Page 67 - THE SCARLET LETTER

The Scarlet Letter

The moment when a man’s head drops off is seldom or
never, I am inclined to think, precisely the most agreeable
of his life. Nevertheless, like the greater part of our
misfortunes, even so serious a contingency brings its

remedy and consolation with it, if the sufferer will but
make the best rather than the worst, of the accident which
has befallen him. In my particular case the consolatory
topics were close at hand, and, indeed, had suggested
themselves to my meditations a considerable time before it
was requisite to use them. In view of my previous
weariness of office, and vague thoughts of resignation, my
fortune somewhat resembled that of a person who should
entertain an idea of committing suicide, and although
beyond his hopes, meet with the good hap to be
murdered. In the Custom-House, as before in the Old
Manse, I had spent three years—a term long enough to
rest a weary brain: long enough to break off old
intellectual habits, and make room for new ones: long
enough, and too long, to have lived in an unnatural state,
doing what was really of no advantage nor delight to any
human being, and withholding myself from toil that
would, at least, have stilled an unquiet impulse in me.
Then, moreover, as regarded his unceremonious
ejectment, the late Surveyor was not altogether ill-pleased

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