that I have been within the veil myself,
though I know not when or how. I learnt there no perfection of skill,
no methods of expression. But ever since, I have looked out for the
signs that tell me whether another has set foot there or no. I
sometimes see the sign in a book, or a picture; sometimes it comes out
in talk; and sometimes I discern it in the glance of an eye, for all
the silence of the lips. It is not knowledge, it is not pride that the
access confers. Indeed it is often a sweet humility of soul. It is
nothing definite; but it is a certain attitude of mind, a certain
quality of thought. Some of those who have been within are very sinful
persons, very unhappy, very unsatisfactory, as the world would say.
But they are never perverse or wilful natures; they are never cold or
mean. Those in whom coldness and meanness are found are of necessity
excluded from the Presence. But though the power to step behind the
veil seldom brings serenity, or strength, or confidence, yet it is the
best thing that can happen to a man in the world.

Some perhaps of those who read these words will think that it is all a
vain shadow, and that I am but wrapping up an empty thought in veils of
words. But though I cannot explain, though I cannot say what the
secret is, I can claim to be able to say almost without hesitation
whether a human spirit has passed within; and more than that. As I
write these words, I know that if any who have set foot in the secret
shrine reads them, they will understand