Nature is nobody's ally.

What man who carries a heavenly soul in him, has not groaned to perceive, that unless he committed a sort of suicide as to the practical things of this world, he never can hope to regulate his earthly conduct by that same heavenly soul?

Let us pray that the great historic tragedy of our time may not have been enacted without instructing our whole beloved country through terror and pity; and may fulfillment verify in the end those expectations which kindle the bards of Progress and Humanity.

Wag the world how it will, Leaves must be green in Spring.

Long exile from Christendom and civilization inevitably restores a man to that condition in which God placed him, i.e. what is called savagery.

Though the ancients were ignorant of the principles of Christianity there were in them the germs of its spirit.

The eyes are the gateway to the soul.

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

Faith and philosophy are air, but events are brass.

Twelve o'clock! It is the natural centre, key-stone, and very heart of the day. At that hour, the sun has arrived at the top of his hill; and as he seems to hang poised there a while, before coming down on the other side, it is but reasonable to suppose that he is then stopping to dine; setting an eminent example to all mankind.

That one most perilous and long voyage ended, only begins a second; and a second ended, only begins a third, and so on, for ever and for aye. Such is the endlessness, yea, the intolerableness of all earthly effort.

Talk not to me of blasphemy, man; I'd strike the sun if it insulted me.

Oh, thou big white God aloft there somewhere in yon darkness, have mercy on this small black boy down here; preserve him from all men that have no bowels to feel fear!

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

He has no proper nose.

The Marquesan girls dance all over; not only do their feet dance, but their arms, hands, fingers, ay, their very eyes seem to dance in their heads.

There she blows!-there she blows! A hump like a snow-hill! It is Moby Dick!

Aye, aye, it must be so. I've oversailed him. How, got the start? Aye, he's chasing ME now; not I, HIM -- that's bad.

There is, one knows not what sweet mystery about the sea, whose gently awful stirrings seem to speak of some hidden soul beneath.

Never joke at funerals, or during business transactions.