For whatever is truly wondrous and fearful in man, never yet was put into words or books.

He who is ready to despair in solitary peril, plucks up a heart in the presence of another. In a plurality of comrades is much countenance and consolation.

Be sure of this, O young ambition, all mortal greatness is but disease.

The sea had jeeringly kept his finite body up, but drowned the infinite of his soul.

Silence is the only Voice of our God.

The western spirit is, or will yet be (for no other is, or can be) the true American one.

The consciousness of being deemed dead, is next to the presumable unpleasantness of being so in reality. One feels like his own ghost unlawfully tenanting a defunct carcass.