" So He pours on man all the
blessings in His reservoir: strength, beauty, wisdom,
honour, pleasure--and then He refrains from giving him the
last of them, which is rest, i.e., contentment. God sees
that if man is contented he will never win his way to Him.
Let man be restless, so that_
"_If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to My breast._"
_Some day I shall write a novel on that theme, and call it "The
Pulley." In this tragic, restless world there must be some
place where at last we can lay our heads and be at rest. Some
people call it death. Some call it God._
_My ideal of a man is not the Omar who wants to shatter into
bits this sorry scheme of things, and then remould it nearer
to the heart's desire. Old Omar was a coward, with his silk
pajamas and his glass of wine. The real man is George
Herbert's "seasoned timber"--the fellow who does handily and
well whatever comes to him. Even if it's only shovelling coal
into a furnace he can balance the shovel neatly, swing the
coal square on the fire and not spill it on the floor. If
it's only splitting kindling or running a trolley car he can
make a good, artistic job of it. If it's only writing a book
or peeling potatoes he can put into it the best he has.
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