Preserve, Within A Wild Sanctuary, An Inaccessible

A Self-made Martyr Is A Poor Thing.

I Have Watchedmany Literary Fashions Shoot Up And Blossom, And Then Fade And Drop.... Yet With The Many That I Have Seen Comeand Go, I Have Never Yet Encountered A Mode Of Thinking That Regarded Itself As Simply A Changing Fashion, And Not As An Infallible Approach To The Right Culture.

It Is Only In The Heart That Anything Really Happens.

I Hated The Things They Believe In, The Things They So Innocently And Charmingly Pretended. I Hated The Sanctimonious Piety That Let People Hurt Helpless Creatures. I Hated The Prayers And The Hymns - The Fountains And The Red Images That Coloured Their Drab Music, The Fountains Filled With Blood, The Sacrifice Of The Lamb.

Idealism, That Gaudy Coloring Matter Of Passion, Fades When It Is Brought Beneath The Trenchant White Light Of Knowledge. Ideals, Like Mountains, Are Best At A Distance.