A wanderer plays with muted strings when he comes to fifty years. Then
he plays with muted strings.
Or I might put it in this way.
If he comes too late for the harvest of berries in autumn, why, he
is come too late, that is all; and if one fine day he finds he can
no longer be gay and laugh all over his face in delight of life, 'tis
because he is old, no doubt; blame him not for that! And there can be
no doubt that it requires a certain vacuity of mind to go about feeling
permanently contented with oneself and all else. But we have all our
softer moments. A prisoner is being driven to the scaffold in a cart. A
nail in the seat irks him; he shifts aside a little, and feels more at
ease.
A Captain should not pray that God may forgive him--as he forgives his
God. It is simply theatrical. A wanderer who cannot reckon every day on
food and drink, clothes and boots, and house and home, feels just the
right degree of privation when all these luxuries are lacking. If you
cannot manage one way, why, there will be another. But if the other way
should also fail, then one does not forgive one's God, but takes up the
responsibility oneself. Shoulder against what comes--that is, bow to it.
A trifle hard for flesh and blood, and it greys a man's hair sadly. But
a wanderer thanks God for life; it was good to live!