The Triumphs of Enthusiasm

The labor we delight in physics pain.—SHAKESPEARE.

Work we enjoy eases pain. Shakespeare.

The only conclusive evidence of a man's sincerity is that he gives himself for a principle. Words, money, all things else are comparatively easy to give away; but when a man makes a gift of his daily life and practise, it is plain that the truth, whatever it may be, has taken possession of him.—LOWELL.

The only conclusive proof of a man's sincerity is that he gives himself to a principle. Words, money, and everything else are comparatively easy to give away. But when a man gives his daily life and actions to a principle, the truth has clearly taken possession of him, whatever that truth may be. LOWELL.

Let us beware of losing our enthusiasm. Let us ever glory in something, and strive to retain our admiration for all that would ennoble, and our interest in all that would enrich and beautify our life.—PHILLIPS BROOKS.

Let us be careful not to lose our enthusiasm. Let us always find something to celebrate. Let us strive to keep admiring all that makes us better and stay interested in all that enriches and beautifies our lives. PHILLIPS BROOKS.

In the Galérie des Beaux Arts in Paris is a beautiful statue conceived by a sculptor who was so poor that he lived and worked in a small garret. When his clay model was nearly done, a heavy frost fell upon the city. He knew that if the water in the interstices of the clay should freeze, the beautiful lines would be distorted. So he wrapped his bedclothes around the clay image. In the morning he was found dead, but his idea was saved, and other hands gave it enduring form in marble.

In the Galérie des Beaux Arts in Paris stands a beautiful statue created by a sculptor. He was so poor that he lived and worked in a small attic. When his clay model was nearly finished, a severe frost came over the city. He knew that if the water in the tiny spaces in the clay froze, it would distort the beautiful lines. So he wrapped his bedding around the clay figure. In the morning, he was found dead, but his idea was saved. Other hands gave it lasting form in marble.

"I do not know how it is with others when speaking on an important question," said Henry Clay; "but on such occasions I seem to be unconscious of the external world. Wholly engrossed by the subject before me, I lose all sense of personal identity, of time, or of surrounding objects."

"I don't know how others feel when speaking about an important issue," said Henry Clay, "but on such occasions I seem unaware of the world around me. I become completely absorbed in the subject. I lose all sense of who I am, of time, and of the things around me."

"A bank never becomes very successful," says a noted financier, "until it gets a president who takes it to bed with him." Enthusiasm gives the otherwise dry and uninteresting subject or occupation a new meaning.

"A bank never becomes very successful," says a well-known financier, "until it gets a president who takes it to bed with him." Enthusiasm gives an otherwise dull and uninteresting subject or occupation new meaning.

As the young lover has finer sense and more acute vision and sees in the object of his affections a hundred virtues and charms invisible to all other eyes, so a man permeated with enthusiasm has his power of perception heightened and his vision magnified until he sees beauty and charms others cannot discern which compensate for drudgery, privations, hardships, and even persecution. Dickens says he was haunted, possessed, spirit-driven by the plots and characters in his stories which would not let him sleep or rest until he had committed them to paper. On one sketch he shut himself up for a month, and when he came out he looked as haggard as a murderer. His characters haunted him day and night.

A young lover has keener senses and sharper vision. The lover sees a hundred virtues and charms in the beloved that no one else can see. In the same way, enthusiasm sharpens a person's perception and magnifies their vision. They see beauty and charm that others cannot discern, making up for tedious work, deprivation, hardship, and even persecution. Dickens said the plots and characters in his stories haunted, possessed, and drove him like spirits. They would not let him sleep or rest until he had put them on paper. He shut himself away for a month to work on one sketch. When he came out, he looked as haggard as a murderer. His characters haunted him day and night.

"Herr Capellmeister, I should like to compose something; how shall I begin?" asked a youth of twelve who had played with great skill on the piano. "Pooh, pooh," replied Mozart, "you must wait." "But you began when you were younger than I am," said the boy. "Yes, so I did," said the great composer, "but I never asked anything about it. When one has the spirit of a composer, he writes because he can't help it."

"Herr Capellmeister, I would like to compose something. How should I begin?" asked a twelve-year-old who had played the piano with great skill. "Pooh, pooh," replied Mozart, "you must wait." "But you began when you were younger than I am," said the boy. "Yes, I did," said the great composer, "but I never asked how to begin. When someone has the spirit of a composer, they write because they can't help it."

Gladstone said that what is really desired is to light up the spirit that is within a boy. In some sense and in some degree, in some effectual degree, there is in every boy the material of good work in the world; in every boy, not only in those who are brilliant, not only in those who are quick, but in those who are stolid, and even in those who are dull, or who seem to be dull. If they have only the good will, the dulness will day by day clear away and vanish completely under the influence of the good will.

Gladstone said that what we really want is to awaken the spirit within a boy. In some way and to some meaningful degree, every boy has the potential to do good work in the world. This is true not only of brilliant or quick boys, but also of those who are slow or even dull, or who seem dull. If they have the will to do good, their dullness will gradually fade and disappear completely under its influence.

