There is a spell in mediaeval Art which has had power to bewitch some people into trying, or wishing to try, or fancying that they wish to try or making believe to fancy that they wish to try, to bring back the Middle Ages.

Whatever things may have been in their origin, they are what they are, both in themselves and in regard to their indications respecting other beings or influences the existence of which may be implied in theirs.

Who can doubt that between the English and the French, between the Scotch and the Irish, there are differences of character which have profoundly affected and still affect the course of history?

Yet for my part, deeply as I am moved by the religious architecture of the Middle Ages, I cannot honestly say that I ever felt the slightest emotion in any modern Gothic church.

America is supposed to be given over to ugliness. There are a good many ugly things there and the ugliest are the most pretentious.

Personality is lower than partiality.

The insular arrogance of the English character is a commonplace joke.

Above all nations is humanity.

Art is expression, and to have high expression you must have something high to express.

Every one who has a heart, however ignorant of architecture he may be, feels the transcendent beauty and poetry of the mediaeval churches.

I heard Thackeray thank Heaven for the purity of Dickens. I thanked Heaven for the purity of a greater than Dickens - Thackeray himself.

If it were a real effort to live in the Middle Ages, your life would be one perpetual prevarication.

No student of history can fail to see the moral interest of the Middle Ages, any more than an artist can fail to see their aesthetic interest.

Rome was great in arms, in government, in law.

That Rome was comparatively great and wealthy is certain.

The materials of the novelist must be real; they must be gathered from the field of humanity by his actual observation.

The novelist must ground his work in faithful study of human nature.

The Romans, we are told, were by nature a peculiarly warlike race.

We must also be permitted to bear in mind that evolution, though it may explain everything else, cannot explain itself.

As to London we must console ourselves with the thought that if life outside is less poetic than it was in the days of old, inwardly its poetry is much deeper.