The truth was, that the little Puritans, being of the most intolerant brood that ever lived, had got a vague idea of something outlandish, unearthly, or at variance with ordinary fashions, in the mother and child, and therefore scorned them in their hearts, and not unfrequently reviled them with their tongues.  Pearl felt the sentiment, and requited it with the bitterest hatred that can be supposed to rankle in a childish bosom.  These outbreaks of a fierce temper had a kind of value, and even comfort for the mother; because there was at least an intelligible earnestness in the mood, instead of the fitful caprice that so often thwarted her in the child’s manifestations.  It appalled her, nevertheless, to discern here, again, a shadowy reflection of the evil that had existed in herself.  All this enmity and passion had Pearl inherited, by inalienable right, out of Hester’s heart.  Mother and daughter stood together in the same circle of seclusion from human society; and in the nature of the child seemed to be perpetuated those unquiet elements that had distracted Hester Prynne before Pearl’s birth, but had since begun to be soothed away by the softening influences of maternity.

At home, within and around her mother’s cottage, Pearl wanted not a wide and various circle of acquaintance.  The spell of life went forth from her ever-creative spirit, and communicated itself to a thousand objects, as a torch kindles a flame wherever it may be applied.  The unlikeliest materials—­a stick, a bunch of rags, a flower—­were the puppets of Pearl’s witchcraft, and, without undergoing any outward change, became spiritually adapted to whatever drama occupied the stage of her inner world.  Her one baby-voice served a multitude of imaginary personages, old and young, to talk withal.  The pine-trees, aged, black, and solemn, and flinging groans and other melancholy utterances on the breeze, needed little transformation to figure as Puritan elders; the ugliest weeds of the garden were their children, whom Pearl smote down and uprooted most unmercifully.  It was wonderful, the vast variety of forms into which she threw her intellect, with no continuity, indeed, but darting up and dancing, always in a state of preternatural activity—­soon sinking down, as if exhausted by so rapid and feverish a tide of life—­and succeeded by other shapes of a similar wild energy.  It was like nothing so much as the phantasmagoric play of the northern lights.  In the mere exercise of the fancy, however, and the sportiveness of a growing mind, there might be a little more than was observable in other children of bright faculties; except as Pearl, in the dearth of human playmates, was thrown more upon the visionary throng which she created.  The singularity lay in the hostile feelings with which the child regarded all these offsprings of her own heart and mind.  She never created a friend, but seemed always to be sowing broadcast the dragon’s teeth, whence sprung a harvest of armed enemies, against whom she rushed to battle.  It was inexpressibly sad—­then what depth of sorrow to a mother, who felt in her own heart the cause—­to observe, in one so young, this constant recognition of an adverse world, and so fierce a training of the energies that were to make good her cause in the contest that must ensue.