Gerster, an unknown Hungarian, made fame and fortune sure the first night she appeared in opera. Her enthusiasm almost hypnotized her auditors. In less than a week she had become popular and independent. Her soul was smitten with a passion for growth, and all the powers of heart and mind she possessed were enthusiastically devoted to self-improvement.

Gerster, an unknown Hungarian, secured fame and fortune on her first night in opera. Her enthusiasm nearly hypnotized her audience. In less than a week, she had become popular and independent. She was filled with a passion for growth. She devoted all the powers of her heart and mind to self-improvement.

All great works of art have been produced when the artist was intoxicated with the passion for beauty and form which would not let him rest until his thought was expressed in marble or on canvas.

All great works of art have been created when artists were consumed by a passion for beauty and form. This passion would not let them rest until they expressed their ideas in marble or on canvas.

"Well, I've worked hard enough for it," said Malibran when a critic expressed his admiration of her D in alt, reached by running up three octaves from low D; "I've been chasing it for a month. I pursued it everywhere,—when I was dressing, when I was doing my hair; and at last I found it on the toe of a shoe that I was putting on."

"Well, I've worked hard enough for it," said Malibran. A critic had admired her high D, which she reached by singing up three octaves from low D. "I've been chasing it for a month. I pursued it everywhere, while I was dressing and doing my hair. At last I found it on the toe of a shoe I was putting on."

"Every great and commanding moment in the annals of the world," says Emerson, "is the triumph of some enthusiasm. The victories of the Arabs after Mahomet, who, in a few years, from a small and mean beginning, established a larger empire than that of Rome, is an example. They did they knew not what. The naked Derar, horsed on an idea, was found an overmatch for a troop of cavalry. The women fought like men and conquered the Roman men. They were miserably equipped, miserably fed, but they were temperance troops. There was neither brandy nor flesh needed to feed them. They conquered Asia and Africa and Spain on barley. The Caliph Omar's walking-stick struck more terror into those who saw it than another man's sword."

"Every great and commanding moment in world history," says Emerson, "is the triumph of some enthusiasm. The victories of the Arabs after Mahomet are an example. In a few years, they rose from small and humble beginnings to establish an empire larger than Rome's. They did not know what they were accomplishing. The naked Derar, mounted on an idea, proved more than a match for a troop of cavalry. The women fought like men and conquered the Roman men. They were poorly equipped and poorly fed, but they were temperance troops. They needed neither brandy nor meat to sustain them. They conquered Asia, Africa, and Spain on barley. The Caliph Omar's walking stick struck more terror into those who saw it than another man's sword."

It was enthusiasm that enabled Napoleon to make a campaign in two weeks that would have taken another a year to accomplish. "These Frenchmen are not men, they fly," said the Austrians in consternation. In fifteen days Napoleon, in his first Italian campaign, had gained six victories, taken twenty-one standards, fifty-five pieces of cannon, had captured fifteen thousand prisoners, and had conquered Piedmont.

Enthusiasm enabled Napoleon to complete a campaign in two weeks that would have taken another commander a year. "These Frenchmen are not men, they fly," the Austrians said in dismay. In fifteen days during his first Italian campaign, Napoleon won six victories and captured twenty-one flags and fifty-five cannons. He also captured fifteen thousand prisoners and conquered Piedmont.

After this astonishing avalanche a discomfited Austrian general said: "This young commander knows nothing whatever about the art of war. He is a perfect ignoramus. There is no doing anything with him." But his soldiers followed their "Little Corporal" with an enthusiasm which knew no defeat or disaster.

After this astonishing avalanche, a defeated Austrian general said: "This young commander knows nothing at all about the art of war. He is a complete ignoramus. There is no dealing with him." But his soldiers followed their "Little Corporal" with enthusiasm that no defeat or disaster could diminish.

"There are important cases," says A. H. K. Boyd, "in which the difference between half a heart and a whole heart makes just the difference between signal defeat and a splendid victory."

"In important situations," says A. H. K. Boyd, "the difference between halfhearted and wholehearted effort can mean a crushing defeat or a splendid victory."

"Should I die this minute," said Nelson at an important crisis, "want of frigates would be found written on my heart."

"If I died this minute," Nelson said at a critical moment, "a lack of frigates would be found written on my heart."

The simple, innocent Maid of Orleans with her sacred sword, her consecrated banner, and her belief in her great mission, sent a thrill of enthusiasm through the whole French army such as neither king nor statesmen could produce. Her zeal carried everything before it. Oh! what a great work each one could perform in this world if he only knew his power! But, like a bitted horse, man does not realize his strength until he has once run away with himself.

The simple, innocent Maid of Orleans inspired the whole French army with an enthusiasm that neither king nor statesmen could stir. She carried her sacred sword and consecrated banner and believed in her great mission. Her passion swept everything before it. Oh, what great work each of us could do in this world if only we knew our power! But, like a horse with a bit in its mouth, a person does not realize his strength until he has once broken free.

