When old Pan was dead and Apollo's bow broken, there were many faithful pagans who would worship at no new shrines, but went out to the hills and caves, truer to the old gods in their discrowned desolation than in their pomp and power. Even so were we left behind, a remnant of the faithful. We had never expected to become great in art or song; it was the life itself that we loved; that was our end -- not, as with them, the means to an end.
We aimed at no glory, no lovers of glory we; Give us the glory of going on and still to be. Unfortunately, going on was no longer possible; the old order had changed, and we could only patch up our broken lives as best might be.
Fothergill said that he, for one, would have no more of it. The past was dead, and he wasn't going to try to revive it. Hence
