The lusty, jewelled bacchantes who now haunt the inner temple kindle the social flames with newer names than ours.

Few of us count; the lumbering British or Dutch cattle our race was bred from, even in these brief generations, have become decadent and barren; we are even passing from a fashion which we have neither intellect to sustain nor courage to dictate to.

It's the raw West that is to be our Nemesis, I think....

'Mix corpuscles or you die!'-- that's what I read as I run--I mean, saunter; the Malcourts never run, except to seed.

My, what phosphorescent perversion! One might almost mistake it for philosophy....