Let him who would move and convince others, be first moved and convinced himself.

The true epic of our times is not "Arm's and the Man," but "Tools and the Man"--an infinitely wider kind of epic.

My whinstone house my castle is, I have my own four walls.

We call that fire of the black thunder-cloud "electricity," and lecture learnedly about it, and grind the like of it out of glass and silk: but what is it? What made it? Whence comes it? Whither goes it?

To know, to get into the truth of anything, is ever a mystic art, of which the best logic's can but babble on the surface.

A fair day's wages for a fair day's work.

The fine arts once divorcing themselves from truth are quite certain to fall mad, if they do not die.