In The Groves Of Their Academy, At

All That Is Necessary For Evil To Succeed Is For Good Men To Do Nothing As They Must If They Believe They Can Do Nothing. There Is Nothing Worse Because The Council Of Despair Is Declaration Of Irresponsibility; It Is Pilate Washing His Hands.

Because Half A Dozen Grasshoppers Under A Fern Make The Field Ring With Their Importunate Chink, Whilst Thousands Of Great Cattle, Reposed Beneath The Shadow Of The British Oak, Chew The Cud And Are Silent, Pray, To Not Imagine That Those Who Make The Noise Are The Only Inhabitants Of The Field; That, Of Course, They Are Many In Number; Or That, After All, They Are Other Than The Little, Shriveled, Meagre, Hopping, Though Loud And Troublesome Insects Of The Hour.

Where Two Motives, Neither Of Them Perfectly Justifiable, May Be Assigned, The Worst Has The Chance Of Being Preferred.

What Ever Disunites Man From God, Also Disunites Man From Man.

The Unbought Grace Of Life, The Cheap Defence Of Nations, The Nurse Of Manly Sentiment And Heroic Enterprise Isgone! It Isgone, That Sensibility Of Principle, That Chastity Of Honour, Which Felt A Stain Like A Wound, Which Ennobled Whatever It Touched, And Under Which Vice Itself Lost Half Its Evil, By Losing All Its Grossness.