Why does the marsh, and the mint and white hawthorn, freeze over in the fall? And why do they come again, voluptuous, enticing, in the damp spring days--and rack the souls of wretches who look and wonder? You are superb, Devil! You have done a magnificent piece of work. I kneel at your feet and worship you. You have wrought a perfection, a pinnacle of fine, invisible damnation. The world is like a little marsh filled with mint and white hawthorn. It is filled with things likewise damnably beautiful. There are the green, green grass-blades and the gray dawns; there are swiftly-flowing rivers and the honking of wild geese, flying low; there are human voices and human eyes; there are stories of women and men who have learned to give up and to wait; there is poetry; there is Charity; there is Truth. The Devil has made all of these things, and also he has made human beings who can feel. Who was it that said, long ago, “Life is always a tragedy to those who feel”? In truth, the Devil has constructed a place of infinite torture--the fair green earth, the world. But he has made that other infinite thing--Happiness. I forgive him for making me wonder, since possibly he may bring me Happiness. I cast myself at his feet. I adore him. The first third of our lives is spent in the expectation of Happiness. Then it comes, perhaps, and stays ten years, or a month, or three days, and the rest of our lives is spent in peace and rest--with the memory of the Happiness. Happiness--though it is infinite--is a transient emotion. It is too brilliant, too magnificent, too overwhelming to be a lasting thing. And it is merely an emotion. But, ah--_such_ an emotion! Through it the Devil rules his domains. What would one not do to have it! I can think of no so-called vile deed that I would scruple about if I could be happy. Everything is justified if it gives me Happiness. The Devil has done me some great favors; he has made me without a conscience, and without Virtue. For which I thank thee, Devil. At least I shall be able to take my Happiness when it comes--even though the piles of nice distinctions between it and me be mountains high. But meanwhile, the world, I say, and the people are nothing, nothing, nothing. The splendid castles, the strong bridges, that we are building are of small moment. We can only go down the wide roadway wondering and weeping, and without where to lay our heads. January 23. I have eaten my dinner. I have had, among other things, fine, rare-broiled porterhouse steak from Omaha, and some fresh, green young onions from California. And just now I am a philosopher, pure and simple--except that there’s nothing very pure about my philosophy, nor yet very simple.