We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
..the interest of individuals is above the exclusive interest of the state. The power of the whole is not to be set in the balance for a moment with freedom-that is, the conscience of the subject - and those who act on other principle are the worst of criminals.
Lord Acton was deeply involved in the greatest events of his times, often on the losing --but still today arguably 'noble cause' side --such as the establishment of the doctrine of papal infallibility, where he led the unsuccessful intellectual opposition of the English-speaking Catholic laity, and the American Civil War (see especially his postwar correspondence with Robert E. Lee on the topic of centralized state power and the inevitability of tyranny) where he led British sympathy toward the state's rights element of the southern rebellion.
A great compliment to his character is in the affection and respect of even such rarified sensibilities as that of the poet Matthew Arnold ("Gladstone influences all round him but Acton; it is Acton who influences Gladstone"), author of the magnicent Dover Beach --one of the vanishingly few English-language approaches to the themes of complexity of man and nature that it took Shakespeare entire plays to illuminate. If Acton is associated at all with the poem's final stanza (see below), that alone is near enough to make him one of the great Englishmen.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.