THE
SCARLET
LETTER
by
Nathaniel
Hawthorne
THE
CUSTOM-HOUSE
INTRODUCTORY
TO
"THE
SCARLET
LETTER"
It
is
a
little
remarkable,
that--though
disinclined
to
talk
overmuch
of
myself
and
my
affairs
at
the
fireside,
and
to
my
personal
friends--an
autobiographical
impulse
should
twice
in
my
life
have
taken
possession
of
me,
in
addressing
the
public.
The
first
time
was
three
or
four
years
since,
when
I
favoured
the
reader--inexcusably,
and
for
no
earthly
reason
that
either
the
indulgent
reader
or
the
intrusive
author
could
imagine--with
a
description
of
my
way
of
life
in
the
deep
quietude
of
an
Old
Manse.
And
now--because,
beyond
my
deserts,
I
was
happy
enough
to
find
a
listener
or
two
on
the
former
occasion--I
again
seize
the
public
by
the
button,
and
talk
of
my
three
years'
experience
in
a
Custom-House.
The
example
of
the
famous
"P.
P.,
Clerk
of
this
Parish,"
was
never
more
faithfully
followed.
The
truth
seems
to
be,
however,
that
when
he
casts
his
leaves
forth
upon
the
wind,
the
author
addresses,
not
the
many
who
will
fling
aside
his
volume,
or
never
take
it
up,
but
the
few
who
will
understand
him
better
than
most
of
his
schoolmates
or
lifemates.
Some
authors,
indeed,
do
far
more
than
this,
and
indulge
themselves
in
such
confidential
depths
of
revelation
as
could
fittingly
be
addressed
only
and
exclusively
to
the
one
heart
and
mind
of
perfect
sympathy;
as
if
the
printed
book,
thrown
at
large
on
the
wide
world,
were
certain
to
find
out
the
divided
segment
of
the
writer's
own
nature,
and
complete
his
circle
of
existence
by
bringing
him
into
communion
with
it.
It
is
scarcely
decorous,
however,
to
speak
all,
even
where
we
speak
impersonally.
But,
as
thoughts
are
frozen
and
utterance
benumbed,
unless
the
speaker
stand
in
some
true
relation
with
his
audience,
it
may
be
pardonable
to
imagine
that
a
friend,
a
kind
and
apprehensive,
though
not
the
closest
friend,
is
listening
to
our
talk;
and
then,
a
native
reserve
being
thawed
by
this
genial
consciousness,
we
may
prate
of
the
circumstances
that
lie
around
us,
and
even
of
ourself,
but
still
keep
the
inmost
Me
behind
its
veil.
To
this
extent,
and
within
these
limits,
an
author,
methinks,
may
be
autobiographical,
without
violating
either
the
reader's
rights
or
his
own.
It
will
be
seen,
likewise,
that
this
Custom-House
sketch
has
a
certain
propriety,
of
a
kind
always
recognised
in
literature,
as
explaining
how
a
large
portion
of
the
following
pages
came
into
my
possession,
and
as
offering
proofs
of
the
authenticity
of
a
narrative
therein
contained.
This,
in
fact--a
desire
to
put
myself
in
my
true
position
as
editor,
or
very
little
more,
of
the
most
prolix
among
the
tales
that
make
up
my
volume--this,
and
no
other,
is
my
true
reason
for
assuming
a
personal
relation
with
the
public.
In
accomplishing
the
main
purpose,
it
has
appeared
allowable,
by
a
few
extra
touches,
to
give
a
faint
representation
of
a
mode
of
life
not
heretofore
described,
together
with
some
of
the
characters
that
move
in
it,
among
whom
the
author
happened
to
make
one.
In
my
native
town
of
Salem,
at
the
head
of
what,
half
a
century
ago,
in
the
days
of
old
King
Derby,
was
a
bustling
wharf--but
which
is
now
burdened
with
decayed
wooden
warehouses,
and
exhibits
few
or
no
symptoms
of
commercial
life;
except,
perhaps,
a
bark
or
brig,
half-way
down
its
melancholy
length,
discharging
hides;
or,
nearer
at
hand,
a
Nova
Scotia
schooner,
pitching
out
her
cargo
of
firewood--at
the
head,
I
say,
of
this
dilapidated
wharf,
which
the
tide
often
overflows,
and
along
which,
at
the
base
and
in
the
rear
of
the
row
of
buildings,
the
track
of
many
languid
years
is
seen
in
a
border
of
unthrifty
grass--here,
with
a
view
from
its
front
windows
adown
this
not
very
enlivening
prospect,
and
thence
across
the
harbour,
stands
a
spacious
edifice
of
brick.
From
the
loftiest
point
of
its
roof,
during
precisely
three
and
a
half
hours
of
each
forenoon,
floats
or
droops,
in
breeze
or
calm,
the
banner
of
the
republic;
but
with
the
thirteen
stripes
turned
vertically,
instead
of
horizontally,
and
thus
indicating
that
a
civil,
and
not
a
military,
post
of
Uncle
Sam's
government
is
here
established.
Its
front
is
ornamented
with
a
portico
of
half-a-dozen
wooden
pillars,
supporting
a
balcony,
beneath
which
a
flight
of
wide
granite
steps
descends
towards
the
street.
Over
the
entrance
hovers
an
enormous
specimen
of
the
American
eagle,
with
outspread
wings,
a
shield
before
her
breast,
and,
if
I
recollect
aright,
a
bunch
of
intermingled
thunderbolts
and
barbed
arrows
in
each
claw.
With
the
customary
infirmity
of
temper
that
characterizes
this
unhappy
fowl,
she
appears
by
the
fierceness
of
her
beak
and
eye,
and
the
general
truculency
of
her
attitude,
to
threaten
mischief
to
the
inoffensive
community;
and
especially
to
warn
all
citizens
careful
of
their
safety
against
intruding
on
the
premises
which
she
overshadows
with
her
wings.
Nevertheless,
vixenly
as
she
looks,
many
people
are
seeking
at
this
very
moment
to
shelter
themselves
under
the
wing
of
the
federal
eagle;
imagining,
I
presume,
that
her
bosom
has
all
the
softness
and
snugness
of
an
eiderdown
pillow.
But
she
has
no
great
tenderness
even
in
her
best
of
moods,
and,
sooner
or
later--oftener
soon
than
late--is
apt
to
fling
off
her
nestlings
with
a
scratch
of
her
claw,
a
dab
of
her
beak,
or
a
rankling
wound
from
her
barbed
arrows.
The
pavement
round
about
the
above-described
edifice--which
we
may
as
well
name
at
once
as
the
Custom-House
of
the
port--has
grass
enough
growing
in
its
chinks
to
show
that
it
has
not,
of
late
days,
been
worn
by
any
multitudinous
resort
of
business.
In
some
months
of
the
year,
however,
there
often
chances
a
forenoon
when
affairs
move
onward
with
a
livelier
tread.
Such
occasions
might
remind
the
elderly
citizen
of
that
period,
before
the
last
war
with
England,
when
Salem
was
a
port
by
itself;
not
scorned,
as
she
is
now,
by
her
own
merchants
and
ship-owners,
who
permit
her
wharves
to
crumble
to
ruin
while
their
ventures
go
to
swell,
needlessly
and
imperceptibly,
the
mighty
flood
of
commerce
at
New
York
or
Boston.
On
some
such
morning,
when
three
or
four
vessels
happen
to
have
arrived
at
once
usually
from
Africa
or
South
America--or
to
be
on
the
verge
of
their
departure
thitherward,
there
is
a
sound
of
frequent
feet
passing
briskly
up
and
down
the
granite
steps.
Here,
before
his
own
wife
has
greeted
him,
you
may
greet
the
sea-flushed
ship-master,
just
in
port,
with
his
vessel's
papers
under
his
arm
in
a
tarnished
tin
box.
Here,
too,
comes
his
owner,
cheerful,
sombre,
gracious
or
in
the
sulks,
accordingly
as
his
scheme
of
the
now
accomplished
voyage
has
been
realized
in
merchandise
that
will
readily
be
turned
to
gold,
or
has
buried
him
under
a
bulk
of
incommodities
such
as
nobody
will
care
to
rid
him
of.
Here,
likewise--the
germ
of
the
wrinkle-browed,
grizzly-bearded,
careworn
merchant--we
have
the
smart
young
clerk,
who
gets
the
taste
of
traffic
as
a
wolf-cub
does
of
blood,
and
already
sends
adventures
in
his
master's
ships,
when
he
had
better
be
sailing
mimic
boats
upon
a
mill-pond.
Another
figure
in
the
scene
is
the
outward-bound
sailor,
in
quest
of
a
protection;
or
the
recently
arrived
one,
pale
and
feeble,
seeking
a
passport
to
the
hospital.
Nor
must
we
forget
the
captains
of
the
rusty
little
schooners
that
bring
firewood
from
the
British
provinces;
a
rough-looking
set
of
tarpaulins,
without
the
alertness
of
the
Yankee
aspect,
but
contributing
an
item
of
no
slight
importance
to
our
decaying
trade.
Cluster
all
these
individuals
together,
as
they
sometimes
were,
with
other
miscellaneous
ones
to
diversify
the
group,
and,
for
the
time
being,
it
made
the
Custom-House
a
stirring
scene.
More
frequently,
however,
on
ascending
the
steps,
you
would
discern--
in
the
entry
if
it
were
summer
time,
or
in
their
appropriate
rooms
if
wintry
or
inclement
weathers--a
row
of
venerable
figures,
sitting
in
old-fashioned
chairs,
which
were
tipped
on
their
hind
legs
back
against
the
wall.
Oftentimes
they
were
asleep,
but
occasionally
might
be
heard
talking
together,
in
voices
between
a
speech
and
a
snore,
and
with
that
lack
of
energy
that
distinguishes
the
occupants
of
alms-houses,
and
all
other
human
beings
who
depend
for
subsistence
on
charity,
on
monopolized
labour,
or
anything
else
but
their
own
independent
exertions.
These
old
gentlemen--seated,
like
Matthew
at
the
receipt
of
custom,
but
not
very
liable
to
be
summoned
thence,
like
him,
for
apostolic
errands--were
Custom-House
officers.
Furthermore,
on
the
left
hand
as
you
enter
the
front
door,
is
a
certain
room
or
office,
about
fifteen
feet
square,
and
of
a
lofty
height,
with
two
of
its
arched
windows
commanding
a
view
of
the
aforesaid
dilapidated
wharf,
and
the
third
looking
across
a
narrow
lane,
and
along
a
portion
of
Derby
Street.
All
three
give
glimpses
of
the
shops
of
grocers,
block-makers,
slop-sellers,
and
ship-chandlers,
around
the
doors
of
which
are
generally
to
be
seen,
laughing
and
gossiping,
clusters
of
old
salts,
and
such
other
wharf-rats
as
haunt
the
Wapping
of
a
seaport.
The
room
itself
is
cobwebbed,
and
dingy
with
old
paint;
its
floor
is
strewn
with
grey
sand,
in
a
fashion
that
has
elsewhere
fallen
into
long
disuse;
and
it
is
easy
to
conclude,
from
the
general
slovenliness
of
the
place,
that
this
is
a
sanctuary
into
which
womankind,
with
her
tools
of
magic,
the
broom
and
mop,
has
very
infrequent
access.
In
the
way
of
furniture,
there
is
a
stove
with
a
voluminous
funnel;
an
old
pine
desk
with
a
three-legged
stool
beside
it;
two
or
three
wooden-bottom
chairs,
exceedingly
decrepit
and
infirm;
and--not
to
forget
the
library--on
some
shelves,
a
score
or
two
of
volumes
of
the
Acts
of
Congress,
and
a
bulky
Digest
of
the
Revenue
laws.
A
tin
pipe
ascends
through
the
ceiling,
and
forms
a
medium
of
vocal
communication
with
other
parts
of
the
edifice.
And
here,
some
six
months
ago--pacing
from
corner
to
corner,
or
lounging
on
the
long-legged
stool,
with
his
elbow
on
the
desk,
and
his
eyes
wandering
up
and
down
the
columns
of
the
morning
newspaper--you
might
have
recognised,
honoured
reader,
the
same
individual
who
welcomed
you
into
his
cheery
little
study,
where
the
sunshine
glimmered
so
pleasantly
through
the
willow
branches
on
the
western
side
of
the
Old
Manse.
But
now,
should
you
go
thither
to
seek
him,
you
would
inquire
in
vain
for
the
Locofoco
Surveyor.
The
besom
of
reform
hath
swept
him
out
of
office,
and
a
worthier
successor
wears
his
dignity
and
pockets
his
emoluments.
This
old
town
of
Salem--my
native
place,
though
I
have
dwelt
much
away
from
it
both
in
boyhood
and
maturer
years--possesses,
or
did
possess,
a
hold
on
my
affection,
the
force
of
which
I
have
never
realized
during
my
seasons
of
actual
residence
here.
Indeed,
so
far
as
its
physical
aspect
is
concerned,
with
its
flat,
unvaried
surface,
covered
chiefly
with
wooden
houses,
few
or
none
of
which
pretend
to
architectural
beauty--its
irregularity,
which
is
neither
picturesque
nor
quaint,
but
only
tame--its
long
and
lazy
street,
lounging
wearisomely
through
the
whole
extent
of
the
peninsula,
with
Gallows
Hill
and
New
Guinea
at
one
end,
and
a
view
of
the
alms-house
at
the
other--such
being
the
features
of
my
native
town,
it
would
be
quite
as
reasonable
to
form
a
sentimental
attachment
to
a
disarranged
checker-board.
And
yet,
though
invariably
happiest
elsewhere,
there
is
within
me
a
feeling
for
Old
Salem,
which,
in
lack
of
a
better
phrase,
I
must
be
content
to
call
affection.
The
sentiment
is
probably
assignable
to
the
deep
and
aged
roots
which
my
family
has
stuck
into
the
soil.
It
is
now
nearly
two
centuries
and
a
quarter
since
the
original
Briton,
the
earliest
emigrant
of
my
name,
made
his
appearance
in
the
wild
and
forest-bordered
settlement
which
has
since
become
a
city.
And
here
his
descendants
have
been
born
and
died,
and
have
mingled
their
earthly
substance
with
the
soil,
until
no
small
portion
of
it
must
necessarily
be
akin
to
the
mortal
frame
wherewith,
for
a
little
while,
I
walk
the
streets.
In
part,
therefore,
the
attachment
which
I
speak
of
is
the
mere
sensuous
sympathy
of
dust
for
dust.
Few
of
my
countrymen
can
know
what
it
is;
nor,
as
frequent
transplantation
is
perhaps
better
for
the
stock,
need
they
consider
it
desirable
to
know.
But
the
sentiment
has
likewise
its
moral
quality.
The
figure
of
that
first
ancestor,
invested
by
family
tradition
with
a
dim
and
dusky
grandeur,
was
present
to
my
boyish
imagination
as
far
back
as
I
can
remember.
It
still
haunts
me,
and
induces
a
sort
of
home-feeling
with
the
past,
which
I
scarcely
claim
in
reference
to
the
present
phase
of
the
town.
I
seem
to
have
a
stronger
claim
to
a
residence
here
on
account
of
this
grave,
bearded,
sable-cloaked,
and
steeple-crowned
progenitor--who
came
so
early,
with
his
Bible
and
his
sword,
and
trode
the
unworn
street
with
such
a
stately
port,
and
made
so
large
a
figure,
as
a
man
of
war
and
peace--a
stronger
claim
than
for
myself,
whose
name
is
seldom
heard
and
my
face
hardly
known.
He
was
a
soldier,
legislator,
judge;
he
was
a
ruler
in
the
Church;
he
had
all
the
Puritanic
traits,
both
good
and
evil.
He
was
likewise
a
bitter
persecutor;
as
witness
the
Quakers,
who
have
remembered
him
in
their
histories,
and
relate
an
incident
of
his
hard
severity
towards
a
woman
of
their
sect,
which
will
last
longer,
it
is
to
be
feared,
than
any
record
of
his
better
deeds,
although
these
were
many.
His
son,
too,
inherited
the
persecuting
spirit,
and
made
himself
so
conspicuous
in
the
martyrdom
of
the
witches,
that
their
blood
may
fairly
be
said
to
have
left
a
stain
upon
him.
So
deep
a
stain,
indeed,
that
his
dry
old
bones,
in
the
Charter-street
burial-ground,
must
still
retain
it,
if
they
have
not
crumbled
utterly
to
dust!
I
know
not
whether
these
ancestors
of
mine
bethought
themselves
to
repent,
and
ask
pardon
of
Heaven
for
their
cruelties;
or
whether
they
are
now
groaning
under
the
heavy
consequences
of
them
in
another
state
of
being.
At
all
events,
I,
the
present
writer,
as
their
representative,
hereby
take
shame
upon
myself
for
their
sakes,
and
pray
that
any
curse
incurred
by
them--as
I
have
heard,
and
as
the
dreary
and
unprosperous
condition
of
the
race,
for
many
a
long
year
back,
would
argue
to
exist--may
be
now
and
henceforth
removed.
Doubtless,
however,
either
of
these
stern
and
black-browed
Puritans
would
have
thought
it
quite
a
sufficient
retribution
for
his
sins
that,
after
so
long
a
lapse
of
years,
the
old
trunk
of
the
family
tree,
with
so
much
venerable
moss
upon
it,
should
have
borne,
as
its
topmost
bough,
an
idler
like
myself.
No
aim
that
I
have
ever
cherished
would
they
recognise
as
laudable;
no
success
of
mine--if
my
life,
beyond
its
domestic
scope,
had
ever
been
brightened
by
success--would
they
deem
otherwise
than
worthless,
if
not
positively
disgraceful.
"What
is
he?"
murmurs
one
grey
shadow
of
my
forefathers
to
the
other.
"A
writer
of
story
books!
What
kind
of
business
in
life--what
mode
of
glorifying
God,
or
being
serviceable
to
mankind
in
his
day
and
generation--may
that
be?
Why,
the
degenerate
fellow
might
as
well
have
been
a
fiddler!"
Such
are
the
compliments
bandied
between
my
great
grandsires
and
myself,
across
the
gulf
of
time!
And
yet,
let
them
scorn
me
as
they
will,
strong
traits
of
their
nature
have
intertwined
themselves
with
mine.
Planted
deep,
in
the
town's
earliest
infancy
and
childhood,
by
these
two
earnest
and
energetic
men,
the
race
has
ever
since
subsisted
here;
always,
too,
in
respectability;
never,
so
far
as
I
have
known,
disgraced
by
a
single
unworthy
member;
but
seldom
or
never,
on
the
other
hand,
after
the
first
two
generations,
performing
any
memorable
deed,
or
so
much
as
putting
forward
a
claim
to
public
notice.
Gradually,
they
have
sunk
almost
out
of
sight;
as
old
houses,
here
and
there
about
the
streets,
get
covered
half-way
to
the
eaves
by
the
accumulation
of
new
soil.
From
father
to
son,
for
above
a
hundred
years,
they
followed
the
sea;
a
grey-headed
shipmaster,
in
each
generation,
retiring
from
the
quarter-deck
to
the
homestead,
while
a
boy
of
fourteen
took
the
hereditary
place
before
the
mast,
confronting
the
salt
spray
and
the
gale
which
had
blustered
against
his
sire
and
grandsire.
The
boy,
also
in
due
time,
passed
from
the
forecastle
to
the
cabin,
spent
a
tempestuous
manhood,
and
returned
from
his
world-wanderings,
to
grow
old,
and
die,
and
mingle
his
dust
with
the
natal
earth.
This
long
connexion
of
a
family
with
one
spot,
as
its
place
of
birth
and
burial,
creates
a
kindred
between
the
human
being
and
the
locality,
quite
independent
of
any
charm
in
the
scenery
or
moral
circumstances
that
surround
him.
It
is
not
love
but
instinct.
The
new
inhabitant--who
came
himself
from
a
foreign
land,
or
whose
father
or
grandfather
came--has
little
claim
to
be
called
a
Salemite;
he
has
no
conception
of
the
oyster-like
tenacity
with
which
an
old
settler,
over
whom
his
third
century
is
creeping,
clings
to
the
spot
where
his
successive
generations
have
been
embedded.
It
is
no
matter
that
the
place
is
joyless
for
him;
that
he
is
weary
of
the
old
wooden
houses,
the
mud
and
dust,
the
dead
level
of
site
and
sentiment,
the
chill
east
wind,
and
the
chillest
of
social
atmospheres;--all
these,
and
whatever
faults
besides
he
may
see
or
imagine,
are
nothing
to
the
purpose.
The
spell
survives,
and
just
as
powerfully
as
if
the
natal
spot
were
an
earthly
paradise.
So
has
it
been
in
my
case.
I
felt
it
almost
as
a
destiny
to
make
Salem
my
home;
so
that
the
mould
of
features
and
cast
of
character
which
had
all
along
been
familiar
here--ever,
as
one
representative
of
the
race
lay
down
in
the
grave,
another
assuming,
as
it
were,
his
sentry-march
along
the
main
street--might
still
in
my
little
day
be
seen
and
recognised
in
the
old
town.
Nevertheless,
this
very
sentiment
is
an
evidence
that
the
connexion,
which
has
become
an
unhealthy
one,
should
at
last
be
severed.
Human
nature
will
not
flourish,
any
more
than
a
potato,
if
it
be
planted
and
re-planted,
for
too
long
a
series
of
generations,
in
the
same
worn-out
soil.
My
children
have
had
other
birth-places,
and,
so
far
as
their
fortunes
may
be
within
my
control,
shall
strike
their
roots
into
unaccustomed
earth.
On
emerging
from
the
Old
Manse,
it
was
chiefly
this
strange,
indolent,
unjoyous
attachment
for
my
native
town
that
brought
me
to
fill
a
place
in
Uncle
Sam's
brick
edifice,
when
I
might
as
well,
or
better,
have
gone
somewhere
else.
My
doom
was
on
me.
It
was
not
the
first
time,
nor
the
second,
that
I
had
gone
away--as
it
seemed,
permanently--but
yet
returned,
like
the
bad
halfpenny,
or
as
if
Salem
were
for
me
the
inevitable
centre
of
the
universe.
So,
one
fine
morning
I
ascended
the
flight
of
granite
steps,
with
the
President's
commission
in
my
pocket,
and
was
introduced
to
the
corps
of
gentlemen
who
were
to
aid
me
in
my
weighty
responsibility
as
chief
executive
officer
of
the
Custom-House.
I
doubt
greatly--or,
rather,
I
do
not
doubt
at
all--whether
any
public
functionary
of
the
United
States,
either
in
the
civil
or
military
line,
has
ever
had
such
a
patriarchal
body
of
veterans
under
his
orders
as
myself.
The
whereabouts
of
the
Oldest
Inhabitant
was
at
once
settled
when
I
looked
at
them.
For
upwards
of
twenty
years
before
this
epoch,
the
independent
position
of
the
Collector
had
kept
the
Salem
Custom-House
out
of
the
whirlpool
of
political
vicissitude,
which
makes
the
tenure
of
office
generally
so
fragile.
A
soldier--New
England's
most
distinguished
soldier--he
stood
firmly
on
the
pedestal
of
his
gallant
services;
and,
himself
secure
in
the
wise
liberality
of
the
successive
administrations
through
which
he
had
held
office,
he
had
been
the
safety
of
his
subordinates
in
many
an
hour
of
danger
and
heart-quake.
General
Miller
was
radically
conservative;
a
man
over
whose
kindly
nature
habit
had
no
slight
influence;
attaching
himself
strongly
to
familiar
faces,
and
with
difficulty
moved
to
change,
even
when
change
might
have
brought
unquestionable
improvement.
Thus,
on
taking
charge
of
my
department,
I
found
few
but
aged
men.
They
were
ancient
sea-captains,
for
the
most
part,
who,
after
being
tossed
on
every
sea,
and
standing
up
sturdily
against
life's
tempestuous
blast,
had
finally
drifted
into
this
quiet
nook,
where,
with
little
to
disturb
them,
except
the
periodical
terrors
of
a
Presidential
election,
they
one
and
all
acquired
a
new
lease
of
existence.
Though
by
no
means
less
liable
than
their
fellow-men
to
age
and
infirmity,
they
had
evidently
some
talisman
or
other
that
kept
death
at
bay.
Two
or
three
of
their
number,
as
I
was
assured,
being
gouty
and
rheumatic,
or
perhaps
bed-ridden,
never
dreamed
of
making
their
appearance
at
the
Custom-House
during
a
large
part
of
the
year;
but,
after
a
torpid
winter,
would
creep
out
into
the
warm
sunshine
of
May
or
June,
go
lazily
about
what
they
termed
duty,
and,
at
their
own
leisure
and
convenience,
betake
themselves
to
bed
again.
I
must
plead
guilty
to
the
charge
of
abbreviating
the
official
breath
of
more
than
one
of
these
venerable
servants
of
the
republic.
They
were
allowed,
on
my
representation,
to
rest
from
their
arduous
labours,
and
soon
afterwards--as
if
their
sole
principle
of
life
had
been
zeal
for
their
country's
service--as
I
verily
believe
it
was--withdrew
to
a
better
world.
It
is
a
pious
consolation
to
me
that,
through
my
interference,
a
sufficient
space
was
allowed
them
for
repentance
of
the
evil
and
corrupt
practices
into
which,
as
a
matter
of
course,
every
Custom-House
officer
must
be
supposed
to
fall.
Neither
the
front
nor
the
back
entrance
of
the
Custom-House
opens
on
the
road
to
Paradise.
The
greater
part
of
my
officers
were
Whigs.
It
was
well
for
their
venerable
brotherhood
that
the
new
Surveyor
was
not
a
politician,
and
though
a
faithful
Democrat
in
principle,
neither
received
nor
held
his
office
with
any
reference
to
political
services.
Had
it
been
otherwise--had
an
active
politician
been
put
into
this
influential
post,
to
assume
the
easy
task
of
making
head
against
a
Whig
Collector,
whose
infirmities
withheld
him
from
the
personal
administration
of
his
office--hardly
a
man
of
the
old
corps
would
have
drawn
the
breath
of
official
life
within
a
month
after
the
exterminating
angel
had
come
up
the
Custom-House
steps.
According
to
the
received
code
in
such
matters,
it
would
have
been
nothing
short
of
duty,
in
a
politician,
to
bring
every
one
of
those
white
heads
under
the
axe
of
the
guillotine.
It
was
plain
enough
to
discern
that
the
old
fellows
dreaded
some
such
discourtesy
at
my
hands.
It
pained,
and
at
the
same
time
amused
me,
to
behold
the
terrors
that
attended
my
advent,
to
see
a
furrowed
cheek,
weather-beaten
by
half
a
century
of
storm,
turn
ashy
pale
at
the
glance
of
so
harmless
an
individual
as
myself;
to
detect,
as
one
or
another
addressed
me,
the
tremor
of
a
voice
which,
in
long-past
days,
had
been
wont
to
bellow
through
a
speaking-trumpet,
hoarsely
enough
to
frighten
Boreas
himself
to
silence.
They
knew,
these
excellent
old
persons,
that,
by
all
established
rule--and,
as
regarded
some
of
them,
weighed
by
their
own
lack
of
efficiency
for
business--they
ought
to
have
given
place
to
younger
men,
more
orthodox
in
politics,
and
altogether
fitter
than
themselves
to
serve
our
common
Uncle.
I
knew
it,
too,
but
could
never
quite
find
in
my
heart
to
act
upon
the
knowledge.
Much
and
deservedly
to
my
own
discredit,
therefore,
and
considerably
to
the
detriment
of
my
official
conscience,
they
continued,
during
my
incumbency,
to
creep
about
the
wharves,
and
loiter
up
and
down
the
Custom-House
steps.
They
spent
a
good
deal
of
time,
also,
asleep
in
their
accustomed
corners,
with
their
chairs
tilted
back
against
the
walls;
awaking,
however,
once
or
twice
in
the
forenoon,
to
bore
one
another
with
the
several
thousandth
repetition
of
old
sea-stories
and
mouldy
jokes,
that
had
grown
to
be
passwords
and
countersigns
among
them.
The
discovery
was
soon
made,
I
imagine,
that
the
new
Surveyor
had
no
great
harm
in
him.
So,
with
lightsome
hearts
and
the
happy
consciousness
of
being
usefully
employed--in
their
own
behalf
at
least,
if
not
for
our
beloved
country--these
good
old
gentlemen
went
through
the
various
formalities
of
office.
Sagaciously
under
their
spectacles,
did
they
peep
into
the
holds
of
vessels.
Mighty
was
their
fuss
about
little
matters,
and
marvellous,
sometimes,
the
obtuseness
that
allowed
greater
ones
to
slip
between
their
fingers
Whenever
such
a
mischance
occurred--when
a
waggon-load
of
valuable
merchandise
had
been
smuggled
ashore,
at
noonday,
perhaps,
and
directly
beneath
their
unsuspicious
noses--nothing
could
exceed
the
vigilance
and
alacrity
with
which
they
proceeded
to
lock,
and
double-lock,
and
secure
with
tape
and
sealing-wax,
all
the
avenues
of
the
delinquent
vessel.
Instead
of
a
reprimand
for
their
previous
negligence,
the
case
seemed
rather
to
require
an
eulogium
on
their
praiseworthy
caution
after
the
mischief
had
happened;
a
grateful
recognition
of
the
promptitude
of
their
zeal
the
moment
that
there
was
no
longer
any
remedy.
Unless
people
are
more
than
commonly
disagreeable,
it
is
my
foolish
habit
to
contract
a
kindness
for
them.
The
better
part
of
my
companion's
character,
if
it
have
a
better
part,
is
that
which
usually
comes
uppermost
in
my
regard,
and
forms
the
type
whereby
I
recognise
the
man.
As
most
of
these
old
Custom-House
officers
had
good
traits,
and
as
my
position
in
reference
to
them,
being
paternal
and
protective,
was
favourable
to
the
growth
of
friendly
sentiments,
I
soon
grew
to
like
them
all.
It
was
pleasant
in
the
summer
forenoons--when
the
fervent
heat,
that
almost
liquefied
the
rest
of
the
human
family,
merely
communicated
a
genial
warmth
to
their
half
torpid
systems--it
was
pleasant
to
hear
them
chatting
in
the
back
entry,
a
row
of
them
all
tipped
against
the
wall,
as
usual;
while
the
frozen
witticisms
of
past
generations
were
thawed
out,
and
came
bubbling
with
laughter
from
their
lips.
Externally,
the
jollity
of
aged
men
has
much
in
common
with
the
mirth
of
children;
the
intellect,
any
more
than
a
deep
sense
of
humour,
has
little
to
do
with
the
matter;
it
is,
with
both,
a
gleam
that
plays
upon
the
surface,
and
imparts
a
sunny
and
cheery
aspect
alike
to
the
green
branch
and
grey,
mouldering
trunk.
In
one
case,
however,
it
is
real
sunshine;
in
the
other,
it
more
resembles
the
phosphorescent
glow
of
decaying
wood.
It
would
be
sad
injustice,
the
reader
must
understand,
to
represent
all
my
excellent
old
friends
as
in
their
dotage.
In
the
first
place,
my
coadjutors
were
not
invariably
old;
there
were
men
among
them
in
their
strength
and
prime,
of
marked
ability
and
energy,
and
altogether
superior
to
the
sluggish
and
dependent
mode
of
life
on
which
their
evil
stars
had
cast
them.
Then,
moreover,
the
white
locks
of
age
were
sometimes
found
to
be
the
thatch
of
an
intellectual
tenement
in
good
repair.
But,
as
respects
the
majority
of
my
corps
of
veterans,
there
will
be
no
wrong
done
if
I
characterize
them
generally
as
a
set
of
wearisome
old
souls,
who
had
gathered
nothing
worth
preservation
from
their
varied
experience
of
life.
They
seemed
to
have
flung
away
all
the
golden
grain
of
practical
wisdom,
which
they
had
enjoyed
so
many
opportunities
of
harvesting,
and
most
carefully
to
have
stored
their
memory
with
the
husks.
They
spoke
with
far
more
interest
and
unction
of
their
morning's
breakfast,
or
yesterday's,
to-day's,
or
tomorrow's
dinner,
than
of
the
shipwreck
of
forty
or
fifty
years
ago,
and
all
the
world's
wonders
which
they
had
witnessed
with
their
youthful
eyes.
The
father
of
the
Custom-House--the
patriarch,
not
only
of
this
little
squad
of
officials,
but,
I
am
bold
to
say,
of
the
respectable
body
of
tide-waiters
all
over
the
United
States--was
a
certain
permanent
Inspector.
He
might
truly
be
termed
a
legitimate
son
of
the
revenue
system,
dyed
in
the
wool,
or
rather
born
in
the
purple;
since
his
sire,
a
Revolutionary
colonel,
and
formerly
collector
of
the
port,
had
created
an
office
for
him,
and
appointed
him
to
fill
it,
at
a
period
of
the
early
ages
which
few
living
men
can
now
remember.
This
Inspector,
when
I
first
knew
him,
was
a
man
of
fourscore
years,
or
thereabouts,
and
certainly
one
of
the
most
wonderful
specimens
of
winter-green
that
you
would
be
likely
to
discover
in
a
lifetime's
search.
With
his
florid
cheek,
his
compact
figure
smartly
arrayed
in
a
bright-buttoned
blue
coat,
his
brisk
and
vigorous
step,
and
his
hale
and
hearty
aspect,
altogether
he
seemed--not
young,
indeed--but
a
kind
of
new
contrivance
of
Mother
Nature
in
the
shape
of
man,
whom
age
and
infirmity
had
no
business
to
touch.
His
voice
and
laugh,
which
perpetually
re-echoed
through
the
Custom-House,
had
nothing
of
the
tremulous
quaver
and
cackle
of
an
old
man's
utterance;
they
came
strutting
out
of
his
lungs,
like
the
crow
of
a
cock,
or
the
blast
of
a
clarion.
Looking
at
him
merely
as
an
animal--and
there
was
very
little
else
to
look
at--he
was
a
most
satisfactory
object,
from
the
thorough
healthfulness
and
wholesomeness
of
his
system,
and
his
capacity,
at
that
extreme
age,
to
enjoy
all,
or
nearly
all,
the
delights
which
he
had
ever
aimed
at
or
conceived
of.
The
careless
security
of
his
life
in
the
Custom-House,
on
a
regular
income,
and
with
but
slight
and
infrequent
apprehensions
of
removal,
had
no
doubt
contributed
to
make
time
pass
lightly
over
him.
The
original
and
more
potent
causes,
however,
lay
in
the
rare
perfection
of
his
animal
nature,
the
moderate
proportion
of
intellect,
and
the
very
trifling
admixture
of
moral
and
spiritual
ingredients;
these
latter
qualities,
indeed,
being
in
barely
enough
measure
to
keep
the
old
gentleman
from
walking
on
all-fours.
He
possessed
no
power
of
thought,
no
depth
of
feeling,
no
troublesome
sensibilities:
nothing,
in
short,
but
a
few
commonplace
instincts,
which,
aided
by
the
cheerful
temper
which
grew
inevitably
out
of
his
physical
well-being,
did
duty
very
respectably,
and
to
general
acceptance,
in
lieu
of
a
heart.
He
had
been
the
husband
of
three
wives,
all
long
since
dead;
the
father
of
twenty
children,
most
of
whom,
at
every
age
of
childhood
or
maturity,
had
likewise
returned
to
dust.
Here,
one
would
suppose,
might
have
been
sorrow
enough
to
imbue
the
sunniest
disposition
through
and
through
with
a
sable
tinge.
Not
so
with
our
old
Inspector.
One
brief
sigh
sufficed
to
carry
off
the
entire
burden
of
these
dismal
reminiscences.
The
next
moment
he
was
as
ready
for
sport
as
any
unbreeched
infant:
far
readier
than
the
Collector's
junior
clerk,
who
at
nineteen
years
was
much
the
elder
and
graver
man
of
the
two.
I
used
to
watch
and
study
this
patriarchal
personage
with,
I
think,
livelier
curiosity
than
any
other
form
of
humanity
there
presented
to
my
notice.
He
was,
in
truth,
a
rare
phenomenon;
so
perfect,
in
one
point
of
view;
so
shallow,
so
delusive,
so
impalpable
such
an
absolute
nonentity,
in
every
other.
My
conclusion
was
that
he
had
no
soul,
no
heart,
no
mind;
nothing,
as
I
have
already
said,
but
instincts;
and
yet,
withal,
so
cunningly
had
the
few
materials
of
his
character
been
put
together
that
there
was
no
painful
perception
of
deficiency,
but,
on
my
part,
an
entire
contentment
with
what
I
found
in
him.
It
might
be
difficult--and
it
was
so--to
conceive
how
he
should
exist
hereafter,
so
earthly
and
sensuous
did
he
seem;
but
surely
his
existence
here,
admitting
that
it
was
to
terminate
with
his
last
breath,
had
been
not
unkindly
given;
with
no
higher
moral
responsibilities
than
the
beasts
of
the
field,
but
with
a
larger
scope
of
enjoyment
than
theirs,
and
with
all
their
blessed
immunity
from
the
dreariness
and
duskiness
of
age.
One
point
in
which
he
had
vastly
the
advantage
over
his
four-footed
brethren
was
his
ability
to
recollect
the
good
dinners
which
it
had
made
no
small
portion
of
the
happiness
of
his
life
to
eat.
His
gourmandism
was
a
highly
agreeable
trait;
and
to
hear
him
talk
of
roast
meat
was
as
appetizing
as
a
pickle
or
an
oyster.
As
he
possessed
no
higher
attribute,
and
neither
sacrificed
nor
vitiated
any
spiritual
endowment
by
devoting
all
his
energies
and
ingenuities
to
subserve
the
delight
and
profit
of
his
maw,
it
always
pleased
and
satisfied
me
to
hear
him
expatiate
on
fish,
poultry,
and
butcher's
meat,
and
the
most
eligible
methods
of
preparing
them
for
the
table.
His
reminiscences
of
good
cheer,
however
ancient
the
date
of
the
actual
banquet,
seemed
to
bring
the
savour
of
pig
or
turkey
under
one's
very
nostrils.
There
were
flavours
on
his
palate
that
had
lingered
there
not
less
than
sixty
or
seventy
years,
and
were
still
apparently
as
fresh
as
that
of
the
mutton
chop
which
he
had
just
devoured
for
his
breakfast.
I
have
heard
him
smack
his
lips
over
dinners,
every
guest
at
which,
except
himself,
had
long
been
food
for
worms.
It
was
marvellous
to
observe
how
the
ghosts
of
bygone
meals
were
continually
rising
up
before
him--not
in
anger
or
retribution,
but
as
if
grateful
for
his
former
appreciation,
and
seeking
to
reduplicate
an
endless
series
of
enjoyment,
at
once
shadowy
and
sensual:
a
tenderloin
of
beef,
a
hind-quarter
of
veal,
a
spare-rib
of
pork,
a
particular
chicken,
or
a
remarkably
praiseworthy
turkey,
which
had
perhaps
adorned
his
board
in
the
days
of
the
elder
Adams,
would
be
remembered;
while
all
the
subsequent
experience
of
our
race,
and
all
the
events
that
brightened
or
darkened
his
individual
career,
had
gone
over
him
with
as
little
permanent
effect
as
the
passing
breeze.
The
chief
tragic
event
of
the
old
man's
life,
so
far
as
I
could
judge,
was
his
mishap
with
a
certain
goose,
which
lived
and
died
some
twenty
or
forty
years
ago:
a
goose
of
most
promising
figure,
but
which,
at
table,
proved
so
inveterately
tough,
that
the
carving-knife
would
make
no
impression
on
its
carcase,
and
it
could
only
be
divided
with
an
axe
and
handsaw.
But
it
is
time
to
quit
this
sketch;
on
which,
however,
I
should
be
glad
to
dwell
at
considerably
more
length,
because
of
all
men
whom
I
have
ever
known,
this
individual
was
fittest
to
be
a
Custom-House
officer.
Most
persons,
owing
to
causes
which
I
may
not
have
space
to
hint
at,
suffer
moral
detriment
from
this
peculiar
mode
of
life.
The
old
Inspector
was
incapable
of
it;
and,
were
he
to
continue
in
office
to
the
end
of
time,
would
be
just
as
good
as
he
was
then,
and
sit
down
to
dinner
with
just
as
good
an
appetite.
There
is
one
likeness,
without
which
my
gallery
of
Custom-House
portraits
would
be
strangely
incomplete,
but
which
my
comparatively
few
opportunities
for
observation
enable
me
to
sketch
only
in
the
merest
outline.
It
is
that
of
the
Collector,
our
gallant
old
General,
who,
after
his
brilliant
military
service,
subsequently
to
which
he
had
ruled
over
a
wild
Western
territory,
had
come
hither,
twenty
years
before,
to
spend
the
decline
of
his
varied
and
honourable
life.
The
brave
soldier
had
already
numbered,
nearly
or
quite,
his
three-score
years
and
ten,
and
was
pursuing
the
remainder
of
his
earthly
march,
burdened
with
infirmities
which
even
the
martial
music
of
his
own
spirit-stirring
recollections
could
do
little
towards
lightening.
