Червона літера
The Minister in a Maze
Therewas,perhaps,afortunatedisorderinhisutterance,whichfailedtoimpartanydistinctideatothegoodwidowscomprehension,orwhichProvidenceinterpretedafteramethodofitsown.Assuredly,astheministerlookedback,hebeheldanexpressionofdivinegratitudeandecstasythatseemedliketheshineofthecelestialcityonherface,sowrinkledandashypale.
Again,athirdinstance.Afterpartingfromtheoldchurchmember,hemettheyoungestsisterofthemall.Itwasamaidennewly-won—andwonbytheReverendMr.Dimmesdale’sownsermon,ontheSabbathafterhisvigil—tobarterthetransitorypleasuresoftheworldfortheheavenlyhopethatwastoassumebrightersubstanceaslifegrewdarkaroundher,andwhichwouldgildtheuttergloomwithfinalglory.ShewasfairandpureasalilythathadbloomedinParadise.Theministerknewwellthathewashimselfenshrinedwithinthestainlesssanctityofherheart,whichhungitssnowycurtainsabouthisimage,impartingtoreligionthewarmthoflove,andtoloveareligiouspurity.Satan,thatafternoon,hadsurelyledthepooryounggirlawayfromhermother’sside,andthrownherintothepathwayofthissorelytempted,or—shallwenotrathersay?—thislostanddesperateman.Asshedrewnigh,thearch-fiendwhisperedhimtocondenseintosmallcompass,anddropintohertenderbosomagermofevilthatwouldbesuretoblossomdarklysoon,andbearblackfruitbetimes.
