We have much studied and much perfected, of late, the great civilized invention of the division of labour; only we give it a false name. It is not, truly speaking, the labour that is divided; but the men.

When the whole world turns clown, and paints itself red with its own hearts blood instead of vermilion, it is something else than comic.

I have not written in vain if I have heretofore done anything towards diminishing the reputation of the Renaissance landscape painting.

Give me some mud off a city crossing, some ochre out of a gravel pit and a little whitening and some coal dust and I will paint you a luminous picture if you give me time to gradate my mud and subdue my dust.

We are, after all, only trustees of the wealth we possess. Without the community and its resources... there would be little wealth for anyone.

The more readily we admit the possibility of our own cherished convictions being mixed with error, the more vital and helpful whatever is right in them will become; and no error is so conclusively fatal as the idea that God will not allow us to err, though He has allowed all other men to do so.

No nation can last which has made a mob of itself, however generous at heart.