A Fleece of Gold | Page 8

Jason is to have the golden fleece he must pass
between the dangerous rocks, he must encounter the dragon, yoke to
the plow the fire-breathing bulls, and subdue a regiment of armed men.
If Joseph had not been Egypt's prisoner, he would never have been
Egypt's governor. If Millet had not passed through the valley of sorrow,
he could never have painted the "Angelus." The Restoration in England

that gave Charles II a throne, drove Milton into absolute seclusion, and
the last twelve years of his life were passed in enforced isolation. But
this blind, deserted, broken-hearted, but illustrious scholar and poet,
conquered despair, triumphed over every misfortune, and gave to the
world those three great poems which have made his name immortal.
Even poverty, which has been a hardship to the individual, has proved a
boon to himself and to the cause of humanity. Science teaches us that
ordinary mud has in it elements which, arranged according to the
higher laws of nature, produce the opal, the sapphire, and the diamond.
Likewise does history teach us that from the morass of poverty the
commonest types of men have passed from stage to stage through the
refining processes of experience till they have dazzled the world with
their magnificence. Whether it be a slave like Æsop, a beggar like
Homer, a peasant like Raphael, or a marble-cutter like Socrates, we see
them at last wearing the diadem of a brilliant success.
In fact, the foremost in all nations and in all branches have, as a rule,
risen from the ranks of the poor and lowly. Shakespeare held horses for
a few pennies a night in front of a London theater, and later did menial
service back of the scenes. Disraeli was an office boy, Carlyle a
stone-mason's attendant, and Ben Jonson was a bricklayer. Morrison
and Carey were shoemakers, Franklin was a printer's apprentice, Burns
a country plowman, Stephenson a collier, Faraday a bookbinder,
Arkwright a barber, and Sir Humphrey Davy a drug clerk.
Demosthenes was the son of a cutler, Verdi the son of a baker,
Blackstone the son of a draper, and Luther was the son of a miner.
Butler was a farmer, Hugh Miller a stone-cutter, Abraham Lincoln a
rail-splitter, and James Garfield was a canal boy. One-half of the
Presidents of the United States were left orphans at an early age, left to
make their way through the world alone. History reveals clearly that it
has been not the sons of the rich, but the sons of poverty that have
"compelled the favor of fortune and subjugated fate."
Neither rank nor genius nor any other natural endowment forms the
only true basis of success. A right disposition, a desire and
determination, founded on the sub-structure of right purpose, to cope
with the problems that confront you, constitute the real basis of
achievement. In short, the only demands which success makes of you is
that you act with the most of yourself, bringing all your faculties to

bear upon what you have to do; instilling your best effort into the
infinite detail that goes to make up the great finality of your life. To
this end, the systematic development of the whole man, body, mind,
and soul, in such a manner as to bring you into right relation with
things as they are and ought to be, is the paramount question.
In fact, education is the only passport to success. I do not mean that
education that is restricted to institutions of learning. These, while
possessing a decided advantage, by no means have a monopoly of
learning. Genius finds opportunity in the great laboratories of nature.
Every man has within himself an educational organization presided
over by a full faculty; and nature's wonderful book is ever open to him,
if only he will lay hold upon the lessons it would teach him. This type
of education which is the drawing out toward all things the latent forces
from within, and the broadening out for greater usefulness, means the
acquisition of ability to meet every emergency and the establishment of
high ideals.
Moreover, in the race for success, the proper nourishment of the brain
is an essential part of self-development. The brain is substantially the
great artist that creates our ideals in life. And yet we forget sometimes
that it is the master of our destiny; and allow it to sink into that dull
apathy so fatal to our hopes and aims. It would almost seem, indeed, as
if a kind of fatality clung to some men in the way in which they neglect
this supreme faculty of their being. You possess the power to use your
brain as you choose; but not the right, morally, for society demands of
you a high standard of thinking, since it is the