I understand it perfectly; I too, followed long after false gods.  I thought I must rush forth to see the world, I must forthwith become great, rich, famous; and I hurried hither and thither, seeking I knew not what.  Consuming my days with the infinite distractions of travel, I missed, as one who attempts two occupations at once, the sure satisfaction of either.  Beholding the exteriors of cities and of men, I was deceived with shadows; my life took no hold upon that which is deep and true.  Colour I got, and form, and a superficial aptitude in judging by symbols.  It was like the study of a science:  a hasty review gives one the general rules, but it requires a far profounder insight to know the fertile exceptions.

But as I grow older I remain here on my farm, and wait quietly for the world to pass this way.  My oak and I, we wait, and we are satisfied.  Here we stand among our clods; our feet are rooted deep within the soil.  The wind blows upon us and delights us, the rain falls and refreshes us, the sun dries and sweetens us.  We are become calm, slow, strong; so we measure rectitudes and regard essentials, my oak and I.

I would be a hard person to dislodge or uproot from this spot of earth.  I belong here; I grow here.  I like to think of the old fable of the wrestler of Irassa.  For I am veritably that Anteus who was the wrestler of Irassa and drew his strength from the ground.  So long as I tread the long furrows of my planting, with my feet upon the earth, I am invincible and unconquerable.  Hercules himself, though he comes upon me in the guise of Riches, or Fame, or Power, cannot overthrow me—­save as he takes me away from this soil.  For at each step my strength is renewed.  I forget weariness, old age has no dread for me.

Some there may be who think I talk dreams; they do not know reality.  My friend, did it ever occur to you that you are unhappy because you have lost connection with life?  Because your feet are not somewhere firm planted upon the soil of reality?  Contentment, and indeed usefulness, comes as the infallible result of great acceptances, great humilities—­of not trying to make ourselves this or that (to conform to some dramatized version of ourselves), but of surrendering ourselves to the fullness of life—­of letting life flow through us.  To be used!—­that is the sublimest thing we know.

It is a distinguishing mark of greatness that it has a tremendous hold upon real things.  I have seen men who seemed to have behind them, or rather within them, whole societies, states, institutions:  how they come at us, like Atlas bearing the world!  For they act not with their own feebleness, but with a strength as of the Whole of Life.  They speak, and the words are theirs, but the voice is the Voice of Mankind.

I don’t know what to call it:  being right with God or right with life.  It is strangely the same thing; and God is not particular as to the name we know him by, so long as we know Him.  Musing upon these secret things, I seem to understand what the theologians in their darkness have made so obscure.  Is it not just this at-one-moment with life which sweetens and saves us all?