The
step
was
palsied
now,
that
had
been
foremost
in
the
charge.
It
was
only
with
the
assistance
of
a
servant,
and
by
leaning
his
hand
heavily
on
the
iron
balustrade,
that
he
could
slowly
and
painfully
ascend
the
Custom-House
steps,
and,
with
a
toilsome
progress
across
the
floor,
attain
his
customary
chair
beside
the
fireplace.
There
he
used
to
sit,
gazing
with
a
somewhat
dim
serenity
of
aspect
at
the
figures
that
came
and
went,
amid
the
rustle
of
papers,
the
administering
of
oaths,
the
discussion
of
business,
and
the
casual
talk
of
the
office;
all
which
sounds
and
circumstances
seemed
but
indistinctly
to
impress
his
senses,
and
hardly
to
make
their
way
into
his
inner
sphere
of
contemplation.
His
countenance,
in
this
repose,
was
mild
and
kindly.
If
his
notice
was
sought,
an
expression
of
courtesy
and
interest
gleamed
out
upon
his
features,
proving
that
there
was
light
within
him,
and
that
it
was
only
the
outward
medium
of
the
intellectual
lamp
that
obstructed
the
rays
in
their
passage.
The
closer
you
penetrated
to
the
substance
of
his
mind,
the
sounder
it
appeared.
When
no
longer
called
upon
to
speak
or
listen--either
of
which
operations
cost
him
an
evident
effort--his
face
would
briefly
subside
into
its
former
not
uncheerful
quietude.
It
was
not
painful
to
behold
this
look;
for,
though
dim,
it
had
not
the
imbecility
of
decaying
age.
The
framework
of
his
nature,
originally
strong
and
massive,
was
not
yet
crumpled
into
ruin.
To
observe
and
define
his
character,
however,
under
such
disadvantages,
was
as
difficult
a
task
as
to
trace
out
and
build
up
anew,
in
imagination,
an
old
fortress,
like
Ticonderoga,
from
a
view
of
its
grey
and
broken
ruins.
Here
and
there,
perchance,
the
walls
may
remain
almost
complete;
but
elsewhere
may
be
only
a
shapeless
mound,
cumbrous
with
its
very
strength,
and
overgrown,
through
long
years
of
peace
and
neglect,
with
grass
and
alien
weeds.
Nevertheless,
looking
at
the
old
warrior
with
affection--for,
slight
as
was
the
communication
between
us,
my
feeling
towards
him,
like
that
of
all
bipeds
and
quadrupeds
who
knew
him,
might
not
improperly
be
termed
so,--I
could
discern
the
main
points
of
his
portrait.
It
was
marked
with
the
noble
and
heroic
qualities
which
showed
it
to
be
not
a
mere
accident,
but
of
good
right,
that
he
had
won
a
distinguished
name.
His
spirit
could
never,
I
conceive,
have
been
characterized
by
an
uneasy
activity;
it
must,
at
any
period
of
his
life,
have
required
an
impulse
to
set
him
in
motion;
but
once
stirred
up,
with
obstacles
to
overcome,
and
an
adequate
object
to
be
attained,
it
was
not
in
the
man
to
give
out
or
fail.
The
heat
that
had
formerly
pervaded
his
nature,
and
which
was
not
yet
extinct,
was
never
of
the
kind
that
flashes
and
flickers
in
a
blaze;
but
rather
a
deep
red
glow,
as
of
iron
in
a
furnace.
Weight,
solidity,
firmness--this
was
the
expression
of
his
repose,
even
in
such
decay
as
had
crept
untimely
over
him
at
the
period
of
which
I
speak.
But
I
could
imagine,
even
then,
that,
under
some
excitement
which
should
go
deeply
into
his
consciousness--roused
by
a
trumpet's
peal,
loud
enough
to
awaken
all
of
his
energies
that
were
not
dead,
but
only
slumbering--he
was
yet
capable
of
flinging
off
his
infirmities
like
a
sick
man's
gown,
dropping
the
staff
of
age
to
seize
a
battle-sword,
and
starting
up
once
more
a
warrior.
And,
in
so
intense
a
moment
his
demeanour
would
have
still
been
calm.
Such
an
exhibition,
however,
was
but
to
be
pictured
in
fancy;
not
to
be
anticipated,
nor
desired.
What
I
saw
in
him--as
evidently
as
the
indestructible
ramparts
of
Old
Ticonderoga,
already
cited
as
the
most
appropriate
simile--was
the
features
of
stubborn
and
ponderous
endurance,
which
might
well
have
amounted
to
obstinacy
in
his
earlier
days;
of
integrity,
that,
like
most
of
his
other
endowments,
lay
in
a
somewhat
heavy
mass,
and
was
just
as
unmalleable
or
unmanageable
as
a
ton
of
iron
ore;
and
of
benevolence
which,
fiercely
as
he
led
the
bayonets
on
at
Chippewa
or
Fort
Erie,
I
take
to
be
of
quite
as
genuine
a
stamp
as
what
actuates
any
or
all
the
polemical
philanthropists
of
the
age.
He
had
slain
men
with
his
own
hand,
for
aught
I
know--certainly,
they
had
fallen
like
blades
of
grass
at
the
sweep
of
the
scythe
before
the
charge
to
which
his
spirit
imparted
its
triumphant
energy--but,
be
that
as
it
might,
there
was
never
in
his
heart
so
much
cruelty
as
would
have
brushed
the
down
off
a
butterfly's
wing.
I
have
not
known
the
man
to
whose
innate
kindliness
I
would
more
confidently
make
an
appeal.
Many
characteristics--and
those,
too,
which
contribute
not
the
least
forcibly
to
impart
resemblance
in
a
sketch--must
have
vanished,
or
been
obscured,
before
I
met
the
General.
All
merely
graceful
attributes
are
usually
the
most
evanescent;
nor
does
nature
adorn
the
human
ruin
with
blossoms
of
new
beauty,
that
have
their
roots
and
proper
nutriment
only
in
the
chinks
and
crevices
of
decay,
as
she
sows
wall-flowers
over
the
ruined
fortress
of
Ticonderoga.
Still,
even
in
respect
of
grace
and
beauty,
there
were
points
well
worth
noting.
A
ray
of
humour,
now
and
then,
would
make
its
way
through
the
veil
of
dim
obstruction,
and
glimmer
pleasantly
upon
our
faces.
A
trait
of
native
elegance,
seldom
seen
in
the
masculine
character
after
childhood
or
early
youth,
was
shown
in
the
General's
fondness
for
the
sight
and
fragrance
of
flowers.
An
old
soldier
might
be
supposed
to
prize
only
the
bloody
laurel
on
his
brow;
but
here
was
one
who
seemed
to
have
a
young
girl's
appreciation
of
the
floral
tribe.
There,
beside
the
fireplace,
the
brave
old
General
used
to
sit;
while
the
Surveyor--though
seldom,
when
it
could
be
avoided,
taking
upon
himself
the
difficult
task
of
engaging
him
in
conversation--was
fond
of
standing
at
a
distance,
and
watching
his
quiet
and
almost
slumberous
countenance.
He
seemed
away
from
us,
although
we
saw
him
but
a
few
yards
off;
remote,
though
we
passed
close
beside
his
chair;
unattainable,
though
we
might
have
stretched
forth
our
hands
and
touched
his
own.
It
might
be
that
he
lived
a
more
real
life
within
his
thoughts
than
amid
the
unappropriate
environment
of
the
Collector's
office.
The
evolutions
of
the
parade;
the
tumult
of
the
battle;
the
flourish
of
old
heroic
music,
heard
thirty
years
before--such
scenes
and
sounds,
perhaps,
were
all
alive
before
his
intellectual
sense.
Meanwhile,
the
merchants
and
ship-masters,
the
spruce
clerks
and
uncouth
sailors,
entered
and
departed;
the
bustle
of
his
commercial
and
Custom-House
life
kept
up
its
little
murmur
round
about
him;
and
neither
with
the
men
nor
their
affairs
did
the
General
appear
to
sustain
the
most
distant
relation.
He
was
as
much
out
of
place
as
an
old
sword--now
rusty,
but
which
had
flashed
once
in
the
battle's
front,
and
showed
still
a
bright
gleam
along
its
blade--would
have
been
among
the
inkstands,
paper-folders,
and
mahogany
rulers
on
the
Deputy
Collector's
desk.
There
was
one
thing
that
much
aided
me
in
renewing
and
re-creating
the
stalwart
soldier
of
the
Niagara
frontier--the
man
of
true
and
simple
energy.
It
was
the
recollection
of
those
memorable
words
of
his--"I'll
try,
Sir"--spoken
on
the
very
verge
of
a
desperate
and
heroic
enterprise,
and
breathing
the
soul
and
spirit
of
New
England
hardihood,
comprehending
all
perils,
and
encountering
all.
If,
in
our
country,
valour
were
rewarded
by
heraldic
honour,
this
phrase--which
it
seems
so
easy
to
speak,
but
which
only
he,
with
such
a
task
of
danger
and
glory
before
him,
has
ever
spoken--would
be
the
best
and
fittest
of
all
mottoes
for
the
General's
shield
of
arms.
It
contributes
greatly
towards
a
man's
moral
and
intellectual
health
to
be
brought
into
habits
of
companionship
with
individuals
unlike
himself,
who
care
little
for
his
pursuits,
and
whose
sphere
and
abilities
he
must
go
out
of
himself
to
appreciate.
The
accidents
of
my
life
have
often
afforded
me
this
advantage,
but
never
with
more
fulness
and
variety
than
during
my
continuance
in
office.
There
was
one
man,
especially,
the
observation
of
whose
character
gave
me
a
new
idea
of
talent.
His
gifts
were
emphatically
those
of
a
man
of
business;
prompt,
acute,
clear-minded;
with
an
eye
that
saw
through
all
perplexities,
and
a
faculty
of
arrangement
that
made
them
vanish
as
by
the
waving
of
an
enchanter's
wand.
Bred
up
from
boyhood
in
the
Custom-House,
it
was
his
proper
field
of
activity;
and
the
many
intricacies
of
business,
so
harassing
to
the
interloper,
presented
themselves
before
him
with
the
regularity
of
a
perfectly
comprehended
system.
In
my
contemplation,
he
stood
as
the
ideal
of
his
class.
He
was,
indeed,
the
Custom-House
in
himself;
or,
at
all
events,
the
mainspring
that
kept
its
variously
revolving
wheels
in
motion;
for,
in
an
institution
like
this,
where
its
officers
are
appointed
to
subserve
their
own
profit
and
convenience,
and
seldom
with
a
leading
reference
to
their
fitness
for
the
duty
to
be
performed,
they
must
perforce
seek
elsewhere
the
dexterity
which
is
not
in
them.
Thus,
by
an
inevitable
necessity,
as
a
magnet
attracts
steel-filings,
so
did
our
man
of
business
draw
to
himself
the
difficulties
which
everybody
met
with.
With
an
easy
condescension,
and
kind
forbearance
towards
our
stupidity--which,
to
his
order
of
mind,
must
have
seemed
little
short
of
crime--would
he
forth-with,
by
the
merest
touch
of
his
finger,
make
the
incomprehensible
as
clear
as
daylight.
The
merchants
valued
him
not
less
than
we,
his
esoteric
friends.
His
integrity
was
perfect;
it
was
a
law
of
nature
with
him,
rather
than
a
choice
or
a
principle;
nor
can
it
be
otherwise
than
the
main
condition
of
an
intellect
so
remarkably
clear
and
accurate
as
his
to
be
honest
and
regular
in
the
administration
of
affairs.
A
stain
on
his
conscience,
as
to
anything
that
came
within
the
range
of
his
vocation,
would
trouble
such
a
man
very
much
in
the
same
way,
though
to
a
far
greater
degree,
than
an
error
in
the
balance
of
an
account,
or
an
ink-blot
on
the
fair
page
of
a
book
of
record.
Here,
in
a
word--and
it
is
a
rare
instance
in
my
life--I
had
met
with
a
person
thoroughly
adapted
to
the
situation
which
he
held.
Such
were
some
of
the
people
with
whom
I
now
found
myself
connected.
I
took
it
in
good
part,
at
the
hands
of
Providence,
that
I
was
thrown
into
a
position
so
little
akin
to
my
past
habits;
and
set
myself
seriously
to
gather
from
it
whatever
profit
was
to
be
had.
After
my
fellowship
of
toil
and
impracticable
schemes
with
the
dreamy
brethren
of
Brook
Farm;
after
living
for
three
years
within
the
subtle
influence
of
an
intellect
like
Emerson's;
after
those
wild,
free
days
on
the
Assabeth,
indulging
fantastic
speculations,
beside
our
fire
of
fallen
boughs,
with
Ellery
Channing;
after
talking
with
Thoreau
about
pine-trees
and
Indian
relics
in
his
hermitage
at
Walden;
after
growing
fastidious
by
sympathy
with
the
classic
refinement
of
Hillard's
culture;
after
becoming
imbued
with
poetic
sentiment
at
Longfellow's
hearthstone--it
was
time,
at
length,
that
I
should
exercise
other
faculties
of
my
nature,
and
nourish
myself
with
food
for
which
I
had
hitherto
had
little
appetite.
Even
the
old
Inspector
was
desirable,
as
a
change
of
diet,
to
a
man
who
had
known
Alcott.
I
looked
upon
it
as
an
evidence,
in
some
measure,
of
a
system
naturally
well
balanced,
and
lacking
no
essential
part
of
a
thorough
organization,
that,
with
such
associates
to
remember,
I
could
mingle
at
once
with
men
of
altogether
different
qualities,
and
never
murmur
at
the
change.
Literature,
its
exertions
and
objects,
were
now
of
little
moment
in
my
regard.
I
cared
not
at
this
period
for
books;
they
were
apart
from
me.
Nature--except
it
were
human
nature--the
nature
that
is
developed
in
earth
and
sky,
was,
in
one
sense,
hidden
from
me;
and
all
the
imaginative
delight
wherewith
it
had
been
spiritualized
passed
away
out
of
my
mind.
A
gift,
a
faculty,
if
it
had
not
been
departed,
was
suspended
and
inanimate
within
me.
There
would
have
been
something
sad,
unutterably
dreary,
in
all
this,
had
I
not
been
conscious
that
it
lay
at
my
own
option
to
recall
whatever
was
valuable
in
the
past.
It
might
be
true,
indeed,
that
this
was
a
life
which
could
not,
with
impunity,
be
lived
too
long;
else,
it
might
make
me
permanently
other
than
I
had
been,
without
transforming
me
into
any
shape
which
it
would
be
worth
my
while
to
take.
But
I
never
considered
it
as
other
than
a
transitory
life.
There
was
always
a
prophetic
instinct,
a
low
whisper
in
my
ear,
that
within
no
long
period,
and
whenever
a
new
change
of
custom
should
be
essential
to
my
good,
change
would
come.
Meanwhile,
there
I
was,
a
Surveyor
of
the
Revenue
and,
so
far
as
I
have
been
able
to
understand,
as
good
a
Surveyor
as
need
be.
A
man
of
thought,
fancy,
and
sensibility
(had
he
ten
times
the
Surveyor's
proportion
of
those
qualities),
may,
at
any
time,
be
a
man
of
affairs,
if
he
will
only
choose
to
give
himself
the
trouble.
My
fellow-officers,
and
the
merchants
and
sea-captains
with
whom
my
official
duties
brought
me
into
any
manner
of
connection,
viewed
me
in
no
other
light,
and
probably
knew
me
in
no
other
character.
None
of
them,
I
presume,
had
ever
read
a
page
of
my
inditing,
or
would
have
cared
a
fig
the
more
for
me
if
they
had
read
them
all;
nor
would
it
have
mended
the
matter,
in
the
least,
had
those
same
unprofitable
pages
been
written
with
a
pen
like
that
of
Burns
or
of
Chaucer,
each
of
whom
was
a
Custom-House
officer
in
his
day,
as
well
as
I.
It
is
a
good
lesson--though
it
may
often
be
a
hard
one--for
a
man
who
has
dreamed
of
literary
fame,
and
of
making
for
himself
a
rank
among
the
world's
dignitaries
by
such
means,
to
step
aside
out
of
the
narrow
circle
in
which
his
claims
are
recognized
and
to
find
how
utterly
devoid
of
significance,
beyond
that
circle,
is
all
that
he
achieves,
and
all
he
aims
at.
I
know
not
that
I
especially
needed
the
lesson,
either
in
the
way
of
warning
or
rebuke;
but
at
any
rate,
I
learned
it
thoroughly:
nor,
it
gives
me
pleasure
to
reflect,
did
the
truth,
as
it
came
home
to
my
perception,
ever
cost
me
a
pang,
or
require
to
be
thrown
off
in
a
sigh.
In
the
way
of
literary
talk,
it
is
true,
the
Naval
Officer--an
excellent
fellow,
who
came
into
the
office
with
me,
and
went
out
only
a
little
later--would
often
engage
me
in
a
discussion
about
one
or
the
other
of
his
favourite
topics,
Napoleon
or
Shakespeare.
The
Collector's
junior
clerk,
too
a
young
gentleman
who,
it
was
whispered
occasionally
covered
a
sheet
of
Uncle
Sam's
letter
paper
with
what
(at
the
distance
of
a
few
yards)
looked
very
much
like
poetry--used
now
and
then
to
speak
to
me
of
books,
as
matters
with
which
I
might
possibly
be
conversant.
This
was
my
all
of
lettered
intercourse;
and
it
was
quite
sufficient
for
my
necessities.
No
longer
seeking
nor
caring
that
my
name
should
be
blasoned
abroad
on
title-pages,
I
smiled
to
think
that
it
had
now
another
kind
of
vogue.
The
Custom-House
marker
imprinted
it,
with
a
stencil
and
black
paint,
on
pepper-bags,
and
baskets
of
anatto,
and
cigar-boxes,
and
bales
of
all
kinds
of
dutiable
merchandise,
in
testimony
that
these
commodities
had
paid
the
impost,
and
gone
regularly
through
the
office.
Borne
on
such
queer
vehicle
of
fame,
a
knowledge
of
my
existence,
so
far
as
a
name
conveys
it,
was
carried
where
it
had
never
been
before,
and,
I
hope,
will
never
go
again.
But
the
past
was
not
dead.
Once
in
a
great
while,
the
thoughts
that
had
seemed
so
vital
and
so
active,
yet
had
been
put
to
rest
so
quietly,
revived
again.
One
of
the
most
remarkable
occasions,
when
the
habit
of
bygone
days
awoke
in
me,
was
that
which
brings
it
within
the
law
of
literary
propriety
to
offer
the
public
the
sketch
which
I
am
now
writing.
In
the
second
storey
of
the
Custom-House
there
is
a
large
room,
in
which
the
brick-work
and
naked
rafters
have
never
been
covered
with
panelling
and
plaster.
The
edifice--originally
projected
on
a
scale
adapted
to
the
old
commercial
enterprise
of
the
port,
and
with
an
idea
of
subsequent
prosperity
destined
never
to
be
realized--contains
far
more
space
than
its
occupants
know
what
to
do
with.
This
airy
hall,
therefore,
over
the
Collector's
apartments,
remains
unfinished
to
this
day,
and,
in
spite
of
the
aged
cobwebs
that
festoon
its
dusky
beams,
appears
still
to
await
the
labour
of
the
carpenter
and
mason.
At
one
end
of
the
room,
in
a
recess,
were
a
number
of
barrels
piled
one
upon
another,
containing
bundles
of
official
documents.
Large
quantities
of
similar
rubbish
lay
lumbering
the
floor.
It
was
sorrowful
to
think
how
many
days,
and
weeks,
and
months,
and
years
of
toil
had
been
wasted
on
these
musty
papers,
which
were
now
only
an
encumbrance
on
earth,
and
were
hidden
away
in
this
forgotten
corner,
never
more
to
be
glanced
at
by
human
eyes.
But
then,
what
reams
of
other
manuscripts--filled,
not
with
the
dulness
of
official
formalities,
but
with
the
thought
of
inventive
brains
and
the
rich
effusion
of
deep
hearts--had
gone
equally
to
oblivion;
and
that,
moreover,
without
serving
a
purpose
in
their
day,
as
these
heaped-up
papers
had,
and--saddest
of
all--without
purchasing
for
their
writers
the
comfortable
livelihood
which
the
clerks
of
the
Custom-House
had
gained
by
these
worthless
scratchings
of
the
pen.
Yet
not
altogether
worthless,
perhaps,
as
materials
of
local
history.
Here,
no
doubt,
statistics
of
the
former
commerce
of
Salem
might
be
discovered,
and
memorials
of
her
princely
merchants--old
King
Derby--old
Billy
Gray--old
Simon
Forrester--and
many
another
magnate
in
his
day,
whose
powdered
head,
however,
was
scarcely
in
the
tomb
before
his
mountain
pile
of
wealth
began
to
dwindle.
The
founders
of
the
greater
part
of
the
families
which
now
compose
the
aristocracy
of
Salem
might
here
be
traced,
from
the
petty
and
obscure
beginnings
of
their
traffic,
at
periods
generally
much
posterior
to
the
Revolution,
upward
to
what
their
children
look
upon
as
long-established
rank,
Prior
to
the
Revolution
there
is
a
dearth
of
records;
the
earlier
documents
and
archives
of
the
Custom-House
having,
probably,
been
carried
off
to
Halifax,
when
all
the
king's
officials
accompanied
the
British
army
in
its
flight
from
Boston.
It
has
often
been
a
matter
of
regret
with
me;
for,
going
back,
perhaps,
to
the
days
of
the
Protectorate,
those
papers
must
have
contained
many
references
to
forgotten
or
remembered
men,
and
to
antique
customs,
which
would
have
affected
me
with
the
same
pleasure
as
when
I
used
to
pick
up
Indian
arrow-heads
in
the
field
near
the
Old
Manse.
But,
one
idle
and
rainy
day,
it
was
my
fortune
to
make
a
discovery
of
some
little
interest.
Poking
and
burrowing
into
the
heaped-up
rubbish
in
the
corner,
unfolding
one
and
another
document,
and
reading
the
names
of
vessels
that
had
long
ago
foundered
at
sea
or
rotted
at
the
wharves,
and
those
of
merchants
never
heard
of
now
on
'Change,
nor
very
readily
decipherable
on
their
mossy
tombstones;
glancing
at
such
matters
with
the
saddened,
weary,
half-reluctant
interest
which
we
bestow
on
the
corpse
of
dead
activity--and
exerting
my
fancy,
sluggish
with
little
use,
to
raise
up
from
these
dry
bones
an
image
of
the
old
town's
brighter
aspect,
when
India
was
a
new
region,
and
only
Salem
knew
the
way
thither--I
chanced
to
lay
my
hand
on
a
small
package,
carefully
done
up
in
a
piece
of
ancient
yellow
parchment.
This
envelope
had
the
air
of
an
official
record
of
some
period
long
past,
when
clerks
engrossed
their
stiff
and
formal
chirography
on
more
substantial
materials
than
at
present.
There
was
something
about
it
that
quickened
an
instinctive
curiosity,
and
made
me
undo
the
faded
red
tape
that
tied
up
the
package,
with
the
sense
that
a
treasure
would
here
be
brought
to
light.
Unbending
the
rigid
folds
of
the
parchment
cover,
I
found
it
to
be
a
commission,
under
the
hand
and
seal
of
Governor
Shirley,
in
favour
of
one
Jonathan
Pue,
as
Surveyor
of
His
Majesty's
Customs
for
the
Port
of
Salem,
in
the
Province
of
Massachusetts
Bay.
I
remembered
to
have
read
(probably
in
Felt's
"Annals")
a
notice
of
the
decease
of
Mr.
Surveyor
Pue,
about
fourscore
years
ago;
and
likewise,
in
a
newspaper
of
recent
times,
an
account
of
the
digging
up
of
his
remains
in
the
little
graveyard
of
St.
Peter's
Church,
during
the
renewal
of
that
edifice.
Nothing,
if
I
rightly
call
to
mind,
was
left
of
my
respected
predecessor,
save
an
imperfect
skeleton,
and
some
fragments
of
apparel,
and
a
wig
of
majestic
frizzle,
which,
unlike
the
head
that
it
once
adorned,
was
in
very
satisfactory
preservation.
But,
on
examining
the
papers
which
the
parchment
commission
served
to
envelop,
I
found
more
traces
of
Mr.
Pue's
mental
part,
and
the
internal
operations
of
his
head,
than
the
frizzled
wig
had
contained
of
the
venerable
skull
itself.
They
were
documents,
in
short,
not
official,
but
of
a
private
nature,
or,
at
least,
written
in
his
private
capacity,
and
apparently
with
his
own
hand.
I
could
account
for
their
being
included
in
the
heap
of
Custom-House
lumber
only
by
the
fact
that
Mr.
Pue's
death
had
happened
suddenly,
and
that
these
papers,
which
he
probably
kept
in
his
official
desk,
had
never
come
to
the
knowledge
of
his
heirs,
or
were
supposed
to
relate
to
the
business
of
the
revenue.
On
the
transfer
of
the
archives
to
Halifax,
this
package,
proving
to
be
of
no
public
concern,
was
left
behind,
and
had
remained
ever
since
unopened.
The
ancient
Surveyor--being
little
molested,
I
suppose,
at
that
early
day
with
business
pertaining
to
his
office--seems
to
have
devoted
some
of
his
many
leisure
hours
to
researches
as
a
local
antiquarian,
and
other
inquisitions
of
a
similar
nature.
These
supplied
material
for
petty
activity
to
a
mind
that
would
otherwise
have
been
eaten
up
with
rust.
A
portion
of
his
facts,
by-the-by,
did
me
good
service
in
the
preparation
of
the
article
entitled
"MAIN
STREET,"
included
in
the
present
volume.
The
remainder
may
perhaps
be
applied
to
purposes
equally
valuable
hereafter,
or
not
impossibly
may
be
worked
up,
so
far
as
they
go,
into
a
regular
history
of
Salem,
should
my
veneration
for
the
natal
soil
ever
impel
me
to
so
pious
a
task.
Meanwhile,
they
shall
be
at
the
command
of
any
gentleman,
inclined
and
competent,
to
take
the
unprofitable
labour
off
my
hands.
As
a
final
disposition
I
contemplate
depositing
them
with
the
Essex
Historical
Society.
But
the
object
that
most
drew
my
attention
to
the
mysterious
package
was
a
certain
affair
of
fine
red
cloth,
much
worn
and
faded,
There
were
traces
about
it
of
gold
embroidery,
which,
however,
was
greatly
frayed
and
defaced,
so
that
none,
or
very
little,
of
the
glitter
was
left.
It
had
been
wrought,
as
was
easy
to
perceive,
with
wonderful
skill
of
needlework;
and
the
stitch
(as
I
am
assured
by
ladies
conversant
with
such
mysteries)
gives
evidence
of
a
now
forgotten
art,
not
to
be
discovered
even
by
the
process
of
picking
out
the
threads.
This
rag
of
scarlet
cloth--for
time,
and
wear,
and
a
sacrilegious
moth
had
reduced
it
to
little
other
than
a
rag--on
careful
examination,
assumed
the
shape
of
a
letter.
It
was
the
capital
letter
A.
By
an
accurate
measurement,
each
limb
proved
to
be
precisely
three
inches
and
a
quarter
in
length.
It
had
been
intended,
there
could
be
no
doubt,
as
an
ornamental
article
of
dress;
but
how
it
was
to
be
worn,
or
what
rank,
honour,
and
dignity,
in
by-past
times,
were
signified
by
it,
was
a
riddle
which
(so
evanescent
are
the
fashions
of
the
world
in
these
particulars)
I
saw
little
hope
of
solving.
And
yet
it
strangely
interested
me.
My
eyes
fastened
themselves
upon
the
old
scarlet
letter,
and
would
not
be
turned
aside.
Certainly
there
was
some
deep
meaning
in
it
most
worthy
of
interpretation,
and
which,
as
it
were,
streamed
forth
from
the
mystic
symbol,
subtly
communicating
itself
to
my
sensibilities,
but
evading
the
analysis
of
my
mind.
When
thus
perplexed--and
cogitating,
among
other
hypotheses,
whether
the
letter
might
not
have
been
one
of
those
decorations
which
the
white
men
used
to
contrive
in
order
to
take
the
eyes
of
Indians--I
happened
to
place
it
on
my
breast.
It
seemed
to
me--the
reader
may
smile,
but
must
not
doubt
my
word--it
seemed
to
me,
then,
that
I
experienced
a
sensation
not
altogether
physical,
yet
almost
so,
as
of
burning
heat,
and
as
if
the
letter
were
not
of
red
cloth,
but
red-hot
iron.
I
shuddered,
and
involuntarily
let
it
fall
upon
the
floor.
In
the
absorbing
contemplation
of
the
scarlet
letter,
I
had
hitherto
neglected
to
examine
a
small
roll
of
dingy
paper,
around
which
it
had
been
twisted.
This
I
now
opened,
and
had
the
satisfaction
to
find
recorded
by
the
old
Surveyor's
pen,
a
reasonably
complete
explanation
of
the
whole
affair.
There
were
several
foolscap
sheets,
containing
many
particulars
respecting
the
life
and
conversation
of
one
Hester
Prynne,
who
appeared
to
have
been
rather
a
noteworthy
personage
in
the
view
of
our
ancestors.
She
had
flourished
during
the
period
between
the
early
days
of
Massachusetts
and
the
close
of
the
seventeenth
century.
Aged
persons,
alive
in
the
time
of
Mr.
Surveyor
Pue,
and
from
whose
oral
testimony
he
had
made
up
his
narrative,
remembered
her,
in
their
youth,
as
a
very
old,
but
not
decrepit
woman,
of
a
stately
and
solemn
aspect.
It
had
been
her
habit,
from
an
almost
immemorial
date,
to
go
about
the
country
as
a
kind
of
voluntary
nurse,
and
doing
whatever
miscellaneous
good
she
might;
taking
upon
herself,
likewise,
to
give
advice
in
all
matters,
especially
those
of
the
heart,
by
which
means--as
a
person
of
such
propensities
inevitably
must--she
gained
from
many
people
the
reverence
due
to
an
angel,
but,
I
should
imagine,
was
looked
upon
by
others
as
an
intruder
and
a
nuisance.
Prying
further
into
the
manuscript,
I
found
the
record
of
other
doings
and
sufferings
of
this
singular
woman,
for
most
of
which
the
reader
is
referred
to
the
story
entitled
"THE
SCARLET
LETTER";
and
it
should
be
borne
carefully
in
mind
that
the
main
facts
of
that
story
are
authorized
and
authenticated
by
the
document
of
Mr.
Surveyor
Pue.
The
original
papers,
together
with
the
scarlet
letter
itself--a
most
curious
relic--are
still
in
my
possession,
and
shall
be
freely
exhibited
to
whomsoever,
induced
by
the
great
interest
of
the
narrative,
may
desire
a
sight
of
them.
I
must
not
be
understood
affirming
that,
in
the
dressing
up
of
the
tale,
and
imagining
the
motives
and
modes
of
passion
that
influenced
the
characters
who
figure
in
it,
I
have
invariably
confined
myself
within
the
limits
of
the
old
Surveyor's
half-a-dozen
sheets
of
foolscap.
On
the
contrary,
I
have
allowed
myself,
as
to
such
points,
nearly,
or
altogether,
as
much
license
as
if
the
facts
had
been
entirely
of
my
own
invention.
What
I
contend
for
is
the
authenticity
of
the
outline.
This
incident
recalled
my
mind,
in
some
degree,
to
its
old
track.
There
seemed
to
be
here
the
groundwork
of
a
tale.
It
impressed
me
as
if
the
ancient
Surveyor,
in
his
garb
of
a
hundred
years
gone
by,
and
wearing
his
immortal
wig--which
was
buried
with
him,
but
did
not
perish
in
the
grave--had
met
me
in
the
deserted
chamber
of
the
Custom-House.
In
his
port
was
the
dignity
of
one
who
had
borne
His
Majesty's
commission,
and
who
was
therefore
illuminated
by
a
ray
of
the
splendour
that
shone
so
dazzlingly
about
the
throne.
How
unlike
alas
the
hangdog
look
of
a
republican
official,
who,
as
the
servant
of
the
people,
feels
himself
less
than
the
least,
and
below
the
lowest
of
his
masters.
With
his
own
ghostly
hand,
the
obscurely
seen,
but
majestic,
figure
had
imparted
to
me
the
scarlet
symbol
and
the
little
roll
of
explanatory
manuscript.
With
his
own
ghostly
voice
he
had
exhorted
me,
on
the
sacred
consideration
of
my
filial
duty
and
reverence
towards
him--who
might
reasonably
regard
himself
as
my
official
ancestor--to
bring
his
mouldy
and
moth-eaten
lucubrations
before
the
public.
"Do
this,"
said
the
ghost
of
Mr.
Surveyor
Pue,
emphatically
nodding
the
head
that
looked
so
imposing
within
its
memorable
wig;
"do
this,
and
the
profit
shall
be
all
your
own.
You
will
shortly
need
it;
for
it
is
not
in
your
days
as
it
was
in
mine,
when
a
man's
office
was
a
life-lease,
and
oftentimes
an
heirloom.
But
I
charge
you,
in
this
matter
of
old
Mistress
Prynne,
give
to
your
predecessor's
memory
the
credit
which
will
be
rightfully
due"
And
I
said
to
the
ghost
of
Mr.
Surveyor
Pue--"I
will".
On
Hester
Prynne's
story,
therefore,
I
bestowed
much
thought.
It
was
the
subject
of
my
meditations
for
many
an
hour,
while
pacing
to
and
fro
across
my
room,
or
traversing,
with
a
hundredfold
repetition,
the
long
extent
from
the
front
door
of
the
Custom-House
to
the
side
entrance,
and
back
again.
Great
were
the
weariness
and
annoyance
of
the
old
Inspector
and
the
Weighers
and
Gaugers,
whose
slumbers
were
disturbed
by
the
unmercifully
lengthened
tramp
of
my
passing
and
returning
footsteps.
Remembering
their
own
former
habits,
they
used
to
say
that
the
Surveyor
was
walking
the
quarter-deck.
They
probably
fancied
that
my
sole
object--and,
indeed,
the
sole
object
for
which
a
sane
man
could
ever
put
himself
into
voluntary
motion--was
to
get
an
appetite
for
dinner.
And,
to
say
the
truth,
an
appetite,
sharpened
by
the
east
wind
that
generally
blew
along
the
passage,
was
the
only
valuable
result
of
so
much
indefatigable
exercise.
So
little
adapted
is
the
atmosphere
of
a
Custom-house
to
the
delicate
harvest
of
fancy
and
sensibility,
that,
had
I
remained
there
through
ten
Presidencies
yet
to
come,
I
doubt
whether
the
tale
of
"The
Scarlet
Letter"
would
ever
have
been
brought
before
the
public
eye.
My
imagination
was
a
tarnished
mirror.
It
would
not
reflect,
or
only
with
miserable
dimness,
the
figures
with
which
I
did
my
best
to
people
it.
The
characters
of
the
narrative
would
not
be
warmed
and
rendered
malleable
by
any
heat
that
I
could
kindle
at
my
intellectual
forge.
They
would
take
neither
the
glow
of
passion
nor
the
tenderness
of
sentiment,
but
retained
all
the
rigidity
of
dead
corpses,
and
stared
me
in
the
face
with
a
fixed
and
ghastly
grin
of
contemptuous
defiance.
"What
have
you
to
do
with
us?"
that
expression
seemed
to
say.
"The
little
power
you
might
have
once
possessed
over
the
tribe
of
unrealities
is
gone!
You
have
bartered
it
for
a
pittance
of
the
public
gold.
Go
then,
and
earn
your
wages!"
In
short,
the
almost
torpid
creatures
of
my
own
fancy
twitted
me
with
imbecility,
and
not
without
fair
occasion.
It
was
not
merely
during
the
three
hours
and
a
half
which
Uncle
Sam
claimed
as
his
share
of
my
daily
life
that
this
wretched
numbness
held
possession
of
me.
It
went
with
me
on
my
sea-shore
walks
and
rambles
into
the
country,
whenever--which
was
seldom
and
reluctantly--I
bestirred
myself
to
seek
that
invigorating
charm
of
Nature
which
used
to
give
me
such
freshness
and
activity
of
thought,
the
moment
that
I
stepped
across
the
threshold
of
the
Old
Manse.
The
same
torpor,
as
regarded
the
capacity
for
intellectual
effort,
accompanied
me
home,
and
weighed
upon
me
in
the
chamber
which
I
most
absurdly
termed
my
study.
Nor
did
it
quit
me
when,
late
at
night,
I
sat
in
the
deserted
parlour,
lighted
only
by
the
glimmering
coal-fire
and
the
moon,
striving
to
picture
forth
imaginary
scenes,
which,
the
next
day,
might
flow
out
on
the
brightening
page
in
many-hued
description.
If
the
imaginative
faculty
refused
to
act
at
such
an
hour,
it
might
well
be
deemed
a
hopeless
case.
Moonlight,
in
a
familiar
room,
falling
so
white
upon
the
carpet,
and
showing
all
its
figures
so
distinctly--making
every
object
so
minutely
visible,
yet
so
unlike
a
morning
or
noontide
visibility--is
a
medium
the
most
suitable
for
a
romance-writer
to
get
acquainted
with
his
illusive
guests.
There
is
the
little
domestic
scenery
of
the
well-known
apartment;
the
chairs,
with
each
its
separate
individuality;
the
centre-table,
sustaining
a
work-basket,
a
volume
or
two,
and
an
extinguished
lamp;
the
sofa;
the
book-case;
the
picture
on
the
wall--all
these
details,
so
completely
seen,
are
so
spiritualised
by
the
unusual
light,
that
they
seem
to
lose
their
actual
substance,
and
become
things
of
intellect.
Nothing
is
too
small
or
too
trifling
to
undergo
this
change,
and
acquire
dignity
thereby.
A
child's
shoe;
the
doll,
seated
in
her
little
wicker
carriage;
the
hobby-horse--whatever,
in
a
word,
has
been
used
or
played
with
during
the
day
is
now
invested
with
a
quality
of
strangeness
and
remoteness,
though
still
almost
as
vividly
present
as
by
daylight.
Thus,
therefore,
the
floor
of
our
familiar
room
has
become
a
neutral
territory,
somewhere
between
the
real
world
and
fairy-land,
where
the
Actual
and
the
Imaginary
may
meet,
and
each
imbue
itself
with
the
nature
of
the
other.
Ghosts
might
enter
here
without
affrighting
us.
It
would
be
too
much
in
keeping
with
the
scene
to
excite
surprise,
were
we
to
look
about
us
and
discover
a
form,
beloved,
but
gone
hence,
now
sitting
quietly
in
a
streak
of
this
magic
moonshine,
with
an
aspect
that
would
make
us
doubt
whether
it
had
returned
from
afar,
or
had
never
once
stirred
from
our
fireside.
The
somewhat
dim
coal
fire
has
an
essential
Influence
in
producing
the
effect
which
I
would
describe.
It
throws
its
unobtrusive
tinge
throughout
the
room,
with
a
faint
ruddiness
upon
the
walls
and
ceiling,
and
a
reflected
gleam
upon
the
polish
of
the
furniture.
This
warmer
light
mingles
itself
with
the
cold
spirituality
of
the
moon-beams,
and
communicates,
as
it
were,
a
heart
and
sensibilities
of
human
tenderness
to
the
forms
which
fancy
summons
up.
It
converts
them
from
snow-images
into
men
and
women.
Glancing
at
the
looking-glass,
we
behold--deep
within
its
haunted
verge--the
smouldering
glow
of
the
half-extinguished
anthracite,
the
white
moon-beams
on
the
floor,
and
a
repetition
of
all
the
gleam
and
shadow
of
the
picture,
with
one
remove
further
from
the
actual,
and
nearer
to
the
imaginative.
Then,
at
such
an
hour,
and
with
this
scene
before
him,
if
a
man,
sitting
all
alone,
cannot
dream
strange
things,
and
make
them
look
like
truth,
he
need
never
try
to
write
romances.
But,
for
myself,
during
the
whole
of
my
Custom-House
experience,
moonlight
and
sunshine,
and
the
glow
of
firelight,
were
just
alike
in
my
regard;
and
neither
of
them
was
of
one
whit
more
avail
than
the
twinkle
of
a
tallow-candle.
An
entire
class
of
susceptibilities,
and
a
gift
connected
with
them--of
no
great
richness
or
value,
but
the
best
I
had--was
gone
from
me.
It
is
my
belief,
however,
that
had
I
attempted
a
different
order
of
composition,
my
faculties
would
not
have
been
found
so
pointless
and
inefficacious.
I
might,
for
instance,
have
contented
myself
with
writing
out
the
narratives
of
a
veteran
shipmaster,
one
of
the
Inspectors,
whom
I
should
be
most
ungrateful
not
to
mention,
since
scarcely
a
day
passed
that
he
did
not
stir
me
to
laughter
and
admiration
by
his
marvelous
gifts
as
a
story-teller.
