stasy that seemed like the shine of the celestial city
on her face, so wrinkled and ashy pale.

Again, a third instance. After parting from the old church-member, he
met the youngest sister of them all. It was a maiden newly won--and
won by the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale's own sermon, on the Sabbath after
his vigil--to barter the transitory pleasures of the world for the
heavenly hope, that was to assume brighter substance as life grew dark
around her, and which would gild the utter gloom with final glory. She
was fair and pure as a lily that had bloomed in Paradise. The minister
knew well that he was himself enshrined within the stainless sanctity
of her heart, which hung its snowy curtains about his image, imparting
to religion the warmth of love, and to love a religious purity. Satan,
that afternoon, had surely led the poor young girl away from her
mother's side, and thrown her into the pathway of this sorely tempted,
or--shall we not rather say?--this lost and desperate man. As she drew
nigh, the arch-fiend whispered him to condense into small compass and
drop into her tender bosom a germ of evil that would be sure to
blossom darkly soon, and bear black fruit betimes. Such was his sense
of power over this virgin soul, trusting him as she did, that the
minister felt potent to blight all the field of innocence with but one
wicked look, and develop all its opposite with but a word. So--with a
mightier struggle than he had yet sustained--he held his Geneva cloak
before his face, and hurried onward, making no sign of recognition,
and leaving the young sister to digest his rudeness as she might. She
ransacked her conscience,--which was full of harmless little matters,
like her pocket or her work-bag,--and took herself to task, poor
thing! for a thousand imaginary faults; and went about her household
duties with swollen eyelids the next morning.

Before the minister had time to celebrate his victory over this last
temptation, he was conscious of another impulse, more ludicrous, and
almost as horrible. It was,--we blush to tell it,--it was to stop
short in the road, and teach some very wicked words to a knot of
little Puritan children who were playing there, and had but just begun
to talk. Denying himself this freak, as unworthy of his cloth, he met
a drunken seaman, one of the ship's crew from the Spanish Main. And,
here, since he had so valiantly forborne all other wickedness, poor
Mr. Dimmesdale longed, at least, to shake