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The sun has lighted buttercup-field now, the wind touches the lime-tree. Something passes over me away up there. It is Felicity on her wings! 1912. By John Galsworthy "Je vous dirai que l'exces est toujours un mal." Once upon a time the Prince of Felicitas had occasion to set forth on a journey. It was a late autumn evening with few pale stars and a moon no larger than the paring of a finger-nail.
"The Public," he thought, "I am not able to take seriously, because I cannot conceive what it may be; myself, my conscience, I am told I must not take seriously, or I become ridiculous. Yes, I am indeed lost!" And with a feeling of elation, as of a straw blown on every wind, he arose. 1910. By John Galsworthy "Je vous dirai que l'exces est toujours un mal."
"Je vous dirai que l'exces est toujours un mal." I knew him from the days of my extreme youth, because he made my father's boots; inhabiting with his elder brother two little shops let into one, in a small by-street-now no more, but then most fashionably placed in the West End.
Your Majesty's presence at these debates is an impossibility; and I regard such scenes as we have lately witnessed in the Reichstag regrettable enough as a standard of our morals and our political education, perhaps also our political qualifications, but not as a misfortune in themselves: l'excès du mal en devient le remède.
He is the very quintessence of a declaimer, but a declaimer of a most masculine sort. Boileau characterises him in two epigrammatic lines: "Juvenal eleve dans les cris de l'ecole Poussa jusqu'a l'exces son mordant hyperbole." Poet in the highest sense of the word he certainly is not. The love of beauty, which is the touchstone of the poetic soul, is absent from his works.
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