But in the worship of the symbol there is one deep danger; and that is that if one rests upon it, if one makes one’s home in the palace of beauty or philosophy or religion, one has failed in the quest.  It is the pursuit not of the unattained but of the unattainable to which we are vowed.  Nothing but the unattainable can draw us onward.  It is rest that is forbidden.  We are pilgrims yet; and if, intoxicated and bemused by beauty or emotion or religion, we make our dwelling there, it is as though we slept in the enchanted ground.  Enough is given us, and no more, to keep us moving forwards.  To be satisfied is to slumber.  The melancholy that follows hard in the footsteps of art, the sadness haunting the bravest music, the aching, troubled longing that creeps into the mind at the sight of the fairest scene, is but the warning presence of the guide that travels with us and fears that we may linger.  Who has not seen across a rising ground the gables of the old house, the church tower, dark among the bare boughs of the rookery in a smiling sunset, and half lost himself at the thought of the impossibly beautiful life that might be lived there?  To-day, just when the western sun began to tinge the floating clouds with purple and gold, I saw by the roadside an old labourer, fork on back, plodding heavily across a ploughland all stippled with lines of growing wheat.  Hard by a windmill whirled its clattering arms.  How I longed for something that would render permanent the scene, sight, and sound alike.  It told me somehow that the end was not yet.  What did it stand for?  I hardly know; for life, slow and haggard with toil, hard-won sustenance, all overhung with the crimson glories of waning light, the wet road itself catching the golden hues of heaven.  A little later, passing by the great pauper asylum that stands up so naked among the bare fields, I looked over a hedge, and there, behind the engine-house with its heaps of scoriae and rubbish, lay a little trim ugly burial-ground, with a dismal mortuary, upon which some pathetic and tawdry taste had been spent.  There in rows lay the mouldering bones of the failures of life and old sin; not even a headstone over each with a word of hope, nothing but a number on a tin tablet.  Nothing more incredibly sordid could be devised.  One thought of the sad rite, the melancholy priest, the handful of relatives glad at heart that the poor broken life was over and the wretched associations at an end.  Yet even that sight too warned one not to linger, and that the end was not yet.  Presently, in the gathering twilight, I was making my way through the streets of the city.  The dusk had obliterated all that was mean and dreary.  Nothing but the irregular housefronts stood up against the still sky, the lighted windows giving the sense of home and ease.  A quiet bell rang for vespers in a church tower, and as I passed I heard an organ roll within.  It all seemed a sweetly framed message to the soul, a symbol of joy and peace.