The Scarlet Letter

Before Mr. Dimmesdale reached home, his inner man gave him other

evidences of a revolution in the sphere of thought and feeling.

In truth, nothing short of a total change of dynasty and moral

code, in that interior kingdom, was adequate to account for the

impulses now communicated to the unfortunate and startled

minister. At every step he was incited to do some strange, wild,

wicked thing or other, with a sense that it would be at once

involuntary and intentional, in spite of himself, yet growing

out of a profounder self than that which opposed the impulse.

For instance, he met one of his own deacons. The good old man

addressed him with the paternal affection and patriarchal

privilege which his venerable age, his upright and holy

character, and his station in the church, entitled him to use

and, conjoined with this, the deep, almost worshipping respect,

which the minister's professional and private claims alike

demanded. Never was there a more beautiful example of how the

majesty of age and wisdom may comport with the obeisance and

respect enjoined upon it, as from a lower social rank, and

inferior order of endowment, towards a higher. Now, during a

conversation of some two or three moments between the Reverend

Mr. Dimmesdale and this excellent and hoary-bearded deacon, it

was only by the most careful self-control that the former could

refrain from uttering certain blasphemous suggestions that rose

into his mind, respecting the communion-supper. He absolutely

trembled and turned pale as ashes, lest his tongue should wag

itself in utterance of these horrible matters, and plead his own

consent for so doing, without his having fairly given it. And,

even with this terror in his heart, he could hardly avoid

laughing, to imagine how the sanctified old patriarchal deacon

would have been petrified by his minister's impiety.

Again, another incident of the same nature. Hurrying along the

street, the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale encountered the eldest

female member of his church, a most pious and exemplary old

dame, poor, widowed, lonely, and with a heart as full of

reminiscences about her dead husband and children, and her dead

friends of long ago, as a burial-ground is full of storied

gravestones. Yet all this, which would else have been such heavy

sorrow, was made almost a solemn joy to her devout old soul, by

religious consolations and the truths of Scripture, wherewith

she had fed herself continually for more than thirty years. And

since Mr. Dimmesdale had taken her in charge, the good grandam's

chief earthly comfort--which, unless it had been likewise a

heavenly comfort, could have been none at all--was to meet her

pastor, whether casually, or of set purpose, and be refreshed

with a word of warm, fragrant, heaven-breathing Gospel truth,

from his beloved lips, into her dulled, but rapturously

attentive ear. But, on this occasion, up to the moment of

putting his lips to the old woman's ear, Mr. Dimmesdale, as the

great enemy of souls would have it, could recall no text of

Scripture, nor aught else, except a brief, pithy, and, as it

then appeared to him, unanswerable argument against the

immortality of the human soul. The instilment thereof into her

mind would probably have caused this aged sister to drop down

dead, at once, as by the effect of an intensely poisonous

infusion. What he really did whisper, the minister could never

afterwards recollect. There was, perhaps, a fortunate disorder

in his utterance, which failed to impart any distinct idea to

the good widows comprehension, or which Providence interpreted

after a method of its own. Assuredly, as the minister looked

back, he beheld an expression of divine gratitude and ecstasy

that seemed like the shine of the celestial city on her face, so

wrinkled and ashy pale.