ashore upon a small island for inspection. And so soon as the
inferior character of their investments becomes known, or their
recklessness in eating into their principal, they are deported.

The contrast between those within the well-guarded gates and those
without is an affecting one. The latter often squander vast fortunes
in futile attempts to gain a foothold in the country. And they have a
miserable time of it. Many of the natives, on the other hand, are so
poor that they have constantly to fight down the temptation to touch
their principal. But every time they resist, the old miracle happens
for them once more: the sheer act of living turns out to be "paradise
enow."

Now no mere fullness of life will qualify a man for admission to the
Land of the Joyful Heart. One must have overflowingness of life. In
his book "The Science of Happiness" Jean Finot declares, that the
"disenchantment and the sadness which degenerate into a sort of
pessimistic melancholy are frequently due to the diminution of the
vital energy. And as pain and sorrow mark the diminution, the joy of
living and the upspringing of happiness signify the increase of
energy.... By using special instruments, such as the plethysmograph
of Hallion, the pneumograph of Marey, the sphygmometer of Cheron, and
so many others which have come in fashion during these latter years,
we have succeeded in proving experimentally that joy, sadness, and
pain depend upon our energy." To keep exuberant one must possess more
than just enough vitality to fill the cup of the present. There must
be enough to make it brim over. Real exuberance, however, is not the
extravagant, jarring sort of thing that some thoughtless persons
suppose it to be. The word is not accented on the first syllable.
Indeed, it might just as well be "_in_uberance." It does not long to
make an impression or, in vulgar phrase, to "get a rise"; but tends to
be self-contained. It is not boisterousness. It is generous and
infectious, while boisterousness is inclined to be selfish and
repellent. Most of us would rather spend a week among a crowd of
mummies than in a gang of boisterous young blades. For boisterousness
is only a degenerate exuberance, drunk and on the rampage. The royal
old musician and poet was not filled with this, but with the real
thing, when he sang:

"_He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul ...
My cup runneth over._"

The merely boisterous man, on the