Could
I
have
preserved
the
picturesque
force
of
his
style,
and
the
humourous
colouring
which
nature
taught
him
how
to
throw
over
his
descriptions,
the
result,
I
honestly
believe,
would
have
been
something
new
in
literature.
Or
I
might
readily
have
found
a
more
serious
task.
It
was
a
folly,
with
the
materiality
of
this
daily
life
pressing
so
intrusively
upon
me,
to
attempt
to
fling
myself
back
into
another
age,
or
to
insist
on
creating
the
semblance
of
a
world
out
of
airy
matter,
when,
at
every
moment,
the
impalpable
beauty
of
my
soap-bubble
was
broken
by
the
rude
contact
of
some
actual
circumstance.
The
wiser
effort
would
have
been
to
diffuse
thought
and
imagination
through
the
opaque
substance
of
to-day,
and
thus
to
make
it
a
bright
transparency;
to
spiritualise
the
burden
that
began
to
weigh
so
heavily;
to
seek,
resolutely,
the
true
and
indestructible
value
that
lay
hidden
in
the
petty
and
wearisome
incidents,
and
ordinary
characters
with
which
I
was
now
conversant.
The
fault
was
mine.
The
page
of
life
that
was
spread
out
before
me
seemed
dull
and
commonplace
only
because
I
had
not
fathomed
its
deeper
import.
A
better
book
than
I
shall
ever
write
was
there;
leaf
after
leaf
presenting
itself
to
me,
just
as
it
was
written
out
by
the
reality
of
the
flitting
hour,
and
vanishing
as
fast
as
written,
only
because
my
brain
wanted
the
insight,
and
my
hand
the
cunning,
to
transcribe
it.
At
some
future
day,
it
may
be,
I
shall
remember
a
few
scattered
fragments
and
broken
paragraphs,
and
write
them
down,
and
find
the
letters
turn
to
gold
upon
the
page.
These
perceptions
had
come
too
late.
At
the
Instant,
I
was
only
conscious
that
what
would
have
been
a
pleasure
once
was
now
a
hopeless
toil.
There
was
no
occasion
to
make
much
moan
about
this
state
of
affairs.
I
had
ceased
to
be
a
writer
of
tolerably
poor
tales
and
essays,
and
had
become
a
tolerably
good
Surveyor
of
the
Customs.
That
was
all.
But,
nevertheless,
it
is
anything
but
agreeable
to
be
haunted
by
a
suspicion
that
one's
intellect
is
dwindling
away,
or
exhaling,
without
your
consciousness,
like
ether
out
of
a
phial;
so
that,
at
every
glance,
you
find
a
smaller
and
less
volatile
residuum.
Of
the
fact
there
could
be
no
doubt
and,
examining
myself
and
others,
I
was
led
to
conclusions,
in
reference
to
the
effect
of
public
office
on
the
character,
not
very
favourable
to
the
mode
of
life
in
question.
In
some
other
form,
perhaps,
I
may
hereafter
develop
these
effects.
Suffice
it
here
to
say
that
a
Custom-House
officer
of
long
continuance
can
hardly
be
a
very
praiseworthy
or
respectable
personage,
for
many
reasons;
one
of
them,
the
tenure
by
which
he
holds
his
situation,
and
another,
the
very
nature
of
his
business,
which--though,
I
trust,
an
honest
one--is
of
such
a
sort
that
he
does
not
share
in
the
united
effort
of
mankind.
An
effect--which
I
believe
to
be
observable,
more
or
less,
in
every
individual
who
has
occupied
the
position--is,
that
while
he
leans
on
the
mighty
arm
of
the
Republic,
his
own
proper
strength
departs
from
him.
He
loses,
in
an
extent
proportioned
to
the
weakness
or
force
of
his
original
nature,
the
capability
of
self-support.
If
he
possesses
an
unusual
share
of
native
energy,
or
the
enervating
magic
of
place
do
not
operate
too
long
upon
him,
his
forfeited
powers
may
be
redeemable.
The
ejected
officer--fortunate
in
the
unkindly
shove
that
sends
him
forth
betimes,
to
struggle
amid
a
struggling
world--may
return
to
himself,
and
become
all
that
he
has
ever
been.
But
this
seldom
happens.
He
usually
keeps
his
ground
just
long
enough
for
his
own
ruin,
and
is
then
thrust
out,
with
sinews
all
unstrung,
to
totter
along
the
difficult
footpath
of
life
as
he
best
may.
Conscious
of
his
own
infirmity--that
his
tempered
steel
and
elasticity
are
lost--he
for
ever
afterwards
looks
wistfully
about
him
in
quest
of
support
external
to
himself.
His
pervading
and
continual
hope--a
hallucination,
which,
in
the
face
of
all
discouragement,
and
making
light
of
impossibilities,
haunts
him
while
he
lives,
and,
I
fancy,
like
the
convulsive
throes
of
the
cholera,
torments
him
for
a
brief
space
after
death--is,
that
finally,
and
in
no
long
time,
by
some
happy
coincidence
of
circumstances,
he
shall
be
restored
to
office.
This
faith,
more
than
anything
else,
steals
the
pith
and
availability
out
of
whatever
enterprise
he
may
dream
of
undertaking.
Why
should
he
toil
and
moil,
and
be
at
so
much
trouble
to
pick
himself
up
out
of
the
mud,
when,
in
a
little
while
hence,
the
strong
arm
of
his
Uncle
will
raise
and
support
him?
Why
should
he
work
for
his
living
here,
or
go
to
dig
gold
in
California,
when
he
is
so
soon
to
be
made
happy,
at
monthly
intervals,
with
a
little
pile
of
glittering
coin
out
of
his
Uncle's
pocket?
It
is
sadly
curious
to
observe
how
slight
a
taste
of
office
suffices
to
infect
a
poor
fellow
with
this
singular
disease.
Uncle
Sam's
gold--meaning
no
disrespect
to
the
worthy
old
gentleman--has,
in
this
respect,
a
quality
of
enchantment
like
that
of
the
devil's
wages.
Whoever
touches
it
should
look
well
to
himself,
or
he
may
find
the
bargain
to
go
hard
against
him,
involving,
if
not
his
soul,
yet
many
of
its
better
attributes;
its
sturdy
force,
its
courage
and
constancy,
its
truth,
its
self-reliance,
and
all
that
gives
the
emphasis
to
manly
character.
Here
was
a
fine
prospect
in
the
distance.
Not
that
the
Surveyor
brought
the
lesson
home
to
himself,
or
admitted
that
he
could
be
so
utterly
undone,
either
by
continuance
in
office
or
ejectment.
Yet
my
reflections
were
not
the
most
comfortable.
I
began
to
grow
melancholy
and
restless;
continually
prying
into
my
mind,
to
discover
which
of
its
poor
properties
were
gone,
and
what
degree
of
detriment
had
already
accrued
to
the
remainder.
I
endeavoured
to
calculate
how
much
longer
I
could
stay
in
the
Custom-House,
and
yet
go
forth
a
man.
To
confess
the
truth,
it
was
my
greatest
apprehension--as
it
would
never
be
a
measure
of
policy
to
turn
out
so
quiet
an
individual
as
myself;
and
it
being
hardly
in
the
nature
of
a
public
officer
to
resign--it
was
my
chief
trouble,
therefore,
that
I
was
likely
to
grow
grey
and
decrepit
in
the
Surveyorship,
and
become
much
such
another
animal
as
the
old
Inspector.
Might
it
not,
in
the
tedious
lapse
of
official
life
that
lay
before
me,
finally
be
with
me
as
it
was
with
this
venerable
friend--to
make
the
dinner-hour
the
nucleus
of
the
day,
and
to
spend
the
rest
of
it,
as
an
old
dog
spends
it,
asleep
in
the
sunshine
or
in
the
shade?
A
dreary
look-forward,
this,
for
a
man
who
felt
it
to
be
the
best
definition
of
happiness
to
live
throughout
the
whole
range
of
his
faculties
and
sensibilities.
But,
all
this
while,
I
was
giving
myself
very
unnecessary
alarm.
Providence
had
meditated
better
things
for
me
than
I
could
possibly
imagine
for
myself.
A
remarkable
event
of
the
third
year
of
my
Surveyorship--to
adopt
the
tone
of
"P.
P.
"--was
the
election
of
General
Taylor
to
the
Presidency.
It
is
essential,
in
order
to
form
a
complete
estimate
of
the
advantages
of
official
life,
to
view
the
incumbent
at
the
in-coming
of
a
hostile
administration.
His
position
is
then
one
of
the
most
singularly
irksome,
and,
in
every
contingency,
disagreeable,
that
a
wretched
mortal
can
possibly
occupy;
with
seldom
an
alternative
of
good
on
either
hand,
although
what
presents
itself
to
him
as
the
worst
event
may
very
probably
be
the
best.
But
it
is
a
strange
experience,
to
a
man
of
pride
and
sensibility,
to
know
that
his
interests
are
within
the
control
of
individuals
who
neither
love
nor
understand
him,
and
by
whom,
since
one
or
the
other
must
needs
happen,
he
would
rather
be
injured
than
obliged.
Strange,
too,
for
one
who
has
kept
his
calmness
throughout
the
contest,
to
observe
the
bloodthirstiness
that
is
developed
in
the
hour
of
triumph,
and
to
be
conscious
that
he
is
himself
among
its
objects!
There
are
few
uglier
traits
of
human
nature
than
this
tendency--which
I
now
witnessed
in
men
no
worse
than
their
neighbours--to
grow
cruel,
merely
because
they
possessed
the
power
of
inflicting
harm.
If
the
guillotine,
as
applied
to
office-holders,
were
a
literal
fact,
instead
of
one
of
the
most
apt
of
metaphors,
it
is
my
sincere
belief
that
the
active
members
of
the
victorious
party
were
sufficiently
excited
to
have
chopped
off
all
our
heads,
and
have
thanked
Heaven
for
the
opportunity!
It
appears
to
me--who
have
been
a
calm
and
curious
observer,
as
well
in
victory
as
defeat--that
this
fierce
and
bitter
spirit
of
malice
and
revenge
has
never
distinguished
the
many
triumphs
of
my
own
party
as
it
now
did
that
of
the
Whigs.
The
Democrats
take
the
offices,
as
a
general
rule,
because
they
need
them,
and
because
the
practice
of
many
years
has
made
it
the
law
of
political
warfare,
which
unless
a
different
system
be
proclaimed,
it
was
weakness
and
cowardice
to
murmur
at.
But
the
long
habit
of
victory
has
made
them
generous.
They
know
how
to
spare
when
they
see
occasion;
and
when
they
strike,
the
axe
may
be
sharp
indeed,
but
its
edge
is
seldom
poisoned
with
ill-will;
nor
is
it
their
custom
ignominiously
to
kick
the
head
which
they
have
just
struck
off.
In
short,
unpleasant
as
was
my
predicament,
at
best,
I
saw
much
reason
to
congratulate
myself
that
I
was
on
the
losing
side
rather
than
the
triumphant
one.
If,
heretofore,
I
had
been
none
of
the
warmest
of
partisans
I
began
now,
at
this
season
of
peril
and
adversity,
to
be
pretty
acutely
sensible
with
which
party
my
predilections
lay;
nor
was
it
without
something
like
regret
and
shame
that,
according
to
a
reasonable
calculation
of
chances,
I
saw
my
own
prospect
of
retaining
office
to
be
better
than
those
of
my
democratic
brethren.
But
who
can
see
an
inch
into
futurity
beyond
his
nose?
My
own
head
was
the
first
that
fell.
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
to
be
recognised
by
the
Whigs
as
an
enemy;
since
his
inactivity
in
political
affairs--his
tendency
to
roam,
at
will,
in
that
broad
and
quiet
field
where
all
mankind
may
meet,
rather
than
confine
himself
to
those
narrow
paths
where
brethren
of
the
same
household
must
diverge
from
one
another--had
sometimes
made
it
questionable
with
his
brother
Democrats
whether
he
was
a
friend.
Now,
after
he
had
won
the
crown
of
martyrdom
(though
with
no
longer
a
head
to
wear
it
on),
the
point
might
be
looked
upon
as
settled.
Finally,
little
heroic
as
he
was,
it
seemed
more
decorous
to
be
overthrown
in
the
downfall
of
the
party
with
which
he
had
been
content
to
stand
than
to
remain
a
forlorn
survivor,
when
so
many
worthier
men
were
falling:
and
at
last,
after
subsisting
for
four
years
on
the
mercy
of
a
hostile
administration,
to
be
compelled
then
to
define
his
position
anew,
and
claim
the
yet
more
humiliating
mercy
of
a
friendly
one.
Meanwhile,
the
press
had
taken
up
my
affair,
and
kept
me
for
a
week
or
two
careering
through
the
public
prints,
in
my
decapitated
state,
like
Irving's
Headless
Horseman,
ghastly
and
grim,
and
longing
to
be
buried,
as
a
political
dead
man
ought.
So
much
for
my
figurative
self.
The
real
human
being
all
this
time,
with
his
head
safely
on
his
shoulders,
had
brought
himself
to
the
comfortable
conclusion
that
everything
was
for
the
best;
and
making
an
investment
in
ink,
paper,
and
steel
pens,
had
opened
his
long-disused
writing
desk,
and
was
again
a
literary
man.
Now
it
was
that
the
lucubrations
of
my
ancient
predecessor,
Mr.
Surveyor
Pue,
came
into
play.
Rusty
through
long
idleness,
some
little
space
was
requisite
before
my
intellectual
machinery
could
be
brought
to
work
upon
the
tale
with
an
effect
in
any
degree
satisfactory.
Even
yet,
though
my
thoughts
were
ultimately
much
absorbed
in
the
task,
it
wears,
to
my
eye,
a
stern
and
sombre
aspect:
too
much
ungladdened
by
genial
sunshine;
too
little
relieved
by
the
tender
and
familiar
influences
which
soften
almost
every
scene
of
nature
and
real
life,
and
undoubtedly
should
soften
every
picture
of
them.
This
uncaptivating
effect
is
perhaps
due
to
the
period
of
hardly
accomplished
revolution,
and
still
seething
turmoil,
in
which
the
story
shaped
itself.
It
is
no
indication,
however,
of
a
lack
of
cheerfulness
in
the
writer's
mind:
for
he
was
happier
while
straying
through
the
gloom
of
these
sunless
fantasies
than
at
any
time
since
he
had
quitted
the
Old
Manse.
Some
of
the
briefer
articles,
which
contribute
to
make
up
the
volume,
have
likewise
been
written
since
my
involuntary
withdrawal
from
the
toils
and
honours
of
public
life,
and
the
remainder
are
gleaned
from
annuals
and
magazines,
of
such
antique
date,
that
they
have
gone
round
the
circle,
and
come
back
to
novelty
again.
Keeping
up
the
metaphor
of
the
political
guillotine,
the
whole
may
be
considered
as
the
POSTHUMOUS
PAPERS
OF
A
DECAPITATED
SURVEYOR:
and
the
sketch
which
I
am
now
bringing
to
a
close,
if
too
autobiographical
for
a
modest
person
to
publish
in
his
lifetime,
will
readily
be
excused
in
a
gentleman
who
writes
from
beyond
the
grave.
Peace
be
with
all
the
world!
My
blessing
on
my
friends!
My
forgiveness
to
my
enemies!
For
I
am
in
the
realm
of
quiet!
The
life
of
the
Custom-House
lies
like
a
dream
behind
me.
The
old
Inspector--who,
by-the-bye,
I
regret
to
say,
was
overthrown
and
killed
by
a
horse
some
time
ago,
else
he
would
certainly
have
lived
for
ever--he,
and
all
those
other
venerable
personages
who
sat
with
him
at
the
receipt
of
custom,
are
but
shadows
in
my
view:
white-headed
and
wrinkled
images,
which
my
fancy
used
to
sport
with,
and
has
now
flung
aside
for
ever.
The
merchants--Pingree,
Phillips,
Shepard,
Upton,
Kimball,
Bertram,
Hunt--these
and
many
other
names,
which
had
such
classic
familiarity
for
my
ear
six
months
ago,--these
men
of
traffic,
who
seemed
to
occupy
so
important
a
position
in
the
world--how
little
time
has
it
required
to
disconnect
me
from
them
all,
not
merely
in
act,
but
recollection!
It
is
with
an
effort
that
I
recall
the
figures
and
appellations
of
these
few.
Soon,
likewise,
my
old
native
town
will
loom
upon
me
through
the
haze
of
memory,
a
mist
brooding
over
and
around
it;
as
if
it
were
no
portion
of
the
real
earth,
but
an
overgrown
village
in
cloud-land,
with
only
imaginary
inhabitants
to
people
its
wooden
houses
and
walk
its
homely
lanes,
and
the
unpicturesque
prolixity
of
its
main
street.
Henceforth
it
ceases
to
be
a
reality
of
my
life;
I
am
a
citizen
of
somewhere
else.
My
good
townspeople
will
not
much
regret
me,
for--though
it
has
been
as
dear
an
object
as
any,
in
my
literary
efforts,
to
be
of
some
importance
in
their
eyes,
and
to
win
myself
a
pleasant
memory
in
this
abode
and
burial-place
of
so
many
of
my
forefathers--there
has
never
been,
for
me,
the
genial
atmosphere
which
a
literary
man
requires
in
order
to
ripen
the
best
harvest
of
his
mind.
I
shall
do
better
amongst
other
faces;
and
these
familiar
ones,
it
need
hardly
be
said,
will
do
just
as
well
without
me.
It
may
be,
however--oh,
transporting
and
triumphant
thought--that
the
great-grandchildren
of
the
present
race
may
sometimes
think
kindly
of
the
scribbler
of
bygone
days,
when
the
antiquary
of
days
to
come,
among
the
sites
memorable
in
the
town's
history,
shall
point
out
the
locality
of
THE
TOWN
PUMP.
THE
SCARLET
LETTER
I.
THE
PRISON
DOOR
A
throng
of
bearded
men,
in
sad-coloured
garments
and
grey
steeple-crowned
hats,
inter-mixed
with
women,
some
wearing
hoods,
and
others
bareheaded,
was
assembled
in
front
of
a
wooden
edifice,
the
door
of
which
was
heavily
timbered
with
oak,
and
studded
with
iron
spikes.
The
founders
of
a
new
colony,
whatever
Utopia
of
human
virtue
and
happiness
they
might
originally
project,
have
invariably
recognised
it
among
their
earliest
practical
necessities
to
allot
a
portion
of
the
virgin
soil
as
a
cemetery,
and
another
portion
as
the
site
of
a
prison.
In
accordance
with
this
rule
it
may
safely
be
assumed
that
the
forefathers
of
Boston
had
built
the
first
prison-house
somewhere
in
the
Vicinity
of
Cornhill,
almost
as
seasonably
as
they
marked
out
the
first
burial-ground,
on
Isaac
Johnson's
lot,
and
round
about
his
grave,
which
subsequently
became
the
nucleus
of
all
the
congregated
sepulchres
in
the
old
churchyard
of
King's
Chapel.
Certain
it
is
that,
some
fifteen
or
twenty
years
after
the
settlement
of
the
town,
the
wooden
jail
was
already
marked
with
weather-stains
and
other
indications
of
age,
which
gave
a
yet
darker
aspect
to
its
beetle-browed
and
gloomy
front.
The
rust
on
the
ponderous
iron-work
of
its
oaken
door
looked
more
antique
than
anything
else
in
the
New
World.
Like
all
that
pertains
to
crime,
it
seemed
never
to
have
known
a
youthful
era.
Before
this
ugly
edifice,
and
between
it
and
the
wheel-track
of
the
street,
was
a
grass-plot,
much
overgrown
with
burdock,
pig-weed,
apple-pern,
and
such
unsightly
vegetation,
which
evidently
found
something
congenial
in
the
soil
that
had
so
early
borne
the
black
flower
of
civilised
society,
a
prison.
But
on
one
side
of
the
portal,
and
rooted
almost
at
the
threshold,
was
a
wild
rose-bush,
covered,
in
this
month
of
June,
with
its
delicate
gems,
which
might
be
imagined
to
offer
their
fragrance
and
fragile
beauty
to
the
prisoner
as
he
went
in,
and
to
the
condemned
criminal
as
he
came
forth
to
his
doom,
in
token
that
the
deep
heart
of
Nature
could
pity
and
be
kind
to
him.
This
rose-bush,
by
a
strange
chance,
has
been
kept
alive
in
history;
but
whether
it
had
merely
survived
out
of
the
stern
old
wilderness,
so
long
after
the
fall
of
the
gigantic
pines
and
oaks
that
originally
overshadowed
it,
or
whether,
as
there
is
fair
authority
for
believing,
it
had
sprung
up
under
the
footsteps
of
the
sainted
Ann
Hutchinson
as
she
entered
the
prison-door,
we
shall
not
take
upon
us
to
determine.
Finding
it
so
directly
on
the
threshold
of
our
narrative,
which
is
now
about
to
issue
from
that
inauspicious
portal,
we
could
hardly
do
otherwise
than
pluck
one
of
its
flowers,
and
present
it
to
the
reader.
It
may
serve,
let
us
hope,
to
symbolise
some
sweet
moral
blossom
that
may
be
found
along
the
track,
or
relieve
the
darkening
close
of
a
tale
of
human
frailty
and
sorrow.
II.
THE
MARKET-PLACE
The
grass-plot
before
the
jail,
in
Prison
Lane,
on
a
certain
summer
morning,
not
less
than
two
centuries
ago,
was
occupied
by
a
pretty
large
number
of
the
inhabitants
of
Boston,
all
with
their
eyes
intently
fastened
on
the
iron-clamped
oaken
door.
Amongst
any
other
population,
or
at
a
later
period
in
the
history
of
New
England,
the
grim
rigidity
that
petrified
the
bearded
physiognomies
of
these
good
people
would
have
augured
some
awful
business
in
hand.
It
could
have
betokened
nothing
short
of
the
anticipated
execution
of
some
noted
culprit,
on
whom
the
sentence
of
a
legal
tribunal
had
but
confirmed
the
verdict
of
public
sentiment.
But,
in
that
early
severity
of
the
Puritan
character,
an
inference
of
this
kind
could
not
so
indubitably
be
drawn.
It
might
be
that
a
sluggish
bond-servant,
or
an
undutiful
child,
whom
his
parents
had
given
over
to
the
civil
authority,
was
to
be
corrected
at
the
whipping-post.
It
might
be
that
an
Antinomian,
a
Quaker,
or
other
heterodox
religionist,
was
to
be
scourged
out
of
the
town,
or
an
idle
or
vagrant
Indian,
whom
the
white
man's
firewater
had
made
riotous
about
the
streets,
was
to
be
driven
with
stripes
into
the
shadow
of
the
forest.
It
might
be,
too,
that
a
witch,
like
old
Mistress
Hibbins,
the
bitter-tempered
widow
of
the
magistrate,
was
to
die
upon
the
gallows.
In
either
case,
there
was
very
much
the
same
solemnity
of
demeanour
on
the
part
of
the
spectators,
as
befitted
a
people
among
whom
religion
and
law
were
almost
identical,
and
in
whose
character
both
were
so
thoroughly
interfused,
that
the
mildest
and
severest
acts
of
public
discipline
were
alike
made
venerable
and
awful.
Meagre,
indeed,
and
cold,
was
the
sympathy
that
a
transgressor
might
look
for,
from
such
bystanders,
at
the
scaffold.
On
the
other
hand,
a
penalty
which,
in
our
days,
would
infer
a
degree
of
mocking
infamy
and
ridicule,
might
then
be
invested
with
almost
as
stern
a
dignity
as
the
punishment
of
death
itself.
It
was
a
circumstance
to
be
noted
on
the
summer
morning
when
our
story
begins
its
course,
that
the
women,
of
whom
there
were
several
in
the
crowd,
appeared
to
take
a
peculiar
interest
in
whatever
penal
infliction
might
be
expected
to
ensue.
The
age
had
not
so
much
refinement,
that
any
sense
of
impropriety
restrained
the
wearers
of
petticoat
and
farthingale
from
stepping
forth
into
the
public
ways,
and
wedging
their
not
unsubstantial
persons,
if
occasion
were,
into
the
throng
nearest
to
the
scaffold
at
an
execution.
Morally,
as
well
as
materially,
there
was
a
coarser
fibre
in
those
wives
and
maidens
of
old
English
birth
and
breeding
than
in
their
fair
descendants,
separated
from
them
by
a
series
of
six
or
seven
generations;
for,
throughout
that
chain
of
ancestry,
every
successive
mother
had
transmitted
to
her
child
a
fainter
bloom,
a
more
delicate
and
briefer
beauty,
and
a
slighter
physical
frame,
if
not
character
of
less
force
and
solidity
than
her
own.
The
women
who
were
now
standing
about
the
prison-door
stood
within
less
than
half
a
century
of
the
period
when
the
man-like
Elizabeth
had
been
the
not
altogether
unsuitable
representative
of
the
sex.
They
were
her
countrywomen:
and
the
beef
and
ale
of
their
native
land,
with
a
moral
diet
not
a
whit
more
refined,
entered
largely
into
their
composition.
The
bright
morning
sun,
therefore,
shone
on
broad
shoulders
and
well-developed
busts,
and
on
round
and
ruddy
cheeks,
that
had
ripened
in
the
far-off
island,
and
had
hardly
yet
grown
paler
or
thinner
in
the
atmosphere
of
New
England.
There
was,
moreover,
a
boldness
and
rotundity
of
speech
among
these
matrons,
as
most
of
them
seemed
to
be,
that
would
startle
us
at
the
present
day,
whether
in
respect
to
its
purport
or
its
volume
of
tone.
"Goodwives,"
said
a
hard-featured
dame
of
fifty,
"I'll
tell
ye
a
piece
of
my
mind.
It
would
be
greatly
for
the
public
behoof
if
we
women,
being
of
mature
age
and
church-members
in
good
repute,
should
have
the
handling
of
such
malefactresses
as
this
Hester
Prynne.
What
think
ye,
gossips?
If
the
hussy
stood
up
for
judgment
before
us
five,
that
are
now
here
in
a
knot
together,
would
she
come
off
with
such
a
sentence
as
the
worshipful
magistrates
have
awarded?
Marry,
I
trow
not."
"People
say,"
said
another,
"that
the
Reverend
Master
Dimmesdale,
her
godly
pastor,
takes
it
very
grievously
to
heart
that
such
a
scandal
should
have
come
upon
his
congregation."
"The
magistrates
are
God-fearing
gentlemen,
but
merciful
overmuch--that
is
a
truth,"
added
a
third
autumnal
matron.
"At
the
very
least,
they
should
have
put
the
brand
of
a
hot
iron
on
Hester
Prynne's
forehead.
Madame
Hester
would
have
winced
at
that,
I
warrant
me.
But
she--the
naughty
baggage--little
will
she
care
what
they
put
upon
the
bodice
of
her
gown!
Why,
look
you,
she
may
cover
it
with
a
brooch,
or
such
like
heathenish
adornment,
and
so
walk
the
streets
as
brave
as
ever!"
"Ah,
but,"
interposed,
more
softly,
a
young
wife,
holding
a
child
by
the
hand,
"let
her
cover
the
mark
as
she
will,
the
pang
of
it
will
be
always
in
her
heart."
"What
do
we
talk
of
marks
and
brands,
whether
on
the
bodice
of
her
gown
or
the
flesh
of
her
forehead?"
cried
another
female,
the
ugliest
as
well
as
the
most
pitiless
of
these
self-constituted
judges.
"This
woman
has
brought
shame
upon
us
all,
and
ought
to
die;
is
there
not
law
for
it?
Truly
there
is,
both
in
the
Scripture
and
the
statute-book.
Then
let
the
magistrates,
who
have
made
it
of
no
effect,
thank
themselves
if
their
own
wives
and
daughters
go
astray."
"Mercy
on
us,
goodwife!"
exclaimed
a
man
in
the
crowd,
"is
there
no
virtue
in
woman,
save
what
springs
from
a
wholesome
fear
of
the
gallows?
That
is
the
hardest
word
yet!
Hush
now,
gossips
for
the
lock
is
turning
in
the
prison-door,
and
here
comes
Mistress
Prynne
herself."
The
door
of
the
jail
being
flung
open
from
within
there
appeared,
in
the
first
place,
like
a
black
shadow
emerging
into
sunshine,
the
grim
and
gristly
presence
of
the
town-beadle,
with
a
sword
by
his
side,
and
his
staff
of
office
in
his
hand.
This
personage
prefigured
and
represented
in
his
aspect
the
whole
dismal
severity
of
the
Puritanic
code
of
law,
which
it
was
his
business
to
administer
in
its
final
and
closest
application
to
the
offender.
Stretching
forth
the
official
staff
in
his
left
hand,
he
laid
his
right
upon
the
shoulder
of
a
young
woman,
whom
he
thus
drew
forward,
until,
on
the
threshold
of
the
prison-door,
she
repelled
him,
by
an
action
marked
with
natural
dignity
and
force
of
character,
and
stepped
into
the
open
air
as
if
by
her
own
free
will.
She
bore
in
her
arms
a
child,
a
baby
of
some
three
months
old,
who
winked
and
turned
aside
its
little
face
from
the
too
vivid
light
of
day;
because
its
existence,
heretofore,
had
brought
it
acquaintance
only
with
the
grey
twilight
of
a
dungeon,
or
other
darksome
apartment
of
the
prison.
When
the
young
woman--the
mother
of
this
child--stood
fully
revealed
before
the
crowd,
it
seemed
to
be
her
first
impulse
to
clasp
the
infant
closely
to
her
bosom;
not
so
much
by
an
impulse
of
motherly
affection,
as
that
she
might
thereby
conceal
a
certain
token,
which
was
wrought
or
fastened
into
her
dress.
In
a
moment,
however,
wisely
judging
that
one
token
of
her
shame
would
but
poorly
serve
to
hide
another,
she
took
the
baby
on
her
arm,
and
with
a
burning
blush,
and
yet
a
haughty
smile,
and
a
glance
that
would
not
be
abashed,
looked
around
at
her
townspeople
and
neighbours.
On
the
breast
of
her
gown,
in
fine
red
cloth,
surrounded
with
an
elaborate
embroidery
and
fantastic
flourishes
of
gold
thread,
appeared
the
letter
A.
It
was
so
artistically
done,
and
with
so
much
fertility
and
gorgeous
luxuriance
of
fancy,
that
it
had
all
the
effect
of
a
last
and
fitting
decoration
to
the
apparel
which
she
wore,
and
which
was
of
a
splendour
in
accordance
with
the
taste
of
the
age,
but
greatly
beyond
what
was
allowed
by
the
sumptuary
regulations
of
the
colony.
The
young
woman
was
tall,
with
a
figure
of
perfect
elegance
on
a
large
scale.
She
had
dark
and
abundant
hair,
so
glossy
that
it
threw
off
the
sunshine
with
a
gleam;
and
a
face
which,
besides
being
beautiful
from
regularity
of
feature
and
richness
of
complexion,
had
the
impressiveness
belonging
to
a
marked
brow
and
deep
black
eyes.
She
was
ladylike,
too,
after
the
manner
of
the
feminine
gentility
of
those
days;
characterised
by
a
certain
state
and
dignity,
rather
than
by
the
delicate,
evanescent,
and
indescribable
grace
which
is
now
recognised
as
its
indication.
And
never
had
Hester
Prynne
appeared
more
ladylike,
in
the
antique
interpretation
of
the
term,
than
as
she
issued
from
the
prison.
Those
who
had
before
known
her,
and
had
expected
to
behold
her
dimmed
and
obscured
by
a
disastrous
cloud,
were
astonished,
and
even
startled,
to
perceive
how
her
beauty
shone
out,
and
made
a
halo
of
the
misfortune
and
ignominy
in
which
she
was
enveloped.
It
may
be
true
that,
to
a
sensitive
observer,
there
was
some
thing
exquisitely
painful
in
it.
Her
attire,
which
indeed,
she
had
wrought
for
the
occasion
in
prison,
and
had
modelled
much
after
her
own
fancy,
seemed
to
express
the
attitude
of
her
spirit,
the
desperate
recklessness
of
her
mood,
by
its
wild
and
picturesque
peculiarity.
But
the
point
which
drew
all
eyes,
and,
as
it
were,
transfigured
the
wearer--so
that
both
men
and
women
who
had
been
familiarly
acquainted
with
Hester
Prynne
were
now
impressed
as
if
they
beheld
her
for
the
first
time--was
that
SCARLET
LETTER,
so
fantastically
embroidered
and
illuminated
upon
her
bosom.
It
had
the
effect
of
a
spell,
taking
her
out
of
the
ordinary
relations
with
humanity,
and
enclosing
her
in
a
sphere
by
herself.
"She
hath
good
skill
at
her
needle,
that's
certain,"
remarked
one
of
her
female
spectators;
"but
did
ever
a
woman,
before
this
brazen
hussy,
contrive
such
a
way
of
showing
it?
Why,
gossips,
what
is
it
but
to
laugh
in
the
faces
of
our
godly
magistrates,
and
make
a
pride
out
of
what
they,
worthy
gentlemen,
meant
for
a
punishment?"
"It
were
well,"
muttered
the
most
iron-visaged
of
the
old
dames,
"if
we
stripped
Madame
Hester's
rich
gown
off
her
dainty
shoulders;
and
as
for
the
red
letter
which
she
hath
stitched
so
curiously,
I'll
bestow
a
rag
of
mine
own
rheumatic
flannel
to
make
a
fitter
one!"
"Oh,
peace,
neighbours--peace!"
whispered
their
youngest
companion;
"do
not
let
her
hear
you!
Not
a
stitch
in
that
embroidered
letter
but
she
has
felt
it
in
her
heart."
The
grim
beadle
now
made
a
gesture
with
his
staff.
"Make
way,
good
people--make
way,
in
the
King's
name!"
cried
he.
"Open
a
passage;
and
I
promise
ye,
Mistress
Prynne
shall
be
set
where
man,
woman,
and
child
may
have
a
fair
sight
of
her
brave
apparel
from
this
time
till
an
hour
past
meridian.
A
blessing
on
the
righteous
colony
of
the
Massachusetts,
where
iniquity
is
dragged
out
into
the
sunshine!
Come
along,
Madame
Hester,
and
show
your
scarlet
letter
in
the
market-place!"
A
lane
was
forthwith
opened
through
the
crowd
of
spectators.
Preceded
by
the
beadle,
and
attended
by
an
irregular
procession
of
stern-browed
men
and
unkindly
visaged
women,
Hester
Prynne
set
forth
towards
the
place
appointed
for
her
punishment.
A
crowd
of
eager
and
curious
schoolboys,
understanding
little
of
the
matter
in
hand,
except
that
it
gave
them
a
half-holiday,
ran
before
her
progress,
turning
their
heads
continually
to
stare
into
her
face
and
at
the
winking
baby
in
her
arms,
and
at
the
ignominious
letter
on
her
breast.
It
was
no
great
distance,
in
those
days,
from
the
prison
door
to
the
market-place.
Measured
by
the
prisoner's
experience,
however,
it
might
be
reckoned
a
journey
of
some
length;
for
haughty
as
her
demeanour
was,
she
perchance
underwent
an
agony
from
every
footstep
of
those
that
thronged
to
see
her,
as
if
her
heart
had
been
flung
into
the
street
for
them
all
to
spurn
and
trample
upon.
In
our
nature,
however,
there
is
a
provision,
alike
marvellous
and
merciful,
that
the
sufferer
should
never
know
the
intensity
of
what
he
endures
by
its
present
torture,
but
chiefly
by
the
pang
that
rankles
after
it.
With
almost
a
serene
deportment,
therefore,
Hester
Prynne
passed
through
this
portion
of
her
ordeal,
and
came
to
a
sort
of
scaffold,
at
the
western
extremity
of
the
market-place.
It
stood
nearly
beneath
the
eaves
of
Boston's
earliest
church,
and
appeared
to
be
a
fixture
there.
In
fact,
this
scaffold
constituted
a
portion
of
a
penal
machine,
which
now,
for
two
or
three
generations
past,
has
been
merely
historical
and
traditionary
among
us,
but
was
held,
in
the
old
time,
to
be
as
effectual
an
agent,
in
the
promotion
of
good
citizenship,
as
ever
was
the
guillotine
among
the
terrorists
of
France.
It
was,
in
short,
the
platform
of
the
pillory;
and
above
it
rose
the
framework
of
that
instrument
of
discipline,
so
fashioned
as
to
confine
the
human
head
in
its
tight
grasp,
and
thus
hold
it
up
to
the
public
gaze.
The
very
ideal
of
ignominy
was
embodied
and
made
manifest
in
this
contrivance
of
wood
and
iron.
There
can
be
no
outrage,
methinks,
against
our
common
nature--whatever
be
the
delinquencies
of
the
individual--no
outrage
more
flagrant
than
to
forbid
the
culprit
to
hide
his
face
for
shame;
as
it
was
the
essence
of
this
punishment
to
do.
In
Hester
Prynne's
instance,
however,
as
not
unfrequently
in
other
cases,
her
sentence
bore
that
she
should
stand
a
certain
time
upon
the
platform,
but
without
undergoing
that
gripe
about
the
neck
and
confinement
of
the
head,
the
proneness
to
which
was
the
most
devilish
characteristic
of
this
ugly
engine.
Knowing
well
her
part,
she
ascended
a
flight
of
wooden
steps,
and
was
thus
displayed
to
the
surrounding
multitude,
at
about
the
height
of
a
man's
shoulders
above
the
street.
Had
there
been
a
Papist
among
the
crowd
of
Puritans,
he
might
have
seen
in
this
beautiful
woman,
so
picturesque
in
her
attire
and
mien,
and
with
the
infant
at
her
bosom,
an
object
to
remind
him
of
the
image
of
Divine
Maternity,
which
so
many
illustrious
painters
have
vied
with
one
another
to
represent;
something
which
should
remind
him,
indeed,
but
only
by
contrast,
of
that
sacred
image
of
sinless
motherhood,
whose
infant
was
to
redeem
the
world.
Here,
there
was
the
taint
of
deepest
sin
in
the
most
sacred
quality
of
human
life,
working
such
effect,
that
the
world
was
only
the
darker
for
this
woman's
beauty,
and
the
more
lost
for
the
infant
that
she
had
borne.
The
scene
was
not
without
a
mixture
of
awe,
such
as
must
always
invest
the
spectacle
of
guilt
and
shame
in
a
fellow-creature,
before
society
shall
have
grown
corrupt
enough
to
smile,
instead
of
shuddering
at
it.
The
witnesses
of
Hester
Prynne's
disgrace
had
not
yet
passed
beyond
their
simplicity.
They
were
stern
enough
to
look
upon
her
death,
had
that
been
the
sentence,
without
a
murmur
at
its
severity,
but
had
none
of
the
heartlessness
of
another
social
state,
which
would
find
only
a
theme
for
jest
in
an
exhibition
like
the
present.
Even
had
there
been
a
disposition
to
turn
the
matter
into
ridicule,
it
must
have
been
repressed
and
overpowered
by
the
solemn
presence
of
men
no
less
dignified
than
the
governor,
and
several
of
his
counsellors,
a
judge,
a
general,
and
the
ministers
of
the
town,
all
of
whom
sat
or
stood
in
a
balcony
of
the
meeting-house,
looking
down
upon
the
platform.
When
such
personages
could
constitute
a
part
of
the
spectacle,
without
risking
the
majesty,
or
reverence
of
rank
and
office,
it
was
safely
to
be
inferred
that
the
infliction
of
a
legal
sentence
would
have
an
earnest
and
effectual
meaning.
Accordingly,
the
crowd
was
sombre
and
grave.
The
unhappy
culprit
sustained
herself
as
best
a
woman
might,
under
the
heavy
weight
of
a
thousand
unrelenting
eyes,
all
fastened
upon
her,
and
concentrated
at
her
bosom.
It
was
almost
intolerable
to
be
borne.
Of
an
impulsive
and
passionate
nature,
she
had
fortified
herself
to
encounter
the
stings
and
venomous
stabs
of
public
contumely,
wreaking
itself
in
every
variety
of
insult;
but
there
was
a
quality
so
much
more
terrible
in
the
solemn
mood
of
the
popular
mind,
that
she
longed
rather
to
behold
all
those
rigid
countenances
contorted
with
scornful
merriment,
and
herself
the
object.
Had
a
roar
of
laughter
burst
from
the
multitude--each
man,
each
woman,
each
little
shrill-voiced
child,
contributing
their
individual
parts--Hester
Prynne
might
have
repaid
them
all
with
a
bitter
and
disdainful
smile.
But,
under
the
leaden
infliction
which
it
was
her
doom
to
endure,
she
felt,
at
moments,
as
if
she
must
needs
shriek
out
with
the
full
power
of
her
lungs,
and
cast
herself
from
the
scaffold
down
upon
the
ground,
or
else
go
mad
at
once.
Yet
there
were
intervals
when
the
whole
scene,
in
which
she
was
the
most
conspicuous
object,
seemed
to
vanish
from
her
eyes,
or,
at
least,
glimmered
indistinctly
before
them,
like
a
mass
of
imperfectly
shaped
and
spectral
images.
