The Irish are a philosophic as well as a practical race. Their first…

Art is the stored honey of the human soul, gathered on wings of misery and travail.

Among the forces which sweep and play throughout the universe, untutored man is but a wisp in the wind. Our civilization is still in a middle stage, scarcely beast, in that it is no longer wholly guided by instinct; scarcely human, in that …

I acknowledge the Furies. I believe in them. I have heard the disastrous beating of their wings.

If I were personally to define religion, I would say that it is a bandage that man has invented to protect a soul made bloody by circumstance.

Oh, the moon is fair tonight along the Wabash, From the fields there comes the breath of new-mown hay; Through the sycamores the candle lights are gleaming On the banks of the Wabash, far away.

A man, a real man, must never be an agent, a tool, or a gambler—acting for himself or for others—he must employ such. A real man—a financier—was never a tool. He used tools. He created. He led.