They Only Are Wise Who Know That

Hero-worship Is The Deepest Root Of All; The Tap-root, From Which In A Great Degree All The Rest Were Nourished And Grown . . . Worship Of A Hero Is Transcendent Admiration Of A Great Man. I Say Great Men Are Still Admirable; I Say There Is, At Bottom, Nothing Else Admirable! No Nobler Feeling Than This Of Admiration For One Higher Than Himself Dwells In The Breast Of Men.

At The Bottom There Is No Perfect History; There Is None Such Conceivable. All Past Centuries Have Rotted Down, And Gone Confusedly Dumb And Quiet.

Today Is Not Yesterday: We Ourselves Change; How Can Our Works And Thoughts, If They Are Always To Be The Fittest, Continue Always The Same? Change, Indeed Is Painful; Yet Ever Needful; And If Memory Have Its Force And Worth, So Also Has Hope.

Does It Ever Give Thee Pause That Men Used To Have A Soul? Not By Hearsay Alone, Or As A Figure Of Speech, But As A Thruth That They Knew And Acted Upon. Verily It Was Another World Then, But Yet It Is A Pity We Have Lost The Tidings Of Our Souls. We Shall Have To Go In Search Of Them Again Or Worse In All Ways Shall Befall Us.

The Choking, Sweltering, Deadly, And Killing Rule Of No Rule; The Consecration Of Cupidity And Braying Of Folly, And Dim Stupidity And Baseness, In Most Of The Affairs Of Men. Slopshirts Attainable Three-halfpence Cheaper By The Ruin Of Living Bodies And Immortal Souls.