Her
mind,
and
especially
her
memory,
was
preternaturally
active,
and
kept
bringing
up
other
scenes
than
this
roughly
hewn
street
of
a
little
town,
on
the
edge
of
the
western
wilderness:
other
faces
than
were
lowering
upon
her
from
beneath
the
brims
of
those
steeple-crowned
hats.
Reminiscences,
the
most
trifling
and
immaterial,
passages
of
infancy
and
school-days,
sports,
childish
quarrels,
and
the
little
domestic
traits
of
her
maiden
years,
came
swarming
back
upon
her,
intermingled
with
recollections
of
whatever
was
gravest
in
her
subsequent
life;
one
picture
precisely
as
vivid
as
another;
as
if
all
were
of
similar
importance,
or
all
alike
a
play.
Possibly,
it
was
an
instinctive
device
of
her
spirit
to
relieve
itself
by
the
exhibition
of
these
phantasmagoric
forms,
from
the
cruel
weight
and
hardness
of
the
reality.
Be
that
as
it
might,
the
scaffold
of
the
pillory
was
a
point
of
view
that
revealed
to
Hester
Prynne
the
entire
track
along
which
she
had
been
treading,
since
her
happy
infancy.
Standing
on
that
miserable
eminence,
she
saw
again
her
native
village,
in
Old
England,
and
her
paternal
home:
a
decayed
house
of
grey
stone,
with
a
poverty-stricken
aspect,
but
retaining
a
half
obliterated
shield
of
arms
over
the
portal,
in
token
of
antique
gentility.
She
saw
her
father's
face,
with
its
bold
brow,
and
reverend
white
beard
that
flowed
over
the
old-fashioned
Elizabethan
ruff;
her
mother's,
too,
with
the
look
of
heedful
and
anxious
love
which
it
always
wore
in
her
remembrance,
and
which,
even
since
her
death,
had
so
often
laid
the
impediment
of
a
gentle
remonstrance
in
her
daughter's
pathway.
She
saw
her
own
face,
glowing
with
girlish
beauty,
and
illuminating
all
the
interior
of
the
dusky
mirror
in
which
she
had
been
wont
to
gaze
at
it.
There
she
beheld
another
countenance,
of
a
man
well
stricken
in
years,
a
pale,
thin,
scholar-like
visage,
with
eyes
dim
and
bleared
by
the
lamp-light
that
had
served
them
to
pore
over
many
ponderous
books.
Yet
those
same
bleared
optics
had
a
strange,
penetrating
power,
when
it
was
their
owner's
purpose
to
read
the
human
soul.
This
figure
of
the
study
and
the
cloister,
as
Hester
Prynne's
womanly
fancy
failed
not
to
recall,
was
slightly
deformed,
with
the
left
shoulder
a
trifle
higher
than
the
right.
Next
rose
before
her
in
memory's
picture-gallery,
the
intricate
and
narrow
thoroughfares,
the
tall,
grey
houses,
the
huge
cathedrals,
and
the
public
edifices,
ancient
in
date
and
quaint
in
architecture,
of
a
continental
city;
where
new
life
had
awaited
her,
still
in
connexion
with
the
misshapen
scholar:
a
new
life,
but
feeding
itself
on
time-worn
materials,
like
a
tuft
of
green
moss
on
a
crumbling
wall.
Lastly,
in
lieu
of
these
shifting
scenes,
came
back
the
rude
market-place
of
the
Puritan,
settlement,
with
all
the
townspeople
assembled,
and
levelling
their
stern
regards
at
Hester
Prynne--yes,
at
herself--who
stood
on
the
scaffold
of
the
pillory,
an
infant
on
her
arm,
and
the
letter
A,
in
scarlet,
fantastically
embroidered
with
gold
thread,
upon
her
bosom.
Could
it
be
true?
She
clutched
the
child
so
fiercely
to
her
breast
that
it
sent
forth
a
cry;
she
turned
her
eyes
downward
at
the
scarlet
letter,
and
even
touched
it
with
her
finger,
to
assure
herself
that
the
infant
and
the
shame
were
real.
Yes
these
were
her
realities--all
else
had
vanished!
III.
THE
RECOGNITION
From
this
intense
consciousness
of
being
the
object
of
severe
and
universal
observation,
the
wearer
of
the
scarlet
letter
was
at
length
relieved,
by
discerning,
on
the
outskirts
of
the
crowd,
a
figure
which
irresistibly
took
possession
of
her
thoughts.
An
Indian
in
his
native
garb
was
standing
there;
but
the
red
men
were
not
so
infrequent
visitors
of
the
English
settlements
that
one
of
them
would
have
attracted
any
notice
from
Hester
Prynne
at
such
a
time;
much
less
would
he
have
excluded
all
other
objects
and
ideas
from
her
mind.
By
the
Indian's
side,
and
evidently
sustaining
a
companionship
with
him,
stood
a
white
man,
clad
in
a
strange
disarray
of
civilized
and
savage
costume.
He
was
small
in
stature,
with
a
furrowed
visage,
which
as
yet
could
hardly
be
termed
aged.
There
was
a
remarkable
intelligence
in
his
features,
as
of
a
person
who
had
so
cultivated
his
mental
part
that
it
could
not
fail
to
mould
the
physical
to
itself
and
become
manifest
by
unmistakable
tokens.
Although,
by
a
seemingly
careless
arrangement
of
his
heterogeneous
garb,
he
had
endeavoured
to
conceal
or
abate
the
peculiarity,
it
was
sufficiently
evident
to
Hester
Prynne
that
one
of
this
man's
shoulders
rose
higher
than
the
other.
Again,
at
the
first
instant
of
perceiving
that
thin
visage,
and
the
slight
deformity
of
the
figure,
she
pressed
her
infant
to
her
bosom
with
so
convulsive
a
force
that
the
poor
babe
uttered
another
cry
of
pain.
But
the
mother
did
not
seem
to
hear
it.
At
his
arrival
in
the
market-place,
and
some
time
before
she
saw
him,
the
stranger
had
bent
his
eyes
on
Hester
Prynne.
It
was
carelessly
at
first,
like
a
man
chiefly
accustomed
to
look
inward,
and
to
whom
external
matters
are
of
little
value
and
import,
unless
they
bear
relation
to
something
within
his
mind.
Very
soon,
however,
his
look
became
keen
and
penetrative.
A
writhing
horror
twisted
itself
across
his
features,
like
a
snake
gliding
swiftly
over
them,
and
making
one
little
pause,
with
all
its
wreathed
intervolutions
in
open
sight.
His
face
darkened
with
some
powerful
emotion,
which,
nevertheless,
he
so
instantaneously
controlled
by
an
effort
of
his
will,
that,
save
at
a
single
moment,
its
expression
might
have
passed
for
calmness.
After
a
brief
space,
the
convulsion
grew
almost
imperceptible,
and
finally
subsided
into
the
depths
of
his
nature.
When
he
found
the
eyes
of
Hester
Prynne
fastened
on
his
own,
and
saw
that
she
appeared
to
recognize
him,
he
slowly
and
calmly
raised
his
finger,
made
a
gesture
with
it
in
the
air,
and
laid
it
on
his
lips.
Then
touching
the
shoulder
of
a
townsman
who
stood
near
to
him,
he
addressed
him
in
a
formal
and
courteous
manner:
"I
pray
you,
good
Sir,"
said
he,
"who
is
this
woman?--and
wherefore
is
she
here
set
up
to
public
shame?"
"You
must
needs
be
a
stranger
in
this
region,
friend,"
answered
the
townsman,
looking
curiously
at
the
questioner
and
his
savage
companion,
"else
you
would
surely
have
heard
of
Mistress
Hester
Prynne
and
her
evil
doings.
She
hath
raised
a
great
scandal,
I
promise
you,
in
godly
Master
Dimmesdale's
church."
"You
say
truly,"
replied
the
other;
"I
am
a
stranger,
and
have
been
a
wanderer,
sorely
against
my
will.
I
have
met
with
grievous
mishaps
by
sea
and
land,
and
have
been
long
held
in
bonds
among
the
heathen-folk
to
the
southward;
and
am
now
brought
hither
by
this
Indian
to
be
redeemed
out
of
my
captivity.
Will
it
please
you,
therefore,
to
tell
me
of
Hester
Prynne's--have
I
her
name
rightly?--of
this
woman's
offences,
and
what
has
brought
her
to
yonder
scaffold?"
"Truly,
friend;
and
methinks
it
must
gladden
your
heart,
after
your
troubles
and
sojourn
in
the
wilderness,"
said
the
townsman,
"to
find
yourself
at
length
in
a
land
where
iniquity
is
searched
out
and
punished
in
the
sight
of
rulers
and
people,
as
here
in
our
godly
New
England.
Yonder
woman,
Sir,
you
must
know,
was
the
wife
of
a
certain
learned
man,
English
by
birth,
but
who
had
long
ago
dwelt
in
Amsterdam,
whence
some
good
time
agone
he
was
minded
to
cross
over
and
cast
in
his
lot
with
us
of
the
Massachusetts.
To
this
purpose
he
sent
his
wife
before
him,
remaining
himself
to
look
after
some
necessary
affairs.
Marry,
good
Sir,
in
some
two
years,
or
less,
that
the
woman
has
been
a
dweller
here
in
Boston,
no
tidings
have
come
of
this
learned
gentleman,
Master
Prynne;
and
his
young
wife,
look
you,
being
left
to
her
own
misguidance--"
"Ah!--aha!--I
conceive
you,"
said
the
stranger
with
a
bitter
smile.
"So
learned
a
man
as
you
speak
of
should
have
learned
this
too
in
his
books.
And
who,
by
your
favour,
Sir,
may
be
the
father
of
yonder
babe--it
is
some
three
or
four
months
old,
I
should
judge--which
Mistress
Prynne
is
holding
in
her
arms?"
"Of
a
truth,
friend,
that
matter
remaineth
a
riddle;
and
the
Daniel
who
shall
expound
it
is
yet
a-wanting,"
answered
the
townsman.
"Madame
Hester
absolutely
refuseth
to
speak,
and
the
magistrates
have
laid
their
heads
together
in
vain.
Peradventure
the
guilty
one
stands
looking
on
at
this
sad
spectacle,
unknown
of
man,
and
forgetting
that
God
sees
him."
"The
learned
man,"
observed
the
stranger
with
another
smile,
"should
come
himself
to
look
into
the
mystery."
"It
behoves
him
well
if
he
be
still
in
life,"
responded
the
townsman.
"Now,
good
Sir,
our
Massachusetts
magistracy,
bethinking
themselves
that
this
woman
is
youthful
and
fair,
and
doubtless
was
strongly
tempted
to
her
fall,
and
that,
moreover,
as
is
most
likely,
her
husband
may
be
at
the
bottom
of
the
sea,
they
have
not
been
bold
to
put
in
force
the
extremity
of
our
righteous
law
against
her.
The
penalty
thereof
is
death.
But
in
their
great
mercy
and
tenderness
of
heart
they
have
doomed
Mistress
Prynne
to
stand
only
a
space
of
three
hours
on
the
platform
of
the
pillory,
and
then
and
thereafter,
for
the
remainder
of
her
natural
life
to
wear
a
mark
of
shame
upon
her
bosom."
"A
wise
sentence,"
remarked
the
stranger,
gravely,
bowing
his
head.
"Thus
she
will
be
a
living
sermon
against
sin,
until
the
ignominious
letter
be
engraved
upon
her
tombstone.
It
irks
me,
nevertheless,
that
the
partner
of
her
iniquity
should
not
at
least,
stand
on
the
scaffold
by
her
side.
But
he
will
be
known--he
will
be
known!--he
will
be
known!"
He
bowed
courteously
to
the
communicative
townsman,
and
whispering
a
few
words
to
his
Indian
attendant,
they
both
made
their
way
through
the
crowd.
While
this
passed,
Hester
Prynne
had
been
standing
on
her
pedestal,
still
with
a
fixed
gaze
towards
the
stranger--so
fixed
a
gaze
that,
at
moments
of
intense
absorption,
all
other
objects
in
the
visible
world
seemed
to
vanish,
leaving
only
him
and
her.
Such
an
interview,
perhaps,
would
have
been
more
terrible
than
even
to
meet
him
as
she
now
did,
with
the
hot
mid-day
sun
burning
down
upon
her
face,
and
lighting
up
its
shame;
with
the
scarlet
token
of
infamy
on
her
breast;
with
the
sin-born
infant
in
her
arms;
with
a
whole
people,
drawn
forth
as
to
a
festival,
staring
at
the
features
that
should
have
been
seen
only
in
the
quiet
gleam
of
the
fireside,
in
the
happy
shadow
of
a
home,
or
beneath
a
matronly
veil
at
church.
Dreadful
as
it
was,
she
was
conscious
of
a
shelter
in
the
presence
of
these
thousand
witnesses.
It
was
better
to
stand
thus,
with
so
many
betwixt
him
and
her,
than
to
greet
him
face
to
face--they
two
alone.
She
fled
for
refuge,
as
it
were,
to
the
public
exposure,
and
dreaded
the
moment
when
its
protection
should
be
withdrawn
from
her.
Involved
in
these
thoughts,
she
scarcely
heard
a
voice
behind
her
until
it
had
repeated
her
name
more
than
once,
in
a
loud
and
solemn
tone,
audible
to
the
whole
multitude.
"Hearken
unto
me,
Hester
Prynne!"
said
the
voice.
It
has
already
been
noticed
that
directly
over
the
platform
on
which
Hester
Prynne
stood
was
a
kind
of
balcony,
or
open
gallery,
appended
to
the
meeting-house.
It
was
the
place
whence
proclamations
were
wont
to
be
made,
amidst
an
assemblage
of
the
magistracy,
with
all
the
ceremonial
that
attended
such
public
observances
in
those
days.
Here,
to
witness
the
scene
which
we
are
describing,
sat
Governor
Bellingham
himself
with
four
sergeants
about
his
chair,
bearing
halberds,
as
a
guard
of
honour.
He
wore
a
dark
feather
in
his
hat,
a
border
of
embroidery
on
his
cloak,
and
a
black
velvet
tunic
beneath--a
gentleman
advanced
in
years,
with
a
hard
experience
written
in
his
wrinkles.
He
was
not
ill-fitted
to
be
the
head
and
representative
of
a
community
which
owed
its
origin
and
progress,
and
its
present
state
of
development,
not
to
the
impulses
of
youth,
but
to
the
stern
and
tempered
energies
of
manhood
and
the
sombre
sagacity
of
age;
accomplishing
so
much,
precisely
because
it
imagined
and
hoped
so
little.
The
other
eminent
characters
by
whom
the
chief
ruler
was
surrounded
were
distinguished
by
a
dignity
of
mien,
belonging
to
a
period
when
the
forms
of
authority
were
felt
to
possess
the
sacredness
of
Divine
institutions.
They
were,
doubtless,
good
men,
just
and
sage.
But,
out
of
the
whole
human
family,
it
would
not
have
been
easy
to
select
the
same
number
of
wise
and
virtuous
persons,
who
should
be
less
capable
of
sitting
in
judgment
on
an
erring
woman's
heart,
and
disentangling
its
mesh
of
good
and
evil,
than
the
sages
of
rigid
aspect
towards
whom
Hester
Prynne
now
turned
her
face.
She
seemed
conscious,
indeed,
that
whatever
sympathy
she
might
expect
lay
in
the
larger
and
warmer
heart
of
the
multitude;
for,
as
she
lifted
her
eyes
towards
the
balcony,
the
unhappy
woman
grew
pale,
and
trembled.
The
voice
which
had
called
her
attention
was
that
of
the
reverend
and
famous
John
Wilson,
the
eldest
clergyman
of
Boston,
a
great
scholar,
like
most
of
his
contemporaries
in
the
profession,
and
withal
a
man
of
kind
and
genial
spirit.
This
last
attribute,
however,
had
been
less
carefully
developed
than
his
intellectual
gifts,
and
was,
in
truth,
rather
a
matter
of
shame
than
self-congratulation
with
him.
There
he
stood,
with
a
border
of
grizzled
locks
beneath
his
skull-cap,
while
his
grey
eyes,
accustomed
to
the
shaded
light
of
his
study,
were
winking,
like
those
of
Hester's
infant,
in
the
unadulterated
sunshine.
He
looked
like
the
darkly
engraved
portraits
which
we
see
prefixed
to
old
volumes
of
sermons,
and
had
no
more
right
than
one
of
those
portraits
would
have
to
step
forth,
as
he
now
did,
and
meddle
with
a
question
of
human
guilt,
passion,
and
anguish.
"Hester
Prynne,"
said
the
clergyman,
"I
have
striven
with
my
young
brother
here,
under
whose
preaching
of
the
Word
you
have
been
privileged
to
sit"--here
Mr.
Wilson
laid
his
hand
on
the
shoulder
of
a
pale
young
man
beside
him--"I
have
sought,
I
say,
to
persuade
this
godly
youth,
that
he
should
deal
with
you,
here
in
the
face
of
Heaven,
and
before
these
wise
and
upright
rulers,
and
in
hearing
of
all
the
people,
as
touching
the
vileness
and
blackness
of
your
sin.
Knowing
your
natural
temper
better
than
I,
he
could
the
better
judge
what
arguments
to
use,
whether
of
tenderness
or
terror,
such
as
might
prevail
over
your
hardness
and
obstinacy,
insomuch
that
you
should
no
longer
hide
the
name
of
him
who
tempted
you
to
this
grievous
fall.
But
he
opposes
to
me--with
a
young
man's
over-softness,
albeit
wise
beyond
his
years--that
it
were
wronging
the
very
nature
of
woman
to
force
her
to
lay
open
her
heart's
secrets
in
such
broad
daylight,
and
in
presence
of
so
great
a
multitude.
Truly,
as
I
sought
to
convince
him,
the
shame
lay
in
the
commission
of
the
sin,
and
not
in
the
showing
of
it
forth.
What
say
you
to
it,
once
again,
brother
Dimmesdale?
Must
it
be
thou,
or
I,
that
shall
deal
with
this
poor
sinner's
soul?"
There
was
a
murmur
among
the
dignified
and
reverend
occupants
of
the
balcony;
and
Governor
Bellingham
gave
expression
to
its
purport,
speaking
in
an
authoritative
voice,
although
tempered
with
respect
towards
the
youthful
clergyman
whom
he
addressed:
"Good
Master
Dimmesdale,"
said
he,
"the
responsibility
of
this
woman's
soul
lies
greatly
with
you.
It
behoves
you;
therefore,
to
exhort
her
to
repentance
and
to
confession,
as
a
proof
and
consequence
thereof."
The
directness
of
this
appeal
drew
the
eyes
of
the
whole
crowd
upon
the
Reverend
Mr.
Dimmesdale--young
clergyman,
who
had
come
from
one
of
the
great
English
universities,
bringing
all
the
learning
of
the
age
into
our
wild
forest
land.
His
eloquence
and
religious
fervour
had
already
given
the
earnest
of
high
eminence
in
his
profession.
He
was
a
person
of
very
striking
aspect,
with
a
white,
lofty,
and
impending
brow;
large,
brown,
melancholy
eyes,
and
a
mouth
which,
unless
when
he
forcibly
compressed
it,
was
apt
to
be
tremulous,
expressing
both
nervous
sensibility
and
a
vast
power
of
self
restraint.
Notwithstanding
his
high
native
gifts
and
scholar-like
attainments,
there
was
an
air
about
this
young
minister--an
apprehensive,
a
startled,
a
half-frightened
look--as
of
a
being
who
felt
himself
quite
astray,
and
at
a
loss
in
the
pathway
of
human
existence,
and
could
only
be
at
ease
in
some
seclusion
of
his
own.
Therefore,
so
far
as
his
duties
would
permit,
he
trod
in
the
shadowy
by-paths,
and
thus
kept
himself
simple
and
childlike,
coming
forth,
when
occasion
was,
with
a
freshness,
and
fragrance,
and
dewy
purity
of
thought,
which,
as
many
people
said,
affected
them
like
the
speech
of
an
angel.
Such
was
the
young
man
whom
the
Reverend
Mr.
Wilson
and
the
Governor
had
introduced
so
openly
to
the
public
notice,
bidding
him
speak,
in
the
hearing
of
all
men,
to
that
mystery
of
a
woman's
soul,
so
sacred
even
in
its
pollution.
The
trying
nature
of
his
position
drove
the
blood
from
his
cheek,
and
made
his
lips
tremulous.
"Speak
to
the
woman,
my
brother,"
said
Mr.
Wilson.
"It
is
of
moment
to
her
soul,
and,
therefore,
as
the
worshipful
Governor
says,
momentous
to
thine
own,
in
whose
charge
hers
is.
Exhort
her
to
confess
the
truth!"
The
Reverend
Mr.
Dimmesdale
bent
his
head,
in
silent
prayer,
as
it
seemed,
and
then
came
forward.
"Hester
Prynne,"
said
he,
leaning
over
the
balcony
and
looking
down
steadfastly
into
her
eyes,
"thou
hearest
what
this
good
man
says,
and
seest
the
accountability
under
which
I
labour.
If
thou
feelest
it
to
be
for
thy
soul's
peace,
and
that
thy
earthly
punishment
will
thereby
be
made
more
effectual
to
salvation,
I
charge
thee
to
speak
out
the
name
of
thy
fellow-sinner
and
fellow-sufferer!
Be
not
silent
from
any
mistaken
pity
and
tenderness
for
him;
for,
believe
me,
Hester,
though
he
were
to
step
down
from
a
high
place,
and
stand
there
beside
thee,
on
thy
pedestal
of
shame,
yet
better
were
it
so
than
to
hide
a
guilty
heart
through
life.
What
can
thy
silence
do
for
him,
except
it
tempt
him--yea,
compel
him,
as
it
were--to
add
hypocrisy
to
sin?
Heaven
hath
granted
thee
an
open
ignominy,
that
thereby
thou
mayest
work
out
an
open
triumph
over
the
evil
within
thee
and
the
sorrow
without.
Take
heed
how
thou
deniest
to
him--who,
perchance,
hath
not
the
courage
to
grasp
it
for
himself--the
bitter,
but
wholesome,
cup
that
is
now
presented
to
thy
lips!"
The
young
pastor's
voice
was
tremulously
sweet,
rich,
deep,
and
broken.
The
feeling
that
it
so
evidently
manifested,
rather
than
the
direct
purport
of
the
words,
caused
it
to
vibrate
within
all
hearts,
and
brought
the
listeners
into
one
accord
of
sympathy.
Even
the
poor
baby
at
Hester's
bosom
was
affected
by
the
same
influence,
for
it
directed
its
hitherto
vacant
gaze
towards
Mr.
Dimmesdale,
and
held
up
its
little
arms
with
a
half-pleased,
half-plaintive
murmur.
So
powerful
seemed
the
minister's
appeal
that
the
people
could
not
believe
but
that
Hester
Prynne
would
speak
out
the
guilty
name,
or
else
that
the
guilty
one
himself
in
whatever
high
or
lowly
place
he
stood,
would
be
drawn
forth
by
an
inward
and
inevitable
necessity,
and
compelled
to
ascend
the
scaffold.
Hester
shook
her
head.
"Woman,
transgress
not
beyond
the
limits
of
Heaven's
mercy!"
cried
the
Reverend
Mr.
Wilson,
more
harshly
than
before.
"That
little
babe
hath
been
gifted
with
a
voice,
to
second
and
confirm
the
counsel
which
thou
hast
heard.
Speak
out
the
name!
That,
and
thy
repentance,
may
avail
to
take
the
scarlet
letter
off
thy
breast."
"Never,"
replied
Hester
Prynne,
looking,
not
at
Mr.
Wilson,
but
into
the
deep
and
troubled
eyes
of
the
younger
clergyman.
"It
is
too
deeply
branded.
Ye
cannot
take
it
off.
And
would
that
I
might
endure
his
agony
as
well
as
mine!"
"Speak,
woman!"
said
another
voice,
coldly
and
sternly,
proceeding
from
the
crowd
about
the
scaffold,
"Speak;
and
give
your
child
a
father!"
"I
will
not
speak!"
answered
Hester,
turning
pale
as
death,
but
responding
to
this
voice,
which
she
too
surely
recognised.
"And
my
child
must
seek
a
heavenly
father;
she
shall
never
know
an
earthly
one!"
"She
will
not
speak!"
murmured
Mr.
Dimmesdale,
who,
leaning
over
the
balcony,
with
his
hand
upon
his
heart,
had
awaited
the
result
of
his
appeal.
He
now
drew
back
with
a
long
respiration.
"Wondrous
strength
and
generosity
of
a
woman's
heart!
She
will
not
speak!"
Discerning
the
impracticable
state
of
the
poor
culprit's
mind,
the
elder
clergyman,
who
had
carefully
prepared
himself
for
the
occasion,
addressed
to
the
multitude
a
discourse
on
sin,
in
all
its
branches,
but
with
continual
reference
to
the
ignominious
letter.
So
forcibly
did
he
dwell
upon
this
symbol,
for
the
hour
or
more
during
which
his
periods
were
rolling
over
the
people's
heads,
that
it
assumed
new
terrors
in
their
imagination,
and
seemed
to
derive
its
scarlet
hue
from
the
flames
of
the
infernal
pit.
Hester
Prynne,
meanwhile,
kept
her
place
upon
the
pedestal
of
shame,
with
glazed
eyes,
and
an
air
of
weary
indifference.
She
had
borne
that
morning
all
that
nature
could
endure;
and
as
her
temperament
was
not
of
the
order
that
escapes
from
too
intense
suffering
by
a
swoon,
her
spirit
could
only
shelter
itself
beneath
a
stony
crust
of
insensibility,
while
the
faculties
of
animal
life
remained
entire.
In
this
state,
the
voice
of
the
preacher
thundered
remorselessly,
but
unavailingly,
upon
her
ears.
The
infant,
during
the
latter
portion
of
her
ordeal,
pierced
the
air
with
its
wailings
and
screams;
she
strove
to
hush
it
mechanically,
but
seemed
scarcely
to
sympathise
with
its
trouble.
With
the
same
hard
demeanour,
she
was
led
back
to
prison,
and
vanished
from
the
public
gaze
within
its
iron-clamped
portal.
It
was
whispered
by
those
who
peered
after
her
that
the
scarlet
letter
threw
a
lurid
gleam
along
the
dark
passage-way
of
the
interior.
IV.
THE
INTERVIEW
After
her
return
to
the
prison,
Hester
Prynne
was
found
to
be
in
a
state
of
nervous
excitement,
that
demanded
constant
watchfulness,
lest
she
should
perpetrate
violence
on
herself,
or
do
some
half-frenzied
mischief
to
the
poor
babe.
As
night
approached,
it
proving
impossible
to
quell
her
insubordination
by
rebuke
or
threats
of
punishment,
Master
Brackett,
the
jailer,
thought
fit
to
introduce
a
physician.
He
described
him
as
a
man
of
skill
in
all
Christian
modes
of
physical
science,
and
likewise
familiar
with
whatever
the
savage
people
could
teach
in
respect
to
medicinal
herbs
and
roots
that
grew
in
the
forest.
To
say
the
truth,
there
was
much
need
of
professional
assistance,
not
merely
for
Hester
herself,
but
still
more
urgently
for
the
child--who,
drawing
its
sustenance
from
the
maternal
bosom,
seemed
to
have
drank
in
with
it
all
the
turmoil,
the
anguish
and
despair,
which
pervaded
the
mother's
system.
It
now
writhed
in
convulsions
of
pain,
and
was
a
forcible
type,
in
its
little
frame,
of
the
moral
agony
which
Hester
Prynne
had
borne
throughout
the
day.
Closely
following
the
jailer
into
the
dismal
apartment,
appeared
that
individual,
of
singular
aspect
whose
presence
in
the
crowd
had
been
of
such
deep
interest
to
the
wearer
of
the
scarlet
letter.
He
was
lodged
in
the
prison,
not
as
suspected
of
any
offence,
but
as
the
most
convenient
and
suitable
mode
of
disposing
of
him,
until
the
magistrates
should
have
conferred
with
the
Indian
sagamores
respecting
his
ransom.
His
name
was
announced
as
Roger
Chillingworth.
The
jailer,
after
ushering
him
into
the
room,
remained
a
moment,
marvelling
at
the
comparative
quiet
that
followed
his
entrance;
for
Hester
Prynne
had
immediately
become
as
still
as
death,
although
the
child
continued
to
moan.
"Prithee,
friend,
leave
me
alone
with
my
patient,"
said
the
practitioner.
"Trust
me,
good
jailer,
you
shall
briefly
have
peace
in
your
house;
and,
I
promise
you,
Mistress
Prynne
shall
hereafter
be
more
amenable
to
just
authority
than
you
may
have
found
her
heretofore."
"Nay,
if
your
worship
can
accomplish
that,"
answered
Master
Brackett,
"I
shall
own
you
for
a
man
of
skill,
indeed!
Verily,
the
woman
hath
been
like
a
possessed
one;
and
there
lacks
little
that
I
should
take
in
hand,
to
drive
Satan
out
of
her
with
stripes."
The
stranger
had
entered
the
room
with
the
characteristic
quietude
of
the
profession
to
which
he
announced
himself
as
belonging.
Nor
did
his
demeanour
change
when
the
withdrawal
of
the
prison
keeper
left
him
face
to
face
with
the
woman,
whose
absorbed
notice
of
him,
in
the
crowd,
had
intimated
so
close
a
relation
between
himself
and
her.
His
first
care
was
given
to
the
child,
whose
cries,
indeed,
as
she
lay
writhing
on
the
trundle-bed,
made
it
of
peremptory
necessity
to
postpone
all
other
business
to
the
task
of
soothing
her.
He
examined
the
infant
carefully,
and
then
proceeded
to
unclasp
a
leathern
case,
which
he
took
from
beneath
his
dress.
It
appeared
to
contain
medical
preparations,
one
of
which
he
mingled
with
a
cup
of
water.
"My
old
studies
in
alchemy,"
observed
he,
"and
my
sojourn,
for
above
a
year
past,
among
a
people
well
versed
in
the
kindly
properties
of
simples,
have
made
a
better
physician
of
me
than
many
that
claim
the
medical
degree.
Here,
woman!
The
child
is
yours--she
is
none
of
mine--neither
will
she
recognise
my
voice
or
aspect
as
a
father's.
Administer
this
draught,
therefore,
with
thine
own
hand."
Hester
repelled
the
offered
medicine,
at
the
same
time
gazing
with
strongly
marked
apprehension
into
his
face.
"Wouldst
thou
avenge
thyself
on
the
innocent
babe?"
whispered
she.
"Foolish
woman!"
responded
the
physician,
half
coldly,
half
soothingly.
"What
should
ail
me
to
harm
this
misbegotten
and
miserable
babe?
The
medicine
is
potent
for
good,
and
were
it
my
child--yea,
mine
own,
as
well
as
thine!
I
could
do
no
better
for
it."
As
she
still
hesitated,
being,
in
fact,
in
no
reasonable
state
of
mind,
he
took
the
infant
in
his
arms,
and
himself
administered
the
draught.
It
soon
proved
its
efficacy,
and
redeemed
the
leech's
pledge.
The
moans
of
the
little
patient
subsided;
its
convulsive
tossings
gradually
ceased;
and
in
a
few
moments,
as
is
the
custom
of
young
children
after
relief
from
pain,
it
sank
into
a
profound
and
dewy
slumber.
The
physician,
as
he
had
a
fair
right
to
be
termed,
next
bestowed
his
attention
on
the
mother.
With
calm
and
intent
scrutiny,
he
felt
her
pulse,
looked
into
her
eyes--a
gaze
that
made
her
heart
shrink
and
shudder,
because
so
familiar,
and
yet
so
strange
and
cold--and,
finally,
satisfied
with
his
investigation,
proceeded
to
mingle
another
draught.
"I
know
not
Lethe
nor
Nepenthe,"
remarked
he;
"but
I
have
learned
many
new
secrets
in
the
wilderness,
and
here
is
one
of
them--a
recipe
that
an
Indian
taught
me,
in
requital
of
some
lessons
of
my
own,
that
were
as
old
as
Paracelsus.
Drink
it!
It
may
be
less
soothing
than
a
sinless
conscience.
That
I
cannot
give
thee.
But
it
will
calm
the
swell
and
heaving
of
thy
passion,
like
oil
thrown
on
the
waves
of
a
tempestuous
sea."
He
presented
the
cup
to
Hester,
who
received
it
with
a
slow,
earnest
look
into
his
face;
not
precisely
a
look
of
fear,
yet
full
of
doubt
and
questioning
as
to
what
his
purposes
might
be.
She
looked
also
at
her
slumbering
child.
"I
have
thought
of
death,"
said
she--"have
wished
for
it--would
even
have
prayed
for
it,
were
it
fit
that
such
as
I
should
pray
for
anything.
Yet,
if
death
be
in
this
cup,
I
bid
thee
think
again,
ere
thou
beholdest
me
quaff
it.
See!
it
is
even
now
at
my
lips."
"Drink,
then,"
replied
he,
still
with
the
same
cold
composure.
"Dost
thou
know
me
so
little,
Hester
Prynne?
Are
my
purposes
wont
to
be
so
shallow?
Even
if
I
imagine
a
scheme
of
vengeance,
what
could
I
do
better
for
my
object
than
to
let
thee
live--than
to
give
thee
medicines
against
all
harm
and
peril
of
life--so
that
this
burning
shame
may
still
blaze
upon
thy
bosom?"
As
he
spoke,
he
laid
his
long
fore-finger
on
the
scarlet
letter,
which
forthwith
seemed
to
scorch
into
Hester's
breast,
as
if
it
had
been
red
hot.
He
noticed
her
involuntary
gesture,
and
smiled.
"Live,
therefore,
and
bear
about
thy
doom
with
thee,
in
the
eyes
of
men
and
women--in
the
eyes
of
him
whom
thou
didst
call
thy
husband--in
the
eyes
of
yonder
child!
And,
that
thou
mayest
live,
take
off
this
draught."
Without
further
expostulation
or
delay,
Hester
Prynne
drained
the
cup,
and,
at
the
motion
of
the
man
of
skill,
seated
herself
on
the
bed,
where
the
child
was
sleeping;
while
he
drew
the
only
chair
which
the
room
afforded,
and
took
his
own
seat
beside
her.
She
could
not
but
tremble
at
these
preparations;
for
she
felt
that--having
now
done
all
that
humanity,
or
principle,
or,
if
so
it
were,
a
refined
cruelty,
impelled
him
to
do
for
the
relief
of
physical
suffering--he
was
next
to
treat
with
her
as
the
man
whom
she
had
most
deeply
and
irreparably
injured.
"Hester,"
said
he,
"I
ask
not
wherefore,
nor
how
thou
hast
fallen
into
the
pit,
or
say,
rather,
thou
hast
ascended
to
the
pedestal
of
infamy
on
which
I
found
thee.
The
reason
is
not
far
to
seek.
It
was
my
folly,
and
thy
weakness.
I--a
man
of
thought--the
book-worm
of
great
libraries--a
man
already
in
decay,
having
given
my
best
years
to
feed
the
hungry
dream
of
knowledge--what
had
I
to
do
with
youth
and
beauty
like
thine
own?
Misshapen
from
my
birth-hour,
how
could
I
delude
myself
with
the
idea
that
intellectual
gifts
might
veil
physical
deformity
in
a
young
girl's
fantasy?
Men
call
me
wise.
If
sages
were
ever
wise
in
their
own
behoof,
I
might
have
foreseen
all
this.
I
might
have
known
that,
as
I
came
out
of
the
vast
and
dismal
forest,
and
entered
this
settlement
of
Christian
men,
the
very
first
object
to
meet
my
eyes
would
be
thyself,
Hester
Prynne,
standing
up,
a
statue
of
ignominy,
before
the
people.
Nay,
from
the
moment
when
we
came
down
the
old
church-steps
together,
a
married
pair,
I
might
have
beheld
the
bale-fire
of
that
scarlet
letter
blazing
at
the
end
of
our
path!"
"Thou
knowest,"
said
Hester--for,
depressed
as
she
was,
she
could
not
endure
this
last
quiet
stab
at
the
token
of
her
shame--"thou
knowest
that
I
was
frank
with
thee.
I
felt
no
love,
nor
feigned
any."
"True,"
replied
he.
"It
was
my
folly!
I
have
said
it.
But,
up
to
that
epoch
of
my
life,
I
had
lived
in
vain.
The
world
had
been
so
cheerless!
My
heart
was
a
habitation
large
enough
for
many
guests,
but
lonely
and
chill,
and
without
a
household
fire.
I
longed
to
kindle
one!
It
seemed
not
so
wild
a
dream--old
as
I
was,
and
sombre
as
I
was,
and
misshapen
as
I
was--that
the
simple
bliss,
which
is
scattered
far
and
wide,
for
all
mankind
to
gather
up,
might
yet
be
mine.
And
so,
Hester,
I
drew
thee
into
my
heart,
into
its
innermost
chamber,
and
sought
to
warm
thee
by
the
warmth
which
thy
presence
made
there!"
"I
have
greatly
wronged
thee,"
murmured
Hester.
"We
have
wronged
each
other,"
answered
he.
"Mine
was
the
first
wrong,
when
I
betrayed
thy
budding
youth
into
a
false
and
unnatural
relation
with
my
decay.
Therefore,
as
a
man
who
has
not
thought
and
philosophised
in
vain,
I
seek
no
vengeance,
plot
no
evil
against
thee.
Between
thee
and
me,
the
scale
hangs
fairly
balanced.
But,
Hester,
the
man
lives
who
has
wronged
us
both!
Who
is
he?"
"Ask
me
not!"
replied
Hester
Prynne,
looking
firmly
into
his
face.
"That
thou
shalt
never
know!"
"Never,
sayest
thou?"
rejoined
he,
with
a
smile
of
dark
and
self-relying
intelligence.
"Never
know
him!
Believe
me,
Hester,
there
are
few
things
whether
in
the
outward
world,
or,
to
a
certain
depth,
in
the
invisible
sphere
of
thought--few
things
hidden
from
the
man
who
devotes
himself
earnestly
and
unreservedly
to
the
solution
of
a
mystery.
Thou
mayest
cover
up
thy
secret
from
the
prying
multitude.
Thou
mayest
conceal
it,
too,
from
the
ministers
and
magistrates,
even
as
thou
didst
this
day,
when
they
sought
to
wrench
the
name
out
of
thy
heart,
and
give
thee
a
partner
on
thy
pedestal.
But,
as
for
me,
I
come
to
the
inquest
with
other
senses
than
they
possess.
I
shall
seek
this
man,
as
I
have
sought
truth
in
books:
as
I
have
sought
gold
in
alchemy.
There
is
a
sympathy
that
will
make
me
conscious
of
him.
I
shall
see
him
tremble.
I
shall
feel
myself
shudder,
suddenly
and
unawares.
Sooner
or
later,
he
must
needs
be
mine."
The
eyes
of
the
wrinkled
scholar
glowed
so
intensely
upon
her,
that
Hester
Prynne
clasped
her
hand
over
her
heart,
dreading
lest
he
should
read
the
secret
there
at
once.
"Thou
wilt
not
reveal
his
name?
Not
the
less
he
is
mine,"
resumed
he,
with
a
look
of
confidence,
as
if
destiny
were
at
one
with
him.
"He
bears
no
letter
of
infamy
wrought
into
his
garment,
as
thou
dost,
but
I
shall
read
it
on
his
heart.
Yet
fear
not
for
him!
Think
not
that
I
shall
interfere
with
Heaven's
own
method
of
retribution,
or,
to
my
own
loss,
betray
him
to
the
gripe
of
human
law.
Neither
do
thou
imagine
that
I
shall
contrive
aught
against
his
life;
no,
nor
against
his
fame,
if
as
I
judge,
he
be
a
man
of
fair
repute.
Let
him
live!
Let
him
hide
himself
in
outward
honour,
if
he
may!
Not
the
less
he
shall
be
mine!"
"Thy
acts
are
like
mercy,"
said
Hester,
bewildered
and
appalled;
"but
thy
words
interpret
thee
as
a
terror!"
"One
thing,
thou
that
wast
my
wife,
I
would
enjoin
upon
thee,"
continued
the
scholar.
"Thou
hast
kept
the
secret
of
thy
paramour.
Keep,
likewise,
mine!
There
are
none
in
this
land
that
know
me.
Breathe
not
to
any
human
soul
that
thou
didst
ever
call
me
husband!
Here,
on
this
wild
outskirt
of
the
earth,
I
shall
pitch
my
tent;
for,
elsewhere
a
wanderer,
and
isolated
from
human
interests,
I
find
here
a
woman,
a
man,
a
child,
amongst
whom
and
myself
there
exist
the
closest
ligaments.
No
matter
whether
of
love
or
hate:
no
matter
whether
of
right
or
wrong!
Thou
and
thine,
Hester
Prynne,
belong
to
me.
My
home
is
where
thou
art
and
where
he
is.