"Underneath is laid the builder of this church and city, Christopher Wren, who lived more than ninety years, not for himself, but for the public good. Reader, if you seek his monument, look around!" Turn where you will in London, you find noble monuments of the genius of a man who never received instruction from an architect. He built fifty-five churches in the city and thirty-six halls. "I would give my skin for the architect's design of the Louvre," said he, when in Paris to get ideas for the restoration of St. Paul's Cathedral in London. His rare skill is shown in the palaces of Hampton Court and Kensington, in Temple Bar, Drury Lane Theater, the Royal Exchange, and the great Monument. He changed Greenwich palace into a sailor's retreat, and built churches and colleges at Oxford. He also planned for the rebuilding of London after the great fire, but those in authority would not adopt his splendid idea. He worked thirty-five years upon his master-piece, St. Paul's Cathedral. Although he lived so long, and was exceedingly healthy in later life, he was so delicate as a child that he was a constant source of anxiety to his parents. His great enthusiasm alone seemed to give strength to his body.

"Buried beneath this place is Christopher Wren, the builder of this church and city. He lived more than ninety years, not for himself, but for the public good. Reader, if you seek his monument, look around!" Wherever you turn in London, you find noble monuments to his genius. Yet he never received instruction from an architect. He built fifty-five churches and thirty-six halls in the city. "I would give my skin for the architect's design of the Louvre," he said. He was in Paris to gather ideas for restoring St. Paul's Cathedral in London. His extraordinary skill can be seen in the palaces of Hampton Court and Kensington. It also shows in Temple Bar, Drury Lane Theater, the Royal Exchange, and the great Monument. He turned Greenwich palace into a retreat for sailors and built churches and colleges at Oxford. He also drew up a plan to rebuild London after the great fire. But the authorities would not adopt his splendid idea. He worked for thirty-five years on his masterpiece, St. Paul's Cathedral. Although he lived so long and was exceptionally healthy in later life, he was a delicate child. His parents were constantly worried about him. His great enthusiasm alone seemed to give his body strength.

Indifference never leads armies that conquer, never models statues that live, nor breathes sublime music, nor harnesses the forces of nature, nor rears impressive architecture, nor moves the soul with poetry, nor the world with heroic philanthropies. Enthusiasm, as Charles Bell says of the hand, wrought the statue of Memnon and hung the brazen gates of Thebes. It fixed the mariner's trembling needle upon its axis, and first heaved the tremendous bar of the printing-press. It opened the tubes for Galileo, until world after world swept before his vision, and it reefed the high topsail that rustled over Columbus in the morning breezes of the Bahamas. It has held the sword with which freedom has fought her battles, and poised the axe of the dauntless woodman as he opened the paths of civilization, and turned the mystic leaves upon which Milton and Shakespeare inscribed their burning thoughts.

Indifference never leads conquering armies or creates statues that live on. It never brings sublime music to life, harnesses the forces of nature, or builds impressive architecture. It never moves the soul with poetry or the world with heroic acts of philanthropy. As Charles Bell says of the hand, enthusiasm created the statue of Memnon and hung the bronze gates of Thebes. It fixed the mariner's trembling compass needle on its axis and first lifted the huge lever of the printing press. It opened the telescope tubes for Galileo, until world after world appeared before his eyes. It pulled in the high topsail that rustled above Columbus in the morning breezes of the Bahamas. Enthusiasm has held the sword with which freedom has fought its battles. It has raised the axe of the fearless woodsman as he opened paths for civilization. It has turned the mysterious pages on which Milton and Shakespeare wrote their passionate thoughts.

Horace Greeley said that the best product of labor is the high-minded workman with an enthusiasm for his work.

Horace Greeley said that the best product of labor is a worker with high ideals and enthusiasm for the work.

"The best method is obtained by earnestness," said Salvini. "If you can impress people with the conviction that you feel what you say, they will pardon many shortcomings. And above all, study, study, study! All the genius in the world will not help you along with any art, unless you become a hard student. It has taken me years to master a single part."

"The best technique comes from sincerity," said Salvini. "If you can convince people that you mean what you say, they will forgive many shortcomings. Above all, study, study, study! All the genius in the world will not help you succeed in any art unless you study hard. It has taken me years to master a single role."

There is a "go," a zeal, a furore, almost a fanaticism for one's ideals or calling, that is peculiar to our American temperament and life. You do not find this in tropical countries. It did not exist fifty years ago. It could not be found then even on the London Exchange. But the influence of the United States and of Australia, where, if a person is to succeed, he must be on the jump with all the ardor of his being, has finally extended until what used to be the peculiar strength of a few great minds has now become characteristic of the leading nations. Enthusiasm is the being awake; it is the tingling of every fiber of one's being to do the work that one's heart desires. Enthusiasm made Victor Hugo lock up his clothes while writing "Notre Dame," that he might not leave the work until it was finished. The great actor Garrick well illustrated it when asked by an unsuccessful preacher the secret of his power over audiences: "You speak of eternal verities and what you know to be true as if you hardly believed what you were saying yourself, whereas I utter what I know to be unreal and untrue as if I did believe it in my very soul."

