To be a saint does not exclude fine dresses nor a beautiful house.

the way with Ireland is that no sooner do you get away from her than the golden mists begin to close about her, and she lies, an Island of the Blest, something enchanted in our dreams. When you come back you may think you are disillusioned, but you know well that the fairy mists will begin to gather about her once more.

The trouble with the Irish question always has been that it was an English question.

I have always believed that hair is a very sure index of character.

I have often heard it said that the Irish are too ready to forgive. It is a noble failing.

O, the red rose may be fair, And the lily statelier; But my shamrock, one in three Takes the very heart of me!

There is an Irish way of paying compliments as though they were irresistible truths which makes what would otherwise be an impertinence delightful.