But
betray
me
not!"
"Wherefore
dost
thou
desire
it?"
inquired
Hester,
shrinking,
she
hardly
knew
why,
from
this
secret
bond.
"Why
not
announce
thyself
openly,
and
cast
me
off
at
once?"
"It
may
be,"
he
replied,
"because
I
will
not
encounter
the
dishonour
that
besmirches
the
husband
of
a
faithless
woman.
It
may
be
for
other
reasons.
Enough,
it
is
my
purpose
to
live
and
die
unknown.
Let,
therefore,
thy
husband
be
to
the
world
as
one
already
dead,
and
of
whom
no
tidings
shall
ever
come.
Recognise
me
not,
by
word,
by
sign,
by
look!
Breathe
not
the
secret,
above
all,
to
the
man
thou
wottest
of.
Shouldst
thou
fail
me
in
this,
beware!
His
fame,
his
position,
his
life
will
be
in
my
hands.
Beware!"
"I
will
keep
thy
secret,
as
I
have
his,"
said
Hester.
"Swear
it!"
rejoined
he.
And
she
took
the
oath.
"And
now,
Mistress
Prynne,"
said
old
Roger
Chillingworth,
as
he
was
hereafter
to
be
named,
"I
leave
thee
alone:
alone
with
thy
infant
and
the
scarlet
letter!
How
is
it,
Hester?
Doth
thy
sentence
bind
thee
to
wear
the
token
in
thy
sleep?
Art
thou
not
afraid
of
nightmares
and
hideous
dreams?"
"Why
dost
thou
smile
so
at
me?"
inquired
Hester,
troubled
at
the
expression
of
his
eyes.
"Art
thou
like
the
Black
Man
that
haunts
the
forest
round
about
us?
Hast
thou
enticed
me
into
a
bond
that
will
prove
the
ruin
of
my
soul?"
"Not
thy
soul,"
he
answered,
with
another
smile.
"No,
not
thine!"
V.
HESTER
AT
HER
NEEDLE
Hester
Prynne's
term
of
confinement
was
now
at
an
end.
Her
prison-door
was
thrown
open,
and
she
came
forth
into
the
sunshine,
which,
falling
on
all
alike,
seemed,
to
her
sick
and
morbid
heart,
as
if
meant
for
no
other
purpose
than
to
reveal
the
scarlet
letter
on
her
breast.
Perhaps
there
was
a
more
real
torture
in
her
first
unattended
footsteps
from
the
threshold
of
the
prison
than
even
in
the
procession
and
spectacle
that
have
been
described,
where
she
was
made
the
common
infamy,
at
which
all
mankind
was
summoned
to
point
its
finger.
Then,
she
was
supported
by
an
unnatural
tension
of
the
nerves,
and
by
all
the
combative
energy
of
her
character,
which
enabled
her
to
convert
the
scene
into
a
kind
of
lurid
triumph.
It
was,
moreover,
a
separate
and
insulated
event,
to
occur
but
once
in
her
lifetime,
and
to
meet
which,
therefore,
reckless
of
economy,
she
might
call
up
the
vital
strength
that
would
have
sufficed
for
many
quiet
years.
The
very
law
that
condemned
her--a
giant
of
stern
features
but
with
vigour
to
support,
as
well
as
to
annihilate,
in
his
iron
arm--had
held
her
up
through
the
terrible
ordeal
of
her
ignominy.
But
now,
with
this
unattended
walk
from
her
prison
door,
began
the
daily
custom;
and
she
must
either
sustain
and
carry
it
forward
by
the
ordinary
resources
of
her
nature,
or
sink
beneath
it.
She
could
no
longer
borrow
from
the
future
to
help
her
through
the
present
grief.
Tomorrow
would
bring
its
own
trial
with
it;
so
would
the
next
day,
and
so
would
the
next:
each
its
own
trial,
and
yet
the
very
same
that
was
now
so
unutterably
grievous
to
be
borne.
The
days
of
the
far-off
future
would
toil
onward,
still
with
the
same
burden
for
her
to
take
up,
and
bear
along
with
her,
but
never
to
fling
down;
for
the
accumulating
days
and
added
years
would
pile
up
their
misery
upon
the
heap
of
shame.
Throughout
them
all,
giving
up
her
individuality,
she
would
become
the
general
symbol
at
which
the
preacher
and
moralist
might
point,
and
in
which
they
might
vivify
and
embody
their
images
of
woman's
frailty
and
sinful
passion.
Thus
the
young
and
pure
would
be
taught
to
look
at
her,
with
the
scarlet
letter
flaming
on
her
breast--at
her,
the
child
of
honourable
parents--at
her,
the
mother
of
a
babe
that
would
hereafter
be
a
woman--at
her,
who
had
once
been
innocent--as
the
figure,
the
body,
the
reality
of
sin.
And
over
her
grave,
the
infamy
that
she
must
carry
thither
would
be
her
only
monument.
It
may
seem
marvellous
that,
with
the
world
before
her--kept
by
no
restrictive
clause
of
her
condemnation
within
the
limits
of
the
Puritan
settlement,
so
remote
and
so
obscure--free
to
return
to
her
birth-place,
or
to
any
other
European
land,
and
there
hide
her
character
and
identity
under
a
new
exterior,
as
completely
as
if
emerging
into
another
state
of
being--and
having
also
the
passes
of
the
dark,
inscrutable
forest
open
to
her,
where
the
wildness
of
her
nature
might
assimilate
itself
with
a
people
whose
customs
and
life
were
alien
from
the
law
that
had
condemned
her--it
may
seem
marvellous
that
this
woman
should
still
call
that
place
her
home,
where,
and
where
only,
she
must
needs
be
the
type
of
shame.
But
there
is
a
fatality,
a
feeling
so
irresistible
and
inevitable
that
it
has
the
force
of
doom,
which
almost
invariably
compels
human
beings
to
linger
around
and
haunt,
ghost-like,
the
spot
where
some
great
and
marked
event
has
given
the
colour
to
their
lifetime;
and,
still
the
more
irresistibly,
the
darker
the
tinge
that
saddens
it.
Her
sin,
her
ignominy,
were
the
roots
which
she
had
struck
into
the
soil.
It
was
as
if
a
new
birth,
with
stronger
assimilations
than
the
first,
had
converted
the
forest-land,
still
so
uncongenial
to
every
other
pilgrim
and
wanderer,
into
Hester
Prynne's
wild
and
dreary,
but
life-long
home.
All
other
scenes
of
earth--even
that
village
of
rural
England,
where
happy
infancy
and
stainless
maidenhood
seemed
yet
to
be
in
her
mother's
keeping,
like
garments
put
off
long
ago--were
foreign
to
her,
in
comparison.
The
chain
that
bound
her
here
was
of
iron
links,
and
galling
to
her
inmost
soul,
but
could
never
be
broken.
It
might
be,
too--doubtless
it
was
so,
although
she
hid
the
secret
from
herself,
and
grew
pale
whenever
it
struggled
out
of
her
heart,
like
a
serpent
from
its
hole--it
might
be
that
another
feeling
kept
her
within
the
scene
and
pathway
that
had
been
so
fatal.
There
dwelt,
there
trode,
the
feet
of
one
with
whom
she
deemed
herself
connected
in
a
union
that,
unrecognised
on
earth,
would
bring
them
together
before
the
bar
of
final
judgment,
and
make
that
their
marriage-altar,
for
a
joint
futurity
of
endless
retribution.
Over
and
over
again,
the
tempter
of
souls
had
thrust
this
idea
upon
Hester's
contemplation,
and
laughed
at
the
passionate
and
desperate
joy
with
which
she
seized,
and
then
strove
to
cast
it
from
her.
She
barely
looked
the
idea
in
the
face,
and
hastened
to
bar
it
in
its
dungeon.
What
she
compelled
herself
to
believe--what,
finally,
she
reasoned
upon
as
her
motive
for
continuing
a
resident
of
New
England--was
half
a
truth,
and
half
a
self-delusion.
Here,
she
said
to
herself
had
been
the
scene
of
her
guilt,
and
here
should
be
the
scene
of
her
earthly
punishment;
and
so,
perchance,
the
torture
of
her
daily
shame
would
at
length
purge
her
soul,
and
work
out
another
purity
than
that
which
she
had
lost:
more
saint-like,
because
the
result
of
martyrdom.
Hester
Prynne,
therefore,
did
not
flee.
On
the
outskirts
of
the
town,
within
the
verge
of
the
peninsula,
but
not
in
close
vicinity
to
any
other
habitation,
there
was
a
small
thatched
cottage.
It
had
been
built
by
an
earlier
settler,
and
abandoned,
because
the
soil
about
it
was
too
sterile
for
cultivation,
while
its
comparative
remoteness
put
it
out
of
the
sphere
of
that
social
activity
which
already
marked
the
habits
of
the
emigrants.
It
stood
on
the
shore,
looking
across
a
basin
of
the
sea
at
the
forest-covered
hills,
towards
the
west.
A
clump
of
scrubby
trees,
such
as
alone
grew
on
the
peninsula,
did
not
so
much
conceal
the
cottage
from
view,
as
seem
to
denote
that
here
was
some
object
which
would
fain
have
been,
or
at
least
ought
to
be,
concealed.
In
this
little
lonesome
dwelling,
with
some
slender
means
that
she
possessed,
and
by
the
licence
of
the
magistrates,
who
still
kept
an
inquisitorial
watch
over
her,
Hester
established
herself,
with
her
infant
child.
A
mystic
shadow
of
suspicion
immediately
attached
itself
to
the
spot.
Children,
too
young
to
comprehend
wherefore
this
woman
should
be
shut
out
from
the
sphere
of
human
charities,
would
creep
nigh
enough
to
behold
her
plying
her
needle
at
the
cottage-window,
or
standing
in
the
doorway,
or
labouring
in
her
little
garden,
or
coming
forth
along
the
pathway
that
led
townward,
and,
discerning
the
scarlet
letter
on
her
breast,
would
scamper
off
with
a
strange
contagious
fear.
Lonely
as
was
Hester's
situation,
and
without
a
friend
on
earth
who
dared
to
show
himself,
she,
however,
incurred
no
risk
of
want.
She
possessed
an
art
that
sufficed,
even
in
a
land
that
afforded
comparatively
little
scope
for
its
exercise,
to
supply
food
for
her
thriving
infant
and
herself.
It
was
the
art,
then,
as
now,
almost
the
only
one
within
a
woman's
grasp--of
needle-work.
She
bore
on
her
breast,
in
the
curiously
embroidered
letter,
a
specimen
of
her
delicate
and
imaginative
skill,
of
which
the
dames
of
a
court
might
gladly
have
availed
themselves,
to
add
the
richer
and
more
spiritual
adornment
of
human
ingenuity
to
their
fabrics
of
silk
and
gold.
Here,
indeed,
in
the
sable
simplicity
that
generally
characterised
the
Puritanic
modes
of
dress,
there
might
be
an
infrequent
call
for
the
finer
productions
of
her
handiwork.
Yet
the
taste
of
the
age,
demanding
whatever
was
elaborate
in
compositions
of
this
kind,
did
not
fail
to
extend
its
influence
over
our
stern
progenitors,
who
had
cast
behind
them
so
many
fashions
which
it
might
seem
harder
to
dispense
with.
Public
ceremonies,
such
as
ordinations,
the
installation
of
magistrates,
and
all
that
could
give
majesty
to
the
forms
in
which
a
new
government
manifested
itself
to
the
people,
were,
as
a
matter
of
policy,
marked
by
a
stately
and
well-conducted
ceremonial,
and
a
sombre,
but
yet
a
studied
magnificence.
Deep
ruffs,
painfully
wrought
bands,
and
gorgeously
embroidered
gloves,
were
all
deemed
necessary
to
the
official
state
of
men
assuming
the
reins
of
power,
and
were
readily
allowed
to
individuals
dignified
by
rank
or
wealth,
even
while
sumptuary
laws
forbade
these
and
similar
extravagances
to
the
plebeian
order.
In
the
array
of
funerals,
too--whether
for
the
apparel
of
the
dead
body,
or
to
typify,
by
manifold
emblematic
devices
of
sable
cloth
and
snowy
lawn,
the
sorrow
of
the
survivors--there
was
a
frequent
and
characteristic
demand
for
such
labour
as
Hester
Prynne
could
supply.
Baby-linen--for
babies
then
wore
robes
of
state--afforded
still
another
possibility
of
toil
and
emolument.
By
degrees,
not
very
slowly,
her
handiwork
became
what
would
now
be
termed
the
fashion.
Whether
from
commiseration
for
a
woman
of
so
miserable
a
destiny;
or
from
the
morbid
curiosity
that
gives
a
fictitious
value
even
to
common
or
worthless
things;
or
by
whatever
other
intangible
circumstance
was
then,
as
now,
sufficient
to
bestow,
on
some
persons,
what
others
might
seek
in
vain;
or
because
Hester
really
filled
a
gap
which
must
otherwise
have
remained
vacant;
it
is
certain
that
she
had
ready
and
fairly
requited
employment
for
as
many
hours
as
she
saw
fit
to
occupy
with
her
needle.
Vanity,
it
may
be,
chose
to
mortify
itself,
by
putting
on,
for
ceremonials
of
pomp
and
state,
the
garments
that
had
been
wrought
by
her
sinful
hands.
Her
needle-work
was
seen
on
the
ruff
of
the
Governor;
military
men
wore
it
on
their
scarfs,
and
the
minister
on
his
band;
it
decked
the
baby's
little
cap;
it
was
shut
up,
to
be
mildewed
and
moulder
away,
in
the
coffins
of
the
dead.
But
it
is
not
recorded
that,
in
a
single
instance,
her
skill
was
called
in
to
embroider
the
white
veil
which
was
to
cover
the
pure
blushes
of
a
bride.
The
exception
indicated
the
ever
relentless
vigour
with
which
society
frowned
upon
her
sin.
Hester
sought
not
to
acquire
anything
beyond
a
subsistence,
of
the
plainest
and
most
ascetic
description,
for
herself,
and
a
simple
abundance
for
her
child.
Her
own
dress
was
of
the
coarsest
materials
and
the
most
sombre
hue,
with
only
that
one
ornament--the
scarlet
letter--which
it
was
her
doom
to
wear.
The
child's
attire,
on
the
other
hand,
was
distinguished
by
a
fanciful,
or,
we
may
rather
say,
a
fantastic
ingenuity,
which
served,
indeed,
to
heighten
the
airy
charm
that
early
began
to
develop
itself
in
the
little
girl,
but
which
appeared
to
have
also
a
deeper
meaning.
We
may
speak
further
of
it
hereafter.
Except
for
that
small
expenditure
in
the
decoration
of
her
infant,
Hester
bestowed
all
her
superfluous
means
in
charity,
on
wretches
less
miserable
than
herself,
and
who
not
unfrequently
insulted
the
hand
that
fed
them.
Much
of
the
time,
which
she
might
readily
have
applied
to
the
better
efforts
of
her
art,
she
employed
in
making
coarse
garments
for
the
poor.
It
is
probable
that
there
was
an
idea
of
penance
in
this
mode
of
occupation,
and
that
she
offered
up
a
real
sacrifice
of
enjoyment
in
devoting
so
many
hours
to
such
rude
handiwork.
She
had
in
her
nature
a
rich,
voluptuous,
Oriental
characteristic--a
taste
for
the
gorgeously
beautiful,
which,
save
in
the
exquisite
productions
of
her
needle,
found
nothing
else,
in
all
the
possibilities
of
her
life,
to
exercise
itself
upon.
Women
derive
a
pleasure,
incomprehensible
to
the
other
sex,
from
the
delicate
toil
of
the
needle.
To
Hester
Prynne
it
might
have
been
a
mode
of
expressing,
and
therefore
soothing,
the
passion
of
her
life.
Like
all
other
joys,
she
rejected
it
as
sin.
This
morbid
meddling
of
conscience
with
an
immaterial
matter
betokened,
it
is
to
be
feared,
no
genuine
and
steadfast
penitence,
but
something
doubtful,
something
that
might
be
deeply
wrong
beneath.
In
this
manner,
Hester
Prynne
came
to
have
a
part
to
perform
in
the
world.
With
her
native
energy
of
character
and
rare
capacity,
it
could
not
entirely
cast
her
off,
although
it
had
set
a
mark
upon
her,
more
intolerable
to
a
woman's
heart
than
that
which
branded
the
brow
of
Cain.
In
all
her
intercourse
with
society,
however,
there
was
nothing
that
made
her
feel
as
if
she
belonged
to
it.
Every
gesture,
every
word,
and
even
the
silence
of
those
with
whom
she
came
in
contact,
implied,
and
often
expressed,
that
she
was
banished,
and
as
much
alone
as
if
she
inhabited
another
sphere,
or
communicated
with
the
common
nature
by
other
organs
and
senses
than
the
rest
of
human
kind.
She
stood
apart
from
mortal
interests,
yet
close
beside
them,
like
a
ghost
that
revisits
the
familiar
fireside,
and
can
no
longer
make
itself
seen
or
felt;
no
more
smile
with
the
household
joy,
nor
mourn
with
the
kindred
sorrow;
or,
should
it
succeed
in
manifesting
its
forbidden
sympathy,
awakening
only
terror
and
horrible
repugnance.
These
emotions,
in
fact,
and
its
bitterest
scorn
besides,
seemed
to
be
the
sole
portion
that
she
retained
in
the
universal
heart.
It
was
not
an
age
of
delicacy;
and
her
position,
although
she
understood
it
well,
and
was
in
little
danger
of
forgetting
it,
was
often
brought
before
her
vivid
self-perception,
like
a
new
anguish,
by
the
rudest
touch
upon
the
tenderest
spot.
The
poor,
as
we
have
already
said,
whom
she
sought
out
to
be
the
objects
of
her
bounty,
often
reviled
the
hand
that
was
stretched
forth
to
succour
them.
Dames
of
elevated
rank,
likewise,
whose
doors
she
entered
in
the
way
of
her
occupation,
were
accustomed
to
distil
drops
of
bitterness
into
her
heart;
sometimes
through
that
alchemy
of
quiet
malice,
by
which
women
can
concoct
a
subtle
poison
from
ordinary
trifles;
and
sometimes,
also,
by
a
coarser
expression,
that
fell
upon
the
sufferer's
defenceless
breast
like
a
rough
blow
upon
an
ulcerated
wound.
Hester
had
schooled
herself
long
and
well;
and
she
never
responded
to
these
attacks,
save
by
a
flush
of
crimson
that
rose
irrepressibly
over
her
pale
cheek,
and
again
subsided
into
the
depths
of
her
bosom.
She
was
patient--a
martyr,
indeed
but
she
forebore
to
pray
for
enemies,
lest,
in
spite
of
her
forgiving
aspirations,
the
words
of
the
blessing
should
stubbornly
twist
themselves
into
a
curse.
Continually,
and
in
a
thousand
other
ways,
did
she
feel
the
innumerable
throbs
of
anguish
that
had
been
so
cunningly
contrived
for
her
by
the
undying,
the
ever-active
sentence
of
the
Puritan
tribunal.
Clergymen
paused
in
the
streets,
to
address
words
of
exhortation,
that
brought
a
crowd,
with
its
mingled
grin
and
frown,
around
the
poor,
sinful
woman.
If
she
entered
a
church,
trusting
to
share
the
Sabbath
smile
of
the
Universal
Father,
it
was
often
her
mishap
to
find
herself
the
text
of
the
discourse.
She
grew
to
have
a
dread
of
children;
for
they
had
imbibed
from
their
parents
a
vague
idea
of
something
horrible
in
this
dreary
woman
gliding
silently
through
the
town,
with
never
any
companion
but
one
only
child.
Therefore,
first
allowing
her
to
pass,
they
pursued
her
at
a
distance
with
shrill
cries,
and
the
utterances
of
a
word
that
had
no
distinct
purport
to
their
own
minds,
but
was
none
the
less
terrible
to
her,
as
proceeding
from
lips
that
babbled
it
unconsciously.
It
seemed
to
argue
so
wide
a
diffusion
of
her
shame,
that
all
nature
knew
of
it;
it
could
have
caused
her
no
deeper
pang
had
the
leaves
of
the
trees
whispered
the
dark
story
among
themselves--had
the
summer
breeze
murmured
about
it--had
the
wintry
blast
shrieked
it
aloud!
Another
peculiar
torture
was
felt
in
the
gaze
of
a
new
eye.
When
strangers
looked
curiously
at
the
scarlet
letter
and
none
ever
failed
to
do
so--they
branded
it
afresh
in
Hester's
soul;
so
that,
oftentimes,
she
could
scarcely
refrain,
yet
always
did
refrain,
from
covering
the
symbol
with
her
hand.
But
then,
again,
an
accustomed
eye
had
likewise
its
own
anguish
to
inflict.
Its
cool
stare
of
familiarity
was
intolerable.
From
first
to
last,
in
short,
Hester
Prynne
had
always
this
dreadful
agony
in
feeling
a
human
eye
upon
the
token;
the
spot
never
grew
callous;
it
seemed,
on
the
contrary,
to
grow
more
sensitive
with
daily
torture.
But
sometimes,
once
in
many
days,
or
perchance
in
many
months,
she
felt
an
eye--a
human
eye--upon
the
ignominious
brand,
that
seemed
to
give
a
momentary
relief,
as
if
half
of
her
agony
were
shared.
The
next
instant,
back
it
all
rushed
again,
with
still
a
deeper
throb
of
pain;
for,
in
that
brief
interval,
she
had
sinned
anew.
(Had
Hester
sinned
alone?)
Her
imagination
was
somewhat
affected,
and,
had
she
been
of
a
softer
moral
and
intellectual
fibre
would
have
been
still
more
so,
by
the
strange
and
solitary
anguish
of
her
life.
Walking
to
and
fro,
with
those
lonely
footsteps,
in
the
little
world
with
which
she
was
outwardly
connected,
it
now
and
then
appeared
to
Hester--if
altogether
fancy,
it
was
nevertheless
too
potent
to
be
resisted--she
felt
or
fancied,
then,
that
the
scarlet
letter
had
endowed
her
with
a
new
sense.
She
shuddered
to
believe,
yet
could
not
help
believing,
that
it
gave
her
a
sympathetic
knowledge
of
the
hidden
sin
in
other
hearts.
She
was
terror-
stricken
by
the
revelations
that
were
thus
made.
What
were
they?
Could
they
be
other
than
the
insidious
whispers
of
the
bad
angel,
who
would
fain
have
persuaded
the
struggling
woman,
as
yet
only
half
his
victim,
that
the
outward
guise
of
purity
was
but
a
lie,
and
that,
if
truth
were
everywhere
to
be
shown,
a
scarlet
letter
would
blaze
forth
on
many
a
bosom
besides
Hester
Prynne's?
Or,
must
she
receive
those
intimations--so
obscure,
yet
so
distinct--as
truth?
In
all
her
miserable
experience,
there
was
nothing
else
so
awful
and
so
loathsome
as
this
sense.
It
perplexed,
as
well
as
shocked
her,
by
the
irreverent
inopportuneness
of
the
occasions
that
brought
it
into
vivid
action.
Sometimes
the
red
infamy
upon
her
breast
would
give
a
sympathetic
throb,
as
she
passed
near
a
venerable
minister
or
magistrate,
the
model
of
piety
and
justice,
to
whom
that
age
of
antique
reverence
looked
up,
as
to
a
mortal
man
in
fellowship
with
angels.
"What
evil
thing
is
at
hand?"
would
Hester
say
to
herself.
Lifting
her
reluctant
eyes,
there
would
be
nothing
human
within
the
scope
of
view,
save
the
form
of
this
earthly
saint!
Again
a
mystic
sisterhood
would
contumaciously
assert
itself,
as
she
met
the
sanctified
frown
of
some
matron,
who,
according
to
the
rumour
of
all
tongues,
had
kept
cold
snow
within
her
bosom
throughout
life.
That
unsunned
snow
in
the
matron's
bosom,
and
the
burning
shame
on
Hester
Prynne's--what
had
the
two
in
common?
Or,
once
more,
the
electric
thrill
would
give
her
warning--"Behold
Hester,
here
is
a
companion!"
and,
looking
up,
she
would
detect
the
eyes
of
a
young
maiden
glancing
at
the
scarlet
letter,
shyly
and
aside,
and
quickly
averted,
with
a
faint,
chill
crimson
in
her
cheeks
as
if
her
purity
were
somewhat
sullied
by
that
momentary
glance.
O
Fiend,
whose
talisman
was
that
fatal
symbol,
wouldst
thou
leave
nothing,
whether
in
youth
or
age,
for
this
poor
sinner
to
revere?--such
loss
of
faith
is
ever
one
of
the
saddest
results
of
sin.
Be
it
accepted
as
a
proof
that
all
was
not
corrupt
in
this
poor
victim
of
her
own
frailty,
and
man's
hard
law,
that
Hester
Prynne
yet
struggled
to
believe
that
no
fellow-mortal
was
guilty
like
herself.
The
vulgar,
who,
in
those
dreary
old
times,
were
always
contributing
a
grotesque
horror
to
what
interested
their
imaginations,
had
a
story
about
the
scarlet
letter
which
we
might
readily
work
up
into
a
terrific
legend.
They
averred
that
the
symbol
was
not
mere
scarlet
cloth,
tinged
in
an
earthly
dye-pot,
but
was
red-hot
with
infernal
fire,
and
could
be
seen
glowing
all
alight
whenever
Hester
Prynne
walked
abroad
in
the
night-time.
And
we
must
needs
say
it
seared
Hester's
bosom
so
deeply,
that
perhaps
there
was
more
truth
in
the
rumour
than
our
modern
incredulity
may
be
inclined
to
admit.
VI.
PEARL
We
have
as
yet
hardly
spoken
of
the
infant;
that
little
creature,
whose
innocent
life
had
sprung,
by
the
inscrutable
decree
of
Providence,
a
lovely
and
immortal
flower,
out
of
the
rank
luxuriance
of
a
guilty
passion.
How
strange
it
seemed
to
the
sad
woman,
as
she
watched
the
growth,
and
the
beauty
that
became
every
day
more
brilliant,
and
the
intelligence
that
threw
its
quivering
sunshine
over
the
tiny
features
of
this
child!
Her
Pearl--for
so
had
Hester
called
her;
not
as
a
name
expressive
of
her
aspect,
which
had
nothing
of
the
calm,
white,
unimpassioned
lustre
that
would
be
indicated
by
the
comparison.
But
she
named
the
infant
"Pearl,"
as
being
of
great
price--purchased
with
all
she
had--her
mother's
only
treasure!
How
strange,
indeed!
Man
had
marked
this
woman's
sin
by
a
scarlet
letter,
which
had
such
potent
and
disastrous
efficacy
that
no
human
sympathy
could
reach
her,
save
it
were
sinful
like
herself.
God,
as
a
direct
consequence
of
the
sin
which
man
thus
punished,
had
given
her
a
lovely
child,
whose
place
was
on
that
same
dishonoured
bosom,
to
connect
her
parent
for
ever
with
the
race
and
descent
of
mortals,
and
to
be
finally
a
blessed
soul
in
heaven!
Yet
these
thoughts
affected
Hester
Prynne
less
with
hope
than
apprehension.
She
knew
that
her
deed
had
been
evil;
she
could
have
no
faith,
therefore,
that
its
result
would
be
good.
Day
after
day
she
looked
fearfully
into
the
child's
expanding
nature,
ever
dreading
to
detect
some
dark
and
wild
peculiarity
that
should
correspond
with
the
guiltiness
to
which
she
owed
her
being.
Certainly
there
was
no
physical
defect.
By
its
perfect
shape,
its
vigour,
and
its
natural
dexterity
in
the
use
of
all
its
untried
limbs,
the
infant
was
worthy
to
have
been
brought
forth
in
Eden:
worthy
to
have
been
left
there
to
be
the
plaything
of
the
angels
after
the
world's
first
parents
were
driven
out.
The
child
had
a
native
grace
which
does
not
invariably
co-exist
with
faultless
beauty;
its
attire,
however
simple,
always
impressed
the
beholder
as
if
it
were
the
very
garb
that
precisely
became
it
best.
But
little
Pearl
was
not
clad
in
rustic
weeds.
Her
mother,
with
a
morbid
purpose
that
may
be
better
understood
hereafter,
had
bought
the
richest
tissues
that
could
be
procured,
and
allowed
her
imaginative
faculty
its
full
play
in
the
arrangement
and
decoration
of
the
dresses
which
the
child
wore
before
the
public
eye.
So
magnificent
was
the
small
figure
when
thus
arrayed,
and
such
was
the
splendour
of
Pearl's
own
proper
beauty,
shining
through
the
gorgeous
robes
which
might
have
extinguished
a
paler
loveliness,
that
there
was
an
absolute
circle
of
radiance
around
her
on
the
darksome
cottage
floor.
And
yet
a
russet
gown,
torn
and
soiled
with
the
child's
rude
play,
made
a
picture
of
her
just
as
perfect.
Pearl's
aspect
was
imbued
with
a
spell
of
infinite
variety;
in
this
one
child
there
were
many
children,
comprehending
the
full
scope
between
the
wild-flower
prettiness
of
a
peasant-baby,
and
the
pomp,
in
little,
of
an
infant
princess.
Throughout
all,
however,
there
was
a
trait
of
passion,
a
certain
depth
of
hue,
which
she
never
lost;
and
if
in
any
of
her
changes,
she
had
grown
fainter
or
paler,
she
would
have
ceased
to
be
herself--it
would
have
been
no
longer
Pearl!
This
outward
mutability
indicated,
and
did
not
more
than
fairly
express,
the
various
properties
of
her
inner
life.
Her
nature
appeared
to
possess
depth,
too,
as
well
as
variety;
but--or
else
Hester's
fears
deceived
her--it
lacked
reference
and
adaptation
to
the
world
into
which
she
was
born.
The
child
could
not
be
made
amenable
to
rules.
In
giving
her
existence
a
great
law
had
been
broken;
and
the
result
was
a
being
whose
elements
were
perhaps
beautiful
and
brilliant,
but
all
in
disorder,
or
with
an
order
peculiar
to
themselves,
amidst
which
the
point
of
variety
and
arrangement
was
difficult
or
impossible
to
be
discovered.
Hester
could
only
account
for
the
child's
character--and
even
then
most
vaguely
and
imperfectly--by
recalling
what
she
herself
had
been
during
that
momentous
period
while
Pearl
was
imbibing
her
soul
from
the
spiritual
world,
and
her
bodily
frame
from
its
material
of
earth.
The
mother's
impassioned
state
had
been
the
medium
through
which
were
transmitted
to
the
unborn
infant
the
rays
of
its
moral
life;
and,
however
white
and
clear
originally,
they
had
taken
the
deep
stains
of
crimson
and
gold,
the
fiery
lustre,
the
black
shadow,
and
the
untempered
light
of
the
intervening
substance.
Above
all,
the
warfare
of
Hester's
spirit
at
that
epoch
was
perpetuated
in
Pearl.
She
could
recognize
her
wild,
desperate,
defiant
mood,
the
flightiness
of
her
temper,
and
even
some
of
the
very
cloud-shapes
of
gloom
and
despondency
that
had
brooded
in
her
heart.
They
were
now
illuminated
by
the
morning
radiance
of
a
young
child's
disposition,
but,
later
in
the
day
of
earthly
existence,
might
be
prolific
of
the
storm
and
whirlwind.
The
discipline
of
the
family
in
those
days
was
of
a
far
more
rigid
kind
than
now.
The
frown,
the
harsh
rebuke,
the
frequent
application
of
the
rod,
enjoined
by
Scriptural
authority,
were
used,
not
merely
in
the
way
of
punishment
for
actual
offences,
but
as
a
wholesome
regimen
for
the
growth
and
promotion
of
all
childish
virtues.
Hester
Prynne,
nevertheless,
the
loving
mother
of
this
one
child,
ran
little
risk
of
erring
on
the
side
of
undue
severity.
Mindful,
however,
of
her
own
errors
and
misfortunes,
she
early
sought
to
impose
a
tender
but
strict
control
over
the
infant
immortality
that
was
committed
to
her
charge.
But
the
task
was
beyond
her
skill.
After
testing
both
smiles
and
frowns,
and
proving
that
neither
mode
of
treatment
possessed
any
calculable
influence,
Hester
was
ultimately
compelled
to
stand
aside
and
permit
the
child
to
be
swayed
by
her
own
impulses.
Physical
compulsion
or
restraint
was
effectual,
of
course,
while
it
lasted.
As
to
any
other
kind
of
discipline,
whether
addressed
to
her
mind
or
heart,
little
Pearl
might
or
might
not
be
within
its
reach,
in
accordance
with
the
caprice
that
ruled
the
moment.
Her
mother,
while
Pearl
was
yet
an
infant,
grew
acquainted
with
a
certain
peculiar
look,
that
warned
her
when
it
would
be
labour
thrown
away
to
insist,
persuade
or
plead.
It
was
a
look
so
intelligent,
yet
inexplicable,
perverse,
sometimes
so
malicious,
but
generally
accompanied
by
a
wild
flow
of
spirits,
that
Hester
could
not
help
questioning
at
such
moments
whether
Pearl
was
a
human
child.
She
seemed
rather
an
airy
sprite,
which,
after
playing
its
fantastic
sports
for
a
little
while
upon
the
cottage
floor,
would
flit
away
with
a
mocking
smile.
Whenever
that
look
appeared
in
her
wild,
bright,
deeply
black
eyes,
it
invested
her
with
a
strange
remoteness
and
intangibility:
it
was
as
if
she
were
hovering
in
the
air,
and
might
vanish,
like
a
glimmering
light
that
comes
we
know
not
whence
and
goes
we
know
not
whither.
Beholding
it,
Hester
was
constrained
to
rush
towards
the
child--to
pursue
the
little
elf
in
the
flight
which
she
invariably
began--to
snatch
her
to
her
bosom
with
a
close
pressure
and
earnest
kisses--not
so
much
from
overflowing
love
as
to
assure
herself
that
Pearl
was
flesh
and
blood,
and
not
utterly
delusive.
But
Pearl's
laugh,
when
she
was
caught,
though
full
of
merriment
and
music,
made
her
mother
more
doubtful
than
before.
Heart-smitten
at
this
bewildering
and
baffling
spell,
that
so
often
came
between
herself
and
her
sole
treasure,
whom
she
had
bought
so
dear,
and
who
was
all
her
world,
Hester
sometimes
burst
into
passionate
tears.
Then,
perhaps--for
there
was
no
foreseeing
how
it
might
affect
her--Pearl
would
frown,
and
clench
her
little
fist,
and
harden
her
small
features
into
a
stern,
unsympathising
look
of
discontent.
Not
seldom
she
would
laugh
anew,
and
louder
than
before,
like
a
thing
incapable
and
unintelligent
of
human
sorrow.
Or--but
this
more
rarely
happened--she
would
be
convulsed
with
rage
of
grief
and
sob
out
her
love
for
her
mother
in
broken
words,
and
seem
intent
on
proving
that
she
had
a
heart
by
breaking
it.
Yet
Hester
was
hardly
safe
in
confiding
herself
to
that
gusty
tenderness:
it
passed
as
suddenly
as
it
came.
Brooding
over
all
these
matters,
the
mother
felt
like
one
who
has
evoked
a
spirit,
but,
by
some
irregularity
in
the
process
of
conjuration,
has
failed
to
win
the
master-word
that
should
control
this
new
and
incomprehensible
intelligence.
Her
only
real
comfort
was
when
the
child
lay
in
the
placidity
of
sleep.
Then
she
was
sure
of
her,
and
tasted
hours
of
quiet,
sad,
delicious
happiness;
until--perhaps
with
that
perverse
expression
glimmering
from
beneath
her
opening
lids--little
Pearl
awoke!
How
soon--with
what
strange
rapidity,
indeed
did
Pearl
arrive
at
an
age
that
was
capable
of
social
intercourse
beyond
the
mother's
ever-ready
smile
and
nonsense-words!
And
then
what
a
happiness
would
it
have
been
could
Hester
Prynne
have
heard
her
clear,
bird-like
voice
mingling
with
the
uproar
of
other
childish
voices,
and
have
distinguished
and
unravelled
her
own
darling's
tones,
amid
all
the
entangled
outcry
of
a
group
of
sportive
children.
But
this
could
never
be.
Pearl
was
a
born
outcast
of
the
infantile
world.
An
imp
of
evil,
emblem
and
product
of
sin,
she
had
no
right
among
christened
infants.
Nothing
was
more
remarkable
than
the
instinct,
as
it
seemed,
with
which
the
child
comprehended
her
loneliness:
the
destiny
that
had
drawn
an
inviolable
circle
round
about
her:
the
whole
peculiarity,
in
short,
of
her
position
in
respect
to
other
children.
Never
since
her
release
from
prison
had
Hester
met
the
public
gaze
without
her.
In
all
her
walks
about
the
town,
Pearl,
too,
was
there:
first
as
the
babe
in
arms,
and
afterwards
as
the
little
girl,
small
companion
of
her
mother,
holding
a
forefinger
with
her
whole
grasp,
and
tripping
along
at
the
rate
of
three
or
four
footsteps
to
one
of
Hester's.
She
saw
the
children
of
the
settlement
on
the
grassy
margin
of
the
street,
or
at
the
domestic
thresholds,
disporting
themselves
in
such
grim
fashions
as
the
Puritanic
nurture
would
permit;
playing
at
going
to
church,
perchance,
or
at
scourging
Quakers;
or
taking
scalps
in
a
sham
fight
with
the
Indians,
or
scaring
one
another
with
freaks
of
imitative
witchcraft.
Pearl
saw,
and
gazed
intently,
but
never
sought
to
make
acquaintance.
If
spoken
to,
she
would
not
speak
again.
If
the
children
gathered
about
her,
as
they
sometimes
did,
Pearl
would
grow
positively
terrible
in
her
puny
wrath,
snatching
up
stones
to
fling
at
them,
with
shrill,
incoherent
exclamations,
that
made
her
mother
tremble,
because
they
had
so
much
the
sound
of
a
witch's
anathemas
in
some
unknown
tongue.
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.
Gazing
at
Pearl,
Hester
Prynne
often
dropped
her
work
upon
her
knees,
and
cried
out
with
an
agony
which
she
would
fain
have
hidden,
but
which
made
utterance
for
itself
betwixt
speech
and
a
groan--"O
Father
in
Heaven--if
Thou
art
still
my
Father--what
is
this
being
which
I
have
brought
into
the
world?"
And
Pearl,
overhearing
the
ejaculation,
or
aware
through
some
more
subtile
channel,
of
those
throbs
of
anguish,
would
turn
her
vivid
and
beautiful
little
face
upon
her
mother,
smile
with
sprite-like
intelligence,
and
resume
her
play.
One
peculiarity
of
the
child's
deportment
remains
yet
to
be
told.
The
very
first
thing
which
she
had
noticed
in
her
life,
was--what?--not
the
mother's
smile,
responding
to
it,
as
other
babies
do,
by
that
faint,
embryo
smile
of
the
little
mouth,
remembered
so
doubtfully
afterwards,
and
with
such
fond
discussion
whether
it
were
indeed
a
smile.
By
no
means!
But
that
first
object
of
which
Pearl
seemed
to
become
aware
was--shall
we
say
it?--the
scarlet
letter
on
Hester's
bosom!
One
day,
as
her
mother
stooped
over
the
cradle,
the
infant's
eyes
had
been
caught
by
the
glimmering
of
the
gold
embroidery
about
the
letter;
and
putting
up
her
little
hand
she
grasped
at
it,
smiling,
not
doubtfully,
but
with
a
decided
gleam,
that
gave
her
face
the
look
of
a
much
older
child.
Then,
gasping
for
breath,
did
Hester
Prynne
clutch
the
fatal
token,
instinctively
endeavouring
to
tear
it
away,
so
infinite
was
the
torture
inflicted
by
the
intelligent
touch
of
Pearl's
baby-hand.
Again,
as
if
her
mother's
agonised
gesture
were
meant
only
to
make
sport
for
her,
did
little
Pearl
look
into
her
eyes,
and
smile.
From
that
epoch,
except
when
the
child
was
asleep,
Hester
had
never
felt
a
moment's
safety:
not
a
moment's
calm
enjoyment
of
her.
Weeks,
it
is
true,
would
sometimes
elapse,
during
which
Pearl's
gaze
might
never
once
be
fixed
upon
the
scarlet
letter;
but
then,
again,
it
would
come
at
unawares,
like
the
stroke
of
sudden
death,
and
always
with
that
peculiar
smile
and
odd
expression
of
the
eyes.
Once
this
freakish,
elvish
cast
came
into
the
child's
eyes
while
Hester
was
looking
at
her
own
image
in
them,
as
mothers
are
fond
of
doing;
and
suddenly
for
women
in
solitude,
and
with
troubled
hearts,
are
pestered
with
unaccountable
delusions
she
fancied
that
she
beheld,
not
her
own
miniature
portrait,
but
another
face
in
the
small
black
mirror
of
Pearl's
eye.