There is a drive, a zeal, a passion, almost a fanaticism for one's ideals or calling, that is uniquely American. You do not find it in tropical countries. It did not exist fifty years ago. You could not find it then, even on the London Exchange. But the influence of the United States and Australia has gradually spread. In those countries, to succeed, a person must be constantly active and put their whole heart into the effort. What was once the special strength of a few great minds has now become characteristic of the leading nations. Enthusiasm means being fully awake. It is the feeling of every fiber of your being coming alive to do the work your heart desires. Enthusiasm led Victor Hugo to lock up his clothes while writing "Notre Dame," so he would not leave until he finished it. The great actor Garrick illustrated enthusiasm well. An unsuccessful preacher asked him the secret of his power over audiences. Garrick replied: "You speak of eternal truths and what you know to be true as if you hardly believed it yourself. But I speak of what I know to be unreal and untrue as if I believed it with my whole soul."

"When he comes into a room, every man feels as if he had taken a tonic and had a new lease of life," said a man when asked the reason for his selection, after he, with two companions, had written upon a slip of paper the name of the most agreeable companion he had ever met. "He is an eager, vivid fellow, full of joy, bubbling over with spirits. His sympathies are quick as an electric flash."

"When he comes into a room, every man feels as if he has taken a tonic and has a new lease on life," said a man. He was explaining his choice after he and two companions each wrote down the name of the most agreeable companion they had ever met. "He is an eager, lively fellow, full of joy and overflowing with energy. His sympathy is as quick as an electric flash."

"He throws himself into the occasion, whatever it may be, with his whole heart," said the second, in praise of the man of his choice.

"He puts his whole heart into whatever he does," said the second, praising the man he had chosen.

"He makes the best of everything," said the third, speaking of his own most cherished acquaintance.

"He makes the best of everything," said the third, speaking of the person he valued most.

The three were traveling correspondents of great English journals, who had visited every quarter of the world and talked with all kinds of men. The papers were examined and all were found to contain the name of a prominent lawyer in Melbourne, Australia.

The three were traveling correspondents for major English newspapers. They had visited every part of the world and spoken with all kinds of people. The papers were examined, and all contained the name of a prominent lawyer in Melbourne, Australia.

"If it were not for respect for human opinions," said Madame de Staël to M. Mole, "I would not open my window to see the Bay of Naples for the first time, while I would go five hundred leagues to talk with a man of genius whom I had not seen."

"If I did not care what people thought," Madame de Staël said to M. Mole, "I would not open my window to see the Bay of Naples for the first time. But I would travel five hundred leagues to talk with a man of genius I had never met."

Enthusiasm is that secret and harmonious spirit which hovers over the production of genius, throwing the reader of a book, or the spectator of a statue, into the very ideal presence whence these works have originated.

Enthusiasm is the secret, harmonious spirit that hovers over works of genius. It brings readers of a book or viewers of a statue into the very ideal presence from which these works arose.

"One moonlight evening in winter," writes the biographer of Beethoven, "we were walking through a narrow street of Bonn. 'Hush!' exclaimed the great composer, suddenly pausing before a little, mean dwelling, 'what sound is that? It is from my Sonata in F. Hark! how well it is played!'

"One moonlit winter evening," writes Beethoven’s biographer, "we were walking down a narrow street in Bonn. 'Quiet!' the great composer exclaimed, suddenly stopping in front of a small, shabby house. 'What is that sound? It is from my Sonata in F. Listen! How well it is played!'

"In the midst of the finale there was a break, and a sobbing voice cried: 'I cannot play any more. It is so beautiful; it is utterly beyond my power to do it justice. Oh, what would I not give to go to the concert at Cologne!' 'Ah! my sister,' said a second voice; 'why create regrets when there is no remedy? We can scarcely pay our rent.' 'You are right,' said the first speaker, 'and yet I wish for once in my life to hear some really good music. But it is of no use.'

In the middle of the finale, the playing stopped, and a sobbing voice cried: 'I can't play anymore. It's so beautiful, and I can't possibly do it justice. Oh, what wouldn't I give to go to the concert in Cologne!' 'Ah, sister,' said a second voice, 'why dwell on what we can't change? We can barely pay our rent.' 'You're right,' said the first speaker, 'but I wish I could hear some really good music just once in my life. But it's no use.'

"'Let us go in,' said Beethoven. 'Go in!' I remonstrated; 'what should we go in for?' 'I will play to her,' replied my companion in an excited tone; 'here is feeling,—genius,—understanding! I will play to her, and she will understand it. Pardon me,' he continued, as he opened the door and saw a young man sitting by a table, mending shoes, and a young girl leaning sorrowfully upon an old-fashioned piano; 'I heard music and was tempted to enter. I am a musician. I—I also overheard something of what you said. You wish to hear—that is, you would like—that is—shall I play for you?'

