I have laughed, in bitterness and agony of heart, at the contrast between what I seem and what I am!

Language,-human language,-after all is but little better than the croak and cackle of fowls, and other utterances of brute nature,-sometimes not so adequate.

She had not known the weight until she felt the freedom.

She had wandered, without rule or guidance, into a moral wilderness... Her intellect and heart had their home, as it were, in desert places, where she roamed as freely as the wild Indian in his woods... The scarlet letter was her passport into regions where other women dared not tread. Shame, Despair, Solitude! These had been her teachers—stern and wild ones—and they had made her strong, but taught her much amiss.

What a happy and holy fashion it is that those who love one another should rest on the same pillow.

If truth were everywhere to be shown, a scarlet letter would blaze forth on many a bosom.

The only sensible ends of literature are, first, the pleasurable toil of writing; second, the gratification of one's family and friends; and lastly, the solid cash.