heavens for sight of the comet that never will come; but disdaining to look at the stars, because these can be seen by all, and, moreover, are countless in number!  This craving for the extraordinary is often the special weakness of ordinary men, who fail to perceive that the more normal, and ordinary, and uniform events may appear to us, the more are we able to appreciate the profound happiness that this uniformity enfolds, and the nearer are we drawn to the truth and tranquillity of the great force by which we have being.  What can be less abnormal than the ocean, which covers two-thirds of the globe; and yet, what is there more vast?  There is not a thought or a feeling, not an act of beauty or nobility, whereof man is capable, but can find complete expression in the simplest, most ordinary life; and all that cannot be expressed therein must of necessity belong to the falsehoods of vanity, ignorance, or sloth.

89.  Does this mean that the wise man should expect no more from life than other men; that he should love mediocrity and limit his desires; content himself with little and restrict the horizon of his happiness, because of the fear lest happiness escape him?  By no means; for the wisdom is halting and sickly that can too freely renounce a legitimate human hope.  Many desires in man may be legitimate still, notwithstanding the disapproval of reason, sometimes unduly severe.  But the fact that our happiness does not seem extraordinary to those about us by no means warrants our thinking that we are not happy.  The wiser we are, the more readily do we perceive that happiness lies in our grasp; that it has no more enviable gift than the uneventful moments it brings.  The sage has learnt to quicken and love the silent substance of life.  In this silent substance only can faithful joys be found, for abnormal happiness never ventures to go with us to the tomb.  The day that comes and goes without special whisper of hope or happiness should be as dear to us, and as welcome, as any one of its brothers.  On its way to us it has traversed the same worlds and the self-same space as the day that finds us on a throne or enthralled by a mighty love.  The hours are less dazzling, perhaps, that its mantle conceals; but at least we may rely more fully on their humble devotion.  There are as many eternal minutes in the week that goes by in silence, as in the one that tomes boldly towards us with mighty shout and clamour.  And indeed it is we who tell ourselves all that the hour would seem to say; for the hour that abides with us is ever a timid and nervous guest, that will smile if its host be smiling, or weep if his eyes be wet.  It has been charged with no mission to bring happiness to us; it is we who should comfort the hour that has sought refuge within our soul.  And he is wise who always finds words of peace that he can whisper low to his guest on the threshold.  We should let no opportunity for happiness escape us, and the simplest causes of happiness should