"'Let's go in,' said Beethoven. 'Go in!' I protested. 'What would we go in for?' 'I'll play for her,' my companion replied excitedly. 'She has feeling, genius, understanding! I'll play for her, and she'll understand it.' He opened the door. He saw a young man sitting at a table, mending shoes. A young girl leaned sadly over an old-fashioned piano. 'Excuse me,' he continued. 'I heard music and was tempted to come in. I'm a musician. I, I also overheard some of what you said. You wish to hear, that is, you would like, that is, shall I play for you?'

"'Thank you,' said the shoemaker, 'but our piano is so wretched, and we have no music.'

"'Thank you,' said the shoemaker, 'but our piano is in terrible condition, and we have no music.'

"'No music!' exclaimed the composer; 'how, then, does the young lady—I—I entreat your pardon,' he added, stammering as he saw that the girl was blind; 'I had not perceived before. Then you play by ear? But where do you hear the music, since you frequent no concerts?'

"'No music!' exclaimed the composer. 'Then how does the young lady... I, I beg your pardon,' he added, stammering as he saw that the girl was blind. 'I hadn't noticed before. So you play by ear? But where do you hear the music, since you don't go to concerts?'

"'We lived at Bruhl for two years; and, while there, I used to hear a lady practicing near us. During the summer evenings her windows were generally open, and I walked to and fro outside to listen to her.'

"'We lived in Bruhl for two years. While we were there, I used to hear a lady practicing nearby. On summer evenings, her windows were usually open, and I walked back and forth outside to listen to her.'

"Beethoven seated himself at the piano. Never, during all the years I knew him, did I hear him play better than to that blind girl and her brother. Even the old instrument seemed inspired. The young man and woman sat as if entranced by the magical, sweet sounds that flowed out upon the air in rhythmical swell and cadence, until, suddenly, the flame of the single candle wavered, sank, flickered, and went out. The shutters were thrown open, admitting a flood of brilliant moonlight, but the player paused, as if lost in thought.

"Beethoven sat down at the piano. In all the years I knew him, I never heard him play better than he did for that blind girl and her brother. Even the old instrument seemed inspired. The young man and woman sat entranced as magical, sweet sounds rose and fell in rhythmic waves. Then, suddenly, the flame of the single candle wavered, sank, flickered, and went out. The shutters were thrown open, letting in a flood of brilliant moonlight. But Beethoven paused, as if lost in thought.

"'Wonderful man!' said the shoemaker in a low tone; 'who and what are you?'

“Wonderful man!” the shoemaker said quietly. “Who and what are you?”

"'Listen!' replied the master, and he played the opening bars of the Sonata in F. 'Then you are Beethoven!' burst from the young people in delighted recognition. 'Oh, play to us once more,' they added, as he rose to go,—'only once more!'

"'Listen!' the master replied, and he played the opening bars of the Sonata in F. 'Then you are Beethoven!' the young people exclaimed, delighted to recognize him. As he rose to leave, they added, 'Oh, play for us once more, only once more!'

"'I will improvise a sonata to the moonlight,' said he, gazing thoughtfully upon the liquid stars shining so softly out of the depths of a cloudless winter sky. Then he played a sad and infinitely lovely movement, which crept gently over the instrument, like the calm flow of moonlight over the earth. This was followed by a wild, elfin passage in triple time—a sort of grotesque interlude, like the dance of fairies upon the lawn. Then came a swift agitated ending—a breathless, hurrying, trembling movement, descriptive of flight, and uncertainty, and vague impulsive terror, which carried us away on its rustling wings, and left us all in emotion and wonder. 'Farewell to you,' he said, as he rose and turned toward the door. 'You will come again?' asked the host and hostess in a breath. 'Yes, yes,' said Beethoven hurriedly, 'I will come again, and give the young lady some lessons. Farewell!' Then to me he added: 'Let us make haste back, that I may write out that sonata while I can yet remember it.' We did return in haste, and not until long past the dawn of day did he rise from his table with the full score of the Moonlight Sonata in his hand."

“‘I will improvise a sonata to the moonlight,’ he said. He gazed thoughtfully at the shimmering stars, shining softly in the depths of a cloudless winter sky. Then he played a sad and infinitely beautiful movement. It drifted gently across the instrument, like the calm flow of moonlight over the earth. Next came a wild, elfin passage in triple time. It was a kind of grotesque interlude, like fairies dancing on a lawn. Then came a swift, agitated ending. The movement was breathless, hurried, and trembling, suggesting flight, uncertainty, and a vague, sudden terror. It carried us away on its rustling wings and left us all moved and full of wonder. ‘Goodbye,’ he said, as he rose and turned toward the door. ‘Will you come again?’ the host and hostess asked at once. ‘Yes, yes,’ Beethoven said hurriedly. ‘I will come again and give the young lady some lessons. Goodbye!’ Then he added to me: ‘Let us hurry back, so I can write out that sonata while I still remember it.’ We did hurry back. It was long past dawn when he finally rose from his table, holding the full score of the Moonlight Sonata.”

