John Morley: “Reading with him in the days of his full vigour was a habitual communing with the master spirits of mankind, as a…”

All alike concerned themselves with its truth or falsehood, with what they counted to be its abstract fitness or unfitness.

But the Poet Laureate has written his own song on the hearts of his countrymen that can never die.

What I expect is a healthful, slow fermentation in many minds, working towards the final product.

There lay Ireland,—squalid, dismal, sullen, dull, expectant, sunk deep in hostile intent.