It
was
a
face,
fiend-like,
full
of
smiling
malice,
yet
bearing
the
semblance
of
features
that
she
had
known
full
well,
though
seldom
with
a
smile,
and
never
with
malice
in
them.
It
was
as
if
an
evil
spirit
possessed
the
child,
and
had
just
then
peeped
forth
in
mockery.
Many
a
time
afterwards
had
Hester
been
tortured,
though
less
vividly,
by
the
same
illusion.
In
the
afternoon
of
a
certain
summer's
day,
after
Pearl
grew
big
enough
to
run
about,
she
amused
herself
with
gathering
handfuls
of
wild
flowers,
and
flinging
them,
one
by
one,
at
her
mother's
bosom;
dancing
up
and
down
like
a
little
elf
whenever
she
hit
the
scarlet
letter.
Hester's
first
motion
had
been
to
cover
her
bosom
with
her
clasped
hands.
But
whether
from
pride
or
resignation,
or
a
feeling
that
her
penance
might
best
be
wrought
out
by
this
unutterable
pain,
she
resisted
the
impulse,
and
sat
erect,
pale
as
death,
looking
sadly
into
little
Pearl's
wild
eyes.
Still
came
the
battery
of
flowers,
almost
invariably
hitting
the
mark,
and
covering
the
mother's
breast
with
hurts
for
which
she
could
find
no
balm
in
this
world,
nor
knew
how
to
seek
it
in
another.
At
last,
her
shot
being
all
expended,
the
child
stood
still
and
gazed
at
Hester,
with
that
little
laughing
image
of
a
fiend
peeping
out--or,
whether
it
peeped
or
no,
her
mother
so
imagined
it--from
the
unsearchable
abyss
of
her
black
eyes.
"Child,
what
art
thou?"
cried
the
mother.
"Oh,
I
am
your
little
Pearl!"
answered
the
child.
But
while
she
said
it,
Pearl
laughed,
and
began
to
dance
up
and
down
with
the
humoursome
gesticulation
of
a
little
imp,
whose
next
freak
might
be
to
fly
up
the
chimney.
"Art
thou
my
child,
in
very
truth?"
asked
Hester.
Nor
did
she
put
the
question
altogether
idly,
but,
for
the
moment,
with
a
portion
of
genuine
earnestness;
for,
such
was
Pearl's
wonderful
intelligence,
that
her
mother
half
doubted
whether
she
were
not
acquainted
with
the
secret
spell
of
her
existence,
and
might
not
now
reveal
herself.
"Yes;
I
am
little
Pearl!"
repeated
the
child,
continuing
her
antics.
"Thou
art
not
my
child!
Thou
art
no
Pearl
of
mine!"
said
the
mother
half
playfully;
for
it
was
often
the
case
that
a
sportive
impulse
came
over
her
in
the
midst
of
her
deepest
suffering.
"Tell
me,
then,
what
thou
art,
and
who
sent
thee
hither?"
"Tell
me,
mother!"
said
the
child,
seriously,
coming
up
to
Hester,
and
pressing
herself
close
to
her
knees.
"Do
thou
tell
me!"
"Thy
Heavenly
Father
sent
thee!"
answered
Hester
Prynne.
But
she
said
it
with
a
hesitation
that
did
not
escape
the
acuteness
of
the
child.
Whether
moved
only
by
her
ordinary
freakishness,
or
because
an
evil
spirit
prompted
her,
she
put
up
her
small
forefinger
and
touched
the
scarlet
letter.
"He
did
not
send
me!"
cried
she,
positively.
"I
have
no
Heavenly
Father!"
"Hush,
Pearl,
hush!
Thou
must
not
talk
so!"
answered
the
mother,
suppressing
a
groan.
"He
sent
us
all
into
the
world.
He
sent
even
me,
thy
mother.
Then,
much
more
thee!
Or,
if
not,
thou
strange
and
elfish
child,
whence
didst
thou
come?"
"Tell
me!
Tell
me!"
repeated
Pearl,
no
longer
seriously,
but
laughing
and
capering
about
the
floor.
"It
is
thou
that
must
tell
me!"
But
Hester
could
not
resolve
the
query,
being
herself
in
a
dismal
labyrinth
of
doubt.
She
remembered--betwixt
a
smile
and
a
shudder--the
talk
of
the
neighbouring
townspeople,
who,
seeking
vainly
elsewhere
for
the
child's
paternity,
and
observing
some
of
her
odd
attributes,
had
given
out
that
poor
little
Pearl
was
a
demon
offspring:
such
as,
ever
since
old
Catholic
times,
had
occasionally
been
seen
on
earth,
through
the
agency
of
their
mother's
sin,
and
to
promote
some
foul
and
wicked
purpose.
Luther,
according
to
the
scandal
of
his
monkish
enemies,
was
a
brat
of
that
hellish
breed;
nor
was
Pearl
the
only
child
to
whom
this
inauspicious
origin
was
assigned
among
the
New
England
Puritans.
VII.
THE
GOVERNOR'S
HALL
Hester
Prynne
went
one
day
to
the
mansion
of
Governor
Bellingham,
with
a
pair
of
gloves
which
she
had
fringed
and
embroidered
to
his
order,
and
which
were
to
be
worn
on
some
great
occasion
of
state;
for,
though
the
chances
of
a
popular
election
had
caused
this
former
ruler
to
descend
a
step
or
two
from
the
highest
rank,
he
still
held
an
honourable
and
influential
place
among
the
colonial
magistracy.
Another
and
far
more
important
reason
than
the
delivery
of
a
pair
of
embroidered
gloves,
impelled
Hester,
at
this
time,
to
seek
an
interview
with
a
personage
of
so
much
power
and
activity
in
the
affairs
of
the
settlement.
It
had
reached
her
ears
that
there
was
a
design
on
the
part
of
some
of
the
leading
inhabitants,
cherishing
the
more
rigid
order
of
principles
in
religion
and
government,
to
deprive
her
of
her
child.
On
the
supposition
that
Pearl,
as
already
hinted,
was
of
demon
origin,
these
good
people
not
unreasonably
argued
that
a
Christian
interest
in
the
mother's
soul
required
them
to
remove
such
a
stumbling-block
from
her
path.
If
the
child,
on
the
other
hand,
were
really
capable
of
moral
and
religious
growth,
and
possessed
the
elements
of
ultimate
salvation,
then,
surely,
it
would
enjoy
all
the
fairer
prospect
of
these
advantages
by
being
transferred
to
wiser
and
better
guardianship
than
Hester
Prynne's.
Among
those
who
promoted
the
design,
Governor
Bellingham
was
said
to
be
one
of
the
most
busy.
It
may
appear
singular,
and,
indeed,
not
a
little
ludicrous,
that
an
affair
of
this
kind,
which
in
later
days
would
have
been
referred
to
no
higher
jurisdiction
than
that
of
the
select
men
of
the
town,
should
then
have
been
a
question
publicly
discussed,
and
on
which
statesmen
of
eminence
took
sides.
At
that
epoch
of
pristine
simplicity,
however,
matters
of
even
slighter
public
interest,
and
of
far
less
intrinsic
weight
than
the
welfare
of
Hester
and
her
child,
were
strangely
mixed
up
with
the
deliberations
of
legislators
and
acts
of
state.
The
period
was
hardly,
if
at
all,
earlier
than
that
of
our
story,
when
a
dispute
concerning
the
right
of
property
in
a
pig
not
only
caused
a
fierce
and
bitter
contest
in
the
legislative
body
of
the
colony,
but
resulted
in
an
important
modification
of
the
framework
itself
of
the
legislature.
Full
of
concern,
therefore--but
so
conscious
of
her
own
right
that
it
seemed
scarcely
an
unequal
match
between
the
public
on
the
one
side,
and
a
lonely
woman,
backed
by
the
sympathies
of
nature,
on
the
other--Hester
Prynne
set
forth
from
her
solitary
cottage.
Little
Pearl,
of
course,
was
her
companion.
She
was
now
of
an
age
to
run
lightly
along
by
her
mother's
side,
and,
constantly
in
motion
from
morn
till
sunset,
could
have
accomplished
a
much
longer
journey
than
that
before
her.
Often,
nevertheless,
more
from
caprice
than
necessity,
she
demanded
to
be
taken
up
in
arms;
but
was
soon
as
imperious
to
be
let
down
again,
and
frisked
onward
before
Hester
on
the
grassy
pathway,
with
many
a
harmless
trip
and
tumble.
We
have
spoken
of
Pearl's
rich
and
luxuriant
beauty--a
beauty
that
shone
with
deep
and
vivid
tints,
a
bright
complexion,
eyes
possessing
intensity
both
of
depth
and
glow,
and
hair
already
of
a
deep,
glossy
brown,
and
which,
in
after
years,
would
be
nearly
akin
to
black.
There
was
fire
in
her
and
throughout
her:
she
seemed
the
unpremeditated
offshoot
of
a
passionate
moment.
Her
mother,
in
contriving
the
child's
garb,
had
allowed
the
gorgeous
tendencies
of
her
imagination
their
full
play,
arraying
her
in
a
crimson
velvet
tunic
of
a
peculiar
cut,
abundantly
embroidered
in
fantasies
and
flourishes
of
gold
thread.
So
much
strength
of
colouring,
which
must
have
given
a
wan
and
pallid
aspect
to
cheeks
of
a
fainter
bloom,
was
admirably
adapted
to
Pearl's
beauty,
and
made
her
the
very
brightest
little
jet
of
flame
that
ever
danced
upon
the
earth.
But
it
was
a
remarkable
attribute
of
this
garb,
and
indeed,
of
the
child's
whole
appearance,
that
it
irresistibly
and
inevitably
reminded
the
beholder
of
the
token
which
Hester
Prynne
was
doomed
to
wear
upon
her
bosom.
It
was
the
scarlet
letter
in
another
form:
the
scarlet
letter
endowed
with
life!
The
mother
herself--as
if
the
red
ignominy
were
so
deeply
scorched
into
her
brain
that
all
her
conceptions
assumed
its
form--had
carefully
wrought
out
the
similitude,
lavishing
many
hours
of
morbid
ingenuity
to
create
an
analogy
between
the
object
of
her
affection
and
the
emblem
of
her
guilt
and
torture.
But,
in
truth,
Pearl
was
the
one
as
well
as
the
other;
and
only
in
consequence
of
that
identity
had
Hester
contrived
so
perfectly
to
represent
the
scarlet
letter
in
her
appearance.
As
the
two
wayfarers
came
within
the
precincts
of
the
town,
the
children
of
the
Puritans
looked
up
from
their
play,--or
what
passed
for
play
with
those
sombre
little
urchins--and
spoke
gravely
one
to
another.
"Behold,
verily,
there
is
the
woman
of
the
scarlet
letter:
and
of
a
truth,
moreover,
there
is
the
likeness
of
the
scarlet
letter
running
along
by
her
side!
Come,
therefore,
and
let
us
fling
mud
at
them!"
But
Pearl,
who
was
a
dauntless
child,
after
frowning,
stamping
her
foot,
and
shaking
her
little
hand
with
a
variety
of
threatening
gestures,
suddenly
made
a
rush
at
the
knot
of
her
enemies,
and
put
them
all
to
flight.
She
resembled,
in
her
fierce
pursuit
of
them,
an
infant
pestilence--the
scarlet
fever,
or
some
such
half-fledged
angel
of
judgment--whose
mission
was
to
punish
the
sins
of
the
rising
generation.
She
screamed
and
shouted,
too,
with
a
terrific
volume
of
sound,
which,
doubtless,
caused
the
hearts
of
the
fugitives
to
quake
within
them.
The
victory
accomplished,
Pearl
returned
quietly
to
her
mother,
and
looked
up,
smiling,
into
her
face.
Without
further
adventure,
they
reached
the
dwelling
of
Governor
Bellingham.
This
was
a
large
wooden
house,
built
in
a
fashion
of
which
there
are
specimens
still
extant
in
the
streets
of
our
older
towns
now
moss-grown,
crumbling
to
decay,
and
melancholy
at
heart
with
the
many
sorrowful
or
joyful
occurrences,
remembered
or
forgotten,
that
have
happened
and
passed
away
within
their
dusky
chambers.
Then,
however,
there
was
the
freshness
of
the
passing
year
on
its
exterior,
and
the
cheerfulness,
gleaming
forth
from
the
sunny
windows,
of
a
human
habitation,
into
which
death
had
never
entered.
It
had,
indeed,
a
very
cheery
aspect,
the
walls
being
overspread
with
a
kind
of
stucco,
in
which
fragments
of
broken
glass
were
plentifully
intermixed;
so
that,
when
the
sunshine
fell
aslant-wise
over
the
front
of
the
edifice,
it
glittered
and
sparkled
as
if
diamonds
had
been
flung
against
it
by
the
double
handful.
The
brilliancy
might
have
be
fitted
Aladdin's
palace
rather
than
the
mansion
of
a
grave
old
Puritan
ruler.
It
was
further
decorated
with
strange
and
seemingly
cabalistic
figures
and
diagrams,
suitable
to
the
quaint
taste
of
the
age
which
had
been
drawn
in
the
stucco,
when
newly
laid
on,
and
had
now
grown
hard
and
durable,
for
the
admiration
of
after
times.
Pearl,
looking
at
this
bright
wonder
of
a
house
began
to
caper
and
dance,
and
imperatively
required
that
the
whole
breadth
of
sunshine
should
be
stripped
off
its
front,
and
given
her
to
play
with.
"No,
my
little
Pearl!"
said
her
mother;
"thou
must
gather
thine
own
sunshine.
I
have
none
to
give
thee!"
They
approached
the
door,
which
was
of
an
arched
form,
and
flanked
on
each
side
by
a
narrow
tower
or
projection
of
the
edifice,
in
both
of
which
were
lattice-windows,
the
wooden
shutters
to
close
over
them
at
need.
Lifting
the
iron
hammer
that
hung
at
the
portal,
Hester
Prynne
gave
a
summons,
which
was
answered
by
one
of
the
Governor's
bond
servant--a
free-born
Englishman,
but
now
a
seven
years'
slave.
During
that
term
he
was
to
be
the
property
of
his
master,
and
as
much
a
commodity
of
bargain
and
sale
as
an
ox,
or
a
joint-stool.
The
serf
wore
the
customary
garb
of
serving-men
at
that
period,
and
long
before,
in
the
old
hereditary
halls
of
England.
"Is
the
worshipful
Governor
Bellingham
within?"
inquired
Hester.
"Yea,
forsooth,"
replied
the
bond-servant,
staring
with
wide-open
eyes
at
the
scarlet
letter,
which,
being
a
new-comer
in
the
country,
he
had
never
before
seen.
"Yea,
his
honourable
worship
is
within.
But
he
hath
a
godly
minister
or
two
with
him,
and
likewise
a
leech.
Ye
may
not
see
his
worship
now."
"Nevertheless,
I
will
enter,"
answered
Hester
Prynne;
and
the
bond-servant,
perhaps
judging
from
the
decision
of
her
air,
and
the
glittering
symbol
in
her
bosom,
that
she
was
a
great
lady
in
the
land,
offered
no
opposition.
So
the
mother
and
little
Pearl
were
admitted
into
the
hall
of
entrance.
With
many
variations,
suggested
by
the
nature
of
his
building
materials,
diversity
of
climate,
and
a
different
mode
of
social
life,
Governor
Bellingham
had
planned
his
new
habitation
after
the
residences
of
gentlemen
of
fair
estate
in
his
native
land.
Here,
then,
was
a
wide
and
reasonably
lofty
hall,
extending
through
the
whole
depth
of
the
house,
and
forming
a
medium
of
general
communication,
more
or
less
directly,
with
all
the
other
apartments.
At
one
extremity,
this
spacious
room
was
lighted
by
the
windows
of
the
two
towers,
which
formed
a
small
recess
on
either
side
of
the
portal.
At
the
other
end,
though
partly
muffled
by
a
curtain,
it
was
more
powerfully
illuminated
by
one
of
those
embowed
hall
windows
which
we
read
of
in
old
books,
and
which
was
provided
with
a
deep
and
cushioned
seat.
Here,
on
the
cushion,
lay
a
folio
tome,
probably
of
the
Chronicles
of
England,
or
other
such
substantial
literature;
even
as,
in
our
own
days,
we
scatter
gilded
volumes
on
the
centre
table,
to
be
turned
over
by
the
casual
guest.
The
furniture
of
the
hall
consisted
of
some
ponderous
chairs,
the
backs
of
which
were
elaborately
carved
with
wreaths
of
oaken
flowers;
and
likewise
a
table
in
the
same
taste,
the
whole
being
of
the
Elizabethan
age,
or
perhaps
earlier,
and
heirlooms,
transferred
hither
from
the
Governor's
paternal
home.
On
the
table--in
token
that
the
sentiment
of
old
English
hospitality
had
not
been
left
behind--stood
a
large
pewter
tankard,
at
the
bottom
of
which,
had
Hester
or
Pearl
peeped
into
it,
they
might
have
seen
the
frothy
remnant
of
a
recent
draught
of
ale.
On
the
wall
hung
a
row
of
portraits,
representing
the
forefathers
of
the
Bellingham
lineage,
some
with
armour
on
their
breasts,
and
others
with
stately
ruffs
and
robes
of
peace.
All
were
characterised
by
the
sternness
and
severity
which
old
portraits
so
invariably
put
on,
as
if
they
were
the
ghosts,
rather
than
the
pictures,
of
departed
worthies,
and
were
gazing
with
harsh
and
intolerant
criticism
at
the
pursuits
and
enjoyments
of
living
men.
At
about
the
centre
of
the
oaken
panels
that
lined
the
hall
was
suspended
a
suit
of
mail,
not,
like
the
pictures,
an
ancestral
relic,
but
of
the
most
modern
date;
for
it
had
been
manufactured
by
a
skilful
armourer
in
London,
the
same
year
in
which
Governor
Bellingham
came
over
to
New
England.
There
was
a
steel
head-piece,
a
cuirass,
a
gorget
and
greaves,
with
a
pair
of
gauntlets
and
a
sword
hanging
beneath;
all,
and
especially
the
helmet
and
breastplate,
so
highly
burnished
as
to
glow
with
white
radiance,
and
scatter
an
illumination
everywhere
about
upon
the
floor.
This
bright
panoply
was
not
meant
for
mere
idle
show,
but
had
been
worn
by
the
Governor
on
many
a
solemn
muster
and
training
field,
and
had
glittered,
moreover,
at
the
head
of
a
regiment
in
the
Pequod
war.
For,
though
bred
a
lawyer,
and
accustomed
to
speak
of
Bacon,
Coke,
Noye,
and
Finch,
as
his
professional
associates,
the
exigencies
of
this
new
country
had
transformed
Governor
Bellingham
into
a
soldier,
as
well
as
a
statesman
and
ruler.
Little
Pearl,
who
was
as
greatly
pleased
with
the
gleaming
armour
as
she
had
been
with
the
glittering
frontispiece
of
the
house,
spent
some
time
looking
into
the
polished
mirror
of
the
breastplate.
"Mother,"
cried
she,
"I
see
you
here.
Look!
Look!"
Hester
looked
by
way
of
humouring
the
child;
and
she
saw
that,
owing
to
the
peculiar
effect
of
this
convex
mirror,
the
scarlet
letter
was
represented
in
exaggerated
and
gigantic
proportions,
so
as
to
be
greatly
the
most
prominent
feature
of
her
appearance.
In
truth,
she
seemed
absolutely
hidden
behind
it.
Pearl
pointed
upwards
also,
at
a
similar
picture
in
the
head-piece;
smiling
at
her
mother,
with
the
elfish
intelligence
that
was
so
familiar
an
expression
on
her
small
physiognomy.
That
look
of
naughty
merriment
was
likewise
reflected
in
the
mirror,
with
so
much
breadth
and
intensity
of
effect,
that
it
made
Hester
Prynne
feel
as
if
it
could
not
be
the
image
of
her
own
child,
but
of
an
imp
who
was
seeking
to
mould
itself
into
Pearl's
shape.
"Come
along,
Pearl,"
said
she,
drawing
her
away,
"Come
and
look
into
this
fair
garden.
It
may
be
we
shall
see
flowers
there;
more
beautiful
ones
than
we
find
in
the
woods."
Pearl
accordingly
ran
to
the
bow-window,
at
the
further
end
of
the
hall,
and
looked
along
the
vista
of
a
garden
walk,
carpeted
with
closely-shaven
grass,
and
bordered
with
some
rude
and
immature
attempt
at
shrubbery.
But
the
proprietor
appeared
already
to
have
relinquished
as
hopeless,
the
effort
to
perpetuate
on
this
side
of
the
Atlantic,
in
a
hard
soil,
and
amid
the
close
struggle
for
subsistence,
the
native
English
taste
for
ornamental
gardening.
Cabbages
grew
in
plain
sight;
and
a
pumpkin-vine,
rooted
at
some
distance,
had
run
across
the
intervening
space,
and
deposited
one
of
its
gigantic
products
directly
beneath
the
hall
window,
as
if
to
warn
the
Governor
that
this
great
lump
of
vegetable
gold
was
as
rich
an
ornament
as
New
England
earth
would
offer
him.
There
were
a
few
rose-bushes,
however,
and
a
number
of
apple-trees,
probably
the
descendants
of
those
planted
by
the
Reverend
Mr.
Blackstone,
the
first
settler
of
the
peninsula;
that
half
mythological
personage
who
rides
through
our
early
annals,
seated
on
the
back
of
a
bull.
Pearl,
seeing
the
rose-bushes,
began
to
cry
for
a
red
rose,
and
would
not
be
pacified.
"Hush,
child--hush!"
said
her
mother,
earnestly.
"Do
not
cry,
dear
little
Pearl!
I
hear
voices
in
the
garden.
The
Governor
is
coming,
and
gentlemen
along
with
him."
In
fact,
adown
the
vista
of
the
garden
avenue,
a
number
of
persons
were
seen
approaching
towards
the
house.
Pearl,
in
utter
scorn
of
her
mother's
attempt
to
quiet
her,
gave
an
eldritch
scream,
and
then
became
silent,
not
from
any
notion
of
obedience,
but
because
the
quick
and
mobile
curiosity
of
her
disposition
was
excited
by
the
appearance
of
those
new
personages.
VIII.
THE
ELF-CHILD
AND
THE
MINISTER
Governor
Bellingham,
in
a
loose
gown
and
easy
cap--such
as
elderly
gentlemen
loved
to
endue
themselves
with,
in
their
domestic
privacy--walked
foremost,
and
appeared
to
be
showing
off
his
estate,
and
expatiating
on
his
projected
improvements.
The
wide
circumference
of
an
elaborate
ruff,
beneath
his
grey
beard,
in
the
antiquated
fashion
of
King
James's
reign,
caused
his
head
to
look
not
a
little
like
that
of
John
the
Baptist
in
a
charger.
The
impression
made
by
his
aspect,
so
rigid
and
severe,
and
frost-bitten
with
more
than
autumnal
age,
was
hardly
in
keeping
with
the
appliances
of
worldly
enjoyment
wherewith
he
had
evidently
done
his
utmost
to
surround
himself.
But
it
is
an
error
to
suppose
that
our
great
forefathers--though
accustomed
to
speak
and
think
of
human
existence
as
a
state
merely
of
trial
and
warfare,
and
though
unfeignedly
prepared
to
sacrifice
goods
and
life
at
the
behest
of
duty--made
it
a
matter
of
conscience
to
reject
such
means
of
comfort,
or
even
luxury,
as
lay
fairly
within
their
grasp.
This
creed
was
never
taught,
for
instance,
by
the
venerable
pastor,
John
Wilson,
whose
beard,
white
as
a
snow-drift,
was
seen
over
Governor
Bellingham's
shoulders,
while
its
wearer
suggested
that
pears
and
peaches
might
yet
be
naturalised
in
the
New
England
climate,
and
that
purple
grapes
might
possibly
be
compelled
to
flourish
against
the
sunny
garden-wall.
The
old
clergyman,
nurtured
at
the
rich
bosom
of
the
English
Church,
had
a
long
established
and
legitimate
taste
for
all
good
and
comfortable
things,
and
however
stern
he
might
show
himself
in
the
pulpit,
or
in
his
public
reproof
of
such
transgressions
as
that
of
Hester
Prynne,
still,
the
genial
benevolence
of
his
private
life
had
won
him
warmer
affection
than
was
accorded
to
any
of
his
professional
contemporaries.
Behind
the
Governor
and
Mr.
Wilson
came
two
other
guests--one,
the
Reverend
Arthur
Dimmesdale,
whom
the
reader
may
remember
as
having
taken
a
brief
and
reluctant
part
in
the
scene
of
Hester
Prynne's
disgrace;
and,
in
close
companionship
with
him,
old
Roger
Chillingworth,
a
person
of
great
skill
in
physic,
who
for
two
or
three
years
past
had
been
settled
in
the
town.
It
was
understood
that
this
learned
man
was
the
physician
as
well
as
friend
of
the
young
minister,
whose
health
had
severely
suffered
of
late
by
his
too
unreserved
self-sacrifice
to
the
labours
and
duties
of
the
pastoral
relation.
The
Governor,
in
advance
of
his
visitors,
ascended
one
or
two
steps,
and,
throwing
open
the
leaves
of
the
great
hall
window,
found
himself
close
to
little
Pearl.
The
shadow
of
the
curtain
fell
on
Hester
Prynne,
and
partially
concealed
her.
"What
have
we
here?"
said
Governor
Bellingham,
looking
with
surprise
at
the
scarlet
little
figure
before
him.
"I
profess,
I
have
never
seen
the
like
since
my
days
of
vanity,
in
old
King
James's
time,
when
I
was
wont
to
esteem
it
a
high
favour
to
be
admitted
to
a
court
mask!
There
used
to
be
a
swarm
of
these
small
apparitions
in
holiday
time,
and
we
called
them
children
of
the
Lord
of
Misrule.
But
how
gat
such
a
guest
into
my
hall?"
"Ay,
indeed!"
cried
good
old
Mr.
Wilson.
"What
little
bird
of
scarlet
plumage
may
this
be?
Methinks
I
have
seen
just
such
figures
when
the
sun
has
been
shining
through
a
richly
painted
window,
and
tracing
out
the
golden
and
crimson
images
across
the
floor.
But
that
was
in
the
old
land.
Prithee,
young
one,
who
art
thou,
and
what
has
ailed
thy
mother
to
bedizen
thee
in
this
strange
fashion?
Art
thou
a
Christian
child--ha?
Dost
know
thy
catechism?
Or
art
thou
one
of
those
naughty
elfs
or
fairies
whom
we
thought
to
have
left
behind
us,
with
other
relics
of
Papistry,
in
merry
old
England?"
"I
am
mother's
child,"
answered
the
scarlet
vision,
"and
my
name
is
Pearl!"
"Pearl?--Ruby,
rather--or
Coral!--or
Red
Rose,
at
the
very
least,
judging
from
thy
hue!"
responded
the
old
minister,
putting
forth
his
hand
in
a
vain
attempt
to
pat
little
Pearl
on
the
cheek.
"But
where
is
this
mother
of
thine?
Ah!
I
see,"
he
added;
and,
turning
to
Governor
Bellingham,
whispered,
"This
is
the
selfsame
child
of
whom
we
have
held
speech
together;
and
behold
here
the
unhappy
woman,
Hester
Prynne,
her
mother!"
"Sayest
thou
so?"
cried
the
Governor.
"Nay,
we
might
have
judged
that
such
a
child's
mother
must
needs
be
a
scarlet
woman,
and
a
worthy
type
of
her
of
Babylon!
But
she
comes
at
a
good
time,
and
we
will
look
into
this
matter
forthwith."
Governor
Bellingham
stepped
through
the
window
into
the
hall,
followed
by
his
three
guests.
"Hester
Prynne,"
said
he,
fixing
his
naturally
stern
regard
on
the
wearer
of
the
scarlet
letter,
"there
hath
been
much
question
concerning
thee
of
late.
The
point
hath
been
weightily
discussed,
whether
we,
that
are
of
authority
and
influence,
do
well
discharge
our
consciences
by
trusting
an
immortal
soul,
such
as
there
is
in
yonder
child,
to
the
guidance
of
one
who
hath
stumbled
and
fallen
amid
the
pitfalls
of
this
world.
Speak
thou,
the
child's
own
mother!
Were
it
not,
thinkest
thou,
for
thy
little
one's
temporal
and
eternal
welfare
that
she
be
taken
out
of
thy
charge,
and
clad
soberly,
and
disciplined
strictly,
and
instructed
in
the
truths
of
heaven
and
earth?
What
canst
thou
do
for
the
child
in
this
kind?"
"I
can
teach
my
little
Pearl
what
I
have
learned
from
this!"
answered
Hester
Prynne,
laying
her
finger
on
the
red
token.
"Woman,
it
is
thy
badge
of
shame!"
replied
the
stern
magistrate.
"It
is
because
of
the
stain
which
that
letter
indicates
that
we
would
transfer
thy
child
to
other
hands."
"Nevertheless,"
said
the
mother,
calmly,
though
growing
more
pale,
"this
badge
hath
taught
me--it
daily
teaches
me--it
is
teaching
me
at
this
moment--lessons
whereof
my
child
may
be
the
wiser
and
better,
albeit
they
can
profit
nothing
to
myself."
"We
will
judge
warily,"
said
Bellingham,
"and
look
well
what
we
are
about
to
do.
Good
Master
Wilson,
I
pray
you,
examine
this
Pearl--since
that
is
her
name--and
see
whether
she
hath
had
such
Christian
nurture
as
befits
a
child
of
her
age."
The
old
minister
seated
himself
in
an
arm-chair
and
made
an
effort
to
draw
Pearl
betwixt
his
knees.
But
the
child,
unaccustomed
to
the
touch
or
familiarity
of
any
but
her
mother,
escaped
through
the
open
window,
and
stood
on
the
upper
step,
looking
like
a
wild
tropical
bird
of
rich
plumage,
ready
to
take
flight
into
the
upper
air.
Mr.
Wilson,
not
a
little
astonished
at
this
outbreak--for
he
was
a
grandfatherly
sort
of
personage,
and
usually
a
vast
favourite
with
children--essayed,
however,
to
proceed
with
the
examination.
"Pearl,"
said
he,
with
great
solemnity,
"thou
must
take
heed
to
instruction,
that
so,
in
due
season,
thou
mayest
wear
in
thy
bosom
the
pearl
of
great
price.
Canst
thou
tell
me,
my
child,
who
made
thee?"
Now
Pearl
knew
well
enough
who
made
her,
for
Hester
Prynne,
the
daughter
of
a
pious
home,
very
soon
after
her
talk
with
the
child
about
her
Heavenly
Father,
had
begun
to
inform
her
of
those
truths
which
the
human
spirit,
at
whatever
stage
of
immaturity,
imbibes
with
such
eager
interest.
Pearl,
therefore--so
large
were
the
attainments
of
her
three
years'
lifetime--could
have
borne
a
fair
examination
in
the
New
England
Primer,
or
the
first
column
of
the
Westminster
Catechisms,
although
unacquainted
with
the
outward
form
of
either
of
those
celebrated
works.
But
that
perversity,
which
all
children
have
more
or
less
of,
and
of
which
little
Pearl
had
a
tenfold
portion,
now,
at
the
most
inopportune
moment,
took
thorough
possession
of
her,
and
closed
her
lips,
or
impelled
her
to
speak
words
amiss.
After
putting
her
finger
in
her
mouth,
with
many
ungracious
refusals
to
answer
good
Mr.
Wilson's
question,
the
child
finally
announced
that
she
had
not
been
made
at
all,
but
had
been
plucked
by
her
mother
off
the
bush
of
wild
roses
that
grew
by
the
prison-door.
This
phantasy
was
probably
suggested
by
the
near
proximity
of
the
Governor's
red
roses,
as
Pearl
stood
outside
of
the
window,
together
with
her
recollection
of
the
prison
rose-bush,
which
she
had
passed
in
coming
hither.
Old
Roger
Chillingworth,
with
a
smile
on
his
face,
whispered
something
in
the
young
clergyman's
ear.
Hester
Prynne
looked
at
the
man
of
skill,
and
even
then,
with
her
fate
hanging
in
the
balance,
was
startled
to
perceive
what
a
change
had
come
over
his
features--how
much
uglier
they
were,
how
his
dark
complexion
seemed
to
have
grown
duskier,
and
his
figure
more
misshapen--since
the
days
when
she
had
familiarly
known
him.
She
met
his
eyes
for
an
instant,
but
was
immediately
constrained
to
give
all
her
attention
to
the
scene
now
going
forward.
"This
is
awful!"
cried
the
Governor,
slowly
recovering
from
the
astonishment
into
which
Pearl's
response
had
thrown
him.
"Here
is
a
child
of
three
years
old,
and
she
cannot
tell
who
made
her!
Without
question,
she
is
equally
in
the
dark
as
to
her
soul,
its
present
depravity,
and
future
destiny!
Methinks,
gentlemen,
we
need
inquire
no
further."
Hester
caught
hold
of
Pearl,
and
drew
her
forcibly
into
her
arms,
confronting
the
old
Puritan
magistrate
with
almost
a
fierce
expression.
Alone
in
the
world,
cast
off
by
it,
and
with
this
sole
treasure
to
keep
her
heart
alive,
she
felt
that
she
possessed
indefeasible
rights
against
the
world,
and
was
ready
to
defend
them
to
the
death.
"God
gave
me
the
child!"
cried
she.
"He
gave
her
in
requital
of
all
things
else
which
ye
had
taken
from
me.
She
is
my
happiness--she
is
my
torture,
none
the
less!
Pearl
keeps
me
here
in
life!
Pearl
punishes
me,
too!
See
ye
not,
she
is
the
scarlet
letter,
only
capable
of
being
loved,
and
so
endowed
with
a
millionfold
the
power
of
retribution
for
my
sin?
Ye
shall
not
take
her!
I
will
die
first!"
"My
poor
woman,"
said
the
not
unkind
old
minister,
"the
child
shall
be
well
cared
for--far
better
than
thou
canst
do
for
it."
"God
gave
her
into
my
keeping!"
repeated
Hester
Prynne,
raising
her
voice
almost
to
a
shriek.
"I
will
not
give
her
up!"
And
here
by
a
sudden
impulse,
she
turned
to
the
young
clergyman,
Mr.
Dimmesdale,
at
whom,
up
to
this
moment,
she
had
seemed
hardly
so
much
as
once
to
direct
her
eyes.
"Speak
thou
for
me!"
cried
she.
"Thou
wast
my
pastor,
and
hadst
charge
of
my
soul,
and
knowest
me
better
than
these
men
can.
I
will
not
lose
the
child!
Speak
for
me!
Thou
knowest--for
thou
hast
sympathies
which
these
men
lack--thou
knowest
what
is
in
my
heart,
and
what
are
a
mother's
rights,
and
how
much
the
stronger
they
are
when
that
mother
has
but
her
child
and
the
scarlet
letter!
Look
thou
to
it!
I
will
not
lose
the
child!
Look
to
it!"
At
this
wild
and
singular
appeal,
which
indicated
that
Hester
Prynne's
situation
had
provoked
her
to
little
less
than
madness,
the
young
minister
at
once
came
forward,
pale,
and
holding
his
hand
over
his
heart,
as
was
his
custom
whenever
his
peculiarly
nervous
temperament
was
thrown
into
agitation.
He
looked
now
more
careworn
and
emaciated
than
as
we
described
him
at
the
scene
of
Hester's
public
ignominy;
and
whether
it
were
his
failing
health,
or
whatever
the
cause
might
be,
his
large
dark
eyes
had
a
world
of
pain
in
their
troubled
and
melancholy
depth.
"There
is
truth
in
what
she
says,"
began
the
minister,
with
a
voice
sweet,
tremulous,
but
powerful,
insomuch
that
the
hall
re-echoed
and
the
hollow
armour
rang
with
it--"truth
in
what
Hester
says,
and
in
the
feeling
which
inspires
her!
God
gave
her
the
child,
and
gave
her,
too,
an
instinctive
knowledge
of
its
nature
and
requirements--both
seemingly
so
peculiar--which
no
other
mortal
being
can
possess.
And,
moreover,
is
there
not
a
quality
of
awful
sacredness
in
the
relation
between
this
mother
and
this
child?"
"Ay--how
is
that,
good
Master
Dimmesdale?"
interrupted
the
Governor.
"Make
that
plain,
I
pray
you!"
"It
must
be
even
so,"
resumed
the
minister.
"For,
if
we
deem
it
otherwise,
do
we
not
thereby
say
that
the
Heavenly
Father,
the
creator
of
all
flesh,
hath
lightly
recognised
a
deed
of
sin,
and
made
of
no
account
the
distinction
between
unhallowed
lust
and
holy
love?
This
child
of
its
father's
guilt
and
its
mother's
shame
has
come
from
the
hand
of
God,
to
work
in
many
ways
upon
her
heart,
who
pleads
so
earnestly
and
with
such
bitterness
of
spirit
the
right
to
keep
her.
It
was
meant
for
a
blessing--for
the
one
blessing
of
her
life!
It
was
meant,
doubtless,
the
mother
herself
hath
told
us,
for
a
retribution,
too;
a
torture
to
be
felt
at
many
an
unthought-of
moment;
a
pang,
a
sting,
an
ever-recurring
agony,
in
the
midst
of
a
troubled
joy!
Hath
she
not
expressed
this
thought
in
the
garb
of
the
poor
child,
so
forcibly
reminding
us
of
that
red
symbol
which
sears
her
bosom?"
"Well
said
again!"
cried
good
Mr.
Wilson.
"I
feared
the
woman
had
no
better
thought
than
to
make
a
mountebank
of
her
child!"
"Oh,
not
so!--not
so!"
continued
Mr.
Dimmesdale.
"She
recognises,
believe
me,
the
solemn
miracle
which
God
hath
wrought
in
the
existence
of
that
child.
And
may
she
feel,
too--what,
methinks,
is
the
very
truth--that
this
boon
was
meant,
above
all
things
else,
to
keep
the
mother's
soul
alive,
and
to
preserve
her
from
blacker
depths
of
sin
into
which
Satan
might
else
have
sought
to
plunge
her!
Therefore
it
is
good
for
this
poor,
sinful
woman,
that
she
hath
an
infant
immortality,
a
being
capable
of
eternal
joy
or
sorrow,
confided
to
her
care--to
be
trained
up
by
her
to
righteousness,
to
remind
her,
at
every
moment,
of
her
fall,
but
yet
to
teach
her,
as
if
it
were
by
the
Creator's
sacred
pledge,
that,
if
she
bring
the
child
to
heaven,
the
child
also
will
bring
its
parents
thither!
Herein
is
the
sinful
mother
happier
than
the
sinful
father.
For
Hester
Prynne's
sake,
then,
and
no
less
for
the
poor
child's
sake,
let
us
leave
them
as
Providence
hath
seen
fit
to
place
them!"
"You
speak,
my
friend,
with
a
strange
earnestness,"
said
old
Roger
Chillingworth,
smiling
at
him.
"And
there
is
a
weighty
import
in
what
my
young
brother
hath
spoken,"
added
the
Rev.
Mr.
Wilson.
"What
say
you,
worshipful
Master
Bellingham?
Hath
he
not
pleaded
well
for
the
poor
woman?"
"Indeed
hath
he,"
answered
the
magistrate;
"and
hath
adduced
such
arguments,
that
we
will
even
leave
the
matter
as
it
now
stands;
so
long,
at
least,
as
there
shall
be
no
further
scandal
in
the
woman.
Care
must
be
had
nevertheless,
to
put
the
child
to
due
and
stated
examination
in
the
catechism,
at
thy
hands
or
Master
Dimmesdale's.
Moreover,
at
a
proper
season,
the
tithing-men
must
take
heed
that
she
go
both
to
school
and
to
meeting."
The
young
minister,
on
ceasing
to
speak
had
withdrawn
a
few
steps
from
the
group,
and
stood
with
his
face
partially
concealed
in
the
heavy
folds
of
the
window-curtain;
while
the
shadow
of
his
figure,
which
the
sunlight
cast
upon
the
floor,
was
tremulous
with
the
vehemence
of
his
appeal.
Pearl,
that
wild
and
flighty
little
elf
stole
softly
towards
him,
and
taking
his
hand
in
the
grasp
of
both
her
own,
laid
her
cheek
against
it;
a
caress
so
tender,
and
withal
so
unobtrusive,
that
her
mother,
who
was
looking
on,
asked
herself--"Is
that
my
Pearl?"
Yet
she
knew
that
there
was
love
in
the
child's
heart,
although
it
mostly
revealed
itself
in
passion,
and
hardly
twice
in
her
lifetime
had
been
softened
by
such
gentleness
as
now.
The
minister--for,
save
the
long-sought
regards
of
woman,
nothing
is
sweeter
than
these
marks
of
childish
preference,
accorded
spontaneously
by
a
spiritual
instinct,
and
therefore
seeming
to
imply
in
us
something
truly
worthy
to
be
loved--the
minister
looked
round,
laid
his
hand
on
the
child's
head,
hesitated
an
instant,
and
then
kissed
her
brow.