Michael Angelo studied anatomy twelve years, nearly ruining his health, but this course determined his style, his practice, and his glory. He drew his figures in skeleton, added muscles, fat, and skin successively, and then draped them. He made every tool he used in sculpture, such as files, chisels, and pincers. In painting he prepared all his own colors, and would not let servants or students even mix them.

Michael Angelo studied anatomy for twelve years, nearly ruining his health. But this study shaped his style, his practice, and his glory. He first drew his figures as skeletons, then added muscles, fat, and skin. Finally, he drew clothing over them. He made every tool he used for sculpture, including files, chisels, and pincers. For painting, he prepared all his own colors. He would not even let servants or students mix them.

Raphael's enthusiasm inspired every artist in Italy, and his modest, charming manners disarmed envy and jealousy. He has been called the only distinguished man who lived and died without an enemy or detractor. Again and again poor Bunyan might have had his liberty; but not the separation from his poor blind daughter Mary, which he said was like pulling the flesh from his bones; not the need of a poor family dependent upon him; not the love of liberty nor the spur of ambition could induce him to forego his plain preaching in public places. He had so forgotten his early education that his wife had to teach him again to read and write. It was the enthusiasm of conviction which enabled this poor, ignorant, despised Bedford tinker to write his immortal allegory with such fascination that a whole world has read it.

Raphael's enthusiasm inspired every artist in Italy. His modest, charming manners disarmed envy and jealousy. He has been called the only distinguished man who lived and died without an enemy or critic. Bunyan could have gained his freedom again and again. He said that being separated from his poor blind daughter Mary was like having the flesh pulled from his bones. But neither that pain nor the needs of his poor, dependent family could make him give up preaching plainly in public places. Neither could his love of freedom or his ambition. He had forgotten so much of his early education that his wife had to teach him to read and write again. Yet his passionate conviction enabled this poor, ignorant, despised Bedford tinker to write his immortal allegory. He made it so fascinating that the whole world has read it.

Only thoughts that breathe in words that burn can kindle the spark slumbering in the heart of another.

Only thoughts expressed in burning words can ignite the spark sleeping in another person's heart.

Rare consecration to a great enterprise is found in the work of the late Francis Parkman. While a student at Harvard he determined to write the history of the French and English in North America. With a steadiness and devotion seldom equaled he gave his life, his fortune, his all to this one great object. Although he had, while among the Dakota Indians, collecting material for his history, ruined his health and could not use his eyes more than five minutes at a time for fifty years, he did not swerve a hair's breadth from the high purpose formed in his youth, until he gave to the world the best history upon this subject ever written.

The work of the late Francis Parkman shows a rare dedication to a great undertaking. While a student at Harvard, he decided to write the history of the French and English in North America. With a steadiness and devotion seldom equaled, he gave his life, his fortune, his all to this one great goal. While collecting material for his history among the Dakota Indians, he ruined his health. For fifty years, he could not use his eyes for more than five minutes at a time. Yet he never strayed in the slightest from the high purpose he had formed in his youth. He pursued it until he gave the world the best history ever written on the subject.

After Lincoln had walked six miles to borrow a grammar, he returned home and burned one shaving after another while he studied the precious prize.

Lincoln walked six miles to borrow a grammar book. After returning home, he burned wood shavings one after another while studying his precious prize.

Gilbert Becket, an English Crusader, was taken prisoner and became a slave in the palace of a Saracen prince, where he not only gained the confidence of his master, but also the love of his master's fair daughter. By and by he escaped and returned to England, but the devoted girl determined to follow him. She knew but two words of the English language—London and Gilbert; but by repeating the first she obtained passage in a vessel to the great metropolis, and then she went from street to street pronouncing the other—"Gilbert." At last she came to the street on which Gilbert lived in prosperity. The unusual crowd drew the family to the window, when Gilbert himself saw and recognized her, and took to his arms and home his far-come princess with her solitary fond word.

Gilbert Becket, an English Crusader, was taken prisoner and became a slave in the palace of a Saracen prince. There he gained not only his master's trust but also the love of his master's beautiful daughter. Eventually, he escaped and returned to England, but the devoted girl decided to follow him. She knew only two English words, London and Gilbert. By repeating the first, she secured passage on a ship to the great city. Then she went from street to street, saying the other word, "Gilbert." At last she came to the street where Gilbert was living in prosperity. The unusual crowd drew his family to the window. Gilbert himself saw and recognized her. He took his princess, who had come so far with her single loving word, into his arms and his home.

The most irresistible charm of youth is its bubbling enthusiasm. Youth sees no darkness ahead,—no defile that has no outlet,—it forgets that there is such a thing as failure in the world, and believes that mankind has been waiting all these centuries for him to come and be the liberator of truth and energy and beauty.

