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Let us recognize the beauty and power of true enthusiasm; and
whatever we may do to enlighten ourselves and others, guard
against checking or chilling a single earnest sentiment. For
what is the human mind, however enriched with acquisitions or
strengthened by exercise, unaccompanied by an ardent and
sensitive heart? Its light may illumine, but it cannot inspire.
It may shed a cold and moonlight radiance upon the path of life,
but it warms no flower into bloom; it sets free no icebound
fountains. Dr. Johnson used to say that an obstinate rationality
prevented him from being a papist. Does not the same cause
prevent many of us from unburdening our hearts and breathing our
devotions at the shrines of nature? There are influences which
environ humanity too subtle for the dissecting knife of reason.
In our better moments we are clearly conscious of their presence,
and if there is any barrier to their blessed agency, it is a
formalized intellect. Enthusiasm, too, is the very life of
gifted spirits. Ponder the lives of the glorious in art or
literature through all the ages. What are they but records of
toils and sacrifices supported by the earnest hearts of their
votaries? Dante composed his immortal poem amid exile and
suffering, prompted by the noble ambition of vindicating himself
to posterity; and the sweetest angel of his paradise is the
object of his early love. The best countenances the old painters
have bequeathed to us are those of cherished objects intimately
associated with their fame. The face of Raphael's mother blends
with the angelic beauty of all his madonnas. Titian's daughter
and the wife of Corregio again and again meet in their works.
Well does Foscolo call the fine arts the children of Love. The
deep interest with which the Italians hail gifted men inspires
them to the mightiest efforts. National enthusiasm is the great
nursery of genius. When Cellini's statue of "Perseus" was first
exhibited on the Piazza at Florence, it was surrounded for days
by an admiring throng, and hundreds of tributary sonnets were
placed upon its pedestal. Petrarch was crowned with laurel at
Rome for his poetical labors, and crowds of the unlettered may
still be seen on the Mole at Naples, listening to a reader of
Tasso. Reason is not the only interpreter of life. The fountain
of action is in the feelings. Religion itself is but a state of
the affections. I once met a beautiful peasant woman in the
valley of the Arno, and asked the number of her children. "I
have three here and two in Paradise," she calmly replied, with a
tone and manner of touching and grave simplicity. Her faith was
of the heart. Constituted as human nature is, it is in the
highest degree natural that rare powers should be excited by
voluntary and spontaneous appreciation. Who would not feel urged
to high achievement, if he knew that every beauty his canvas
displayed, or every perfect note he breathed, or every true
inspiration of his lyre, would find an instant response in a
thousand breasts? Lord Brougham calls the word "impossible" the
mother tongue of little souls. What, I ask, can counteract
self-distrust, and sustain the higher efforts of our nature but
enthusiasm? More of this element would call forth the genius,
and gladden the life of New England. While the mere intellectual
man speculates, and the mere man of acquisition cites authority,
the man of feeling acts, realizes, puts forth his complete
energies. His earnest and strong heart will not let his mind
rest; he is urged by an inward impulse to embody his thought. He
must have sympathy; he must have results. And Nature yields to
the magician, acknowledging him as her child. The noble statue
comes forth from the marble, the speaking figure stands out from
the canvas, the electric chain is struck in the bosoms of his
fellows. They receive his ideas, respond to his appeal, and
reciprocate his love.
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