Little
Pearl's
unwonted
mood
of
sentiment
lasted
no
longer;
she
laughed,
and
went
capering
down
the
hall
so
airily,
that
old
Mr.
Wilson
raised
a
question
whether
even
her
tiptoes
touched
the
floor.
"The
little
baggage
hath
witchcraft
in
her,
I
profess,"
said
he
to
Mr.
Dimmesdale.
"She
needs
no
old
woman's
broomstick
to
fly
withal!"
"A
strange
child!"
remarked
old
Roger
Chillingworth.
"It
is
easy
to
see
the
mother's
part
in
her.
Would
it
be
beyond
a
philosopher's
research,
think
ye,
gentlemen,
to
analyse
that
child's
nature,
and,
from
it
make
a
mould,
to
give
a
shrewd
guess
at
the
father?"
"Nay;
it
would
be
sinful,
in
such
a
question,
to
follow
the
clue
of
profane
philosophy,"
said
Mr.
Wilson.
"Better
to
fast
and
pray
upon
it;
and
still
better,
it
may
be,
to
leave
the
mystery
as
we
find
it,
unless
Providence
reveal
it
of
its
own
accord.
Thereby,
every
good
Christian
man
hath
a
title
to
show
a
father's
kindness
towards
the
poor,
deserted
babe."
The
affair
being
so
satisfactorily
concluded,
Hester
Prynne,
with
Pearl,
departed
from
the
house.
As
they
descended
the
steps,
it
is
averred
that
the
lattice
of
a
chamber-window
was
thrown
open,
and
forth
into
the
sunny
day
was
thrust
the
face
of
Mistress
Hibbins,
Governor
Bellingham's
bitter-tempered
sister,
and
the
same
who,
a
few
years
later,
was
executed
as
a
witch.
"Hist,
hist!"
said
she,
while
her
ill-omened
physiognomy
seemed
to
cast
a
shadow
over
the
cheerful
newness
of
the
house.
"Wilt
thou
go
with
us
to-night?
There
will
be
a
merry
company
in
the
forest;
and
I
well-nigh
promised
the
Black
Man
that
comely
Hester
Prynne
should
make
one."
"Make
my
excuse
to
him,
so
please
you!"
answered
Hester,
with
a
triumphant
smile.
"I
must
tarry
at
home,
and
keep
watch
over
my
little
Pearl.
Had
they
taken
her
from
me,
I
would
willingly
have
gone
with
thee
into
the
forest,
and
signed
my
name
in
the
Black
Man's
book
too,
and
that
with
mine
own
blood!"
"We
shall
have
thee
there
anon!"
said
the
witch-lady,
frowning,
as
she
drew
back
her
head.
But
here--if
we
suppose
this
interview
betwixt
Mistress
Hibbins
and
Hester
Prynne
to
be
authentic,
and
not
a
parable--was
already
an
illustration
of
the
young
minister's
argument
against
sundering
the
relation
of
a
fallen
mother
to
the
offspring
of
her
frailty.
Even
thus
early
had
the
child
saved
her
from
Satan's
snare.
IX.
THE
LEECH
Under
the
appellation
of
Roger
Chillingworth,
the
reader
will
remember,
was
hidden
another
name,
which
its
former
wearer
had
resolved
should
never
more
be
spoken.
It
has
been
related,
how,
in
the
crowd
that
witnessed
Hester
Prynne's
ignominious
exposure,
stood
a
man,
elderly,
travel-worn,
who,
just
emerging
from
the
perilous
wilderness,
beheld
the
woman,
in
whom
he
hoped
to
find
embodied
the
warmth
and
cheerfulness
of
home,
set
up
as
a
type
of
sin
before
the
people.
Her
matronly
fame
was
trodden
under
all
men's
feet.
Infamy
was
babbling
around
her
in
the
public
market-place.
For
her
kindred,
should
the
tidings
ever
reach
them,
and
for
the
companions
of
her
unspotted
life,
there
remained
nothing
but
the
contagion
of
her
dishonour;
which
would
not
fail
to
be
distributed
in
strict
accordance
and
proportion
with
the
intimacy
and
sacredness
of
their
previous
relationship.
Then
why--since
the
choice
was
with
himself--should
the
individual,
whose
connexion
with
the
fallen
woman
had
been
the
most
intimate
and
sacred
of
them
all,
come
forward
to
vindicate
his
claim
to
an
inheritance
so
little
desirable?
He
resolved
not
to
be
pilloried
beside
her
on
her
pedestal
of
shame.
Unknown
to
all
but
Hester
Prynne,
and
possessing
the
lock
and
key
of
her
silence,
he
chose
to
withdraw
his
name
from
the
roll
of
mankind,
and,
as
regarded
his
former
ties
and
interest,
to
vanish
out
of
life
as
completely
as
if
he
indeed
lay
at
the
bottom
of
the
ocean,
whither
rumour
had
long
ago
consigned
him.
This
purpose
once
effected,
new
interests
would
immediately
spring
up,
and
likewise
a
new
purpose;
dark,
it
is
true,
if
not
guilty,
but
of
force
enough
to
engage
the
full
strength
of
his
faculties.
In
pursuance
of
this
resolve,
he
took
up
his
residence
in
the
Puritan
town
as
Roger
Chillingworth,
without
other
introduction
than
the
learning
and
intelligence
of
which
he
possessed
more
than
a
common
measure.
As
his
studies,
at
a
previous
period
of
his
life,
had
made
him
extensively
acquainted
with
the
medical
science
of
the
day,
it
was
as
a
physician
that
he
presented
himself
and
as
such
was
cordially
received.
Skilful
men,
of
the
medical
and
chirurgical
profession,
were
of
rare
occurrence
in
the
colony.
They
seldom,
it
would
appear,
partook
of
the
religious
zeal
that
brought
other
emigrants
across
the
Atlantic.
In
their
researches
into
the
human
frame,
it
may
be
that
the
higher
and
more
subtle
faculties
of
such
men
were
materialised,
and
that
they
lost
the
spiritual
view
of
existence
amid
the
intricacies
of
that
wondrous
mechanism,
which
seemed
to
involve
art
enough
to
comprise
all
of
life
within
itself.
At
all
events,
the
health
of
the
good
town
of
Boston,
so
far
as
medicine
had
aught
to
do
with
it,
had
hitherto
lain
in
the
guardianship
of
an
aged
deacon
and
apothecary,
whose
piety
and
godly
deportment
were
stronger
testimonials
in
his
favour
than
any
that
he
could
have
produced
in
the
shape
of
a
diploma.
The
only
surgeon
was
one
who
combined
the
occasional
exercise
of
that
noble
art
with
the
daily
and
habitual
flourish
of
a
razor.
To
such
a
professional
body
Roger
Chillingworth
was
a
brilliant
acquisition.
He
soon
manifested
his
familiarity
with
the
ponderous
and
imposing
machinery
of
antique
physic;
in
which
every
remedy
contained
a
multitude
of
far-fetched
and
heterogeneous
ingredients,
as
elaborately
compounded
as
if
the
proposed
result
had
been
the
Elixir
of
Life.
In
his
Indian
captivity,
moreover,
he
had
gained
much
knowledge
of
the
properties
of
native
herbs
and
roots;
nor
did
he
conceal
from
his
patients
that
these
simple
medicines,
Nature's
boon
to
the
untutored
savage,
had
quite
as
large
a
share
of
his
own
confidence
as
the
European
Pharmacopoeia,
which
so
many
learned
doctors
had
spent
centuries
in
elaborating.
This
learned
stranger
was
exemplary
as
regarded
at
least
the
outward
forms
of
a
religious
life;
and
early
after
his
arrival,
had
chosen
for
his
spiritual
guide
the
Reverend
Mr.
Dimmesdale.
The
young
divine,
whose
scholar-like
renown
still
lived
in
Oxford,
was
considered
by
his
more
fervent
admirers
as
little
less
than
a
heavenly
ordained
apostle,
destined,
should
he
live
and
labour
for
the
ordinary
term
of
life,
to
do
as
great
deeds,
for
the
now
feeble
New
England
Church,
as
the
early
Fathers
had
achieved
for
the
infancy
of
the
Christian
faith.
About
this
period,
however,
the
health
of
Mr.
Dimmesdale
had
evidently
begun
to
fail.
By
those
best
acquainted
with
his
habits,
the
paleness
of
the
young
minister's
cheek
was
accounted
for
by
his
too
earnest
devotion
to
study,
his
scrupulous
fulfilment
of
parochial
duty,
and
more
than
all,
to
the
fasts
and
vigils
of
which
he
made
a
frequent
practice,
in
order
to
keep
the
grossness
of
this
earthly
state
from
clogging
and
obscuring
his
spiritual
lamp.
Some
declared,
that
if
Mr.
Dimmesdale
were
really
going
to
die,
it
was
cause
enough
that
the
world
was
not
worthy
to
be
any
longer
trodden
by
his
feet.
He
himself,
on
the
other
hand,
with
characteristic
humility,
avowed
his
belief
that
if
Providence
should
see
fit
to
remove
him,
it
would
be
because
of
his
own
unworthiness
to
perform
its
humblest
mission
here
on
earth.
With
all
this
difference
of
opinion
as
to
the
cause
of
his
decline,
there
could
be
no
question
of
the
fact.
His
form
grew
emaciated;
his
voice,
though
still
rich
and
sweet,
had
a
certain
melancholy
prophecy
of
decay
in
it;
he
was
often
observed,
on
any
slight
alarm
or
other
sudden
accident,
to
put
his
hand
over
his
heart
with
first
a
flush
and
then
a
paleness,
indicative
of
pain.
Such
was
the
young
clergyman's
condition,
and
so
imminent
the
prospect
that
his
dawning
light
would
be
extinguished,
all
untimely,
when
Roger
Chillingworth
made
his
advent
to
the
town.
His
first
entry
on
the
scene,
few
people
could
tell
whence,
dropping
down
as
it
were
out
of
the
sky
or
starting
from
the
nether
earth,
had
an
aspect
of
mystery,
which
was
easily
heightened
to
the
miraculous.
He
was
now
known
to
be
a
man
of
skill;
it
was
observed
that
he
gathered
herbs
and
the
blossoms
of
wild-flowers,
and
dug
up
roots
and
plucked
off
twigs
from
the
forest-trees
like
one
acquainted
with
hidden
virtues
in
what
was
valueless
to
common
eyes.
He
was
heard
to
speak
of
Sir
Kenelm
Digby
and
other
famous
men--whose
scientific
attainments
were
esteemed
hardly
less
than
supernatural--as
having
been
his
correspondents
or
associates.
Why,
with
such
rank
in
the
learned
world,
had
he
come
hither?
What,
could
he,
whose
sphere
was
in
great
cities,
be
seeking
in
the
wilderness?
In
answer
to
this
query,
a
rumour
gained
ground--and
however
absurd,
was
entertained
by
some
very
sensible
people--that
Heaven
had
wrought
an
absolute
miracle,
by
transporting
an
eminent
Doctor
of
Physic
from
a
German
university
bodily
through
the
air
and
setting
him
down
at
the
door
of
Mr.
Dimmesdale's
study!
Individuals
of
wiser
faith,
indeed,
who
knew
that
Heaven
promotes
its
purposes
without
aiming
at
the
stage-effect
of
what
is
called
miraculous
interposition,
were
inclined
to
see
a
providential
hand
in
Roger
Chillingworth's
so
opportune
arrival.
This
idea
was
countenanced
by
the
strong
interest
which
the
physician
ever
manifested
in
the
young
clergyman;
he
attached
himself
to
him
as
a
parishioner,
and
sought
to
win
a
friendly
regard
and
confidence
from
his
naturally
reserved
sensibility.
He
expressed
great
alarm
at
his
pastor's
state
of
health,
but
was
anxious
to
attempt
the
cure,
and,
if
early
undertaken,
seemed
not
despondent
of
a
favourable
result.
The
elders,
the
deacons,
the
motherly
dames,
and
the
young
and
fair
maidens
of
Mr.
Dimmesdale's
flock,
were
alike
importunate
that
he
should
make
trial
of
the
physician's
frankly
offered
skill.
Mr.
Dimmesdale
gently
repelled
their
entreaties.
"I
need
no
medicine,"
said
he.
But
how
could
the
young
minister
say
so,
when,
with
every
successive
Sabbath,
his
cheek
was
paler
and
thinner,
and
his
voice
more
tremulous
than
before--when
it
had
now
become
a
constant
habit,
rather
than
a
casual
gesture,
to
press
his
hand
over
his
heart?
Was
he
weary
of
his
labours?
Did
he
wish
to
die?
These
questions
were
solemnly
propounded
to
Mr.
Dimmesdale
by
the
elder
ministers
of
Boston,
and
the
deacons
of
his
church,
who,
to
use
their
own
phrase,
"dealt
with
him,"
on
the
sin
of
rejecting
the
aid
which
Providence
so
manifestly
held
out.
He
listened
in
silence,
and
finally
promised
to
confer
with
the
physician.
"Were
it
God's
will,"
said
the
Reverend
Mr.
Dimmesdale,
when,
in
fulfilment
of
this
pledge,
he
requested
old
Roger
Chillingworth's
professional
advice,
"I
could
be
well
content
that
my
labours,
and
my
sorrows,
and
my
sins,
and
my
pains,
should
shortly
end
with
me,
and
what
is
earthly
of
them
be
buried
in
my
grave,
and
the
spiritual
go
with
me
to
my
eternal
state,
rather
than
that
you
should
put
your
skill
to
the
proof
in
my
behalf."
"Ah,"
replied
Roger
Chillingworth,
with
that
quietness,
which,
whether
imposed
or
natural,
marked
all
his
deportment,
"it
is
thus
that
a
young
clergyman
is
apt
to
speak.
Youthful
men,
not
having
taken
a
deep
root,
give
up
their
hold
of
life
so
easily!
And
saintly
men,
who
walk
with
God
on
earth,
would
fain
be
away,
to
walk
with
him
on
the
golden
pavements
of
the
New
Jerusalem."
"Nay,"
rejoined
the
young
minister,
putting
his
hand
to
his
heart,
with
a
flush
of
pain
flitting
over
his
brow,
"were
I
worthier
to
walk
there,
I
could
be
better
content
to
toil
here."
"Good
men
ever
interpret
themselves
too
meanly,"
said
the
physician.
In
this
manner,
the
mysterious
old
Roger
Chillingworth
became
the
medical
adviser
of
the
Reverend
Mr.
Dimmesdale.
As
not
only
the
disease
interested
the
physician,
but
he
was
strongly
moved
to
look
into
the
character
and
qualities
of
the
patient,
these
two
men,
so
different
in
age,
came
gradually
to
spend
much
time
together.
For
the
sake
of
the
minister's
health,
and
to
enable
the
leech
to
gather
plants
with
healing
balm
in
them,
they
took
long
walks
on
the
sea-shore,
or
in
the
forest;
mingling
various
walks
with
the
splash
and
murmur
of
the
waves,
and
the
solemn
wind-anthem
among
the
tree-tops.
Often,
likewise,
one
was
the
guest
of
the
other
in
his
place
of
study
and
retirement.
There
was
a
fascination
for
the
minister
in
the
company
of
the
man
of
science,
in
whom
he
recognised
an
intellectual
cultivation
of
no
moderate
depth
or
scope;
together
with
a
range
and
freedom
of
ideas,
that
he
would
have
vainly
looked
for
among
the
members
of
his
own
profession.
In
truth,
he
was
startled,
if
not
shocked,
to
find
this
attribute
in
the
physician.
Mr.
Dimmesdale
was
a
true
priest,
a
true
religionist,
with
the
reverential
sentiment
largely
developed,
and
an
order
of
mind
that
impelled
itself
powerfully
along
the
track
of
a
creed,
and
wore
its
passage
continually
deeper
with
the
lapse
of
time.
In
no
state
of
society
would
he
have
been
what
is
called
a
man
of
liberal
views;
it
would
always
be
essential
to
his
peace
to
feel
the
pressure
of
a
faith
about
him,
supporting,
while
it
confined
him
within
its
iron
framework.
Not
the
less,
however,
though
with
a
tremulous
enjoyment,
did
he
feel
the
occasional
relief
of
looking
at
the
universe
through
the
medium
of
another
kind
of
intellect
than
those
with
which
he
habitually
held
converse.
It
was
as
if
a
window
were
thrown
open,
admitting
a
freer
atmosphere
into
the
close
and
stifled
study,
where
his
life
was
wasting
itself
away,
amid
lamp-light,
or
obstructed
day-beams,
and
the
musty
fragrance,
be
it
sensual
or
moral,
that
exhales
from
books.
But
the
air
was
too
fresh
and
chill
to
be
long
breathed
with
comfort.
So
the
minister,
and
the
physician
with
him,
withdrew
again
within
the
limits
of
what
their
Church
defined
as
orthodox.
Thus
Roger
Chillingworth
scrutinised
his
patient
carefully,
both
as
he
saw
him
in
his
ordinary
life,
keeping
an
accustomed
pathway
in
the
range
of
thoughts
familiar
to
him,
and
as
he
appeared
when
thrown
amidst
other
moral
scenery,
the
novelty
of
which
might
call
out
something
new
to
the
surface
of
his
character.
He
deemed
it
essential,
it
would
seem,
to
know
the
man,
before
attempting
to
do
him
good.
Wherever
there
is
a
heart
and
an
intellect,
the
diseases
of
the
physical
frame
are
tinged
with
the
peculiarities
of
these.
In
Arthur
Dimmesdale,
thought
and
imagination
were
so
active,
and
sensibility
so
intense,
that
the
bodily
infirmity
would
be
likely
to
have
its
groundwork
there.
So
Roger
Chillingworth--the
man
of
skill,
the
kind
and
friendly
physician--strove
to
go
deep
into
his
patient's
bosom,
delving
among
his
principles,
prying
into
his
recollections,
and
probing
everything
with
a
cautious
touch,
like
a
treasure-seeker
in
a
dark
cavern.
Few
secrets
can
escape
an
investigator,
who
has
opportunity
and
licence
to
undertake
such
a
quest,
and
skill
to
follow
it
up.
A
man
burdened
with
a
secret
should
especially
avoid
the
intimacy
of
his
physician.
If
the
latter
possess
native
sagacity,
and
a
nameless
something
more,--let
us
call
it
intuition;
if
he
show
no
intrusive
egotism,
nor
disagreeable
prominent
characteristics
of
his
own;
if
he
have
the
power,
which
must
be
born
with
him,
to
bring
his
mind
into
such
affinity
with
his
patient's,
that
this
last
shall
unawares
have
spoken
what
he
imagines
himself
only
to
have
thought;
if
such
revelations
be
received
without
tumult,
and
acknowledged
not
so
often
by
an
uttered
sympathy
as
by
silence,
an
inarticulate
breath,
and
here
and
there
a
word
to
indicate
that
all
is
understood;
if
to
these
qualifications
of
a
confidant
be
joined
the
advantages
afforded
by
his
recognised
character
as
a
physician;--then,
at
some
inevitable
moment,
will
the
soul
of
the
sufferer
be
dissolved,
and
flow
forth
in
a
dark
but
transparent
stream,
bringing
all
its
mysteries
into
the
daylight.
Roger
Chillingworth
possessed
all,
or
most,
of
the
attributes
above
enumerated.
Nevertheless,
time
went
on;
a
kind
of
intimacy,
as
we
have
said,
grew
up
between
these
two
cultivated
minds,
which
had
as
wide
a
field
as
the
whole
sphere
of
human
thought
and
study
to
meet
upon;
they
discussed
every
topic
of
ethics
and
religion,
of
public
affairs,
and
private
character;
they
talked
much,
on
both
sides,
of
matters
that
seemed
personal
to
themselves;
and
yet
no
secret,
such
as
the
physician
fancied
must
exist
there,
ever
stole
out
of
the
minister's
consciousness
into
his
companion's
ear.
The
latter
had
his
suspicions,
indeed,
that
even
the
nature
of
Mr.
Dimmesdale's
bodily
disease
had
never
fairly
been
revealed
to
him.
It
was
a
strange
reserve!
After
a
time,
at
a
hint
from
Roger
Chillingworth,
the
friends
of
Mr.
Dimmesdale
effected
an
arrangement
by
which
the
two
were
lodged
in
the
same
house;
so
that
every
ebb
and
flow
of
the
minister's
life-tide
might
pass
under
the
eye
of
his
anxious
and
attached
physician.
There
was
much
joy
throughout
the
town
when
this
greatly
desirable
object
was
attained.
It
was
held
to
be
the
best
possible
measure
for
the
young
clergyman's
welfare;
unless,
indeed,
as
often
urged
by
such
as
felt
authorised
to
do
so,
he
had
selected
some
one
of
the
many
blooming
damsels,
spiritually
devoted
to
him,
to
become
his
devoted
wife.
This
latter
step,
however,
there
was
no
present
prospect
that
Arthur
Dimmesdale
would
be
prevailed
upon
to
take;
he
rejected
all
suggestions
of
the
kind,
as
if
priestly
celibacy
were
one
of
his
articles
of
Church
discipline.
Doomed
by
his
own
choice,
therefore,
as
Mr.
Dimmesdale
so
evidently
was,
to
eat
his
unsavoury
morsel
always
at
another's
board,
and
endure
the
life-long
chill
which
must
be
his
lot
who
seeks
to
warm
himself
only
at
another's
fireside,
it
truly
seemed
that
this
sagacious,
experienced,
benevolent
old
physician,
with
his
concord
of
paternal
and
reverential
love
for
the
young
pastor,
was
the
very
man,
of
all
mankind,
to
be
constantly
within
reach
of
his
voice.
The
new
abode
of
the
two
friends
was
with
a
pious
widow,
of
good
social
rank,
who
dwelt
in
a
house
covering
pretty
nearly
the
site
on
which
the
venerable
structure
of
King's
Chapel
has
since
been
built.
It
had
the
graveyard,
originally
Isaac
Johnson's
home-field,
on
one
side,
and
so
was
well
adapted
to
call
up
serious
reflections,
suited
to
their
respective
employments,
in
both
minister
and
man
of
physic.
The
motherly
care
of
the
good
widow
assigned
to
Mr.
Dimmesdale
a
front
apartment,
with
a
sunny
exposure,
and
heavy
window-curtains,
to
create
a
noontide
shadow
when
desirable.
The
walls
were
hung
round
with
tapestry,
said
to
be
from
the
Gobelin
looms,
and,
at
all
events,
representing
the
Scriptural
story
of
David
and
Bathsheba,
and
Nathan
the
Prophet,
in
colours
still
unfaded,
but
which
made
the
fair
woman
of
the
scene
almost
as
grimly
picturesque
as
the
woe-denouncing
seer.
Here
the
pale
clergyman
piled
up
his
library,
rich
with
parchment-bound
folios
of
the
Fathers,
and
the
lore
of
Rabbis,
and
monkish
erudition,
of
which
the
Protestant
divines,
even
while
they
vilified
and
decried
that
class
of
writers,
were
yet
constrained
often
to
avail
themselves.
On
the
other
side
of
the
house,
old
Roger
Chillingworth
arranged
his
study
and
laboratory:
not
such
as
a
modern
man
of
science
would
reckon
even
tolerably
complete,
but
provided
with
a
distilling
apparatus
and
the
means
of
compounding
drugs
and
chemicals,
which
the
practised
alchemist
knew
well
how
to
turn
to
purpose.
With
such
commodiousness
of
situation,
these
two
learned
persons
sat
themselves
down,
each
in
his
own
domain,
yet
familiarly
passing
from
one
apartment
to
the
other,
and
bestowing
a
mutual
and
not
incurious
inspection
into
one
another's
business.
And
the
Reverend
Arthur
Dimmesdale's
best
discerning
friends,
as
we
have
intimated,
very
reasonably
imagined
that
the
hand
of
Providence
had
done
all
this
for
the
purpose--besought
in
so
many
public
and
domestic
and
secret
prayers--of
restoring
the
young
minister
to
health.
But,
it
must
now
be
said,
another
portion
of
the
community
had
latterly
begun
to
take
its
own
view
of
the
relation
betwixt
Mr.
Dimmesdale
and
the
mysterious
old
physician.
When
an
uninstructed
multitude
attempts
to
see
with
its
eyes,
it
is
exceedingly
apt
to
be
deceived.
When,
however,
it
forms
its
judgment,
as
it
usually
does,
on
the
intuitions
of
its
great
and
warm
heart,
the
conclusions
thus
attained
are
often
so
profound
and
so
unerring
as
to
possess
the
character
of
truth
supernaturally
revealed.
The
people,
in
the
case
of
which
we
speak,
could
justify
its
prejudice
against
Roger
Chillingworth
by
no
fact
or
argument
worthy
of
serious
refutation.
There
was
an
aged
handicraftsman,
it
is
true,
who
had
been
a
citizen
of
London
at
the
period
of
Sir
Thomas
Overbury's
murder,
now
some
thirty
years
agone;
he
testified
to
having
seen
the
physician,
under
some
other
name,
which
the
narrator
of
the
story
had
now
forgotten,
in
company
with
Dr.
Forman,
the
famous
old
conjurer,
who
was
implicated
in
the
affair
of
Overbury.
Two
or
three
individuals
hinted
that
the
man
of
skill,
during
his
Indian
captivity,
had
enlarged
his
medical
attainments
by
joining
in
the
incantations
of
the
savage
priests,
who
were
universally
acknowledged
to
be
powerful
enchanters,
often
performing
seemingly
miraculous
cures
by
their
skill
in
the
black
art.
A
large
number--and
many
of
these
were
persons
of
such
sober
sense
and
practical
observation
that
their
opinions
would
have
been
valuable
in
other
matters--affirmed
that
Roger
Chillingworth's
aspect
had
undergone
a
remarkable
change
while
he
had
dwelt
in
town,
and
especially
since
his
abode
with
Mr.
Dimmesdale.
At
first,
his
expression
had
been
calm,
meditative,
scholar-like.
Now
there
was
something
ugly
and
evil
in
his
face,
which
they
had
not
previously
noticed,
and
which
grew
still
the
more
obvious
to
sight
the
oftener
they
looked
upon
him.
According
to
the
vulgar
idea,
the
fire
in
his
laboratory
had
been
brought
from
the
lower
regions,
and
was
fed
with
infernal
fuel;
and
so,
as
might
be
expected,
his
visage
was
getting
sooty
with
the
smoke.
To
sum
up
the
matter,
it
grew
to
be
a
widely
diffused
opinion
that
the
Rev.
Arthur
Dimmesdale,
like
many
other
personages
of
special
sanctity,
in
all
ages
of
the
Christian
world,
was
haunted
either
by
Satan
himself
or
Satan's
emissary,
in
the
guise
of
old
Roger
Chillingworth.
This
diabolical
agent
had
the
Divine
permission,
for
a
season,
to
burrow
into
the
clergyman's
intimacy,
and
plot
against
his
soul.
No
sensible
man,
it
was
confessed,
could
doubt
on
which
side
the
victory
would
turn.
The
people
looked,
with
an
unshaken
hope,
to
see
the
minister
come
forth
out
of
the
conflict
transfigured
with
the
glory
which
he
would
unquestionably
win.
Meanwhile,
nevertheless,
it
was
sad
to
think
of
the
perchance
mortal
agony
through
which
he
must
struggle
towards
his
triumph.
Alas!
to
judge
from
the
gloom
and
terror
in
the
depth
of
the
poor
minister's
eyes,
the
battle
was
a
sore
one,
and
the
victory
anything
but
secure.
X.
THE
LEECH
AND
HIS
PATIENT
Old
Roger
Chillingworth,
throughout
life,
had
been
calm
in
temperament,
kindly,
though
not
of
warm
affections,
but
ever,
and
in
all
his
relations
with
the
world,
a
pure
and
upright
man.
He
had
begun
an
investigation,
as
he
imagined,
with
the
severe
and
equal
integrity
of
a
judge,
desirous
only
of
truth,
even
as
if
the
question
involved
no
more
than
the
air-drawn
lines
and
figures
of
a
geometrical
problem,
instead
of
human
passions,
and
wrongs
inflicted
on
himself.
But,
as
he
proceeded,
a
terrible
fascination,
a
kind
of
fierce,
though
still
calm,
necessity,
seized
the
old
man
within
its
gripe,
and
never
set
him
free
again
until
he
had
done
all
its
bidding.
He
now
dug
into
the
poor
clergyman's
heart,
like
a
miner
searching
for
gold;
or,
rather,
like
a
sexton
delving
into
a
grave,
possibly
in
quest
of
a
jewel
that
had
been
buried
on
the
dead
man's
bosom,
but
likely
to
find
nothing
save
mortality
and
corruption.
Alas,
for
his
own
soul,
if
these
were
what
he
sought!
Sometimes
a
light
glimmered
out
of
the
physician's
eyes,
burning
blue
and
ominous,
like
the
reflection
of
a
furnace,
or,
let
us
say,
like
one
of
those
gleams
of
ghastly
fire
that
darted
from
Bunyan's
awful
doorway
in
the
hillside,
and
quivered
on
the
pilgrim's
face.
The
soil
where
this
dark
miner
was
working
had
perchance
shown
indications
that
encouraged
him.
"This
man,"
said
he,
at
one
such
moment,
to
himself,
"pure
as
they
deem
him--all
spiritual
as
he
seems--hath
inherited
a
strong
animal
nature
from
his
father
or
his
mother.
Let
us
dig
a
little
further
in
the
direction
of
this
vein!"
Then
after
long
search
into
the
minister's
dim
interior,
and
turning
over
many
precious
materials,
in
the
shape
of
high
aspirations
for
the
welfare
of
his
race,
warm
love
of
souls,
pure
sentiments,
natural
piety,
strengthened
by
thought
and
study,
and
illuminated
by
revelation--all
of
which
invaluable
gold
was
perhaps
no
better
than
rubbish
to
the
seeker--he
would
turn
back,
discouraged,
and
begin
his
quest
towards
another
point.
He
groped
along
as
stealthily,
with
as
cautious
a
tread,
and
as
wary
an
outlook,
as
a
thief
entering
a
chamber
where
a
man
lies
only
half
asleep--or,
it
may
be,
broad
awake--with
purpose
to
steal
the
very
treasure
which
this
man
guards
as
the
apple
of
his
eye.
In
spite
of
his
premeditated
carefulness,
the
floor
would
now
and
then
creak;
his
garments
would
rustle;
the
shadow
of
his
presence,
in
a
forbidden
proximity,
would
be
thrown
across
his
victim.
In
other
words,
Mr.
Dimmesdale,
whose
sensibility
of
nerve
often
produced
the
effect
of
spiritual
intuition,
would
become
vaguely
aware
that
something
inimical
to
his
peace
had
thrust
itself
into
relation
with
him.
But
Old
Roger
Chillingworth,
too,
had
perceptions
that
were
almost
intuitive;
and
when
the
minister
threw
his
startled
eyes
towards
him,
there
the
physician
sat;
his
kind,
watchful,
sympathising,
but
never
intrusive
friend.
Yet
Mr.
Dimmesdale
would
perhaps
have
seen
this
individual's
character
more
perfectly,
if
a
certain
morbidness,
to
which
sick
hearts
are
liable,
had
not
rendered
him
suspicious
of
all
mankind.
Trusting
no
man
as
his
friend,
he
could
not
recognize
his
enemy
when
the
latter
actually
appeared.
He
therefore
still
kept
up
a
familiar
intercourse
with
him,
daily
receiving
the
old
physician
in
his
study,
or
visiting
the
laboratory,
and,
for
recreation's
sake,
watching
the
processes
by
which
weeds
were
converted
into
drugs
of
potency.
One
day,
leaning
his
forehead
on
his
hand,
and
his
elbow
on
the
sill
of
the
open
window,
that
looked
towards
the
grave-yard,
he
talked
with
Roger
Chillingworth,
while
the
old
man
was
examining
a
bundle
of
unsightly
plants.
"Where,"
asked
he,
with
a
look
askance
at
them--for
it
was
the
clergyman's
peculiarity
that
he
seldom,
now-a-days,
looked
straight
forth
at
any
object,
whether
human
or
inanimate,
"where,
my
kind
doctor,
did
you
gather
those
herbs,
with
such
a
dark,
flabby
leaf?"
"Even
in
the
graveyard
here
at
hand,"
answered
the
physician,
continuing
his
employment.
"They
are
new
to
me.
I
found
them
growing
on
a
grave,
which
bore
no
tombstone,
no
other
memorial
of
the
dead
man,
save
these
ugly
weeds,
that
have
taken
upon
themselves
to
keep
him
in
remembrance.
They
grew
out
of
his
heart,
and
typify,
it
may
be,
some
hideous
secret
that
was
buried
with
him,
and
which
he
had
done
better
to
confess
during
his
lifetime."
"Perchance,"
said
Mr.
Dimmesdale,
"he
earnestly
desired
it,
but
could
not."
"And
wherefore?"
rejoined
the
physician.
"Wherefore
not;
since
all
the
powers
of
nature
call
so
earnestly
for
the
confession
of
sin,
that
these
black
weeds
have
sprung
up
out
of
a
buried
heart,
to
make
manifest,
an
outspoken
crime?"
"That,
good
sir,
is
but
a
phantasy
of
yours,"
replied
the
minister.
"There
can
be,
if
I
forbode
aright,
no
power,
short
of
the
Divine
mercy,
to
disclose,
whether
by
uttered
words,
or
by
type
or
emblem,
the
secrets
that
may
be
buried
in
the
human
heart.
The
heart,
making
itself
guilty
of
such
secrets,
must
perforce
hold
them,
until
the
day
when
all
hidden
things
shall
be
revealed.
Nor
have
I
so
read
or
interpreted
Holy
Writ,
as
to
understand
that
the
disclosure
of
human
thoughts
and
deeds,
then
to
be
made,
is
intended
as
a
part
of
the
retribution.
That,
surely,
were
a
shallow
view
of
it.
No;
these
revelations,
unless
I
greatly
err,
are
meant
merely
to
promote
the
intellectual
satisfaction
of
all
intelligent
beings,
who
will
stand
waiting,
on
that
day,
to
see
the
dark
problem
of
this
life
made
plain.
A
knowledge
of
men's
hearts
will
be
needful
to
the
completest
solution
of
that
problem.
And,
I
conceive
moreover,
that
the
hearts
holding
such
miserable
secrets
as
you
speak
of,
will
yield
them
up,
at
that
last
day,
not
with
reluctance,
but
with
a
joy
unutterable."
"Then
why
not
reveal
it
here?"
asked
Roger
Chillingworth,
glancing
quietly
aside
at
the
minister.
"Why
should
not
the
guilty
ones
sooner
avail
themselves
of
this
unutterable
solace?"
"They
mostly
do,"
said
the
clergyman,
griping
hard
at
his
breast,
as
if
afflicted
with
an
importunate
throb
of
pain.
"Many,
many
a
poor
soul
hath
given
its
confidence
to
me,
not
only
on
the
death-bed,
but
while
strong
in
life,
and
fair
in
reputation.
And
ever,
after
such
an
outpouring,
oh,
what
a
relief
have
I
witnessed
in
those
sinful
brethren!
even
as
in
one
who
at
last
draws
free
air,
after
a
long
stifling
with
his
own
polluted
breath.
How
can
it
be
otherwise?
Why
should
a
wretched
man--guilty,
we
will
say,
of
murder--prefer
to
keep
the
dead
corpse
buried
in
his
own
heart,
rather
than
fling
it
forth
at
once,
and
let
the
universe
take
care
of
it!"
"Yet
some
men
bury
their
secrets
thus,"
observed
the
calm
physician.
"True;
there
are
such
men,"
answered
Mr.
Dimmesdale.
"But
not
to
suggest
more
obvious
reasons,
it
may
be
that
they
are
kept
silent
by
the
very
constitution
of
their
nature.
Or--can
we
not
suppose
it?--guilty
as
they
may
be,
retaining,
nevertheless,
a
zeal
for
God's
glory
and
man's
welfare,
they
shrink
from
displaying
themselves
black
and
filthy
in
the
view
of
men;
because,
thenceforward,
no
good
can
be
achieved
by
them;
no
evil
of
the
past
be
redeemed
by
better
service.
So,
to
their
own
unutterable
torment,
they
go
about
among
their
fellow-creatures,
looking
pure
as
new-fallen
snow,
while
their
hearts
are
all
speckled
and
spotted
with
iniquity
of
which
they
cannot
rid
themselves."
"These
men
deceive
themselves,"
said
Roger
Chillingworth,
with
somewhat
more
emphasis
than
usual,
and
making
a
slight
gesture
with
his
forefinger.
"They
fear
to
take
up
the
shame
that
rightfully
belongs
to
them.
Their
love
for
man,
their
zeal
for
God's
service--these
holy
impulses
may
or
may
not
coexist
in
their
hearts
with
the
evil
inmates
to
which
their
guilt
has
unbarred
the
door,
and
which
must
needs
propagate
a
hellish
breed
within
them.
But,
if
they
seek
to
glorify
God,
let
them
not
lift
heavenward
their
unclean
hands!
If
they
would
serve
their
fellowmen,
let
them
do
it
by
making
manifest
the
power
and
reality
of
conscience,
in
constraining
them
to
penitential
self-abasement!
Would
thou
have
me
to
believe,
O
wise
and
pious
friend,
that
a
false
show
can
be
better--can
be
more
for
God's
glory,
or
man'
welfare--than
God's
own
truth?
Trust
me,
such
men
deceive
themselves!"
"It
may
be
so,"
said
the
young
clergyman,
indifferently,
as
waiving
a
discussion
that
he
considered
irrelevant
or
unseasonable.
He
had
a
ready
faculty,
indeed,
of
escaping
from
any
topic
that
agitated
his
too
sensitive
and
nervous
temperament.--"But,
now,
I
would
ask
of
my
well-skilled
physician,
whether,
in
good
sooth,
he
deems
me
to
have
profited
by
his
kindly
care
of
this
weak
frame
of
mine?"
Before
Roger
Chillingworth
could
answer,
they
heard
the
clear,
wild
laughter
of
a
young
child's
voice,
proceeding
from
the
adjacent
burial-ground.
Looking
instinctively
from
the
open
window--for
it
was
summer-time--the
minister
beheld
Hester
Prynne
and
little
Pearl
passing
along
the
footpath
that
traversed
the
enclosure.
Pearl
looked
as
beautiful
as
the
day,
but
was
in
one
of
those
moods
of
perverse
merriment
which,
whenever
they
occurred,
seemed
to
remove
her
entirely
out
of
the
sphere
of
sympathy
or
human
contact.
She
now
skipped
irreverently
from
one
grave
to
another;
until
coming
to
the
broad,
flat,
armorial
tombstone
of
a
departed
worthy--perhaps
of
Isaac
Johnson
himself--she
began
to
dance
upon
it.
In
reply
to
her
mother's
command
and
entreaty
that
she
would
behave
more
decorously,
little
Pearl
paused
to
gather
the
prickly
burrs
from
a
tall
burdock
which
grew
beside
the
tomb.
Taking
a
handful
of
these,
she
arranged
them
along
the
lines
of
the
scarlet
letter
that
decorated
the
maternal
bosom,
to
which
the
burrs,
as
their
nature
was,
tenaciously
adhered.
Hester
did
not
pluck
them
off.
Roger
Chillingworth
had
by
this
time
approached
the
window
and
smiled
grimly
down.
"There
is
no
law,
nor
reverence
for
authority,
no
regard
for
human
ordinances
or
opinions,
right
or
wrong,
mixed
up
with
that
child's
composition,"
remarked
he,
as
much
to
himself
as
to
his
companion.
"I
saw
her,
the
other
day,
bespatter
the
Governor
himself
with
water
at
the
cattle-trough
in
Spring
Lane.
What,
in
heaven's
name,
is
she?
Is
the
imp
altogether
evil?
Hath
she
affections?
Hath
she
any
discoverable
principle
of
being?"
"None,
save
the
freedom
of
a
broken
law,"
answered
Mr.
Dimmesdale,
in
a
quiet
way,
as
if
he
had
been
discussing
the
point
within
himself,
"Whether
capable
of
good,
I
know
not."
The
child
probably
overheard
their
voices,
for,
looking
up
to
the
window
with
a
bright,
but
naughty
smile
of
mirth
and
intelligence,
she
threw
one
of
the
prickly
burrs
at
the
Rev.
Mr.
Dimmesdale.
The
sensitive
clergyman
shrank,
with
nervous
dread,
from
the
light
missile.
Detecting
his
emotion,
Pearl
clapped
her
little
hands
in
the
most
extravagant
ecstacy.
Hester
Prynne,
likewise,
had
involuntarily
looked
up,
and
all
these
four
persons,
old
and
young,
regarded
one
another
in
silence,
till
the
child
laughed
aloud,
and
shouted--"Come
away,
mother!
Come
away,
or
yonder
old
black
man
will
catch
you!
He
hath
got
hold
of
the
minister
already.
Come
away,
mother
or
he
will
catch
you!
But
he
cannot
catch
little
Pearl!"