The most irresistible charm of youth is its overflowing enthusiasm. Youth sees no darkness ahead and no passage without a way out. It forgets that failure exists and believes that humanity has waited all these centuries for him to come and set truth, energy, and beauty free.

Of what use was it to forbid the boy Handel to touch a musical instrument, or to forbid him going to school, lest he learn the gamut? He stole midnight interviews with a dumb spinet in a secret attic. The boy Bach copied whole books of studies by moonlight, for want of a candle churlishly denied. Nor was he disheartened when these copies were taken from him. The painter West began in a garret, and plundered the family cat for bristles to make his brushes.

What good did it do to forbid young Handel from touching an instrument or going to school, for fear he would learn the musical scale? At midnight, he secretly visited a silent spinet in an attic. As a boy, Bach copied entire books of exercises by moonlight because he had been cruelly denied a candle. He was not discouraged when the copies were taken away. The painter West began in an attic and took bristles from the family cat to make his brushes.

It is the enthusiasm of youth which cuts the Gordian knot age cannot untie. "People smile at the enthusiasm of youth," says Charles Kingsley; "that enthusiasm which they themselves secretly look back to with a sigh, perhaps unconscious that it is partly their own fault that they ever lost it."

The enthusiasm of youth cuts through the Gordian knot that age cannot untie. "People smile at the enthusiasm of youth," says Charles Kingsley. "Yet they secretly look back on their own lost enthusiasm with a sigh. Perhaps they do not realize that losing it was partly their own fault."

How much the world owes to the enthusiasm of Dante!

How much the world owes to Dante's enthusiasm!

Tennyson wrote his first volume at eighteen, and at nineteen gained a medal at Cambridge.

Tennyson wrote his first book at eighteen and won a medal at Cambridge at nineteen.

"The most beautiful works of all art were done in youth," says Ruskin. "Almost everything that is great has been done by youth," wrote Disraeli. "The world's interests are, under God, in the hands of the young," says Dr. Trumbull.

"The most beautiful works of art were all created in youth," says Ruskin. "Almost everything great has been done by young people," wrote Disraeli. "The world's interests are, under God, in the hands of the young," says Dr. Trumbull.

It was the youth Hercules that performed the Twelve Labors. Enthusiastic youth faces the sun, it shadows all behind it. The heart rules youth; the head, manhood. Alexander was a mere youth when he rolled back the Asiatic hordes that threatened to overwhelm European civilization almost at its birth. Napoleon had conquered Italy at twenty-five. Byron and Raphael died at thirty-seven, an age which has been fatal to many a genius, and Poe lived but a few months longer. Romulus founded Rome at twenty. Pitt and Bolingbroke were ministers almost before they were men. Gladstone was in Parliament in early manhood. Newton made some of his greatest discoveries before he was twenty-five. Keats died at twenty-five, Shelley at twenty-nine. Luther was a triumphant reformer at twenty-five. It is said that no English poet ever equaled Chatterton at twenty-one. Whitefield and Wesley began their great revival as students at Oxford, and the former had made his influence felt throughout England before he was twenty-four. Victor Hugo wrote a tragedy at fifteen, and had taken three prizes at the Academy and gained the title of Master before he was twenty.

Hercules was young when he performed the Twelve Labors. Enthusiastic youth faces the sun, leaving every shadow behind. The heart rules in youth, the head in manhood. Alexander was still young when he drove back the Asiatic hordes. They had threatened to overwhelm European civilization almost at its birth. Napoleon had conquered Italy by the age of twenty-five. Byron and Raphael died at thirty-seven, an age that has been fatal to many a genius. Poe lived only a few months longer. Romulus founded Rome at twenty. Pitt and Bolingbroke became ministers almost before they were men. Gladstone entered Parliament as a young man. Newton made some of his greatest discoveries before he was twenty-five. Keats died at twenty-five and Shelley at twenty-nine. Luther was a triumphant reformer at twenty-five. It is said that no English poet ever equaled Chatterton at twenty-one. Whitefield and Wesley began their great revival as students at Oxford. Whitefield had made his influence felt throughout England before he was twenty-four. Victor Hugo wrote a tragedy at fifteen. Before he was twenty, he had won three prizes at the Academy and earned the title of Master.

Many of the world's greatest geniuses never saw forty years. Never before has the young man, who is driven by his enthusiasm, had such an opportunity as he has to-day. It is the age of young men and young women. Their ardor is their crown, before which the languid and the passive bow.

Many of the world's greatest geniuses never reached forty. Young men driven by enthusiasm have never had such an opportunity before. This is the age of young men and young women. Their passion is their crown, and the tired and passive bow before it.

