I hate the man who eats without knowing what he’s eating. I doubt his taste in more important things.

I have passed all my days in London, until I have formed as many and intense local attachments as any of you mountaineers can have done with dead nature.

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been.

A man may do very well with a very little knowledge, and scarce be found out in mixed company; everybody is so much more ready to produce his own, than to call for a display of your acquisitions.

The man must have a rare recipe for melancholy, who can be dull in Fleet Street.

The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er; And hearts that once beat high for praise Now feel that pulse no more.