Think of it. To go down to posterity as a 'man who lived among the cannibals.'

When the inhabitants of some sequestered island first descry the "big canoe" of the European rolling through the blue waters towards their shores, they rush down to the beach in crowds, and with open arms stand ready to embrace the strangers. Fatal embrace! They fold to their bosoms the vipers whose sting is destined to poison all their joys; and the instinctive feeling of love within their breasts is soon converted into the bitterest hate.

It is with fiction as with religion: it should present another world, and yet one to which we feel the tie.

For though consciences are as unlike as foreheads, every intelligence, not including the Scriptural devils who "believe and tremble" has one.

Out of the trunk, the branches grow; out of them, the twigs. So, in productive subjects, grow the chapters.

The world's a ship on its voyage out, and not a voyage complete; and the pulpit is its prow.

all mankind, not excluding Americans, are sinners--miserable sinners, as even no few Bostonians themselves nowadays contritely respond in the liturgy.