The common objection of the degradation of knocking with the leg of the table, and the ridicule of the position for a spirit, &c., &c., I don't enter into at all.

Twice I have been present at table-experiments, and each time I was deeply impressed--impressed, there's the word for it! The panting and shivering of that dead dumb wood, the human emotion conveyed through it--by what?
had to me a greater significance than the St.Peter's of this Rome.

O poet! do you not know that poetry is not confined to the clipped alleys, no, nor to the blue tops of 'Parnassus hill'?
Poetry is where we live and have our being--wherever God works and man understands.

Hein! ...

if you are in a dungeon and a friend knocks through the outer wall, spelling out by knocks the words you comprehend; you don't think the worse of the friend standing in the sun who remembers you.