Ah, Ireland... That damnable, delightful country, where everything that is right is the opposite of what it ought to be.

Were it not for music, we might in these days say, the Beautiful is dead.

The profound thinker always suspects that he is superficial.

Age is frequently beautiful, wisdom appearing like an aftermath.

Moderation is the center wherein all philosophies, both human and divine, meet.

But what minutes! Count them by sensation, and not by calendars, and each moment is a day.

Taste, when once obtained, may be said to be no acquiring faculty, and must remain stationary; but knowledge is of perpetual growth and has infinite demands. Taste, like an artificial canal, winds through a beautiful country, but its borders are confined and its term is limited. Knowledge navigates the ocean, and is perpetually on voyages of discovery.