ideal which has inspired him all through and sustained him through the
many difficulties he has had to face. When he came to the end, the fine
passage beginning with the words, _Ni inter popoloj la murojn detruos_
("we shall throw down the walls between the peoples"), and ending _amo
kaj vero ekregos sur tero_ ("love and truth shall begin their reign on
earth"), the whole concourse rose to their feet with prolonged cries of
"Vivu Zamenhof!"

No doubt this enthusiasm may sound rather forced and unreal to those
who have not attended a congress, and the cheers may ring hollow across
intervening time and space. Neither would it be good for this or any
movement to rely upon facile enthusiasm, as easily damped as aroused.
There is something far more than this in the international language
movement.

At the same time, it is impossible for any one who has not tried it to
realize the thrill—not a weak, sentimental thrill, but a reasonable
thrill, starting from objective fact and running down the marrow of
things—given by the first real contact with an international language
in an international setting. There really is a feeling as of a new power
born into the world.

Those who were present at the Geneva Congress, 1906, will not soon
forget the singing of the song "La Espero" at the solemn closing of
the week's proceedings. The organ rolled out the melody, and when the
gathered thousands that thronged the floor of the hall and packed the
galleries tier on tier to the ceiling took up the opening phrase—

En la mondon venis nova sento,
Tra la mondo iras forta voko,[1]