and only for the first uncertain moment of life we use it to cry and
complain. Inspiration is morning, not a flash to deepen the dark.

Popular literature is some description of a state which men think they
might enjoy: it is no record of joy. But the fool's paradise would be
dreary even for the fool; he is his own paradise, and will be. Our
early fancy is no transcript of the divine method, and is sternly
rejected by all who suspect a perfection hidden in the day. A few works
are great which celebrate the charm of actual effort, and the
furtherance of Nature for the brave. Homer, Shakspeare, Goethe, need
never exaggerate or leave the earth behind: in their experience it
carries well the sky. Every vital thought is some pleasure in running,
waking, loving, contending, helping,--is valor dealing gayly with the
homely old forces and needs. The marrow is sweet for him who can crack
it, in the roughest or the smoothest bone. One is born with a key to the
gladness of Nature, and glows with the day's work, the touch of hands,
the prospect of to-morrow,--love's production and husbandry, the old
worn grass and sunshine, the winter wind, the games and squabbles of
children and of men. Why is life for John weariness, for James every
moment fresh fire out of the sky? He who finds what he wants, or makes
what he wants, is a god. I know well the hope of saints and sages, how
they connect this life with endless stages beyond, how they look for the
same dignity in all action, the same motive in every companion; I see
what they have signified by heaven, a state wherein the best loved is
the best: but we must not be scornful, or miss to-day the common delight
of living, the moderate hopes of the healthy multitude. For no
exceptional joy is so wonderful as the universality of joy, the love of
life under every burden and stroke. The beginning of all beatitude and
ground of all is good digestion, good sleep, good-nature, and the cheer
undeniable of an average human day.