None of these visions ever quite deluded him. At any moment, by
an effort of his will, he could discern substances through their
misty lack of substance, and convince himself that they were not
solid in their nature, like yonder table of carved oak, or that
big, square, leather-bound and brazen-clasped volume of
divinity. But, for all that, they were, in one sense, the truest
and most substantial things which the poor minister now dealt
with. It is the unspeakable misery of a life so false as his,
that it steals the pith and substance out of whatever realities
there are around us, and which were meant by Heaven to be the
spirit's joy and nutriment. To the untrue man, the whole
universe is false--it is impalpable--it shrinks to nothing
within his grasp. And he himself in so far as he shows himself
in a false light, becomes a shadow, or, indeed, ceases to exist.
The only truth that continued to give Mr. Dimmesdale a real
existence on this earth was the anguish in his inmost soul, and
the undissembled expression of it in his aspect. Had he once
found power to smile, and wear a face of gaiety, there would
have been no such man!
On one of those ugly nights, which we have faintly hinted at,
but forborne to picture forth, the minister started from his
chair.
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