One night the young bookbinder drifted into a little meeting and, buttoning his seedy overcoat to conceal his rags, in some way he found himself upon his feet and began to speak.

The address that proved a pleasure to others was a revelation to himself.

For the first time Gough tasted the joys of moving men and mastering them for good.

Within a week that love of public speech and useful service had kindled his mental faculties into a creative glow.

The new and higher love of the heart consumed the lower love of the body, just as the sun melts manacles of ice from a man's wrist.
History is full of these transformations wrought by the heart.