2.  No MIRABEAU, NAPOLEON, BURNS, CROMWELL, NO man ADEQUATE to DO ANYTHING but is first of all in RIGHT EARNEST about it—­what I call A SINCERE man.  I should say SINCERITY, a GREAT, DEEP, GENUINE SINCERITY, is the first CHARACTERISTIC of a man in any way HEROIC. Not the sincerity that CALLS itself sincere.  Ah no.  That is a very poor matter indeed—­A SHALLOW, BRAGGART, CONSCIOUS sincerity, oftenest SELF-CONCEIT mainly.  The GREAT MAN’S SINCERITY is of a kind he CANNOT SPEAK OF. Is NOT CONSCIOUS of.—­THOMAS CARLYLE.

3.  TRUE WORTH is in BEING—­NOT SEEMING—­in doing each day that goes by SOME LITTLE GOOD, not in DREAMING of GREAT THINGS to do by and by.  For whatever men say in their BLINDNESS, and in spite of the FOLLIES of YOUTH, there is nothing so KINGLY as KINDNESS, and nothing so ROYAL as TRUTH.—­Anonymous.

4.  To get a natural effect, where would you use slow and where fast tempo in the following?

FOOL’S GOLD

    See him there, cold and gray,
    Watch him as he tries to play;
    No, he doesn’t know the way—­
    He began to learn too late. 
    She’s a grim old hag, is Fate,
    For she let him have his pile,
    Smiling to herself the while,
    Knowing what the cost would be,
    When he’d found the Golden Key. 
    Multimillionaire is he,
    Many times more rich than we;
    But at that I wouldn’t trade
    With the bargain that he made. 
    Came here many years ago,
    Not a person did he know;
    Had the money-hunger bad—­
    Mad for money, piggish mad;
    Didn’t let a joy divert him,
    Didn’t let a sorrow hurt him,
    Let his friends and kin desert him,
    While he planned and plugged and hurried
    On his quest for gold and power. 
    Every single wakeful hour
    With a money thought he’d dower;
    All the while as he grew older,
    And grew bolder, he grew colder. 
    And he thought that some day
    He would take the time to play;
    But, say—­he was wrong. 
    Life’s a song;
    In the spring
    Youth can sing and can fling;
    But joys wing
    When we’re older,
    Like birds when it’s colder. 
    The roses were red as he went rushing by,
    And glorious tapestries hung in the sky,
    And the clover was waving
    ‘Neath honey-bees’ slaving;
    A bird over there
    Roundelayed a soft air;
    But the man couldn’t spare
    Time for gathering flowers,
    Or resting in bowers,
    Or gazing at skies
    That gladdened the eyes. 
    So he kept on and swept on
    Through mean, sordid years. 
    Now he’s up to his ears
    In the choicest of stocks.