Conscience can be a slippery thing, if we allow it so, eventually fluctuating under the waves of circumstances around us, by which we may be buffeted, tossed and turned. So sayeth Saint Jude of those who maintain not a steady and serene peace of mind and soul, that they are waterless clouds, carried along by winds, fruitless trees in late autumn, twice dead, uprooted, wild waves of the sea, calling up the foam of their own shame, wandering stars for whom the nether gloom of darkness has been reserved for ever.
We may add the purported words of Thomas More to
