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

Swerve me? The path to my fixed purpose is laid with iron rails, whereon my soul is grooved to run. Over unsounded gorges, through the rifled hearts of mountains, under torrents' beds, unerringly I rush! Naught's an obstacle, naught's an angle to the iron way!

We cannot live for ourselves alone.

And what is it, thought I, after all! It’s only his outside; a man can be honest in any sort of skin.

Whenever we discover a dislike in us, toward any one, we should ever be a little suspicious of ourselves.

Yea, foolish mortals, Noah's flood is not yet subsided; two thirds of the fair world it yet covers.

Book! You lie there; the fact is, you books must know your places. You'll do to give us the bare words and facts, but we come in to supply the thoughts.