This London City, with all of its houses, palaces, steam-engines, cathedrals, and huge immeasurable traffic an tumult, what is it but a Thought, but millions of Thoughts made into One-a huge immeasurable Spirit of a Thought, embodied in brick, in iron, smoke, dust, Palaces, Parliaments, Hackney Coaches, Katherine Docks, and the rest of it! Not a brick was made but some man had to think of the making of that brick.

Is man’s civilization only a wrappage, through which the savage nature of him can still burst, infernal as ever?

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

Music is well said to be the speech of angels; in fact, nothing among the utterances allowed to man is felt to be so divine. It brings us near to the infinite.

No ghost was every seen by two pair of eyes.

Speech is too often not the art of concealing thought, but of quite stifling and suspending thought, so that there is none to conceal.

Out of the lowest depths there is a path to the loftiest heights.