Heaven sends us misfortunes as a moral tonic.

Talent, like beauty, to be pardoned, must be obscure and unostentatious.

Wit is the lightning of the mind, reason the sunshine, and reflection the moonlight.

People seem to lose all respect for the past; events succeed each other with such velocity that the most remarkable one of a few years gone by, is no more remembered than if centuries had closed over it.

Yes, the meeting of dear friends atones for the regret of separation; and like it so much enhances affection, that after absence one wonders how one has been able to stay away from them so long.

Flattery, if judiciously administered, is always acceptable.

Sure there's different roads from this to Dungarvan* - some thinks one road pleasanter, and some think another; wouldn't it be mighty foolish to quarrel for this? - and sure isn't it twice worse to thry to interfere with people for choosing the road they like best to heaven?