There never was a great man yet who spent all his life inland.

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.

Our souls belong to our bodies, not our bodies to our souls.

A noble craft, but somehow a most melancholy! All noble things are touched with that.

Poor fish of Rodondo! in your victimized confidence, you are of the number of those who inconsiderately trust, while they do not understand, human nature.

Let us waive that agitated national topic, as to whether such multitudes of foreign poor should be landed on our American shores;let us waive it, with the one only thought, that if they can get here, they have God's right to come.

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