But if enthusiasm is irresistible in youth, how much more so is it when carried into old age! Gladstone at eighty had ten times the weight and power that any man of twenty-five would have with the same ideals. The glory of age is only the glory of its enthusiasm, and the respect paid to white hairs is reverence to a heart fervent, in spite of the torpid influence of an enfeebled body. The "Odyssey" was the creation of a blind old man, but that old man was Homer.

But if enthusiasm is irresistible in youth, how much more irresistible it is in old age! At eighty, Gladstone had ten times the influence and power of any twenty-five-year-old with the same ideals. The glory of age comes only from its enthusiasm. The respect given to white hair honors a passionate heart, still burning despite the slowing influence of a weakened body. The "Odyssey" was written by a blind old man, but that old man was Homer.

The contagious zeal of an old man, Peter the Hermit, rolled the chivalry of Europe upon the ranks of Islam.

The contagious passion of an old man, Peter the Hermit, sent Europe's knights into battle against the forces of Islam.

Dandolo, the Doge of Venice, won battles at ninety-four, and refused a crown at ninety-six. Wellington planned and superintended fortifications at eighty. Bacon and Humboldt were enthusiastic students to the last gasp. Wise old Montaigne was shrewd in his gray-beard wisdom and loving life, even in the midst of his fits of gout and colic.

Dandolo, the Doge of Venice, won battles at ninety-four and refused a crown at ninety-six. Wellington planned and oversaw fortifications at eighty. Bacon and Humboldt remained enthusiastic students until their last breath. Wise old Montaigne remained shrewd in his old age and loved life, even while suffering attacks of gout and colic.

Dr. Johnson's best work, "The Lives of the Poets," was written when he was seventy-eight. Defoe was fifty-eight when he published "Robinson Crusoe." Newton wrote new briefs to his "Principia" at eighty-three. Plato died writing, at eighty-one. Tom Scott began the study of Hebrew at eighty-six. Galileo was nearly seventy when he wrote on the laws of motion. James Watt learned German at eighty-five. Mrs. Somerville finished her "Molecular and Microscopic Science" at eighty-nine. Humboldt completed his "Cosmos" at ninety, a month before his death. Burke was thirty-five before he obtained a seat in Parliament, yet he made the world feel his character. Unknown at forty, Grant was one of the most famous generals in history at forty-two. Eli Whitney was twenty-three when he decided to prepare for college, and thirty when he graduated from Yale; yet his cotton-gin opened a great industrial future for the Southern States. What a power was Bismarck at eighty! Lord Palmerston was an "Old Boy" to the last. He became Prime Minister of England the second time at seventy-five, and died Prime Minister at eighty-one. Galileo at seventy-seven, blind and feeble, was working every day, adapting the principle of the pendulum to clocks. George Stephenson did not learn to read and write until he had reached manhood. Some of Longfellow's, Whittier's, and Tennyson's best work was done after they were seventy.

Dr. Johnson wrote his best work, "The Lives of the Poets," when he was seventy-eight. Defoe was fifty-eight when he published "Robinson Crusoe." Newton wrote new summaries of his "Principia" at eighty-three. Plato died at eighty-one, still writing. Tom Scott began studying Hebrew at eighty-six. Galileo was nearly seventy when he wrote about the laws of motion. James Watt learned German at eighty-five. Mrs. Somerville finished her "Molecular and Microscopic Science" at eighty-nine. Humboldt completed his "Cosmos" at ninety, a month before his death. Burke was thirty-five before he won a seat in Parliament, yet he made the world feel the force of his character. Grant was unknown at forty. By forty-two, he was one of the most famous generals in history. Eli Whitney was twenty-three when he decided to prepare for college and thirty when he graduated from Yale. Yet his cotton gin opened a great industrial future for the Southern States. What a force Bismarck was at eighty! Lord Palmerston was an "Old Boy" to the end. He became Prime Minister of England for the second time at seventy-five. He was still Prime Minister when he died at eighty-one. At seventy-seven, Galileo was blind and frail. Yet he worked every day, adapting the principle of the pendulum for use in clocks. George Stephenson did not learn to read and write until he was a grown man. Some of Longfellow's, Whittier's, and Tennyson's best work was done after they were seventy.

At sixty-three Dryden began the translation of the "Aeneid." Robert Hall learned Italian when past sixty, that he might read Dante in the original. Noah Webster studied seventeen languages after he was fifty. Cicero said well that men are like wine: age sours the bad and improves the good.

At sixty-three, Dryden began translating the "Aeneid." After sixty, Robert Hall learned Italian so he could read Dante in the original. Noah Webster studied seventeen languages after he turned fifty. Cicero was right when he said that men are like wine: age sours the bad and improves the good.

With enthusiasm we may retain the youth of the spirit until the hair is silvered, even as the Gulf Stream softens the rigors of northern Europe.

With enthusiasm, we may keep a youthful spirit until our hair turns silver, just as the Gulf Stream softens northern Europe's harsh climate.

"How ages thine heart,—towards youth? If not, doubt thy fitness for thy work."

"Is your heart growing younger as you age? If not, doubt whether you are fit for your work."