So
she
drew
her
mother
away,
skipping,
dancing,
and
frisking
fantastically
among
the
hillocks
of
the
dead
people,
like
a
creature
that
had
nothing
in
common
with
a
bygone
and
buried
generation,
nor
owned
herself
akin
to
it.
It
was
as
if
she
had
been
made
afresh
out
of
new
elements,
and
must
perforce
be
permitted
to
live
her
own
life,
and
be
a
law
unto
herself
without
her
eccentricities
being
reckoned
to
her
for
a
crime.
"There
goes
a
woman,"
resumed
Roger
Chillingworth,
after
a
pause,
"who,
be
her
demerits
what
they
may,
hath
none
of
that
mystery
of
hidden
sinfulness
which
you
deem
so
grievous
to
be
borne.
Is
Hester
Prynne
the
less
miserable,
think
you,
for
that
scarlet
letter
on
her
breast?"
"I
do
verily
believe
it,"
answered
the
clergyman.
"Nevertheless,
I
cannot
answer
for
her.
There
was
a
look
of
pain
in
her
face
which
I
would
gladly
have
been
spared
the
sight
of.
But
still,
methinks,
it
must
needs
be
better
for
the
sufferer
to
be
free
to
show
his
pain,
as
this
poor
woman
Hester
is,
than
to
cover
it
up
in
his
heart."
There
was
another
pause,
and
the
physician
began
anew
to
examine
and
arrange
the
plants
which
he
had
gathered.
"You
inquired
of
me,
a
little
time
agone,"
said
he,
at
length,
"my
judgment
as
touching
your
health."
"I
did,"
answered
the
clergyman,
"and
would
gladly
learn
it.
Speak
frankly,
I
pray
you,
be
it
for
life
or
death."
"Freely
then,
and
plainly,"
said
the
physician,
still
busy
with
his
plants,
but
keeping
a
wary
eye
on
Mr.
Dimmesdale,
"the
disorder
is
a
strange
one;
not
so
much
in
itself
nor
as
outwardly
manifested,--in
so
far,
at
least
as
the
symptoms
have
been
laid
open
to
my
observation.
Looking
daily
at
you,
my
good
sir,
and
watching
the
tokens
of
your
aspect
now
for
months
gone
by,
I
should
deem
you
a
man
sore
sick,
it
may
be,
yet
not
so
sick
but
that
an
instructed
and
watchful
physician
might
well
hope
to
cure
you.
But
I
know
not
what
to
say,
the
disease
is
what
I
seem
to
know,
yet
know
it
not."
"You
speak
in
riddles,
learned
sir,"
said
the
pale
minister,
glancing
aside
out
of
the
window.
"Then,
to
speak
more
plainly,"
continued
the
physician,
"and
I
crave
pardon,
sir,
should
it
seem
to
require
pardon,
for
this
needful
plainness
of
my
speech.
Let
me
ask
as
your
friend,
as
one
having
charge,
under
Providence,
of
your
life
and
physical
well
being,
hath
all
the
operations
of
this
disorder
been
fairly
laid
open
and
recounted
to
me?"
"How
can
you
question
it?"
asked
the
minister.
"Surely
it
were
child's
play
to
call
in
a
physician
and
then
hide
the
sore!"
"You
would
tell
me,
then,
that
I
know
all?"
said
Roger
Chillingworth,
deliberately,
and
fixing
an
eye,
bright
with
intense
and
concentrated
intelligence,
on
the
minister's
face.
"Be
it
so!
But
again!
He
to
whom
only
the
outward
and
physical
evil
is
laid
open,
knoweth,
oftentimes,
but
half
the
evil
which
he
is
called
upon
to
cure.
A
bodily
disease,
which
we
look
upon
as
whole
and
entire
within
itself,
may,
after
all,
be
but
a
symptom
of
some
ailment
in
the
spiritual
part.
Your
pardon
once
again,
good
sir,
if
my
speech
give
the
shadow
of
offence.
You,
sir,
of
all
men
whom
I
have
known,
are
he
whose
body
is
the
closest
conjoined,
and
imbued,
and
identified,
so
to
speak,
with
the
spirit
whereof
it
is
the
instrument."
"Then
I
need
ask
no
further,"
said
the
clergyman,
somewhat
hastily
rising
from
his
chair.
"You
deal
not,
I
take
it,
in
medicine
for
the
soul!"
"Thus,
a
sickness,"
continued
Roger
Chillingworth,
going
on,
in
an
unaltered
tone,
without
heeding
the
interruption,
but
standing
up
and
confronting
the
emaciated
and
white-cheeked
minister,
with
his
low,
dark,
and
misshapen
figure,--"a
sickness,
a
sore
place,
if
we
may
so
call
it,
in
your
spirit
hath
immediately
its
appropriate
manifestation
in
your
bodily
frame.
Would
you,
therefore,
that
your
physician
heal
the
bodily
evil?
How
may
this
be
unless
you
first
lay
open
to
him
the
wound
or
trouble
in
your
soul?"
"No,
not
to
thee!
not
to
an
earthly
physician!"
cried
Mr.
Dimmesdale,
passionately,
and
turning
his
eyes,
full
and
bright,
and
with
a
kind
of
fierceness,
on
old
Roger
Chillingworth.
"Not
to
thee!
But,
if
it
be
the
soul's
disease,
then
do
I
commit
myself
to
the
one
Physician
of
the
soul!
He,
if
it
stand
with
His
good
pleasure,
can
cure,
or
he
can
kill.
Let
Him
do
with
me
as,
in
His
justice
and
wisdom,
He
shall
see
good.
But
who
art
thou,
that
meddlest
in
this
matter?
that
dares
thrust
himself
between
the
sufferer
and
his
God?"
With
a
frantic
gesture
he
rushed
out
of
the
room.
"It
is
as
well
to
have
made
this
step,"
said
Roger
Chillingworth
to
himself,
looking
after
the
minister,
with
a
grave
smile.
"There
is
nothing
lost.
We
shall
be
friends
again
anon.
But
see,
now,
how
passion
takes
hold
upon
this
man,
and
hurrieth
him
out
of
himself!
As
with
one
passion
so
with
another.
He
hath
done
a
wild
thing
ere
now,
this
pious
Master
Dimmesdale,
in
the
hot
passion
of
his
heart."
It
proved
not
difficult
to
re-establish
the
intimacy
of
the
two
companions,
on
the
same
footing
and
in
the
same
degree
as
heretofore.
The
young
clergyman,
after
a
few
hours
of
privacy,
was
sensible
that
the
disorder
of
his
nerves
had
hurried
him
into
an
unseemly
outbreak
of
temper,
which
there
had
been
nothing
in
the
physician's
words
to
excuse
or
palliate.
He
marvelled,
indeed,
at
the
violence
with
which
he
had
thrust
back
the
kind
old
man,
when
merely
proffering
the
advice
which
it
was
his
duty
to
bestow,
and
which
the
minister
himself
had
expressly
sought.
With
these
remorseful
feelings,
he
lost
no
time
in
making
the
amplest
apologies,
and
besought
his
friend
still
to
continue
the
care
which,
if
not
successful
in
restoring
him
to
health,
had,
in
all
probability,
been
the
means
of
prolonging
his
feeble
existence
to
that
hour.
Roger
Chillingworth
readily
assented,
and
went
on
with
his
medical
supervision
of
the
minister;
doing
his
best
for
him,
in
all
good
faith,
but
always
quitting
the
patient's
apartment,
at
the
close
of
the
professional
interview,
with
a
mysterious
and
puzzled
smile
upon
his
lips.
This
expression
was
invisible
in
Mr.
Dimmesdale's
presence,
but
grew
strongly
evident
as
the
physician
crossed
the
threshold.
"A
rare
case,"
he
muttered.
"I
must
needs
look
deeper
into
it.
A
strange
sympathy
betwixt
soul
and
body!
Were
it
only
for
the
art's
sake,
I
must
search
this
matter
to
the
bottom."
It
came
to
pass,
not
long
after
the
scene
above
recorded,
that
the
Reverend
Mr.
Dimmesdale,
noon-day,
and
entirely
unawares,
fell
into
a
deep,
deep
slumber,
sitting
in
his
chair,
with
a
large
black-letter
volume
open
before
him
on
the
table.
It
must
have
been
a
work
of
vast
ability
in
the
somniferous
school
of
literature.
The
profound
depth
of
the
minister's
repose
was
the
more
remarkable,
inasmuch
as
he
was
one
of
those
persons
whose
sleep
ordinarily
is
as
light
as
fitful,
and
as
easily
scared
away,
as
a
small
bird
hopping
on
a
twig.
To
such
an
unwonted
remoteness,
however,
had
his
spirit
now
withdrawn
into
itself
that
he
stirred
not
in
his
chair
when
old
Roger
Chillingworth,
without
any
extraordinary
precaution,
came
into
the
room.
The
physician
advanced
directly
in
front
of
his
patient,
laid
his
hand
upon
his
bosom,
and
thrust
aside
the
vestment,
that
hitherto
had
always
covered
it
even
from
the
professional
eye.
Then,
indeed,
Mr.
Dimmesdale
shuddered,
and
slightly
stirred.
After
a
brief
pause,
the
physician
turned
away.
But
with
what
a
wild
look
of
wonder,
joy,
and
horror!
With
what
a
ghastly
rapture,
as
it
were,
too
mighty
to
be
expressed
only
by
the
eye
and
features,
and
therefore
bursting
forth
through
the
whole
ugliness
of
his
figure,
and
making
itself
even
riotously
manifest
by
the
extravagant
gestures
with
which
he
threw
up
his
arms
towards
the
ceiling,
and
stamped
his
foot
upon
the
floor!
Had
a
man
seen
old
Roger
Chillingworth,
at
that
moment
of
his
ecstasy,
he
would
have
had
no
need
to
ask
how
Satan
comports
himself
when
a
precious
human
soul
is
lost
to
heaven,
and
won
into
his
kingdom.
But
what
distinguished
the
physician's
ecstasy
from
Satan's
was
the
trait
of
wonder
in
it!
XI.
THE
INTERIOR
OF
A
HEART
After
the
incident
last
described,
the
intercourse
between
the
clergyman
and
the
physician,
though
externally
the
same,
was
really
of
another
character
than
it
had
previously
been.
The
intellect
of
Roger
Chillingworth
had
now
a
sufficiently
plain
path
before
it.
It
was
not,
indeed,
precisely
that
which
he
had
laid
out
for
himself
to
tread.
Calm,
gentle,
passionless,
as
he
appeared,
there
was
yet,
we
fear,
a
quiet
depth
of
malice,
hitherto
latent,
but
active
now,
in
this
unfortunate
old
man,
which
led
him
to
imagine
a
more
intimate
revenge
than
any
mortal
had
ever
wreaked
upon
an
enemy.
To
make
himself
the
one
trusted
friend,
to
whom
should
be
confided
all
the
fear,
the
remorse,
the
agony,
the
ineffectual
repentance,
the
backward
rush
of
sinful
thoughts,
expelled
in
vain!
All
that
guilty
sorrow,
hidden
from
the
world,
whose
great
heart
would
have
pitied
and
forgiven,
to
be
revealed
to
him,
the
Pitiless--to
him,
the
Unforgiving!
All
that
dark
treasure
to
be
lavished
on
the
very
man,
to
whom
nothing
else
could
so
adequately
pay
the
debt
of
vengeance!
The
clergyman's
shy
and
sensitive
reserve
had
balked
this
scheme.
Roger
Chillingworth,
however,
was
inclined
to
be
hardly,
if
at
all,
less
satisfied
with
the
aspect
of
affairs,
which
Providence--using
the
avenger
and
his
victim
for
its
own
purposes,
and,
perchance,
pardoning,
where
it
seemed
most
to
punish--had
substituted
for
his
black
devices.
A
revelation,
he
could
almost
say,
had
been
granted
to
him.
It
mattered
little
for
his
object,
whether
celestial
or
from
what
other
region.
By
its
aid,
in
all
the
subsequent
relations
betwixt
him
and
Mr.
Dimmesdale,
not
merely
the
external
presence,
but
the
very
inmost
soul
of
the
latter,
seemed
to
be
brought
out
before
his
eyes,
so
that
he
could
see
and
comprehend
its
every
movement.
He
became,
thenceforth,
not
a
spectator
only,
but
a
chief
actor
in
the
poor
minister's
interior
world.
He
could
play
upon
him
as
he
chose.
Would
he
arouse
him
with
a
throb
of
agony?
The
victim
was
for
ever
on
the
rack;
it
needed
only
to
know
the
spring
that
controlled
the
engine:
and
the
physician
knew
it
well.
Would
he
startle
him
with
sudden
fear?
As
at
the
waving
of
a
magician's
wand,
up
rose
a
grisly
phantom--up
rose
a
thousand
phantoms--in
many
shapes,
of
death,
or
more
awful
shame,
all
flocking
round
about
the
clergyman,
and
pointing
with
their
fingers
at
his
breast!
All
this
was
accomplished
with
a
subtlety
so
perfect,
that
the
minister,
though
he
had
constantly
a
dim
perception
of
some
evil
influence
watching
over
him,
could
never
gain
a
knowledge
of
its
actual
nature.
True,
he
looked
doubtfully,
fearfully--even,
at
times,
with
horror
and
the
bitterness
of
hatred--at
the
deformed
figure
of
the
old
physician.
His
gestures,
his
gait,
his
grizzled
beard,
his
slightest
and
most
indifferent
acts,
the
very
fashion
of
his
garments,
were
odious
in
the
clergyman's
sight;
a
token
implicitly
to
be
relied
on
of
a
deeper
antipathy
in
the
breast
of
the
latter
than
he
was
willing
to
acknowledge
to
himself.
For,
as
it
was
impossible
to
assign
a
reason
for
such
distrust
and
abhorrence,
so
Mr.
Dimmesdale,
conscious
that
the
poison
of
one
morbid
spot
was
infecting
his
heart's
entire
substance,
attributed
all
his
presentiments
to
no
other
cause.
He
took
himself
to
task
for
his
bad
sympathies
in
reference
to
Roger
Chillingworth,
disregarded
the
lesson
that
he
should
have
drawn
from
them,
and
did
his
best
to
root
them
out.
Unable
to
accomplish
this,
he
nevertheless,
as
a
matter
of
principle,
continued
his
habits
of
social
familiarity
with
the
old
man,
and
thus
gave
him
constant
opportunities
for
perfecting
the
purpose
to
which--poor
forlorn
creature
that
he
was,
and
more
wretched
than
his
victim--the
avenger
had
devoted
himself.
While
thus
suffering
under
bodily
disease,
and
gnawed
and
tortured
by
some
black
trouble
of
the
soul,
and
given
over
to
the
machinations
of
his
deadliest
enemy,
the
Reverend
Mr.
Dimmesdale
had
achieved
a
brilliant
popularity
in
his
sacred
office.
He
won
it
indeed,
in
great
part,
by
his
sorrows.
His
intellectual
gifts,
his
moral
perceptions,
his
power
of
experiencing
and
communicating
emotion,
were
kept
in
a
state
of
preternatural
activity
by
the
prick
and
anguish
of
his
daily
life.
His
fame,
though
still
on
its
upward
slope,
already
overshadowed
the
soberer
reputations
of
his
fellow-clergymen,
eminent
as
several
of
them
were.
There
are
scholars
among
them,
who
had
spent
more
years
in
acquiring
abstruse
lore,
connected
with
the
divine
profession,
than
Mr.
Dimmesdale
had
lived;
and
who
might
well,
therefore,
be
more
profoundly
versed
in
such
solid
and
valuable
attainments
than
their
youthful
brother.
There
were
men,
too,
of
a
sturdier
texture
of
mind
than
his,
and
endowed
with
a
far
greater
share
of
shrewd,
hard
iron,
or
granite
understanding;
which,
duly
mingled
with
a
fair
proportion
of
doctrinal
ingredient,
constitutes
a
highly
respectable,
efficacious,
and
unamiable
variety
of
the
clerical
species.
There
were
others
again,
true
saintly
fathers,
whose
faculties
had
been
elaborated
by
weary
toil
among
their
books,
and
by
patient
thought,
and
etherealised,
moreover,
by
spiritual
communications
with
the
better
world,
into
which
their
purity
of
life
had
almost
introduced
these
holy
personages,
with
their
garments
of
mortality
still
clinging
to
them.
All
that
they
lacked
was,
the
gift
that
descended
upon
the
chosen
disciples
at
Pentecost,
in
tongues
of
flame;
symbolising,
it
would
seem,
not
the
power
of
speech
in
foreign
and
unknown
languages,
but
that
of
addressing
the
whole
human
brotherhood
in
the
heart's
native
language.
These
fathers,
otherwise
so
apostolic,
lacked
Heaven's
last
and
rarest
attestation
of
their
office,
the
Tongue
of
Flame.
They
would
have
vainly
sought--had
they
ever
dreamed
of
seeking--to
express
the
highest
truths
through
the
humblest
medium
of
familiar
words
and
images.
Their
voices
came
down,
afar
and
indistinctly,
from
the
upper
heights
where
they
habitually
dwelt.
Not
improbably,
it
was
to
this
latter
class
of
men
that
Mr.
Dimmesdale,
by
many
of
his
traits
of
character,
naturally
belonged.
To
the
high
mountain
peaks
of
faith
and
sanctity
he
would
have
climbed,
had
not
the
tendency
been
thwarted
by
the
burden,
whatever
it
might
be,
of
crime
or
anguish,
beneath
which
it
was
his
doom
to
totter.
It
kept
him
down
on
a
level
with
the
lowest;
him,
the
man
of
ethereal
attributes,
whose
voice
the
angels
might
else
have
listened
to
and
answered!
But
this
very
burden
it
was
that
gave
him
sympathies
so
intimate
with
the
sinful
brotherhood
of
mankind;
so
that
his
heart
vibrated
in
unison
with
theirs,
and
received
their
pain
into
itself
and
sent
its
own
throb
of
pain
through
a
thousand
other
hearts,
in
gushes
of
sad,
persuasive
eloquence.
Oftenest
persuasive,
but
sometimes
terrible!
The
people
knew
not
the
power
that
moved
them
thus.
They
deemed
the
young
clergyman
a
miracle
of
holiness.
They
fancied
him
the
mouth-piece
of
Heaven's
messages
of
wisdom,
and
rebuke,
and
love.
In
their
eyes,
the
very
ground
on
which
he
trod
was
sanctified.
The
virgins
of
his
church
grew
pale
around
him,
victims
of
a
passion
so
imbued
with
religious
sentiment,
that
they
imagined
it
to
be
all
religion,
and
brought
it
openly,
in
their
white
bosoms,
as
their
most
acceptable
sacrifice
before
the
altar.
The
aged
members
of
his
flock,
beholding
Mr.
Dimmesdale's
frame
so
feeble,
while
they
were
themselves
so
rugged
in
their
infirmity,
believed
that
he
would
go
heavenward
before
them,
and
enjoined
it
upon
their
children
that
their
old
bones
should
be
buried
close
to
their
young
pastor's
holy
grave.
And
all
this
time,
perchance,
when
poor
Mr.
Dimmesdale
was
thinking
of
his
grave,
he
questioned
with
himself
whether
the
grass
would
ever
grow
on
it,
because
an
accursed
thing
must
there
be
buried!
It
is
inconceivable,
the
agony
with
which
this
public
veneration
tortured
him.
It
was
his
genuine
impulse
to
adore
the
truth,
and
to
reckon
all
things
shadow-like,
and
utterly
devoid
of
weight
or
value,
that
had
not
its
divine
essence
as
the
life
within
their
life.
Then
what
was
he?--a
substance?--or
the
dimmest
of
all
shadows?
He
longed
to
speak
out
from
his
own
pulpit
at
the
full
height
of
his
voice,
and
tell
the
people
what
he
was.
"I,
whom
you
behold
in
these
black
garments
of
the
priesthood--I,
who
ascend
the
sacred
desk,
and
turn
my
pale
face
heavenward,
taking
upon
myself
to
hold
communion
in
your
behalf
with
the
Most
High
Omniscience--I,
in
whose
daily
life
you
discern
the
sanctity
of
Enoch--I,
whose
footsteps,
as
you
suppose,
leave
a
gleam
along
my
earthly
track,
whereby
the
Pilgrims
that
shall
come
after
me
may
be
guided
to
the
regions
of
the
blest--I,
who
have
laid
the
hand
of
baptism
upon
your
children--I,
who
have
breathed
the
parting
prayer
over
your
dying
friends,
to
whom
the
Amen
sounded
faintly
from
a
world
which
they
had
quitted--I,
your
pastor,
whom
you
so
reverence
and
trust,
am
utterly
a
pollution
and
a
lie!"
More
than
once,
Mr.
Dimmesdale
had
gone
into
the
pulpit,
with
a
purpose
never
to
come
down
its
steps
until
he
should
have
spoken
words
like
the
above.
More
than
once
he
had
cleared
his
throat,
and
drawn
in
the
long,
deep,
and
tremulous
breath,
which,
when
sent
forth
again,
would
come
burdened
with
the
black
secret
of
his
soul.
More
than
once--nay,
more
than
a
hundred
times--he
had
actually
spoken!
Spoken!
But
how?
He
had
told
his
hearers
that
he
was
altogether
vile,
a
viler
companion
of
the
vilest,
the
worst
of
sinners,
an
abomination,
a
thing
of
unimaginable
iniquity,
and
that
the
only
wonder
was
that
they
did
not
see
his
wretched
body
shrivelled
up
before
their
eyes
by
the
burning
wrath
of
the
Almighty!
Could
there
be
plainer
speech
than
this?
Would
not
the
people
start
up
in
their
seats,
by
a
simultaneous
impulse,
and
tear
him
down
out
of
the
pulpit
which
he
defiled?
Not
so,
indeed!
They
heard
it
all,
and
did
but
reverence
him
the
more.
They
little
guessed
what
deadly
purport
lurked
in
those
self-condemning
words.
"The
godly
youth!"
said
they
among
themselves.
"The
saint
on
earth!
Alas!
if
he
discern
such
sinfulness
in
his
own
white
soul,
what
horrid
spectacle
would
he
behold
in
thine
or
mine!"
The
minister
well
knew--subtle,
but
remorseful
hypocrite
that
he
was!--the
light
in
which
his
vague
confession
would
be
viewed.
He
had
striven
to
put
a
cheat
upon
himself
by
making
the
avowal
of
a
guilty
conscience,
but
had
gained
only
one
other
sin,
and
a
self-acknowledged
shame,
without
the
momentary
relief
of
being
self-deceived.
He
had
spoken
the
very
truth,
and
transformed
it
into
the
veriest
falsehood.
And
yet,
by
the
constitution
of
his
nature,
he
loved
the
truth,
and
loathed
the
lie,
as
few
men
ever
did.
Therefore,
above
all
things
else,
he
loathed
his
miserable
self!
His
inward
trouble
drove
him
to
practices
more
in
accordance
with
the
old,
corrupted
faith
of
Rome
than
with
the
better
light
of
the
church
in
which
he
had
been
born
and
bred.
In
Mr.
Dimmesdale's
secret
closet,
under
lock
and
key,
there
was
a
bloody
scourge.
Oftentimes,
this
Protestant
and
Puritan
divine
had
plied
it
on
his
own
shoulders,
laughing
bitterly
at
himself
the
while,
and
smiting
so
much
the
more
pitilessly
because
of
that
bitter
laugh.
It
was
his
custom,
too,
as
it
has
been
that
of
many
other
pious
Puritans,
to
fast--not
however,
like
them,
in
order
to
purify
the
body,
and
render
it
the
fitter
medium
of
celestial
illumination--but
rigorously,
and
until
his
knees
trembled
beneath
him,
as
an
act
of
penance.
He
kept
vigils,
likewise,
night
after
night,
sometimes
in
utter
darkness,
sometimes
with
a
glimmering
lamp,
and
sometimes,
viewing
his
own
face
in
a
looking-glass,
by
the
most
powerful
light
which
he
could
throw
upon
it.
He
thus
typified
the
constant
introspection
wherewith
he
tortured,
but
could
not
purify
himself.
In
these
lengthened
vigils,
his
brain
often
reeled,
and
visions
seemed
to
flit
before
him;
perhaps
seen
doubtfully,
and
by
a
faint
light
of
their
own,
in
the
remote
dimness
of
the
chamber,
or
more
vividly
and
close
beside
him,
within
the
looking-glass.
Now
it
was
a
herd
of
diabolic
shapes,
that
grinned
and
mocked
at
the
pale
minister,
and
beckoned
him
away
with
them;
now
a
group
of
shining
angels,
who
flew
upward
heavily,
as
sorrow-laden,
but
grew
more
ethereal
as
they
rose.
Now
came
the
dead
friends
of
his
youth,
and
his
white-bearded
father,
with
a
saint-like
frown,
and
his
mother
turning
her
face
away
as
she
passed
by.
Ghost
of
a
mother--thinnest
fantasy
of
a
mother--methinks
she
might
yet
have
thrown
a
pitying
glance
towards
her
son!
And
now,
through
the
chamber
which
these
spectral
thoughts
had
made
so
ghastly,
glided
Hester
Prynne
leading
along
little
Pearl,
in
her
scarlet
garb,
and
pointing
her
forefinger,
first
at
the
scarlet
letter
on
her
bosom,
and
then
at
the
clergyman's
own
breast.
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.
A
new
thought
had
struck
him.
There
might
be
a
moment's
peace
in
it.
Attiring
himself
with
as
much
care
as
if
it
had
been
for
public
worship,
and
precisely
in
the
same
manner,
he
stole
softly
down
the
staircase,
undid
the
door,
and
issued
forth.
XII.
THE
MINISTER'S
VIGIL
Walking
in
the
shadow
of
a
dream,
as
it
were,
and
perhaps
actually
under
the
influence
of
a
species
of
somnambulism,
Mr.
Dimmesdale
reached
the
spot
where,
now
so
long
since,
Hester
Prynne
had
lived
through
her
first
hours
of
public
ignominy.
The
same
platform
or
scaffold,
black
and
weather-stained
with
the
storm
or
sunshine
of
seven
long
years,
and
foot-worn,
too,
with
the
tread
of
many
culprits
who
had
since
ascended
it,
remained
standing
beneath
the
balcony
of
the
meeting-house.
The
minister
went
up
the
steps.
It
was
an
obscure
night
in
early
May.
An
unvaried
pall
of
cloud
muffled
the
whole
expanse
of
sky
from
zenith
to
horizon.
If
the
same
multitude
which
had
stood
as
eye-witnesses
while
Hester
Prynne
sustained
her
punishment
could
now
have
been
summoned
forth,
they
would
have
discerned
no
face
above
the
platform
nor
hardly
the
outline
of
a
human
shape,
in
the
dark
grey
of
the
midnight.
But
the
town
was
all
asleep.
There
was
no
peril
of
discovery.
The
minister
might
stand
there,
if
it
so
pleased
him,
until
morning
should
redden
in
the
east,
without
other
risk
than
that
the
dank
and
chill
night
air
would
creep
into
his
frame,
and
stiffen
his
joints
with
rheumatism,
and
clog
his
throat
with
catarrh
and
cough;
thereby
defrauding
the
expectant
audience
of
to-morrow's
prayer
and
sermon.
No
eye
could
see
him,
save
that
ever-wakeful
one
which
had
seen
him
in
his
closet,
wielding
the
bloody
scourge.
Why,
then,
had
he
come
hither?
Was
it
but
the
mockery
of
penitence?
A
mockery,
indeed,
but
in
which
his
soul
trifled
with
itself!
A
mockery
at
which
angels
blushed
and
wept,
while
fiends
rejoiced
with
jeering
laughter!
He
had
been
driven
hither
by
the
impulse
of
that
Remorse
which
dogged
him
everywhere,
and
whose
own
sister
and
closely
linked
companion
was
that
Cowardice
which
invariably
drew
him
back,
with
her
tremulous
gripe,
just
when
the
other
impulse
had
hurried
him
to
the
verge
of
a
disclosure.
Poor,
miserable
man!
what
right
had
infirmity
like
his
to
burden
itself
with
crime?
Crime
is
for
the
iron-nerved,
who
have
their
choice
either
to
endure
it,
or,
if
it
press
too
hard,
to
exert
their
fierce
and
savage
strength
for
a
good
purpose,
and
fling
it
off
at
once!
This
feeble
and
most
sensitive
of
spirits
could
do
neither,
yet
continually
did
one
thing
or
another,
which
intertwined,
in
the
same
inextricable
knot,
the
agony
of
heaven-defying
guilt
and
vain
repentance.
And
thus,
while
standing
on
the
scaffold,
in
this
vain
show
of
expiation,
Mr.
Dimmesdale
was
overcome
with
a
great
horror
of
mind,
as
if
the
universe
were
gazing
at
a
scarlet
token
on
his
naked
breast,
right
over
his
heart.
On
that
spot,
in
very
truth,
there
was,
and
there
had
long
been,
the
gnawing
and
poisonous
tooth
of
bodily
pain.
Without
any
effort
of
his
will,
or
power
to
restrain
himself,
he
shrieked
aloud:
an
outcry
that
went
pealing
through
the
night,
and
was
beaten
back
from
one
house
to
another,
and
reverberated
from
the
hills
in
the
background;
as
if
a
company
of
devils,
detecting
so
much
misery
and
terror
in
it,
had
made
a
plaything
of
the
sound,
and
were
bandying
it
to
and
fro.
"It
is
done!"
muttered
the
minister,
covering
his
face
with
his
hands.
"The
whole
town
will
awake
and
hurry
forth,
and
find
me
here!"
But
it
was
not
so.
The
shriek
had
perhaps
sounded
with
a
far
greater
power,
to
his
own
startled
ears,
than
it
actually
possessed.
The
town
did
not
awake;
or,
if
it
did,
the
drowsy
slumberers
mistook
the
cry
either
for
something
frightful
in
a
dream,
or
for
the
noise
of
witches,
whose
voices,
at
that
period,
were
often
heard
to
pass
over
the
settlements
or
lonely
cottages,
as
they
rode
with
Satan
through
the
air.
The
clergyman,
therefore,
hearing
no
symptoms
of
disturbance,
uncovered
his
eyes
and
looked
about
him.
At
one
of
the
chamber-windows
of
Governor
Bellingham's
mansion,
which
stood
at
some
distance,
on
the
line
of
another
street,
he
beheld
the
appearance
of
the
old
magistrate
himself
with
a
lamp
in
his
hand
a
white
night-cap
on
his
head,
and
a
long
white
gown
enveloping
his
figure.
He
looked
like
a
ghost
evoked
unseasonably
from
the
grave.
The
cry
had
evidently
startled
him.
At
another
window
of
the
same
house,
moreover
appeared
old
Mistress
Hibbins,
the
Governor's
sister,
also
with
a
lamp,
which
even
thus
far
off
revealed
the
expression
of
her
sour
and
discontented
face.
She
thrust
forth
her
head
from
the
lattice,
and
looked
anxiously
upward.
Beyond
the
shadow
of
a
doubt,
this
venerable
witch-lady
had
heard
Mr.
Dimmesdale's
outcry,
and
interpreted
it,
with
its
multitudinous
echoes
and
reverberations,
as
the
clamour
of
the
fiends
and
night-hags,
with
whom
she
was
well
known
to
make
excursions
in
the
forest.
Detecting
the
gleam
of
Governor
Bellingham's
lamp,
the
old
lady
quickly
extinguished
her
own,
and
vanished.
Possibly,
she
went
up
among
the
clouds.
The
minister
saw
nothing
further
of
her
motions.
The
magistrate,
after
a
wary
observation
of
the
darkness--into
which,
nevertheless,
he
could
see
but
little
further
than
he
might
into
a
mill-stone--retired
from
the
window.
The
minister
grew
comparatively
calm.
His
eyes,
however,
were
soon
greeted
by
a
little
glimmering
light,
which,
at
first
a
long
way
off
was
approaching
up
the
street.
It
threw
a
gleam
of
recognition,
on
here
a
post,
and
there
a
garden
fence,
and
here
a
latticed
window-pane,
and
there
a
pump,
with
its
full
trough
of
water,
and
here
again
an
arched
door
of
oak,
with
an
iron
knocker,
and
a
rough
log
for
the
door-step.
The
Reverend
Mr.
Dimmesdale
noted
all
these
minute
particulars,
even
while
firmly
convinced
that
the
doom
of
his
existence
was
stealing
onward,
in
the
footsteps
which
he
now
heard;
and
that
the
gleam
of
the
lantern
would
fall
upon
him
in
a
few
moments
more,
and
reveal
his
long-hidden
secret.
As
the
light
drew
nearer,
he
beheld,
within
its
illuminated
circle,
his
brother
clergyman--or,
to
speak
more
accurately,
his
professional
father,
as
well
as
highly
valued
friend--the
Reverend
Mr.
Wilson,
who,
as
Mr.
Dimmesdale
now
conjectured,
had
been
praying
at
the
bedside
of
some
dying
man.
And
so
he
had.
The
good
old
minister
came
freshly
from
the
death-chamber
of
Governor
Winthrop,
who
had
passed
from
earth
to
heaven
within
that
very
hour.
And
now
surrounded,
like
the
saint-like
personage
of
olden
times,
with
a
radiant
halo,
that
glorified
him
amid
this
gloomy
night
of
sin--as
if
the
departed
Governor
had
left
him
an
inheritance
of
his
glory,
or
as
if
he
had
caught
upon
himself
the
distant
shine
of
the
celestial
city,
while
looking
thitherward
to
see
the
triumphant
pilgrim
pass
within
its
gates--now,
in
short,
good
Father
Wilson
was
moving
homeward,
aiding
his
footsteps
with
a
lighted
lantern!
The
glimmer
of
this
luminary
suggested
the
above
conceits
to
Mr.
Dimmesdale,
who
smiled--nay,
almost
laughed
at
them--and
then
wondered
if
he
was
going
mad.
As
the
Reverend
Mr.
Wilson
passed
beside
the
scaffold,
closely
muffling
his
Geneva
cloak
about
him
with
one
arm,
and
holding
the
lantern
before
his
breast
with
the
other,
the
minister
could
hardly
restrain
himself
from
speaking--
"A
good
evening
to
you,
venerable
Father
Wilson.
Come
up
hither,
I
pray
you,
and
pass
a
pleasant
hour
with
me!"
Good
Heavens!
Had
Mr.
Dimmesdale
actually
spoken?
For
one
instant
he
believed
that
these
words
had
passed
his
lips.
But
they
were
uttered
only
within
his
imagination.
The
venerable
Father
Wilson
continued
to
step
slowly
onward,
looking
carefully
at
the
muddy
pathway
before
his
feet,
and
never
once
turning
his
head
towards
the
guilty
platform.
When
the
light
of
the
glimmering
lantern
had
faded
quite
away,
the
minister
discovered,
by
the
faintness
which
came
over
him,
that
the
last
few
moments
had
been
a
crisis
of
terrible
anxiety,
although
his
mind
had
made
an
involuntary
effort
to
relieve
itself
by
a
kind
of
lurid
playfulness.
Shortly
afterwards,
the
like
grisly
sense
of
the
humorous
again
stole
in
among
the
solemn
phantoms
of
his
thought.
He
felt
his
limbs
growing
stiff
with
the
unaccustomed
chilliness
of
the
night,
and
doubted
whether
he
should
be
able
to
descend
the
steps
of
the
scaffold.
Morning
would
break
and
find
him
there.
The
neighbourhood
would
begin
to
rouse
itself.
The
earliest
riser,
coming
forth
in
the
dim
twilight,
would
perceive
a
vaguely-defined
figure
aloft
on
the
place
of
shame;
and
half-crazed
betwixt
alarm
and
curiosity,
would
go
knocking
from
door
to
door,
summoning
all
the
people
to
behold
the
ghost--as
he
needs
must
think
it--of
some
defunct
transgressor.
A
dusky
tumult
would
flap
its
wings
from
one
house
to
another.
Then--the
morning
light
still
waxing
stronger--old
patriarchs
would
rise
up
in
great
haste,
each
in
his
flannel
gown,
and
matronly
dames,
without
pausing
to
put
off
their
night-gear.
The
whole
tribe
of
decorous
personages,
who
had
never
heretofore
been
seen
with
a
single
hair
of
their
heads
awry,
would
start
into
public
view
with
the
disorder
of
a
nightmare
in
their
aspects.
Old
Governor
Bellingham
would
come
grimly
forth,
with
his
King
James'
ruff
fastened
askew,
and
Mistress
Hibbins,
with
some
twigs
of
the
forest
clinging
to
her
skirts,
and
looking
sourer
than
ever,
as
having
hardly
got
a
wink
of
sleep
after
her
night
ride;
and
good
Father
Wilson
too,
after
spending
half
the
night
at
a
death-bed,
and
liking
ill
to
be
disturbed,
thus
early,
out
of
his
dreams
about
the
glorified
saints.
Hither,
likewise,
would
come
the
elders
and
deacons
of
Mr.
Dimmesdale's
church,
and
the
young
virgins
who
so
idolized
their
minister,
and
had
made
a
shrine
for
him
in
their
white
bosoms,
which
now,
by-the-bye,
in
their
hurry
and
confusion,
they
would
scantly
have
given
themselves
time
to
cover
with
their
kerchiefs.
All
people,
in
a
word,
would
come
stumbling
over
their
thresholds,
and
turning
up
their
amazed
and
horror-stricken
visages
around
the
scaffold.
Whom
would
they
discern
there,
with
the
red
eastern
light
upon
his
brow?
Whom,
but
the
Reverend
Arthur
Dimmesdale,
half-frozen
to
death,
overwhelmed
with
shame,
and
standing
where
Hester
Prynne
had
stood!
Carried
away
by
the
grotesque
horror
of
this
picture,
the
minister,
unawares,
and
to
his
own
infinite
alarm,
burst
into
a
great
peal
of
laughter.
It
was
immediately
responded
to
by
a
light,
airy,
childish
laugh,
in
which,
with
a
thrill
of
the
heart--but
he
knew
not
whether
of
exquisite
pain,
or
pleasure
as
acute--he
recognised
the
tones
of
little
Pearl.
"Pearl!
Little
Pearl!"
cried
he,
after
a
moment's
pause;
then,
suppressing
his
voice--"Hester!
Hester
Prynne!
Are
you
there?"
"Yes;
it
is
Hester
Prynne!"
she
replied,
in
a
tone
of
surprise;
and
the
minister
heard
her
footsteps
approaching
from
the
side-walk,
along
which
she
had
been
passing.
"It
is
I,
and
my
little
Pearl."
"Whence
come
you,
Hester?"
asked
the
minister.
"What
sent
you
hither?"
"I
have
been
watching
at
a
death-bed,"
answered
Hester
Prynne
"at
Governor
Winthrop's
death-bed,
and
have
taken
his
measure
for
a
robe,
and
am
now
going
homeward
to
my
dwelling."
"Come
up
hither,
Hester,
thou
and
little
Pearl,"
said
the
Reverend
Mr.
Dimmesdale.
"Ye
have
both
been
here
before,
but
I
was
not
with
you.
Come
up
hither
once
again,
and
we
will
stand
all
three
together."
She
silently
ascended
the
steps,
and
stood
on
the
platform,
holding
little
Pearl
by
the
hand.
The
minister
felt
for
the
child's
other
hand,
and
took
it.
The
moment
that
he
did
so,
there
came
what
seemed
a
tumultuous
rush
of
new
life,
other
life
than
his
own
pouring
like
a
torrent
into
his
heart,
and
hurrying
through
all
his
veins,
as
if
the
mother
and
the
child
were
communicating
their
vital
warmth
to
his
half-torpid
system.
The
three
formed
an
electric
chain.
"Minister!"
whispered
little
Pearl.
"What
wouldst
thou
say,
child?"
asked
Mr.
Dimmesdale.
"Wilt
thou
stand
here
with
mother
and
me,
to-morrow
noontide?"
inquired
Pearl.
"Nay;
not
so,
my
little
Pearl,"
answered
the
minister;
for,
with
the
new
energy
of
the
moment,
all
the
dread
of
public
exposure,
that
had
so
long
been
the
anguish
of
his
life,
had
returned
upon
him;
and
he
was
already
trembling
at
the
conjunction
in
which--with
a
strange
joy,
nevertheless--he
now
found
himself--"not
so,
my
child.
I
shall,
indeed,
stand
with
thy
mother
and
thee
one
other
day,
but
not
to-morrow."
Pearl
laughed,
and
attempted
to
pull
away
her
hand.
But
the
minister
held
it
fast.
"A
moment
longer,
my
child!"
said
he.
"But
wilt
thou
promise,"
asked
Pearl,
"to
take
my
hand,
and
mother's
hand,
to-morrow
noontide?"
"Not
then,
Pearl,"
said
the
minister;
"but
another
time."
"And
what
other
time?"
persisted
the
child.
"At
the
great
judgment
day,"
whispered
the
minister;
and,
strangely
enough,
the
sense
that
he
was
a
professional
teacher
of
the
truth
impelled
him
to
answer
the
child
so.
"Then,
and
there,
before
the
judgment-seat,
thy
mother,
and
thou,
and
I
must
stand
together.
But
the
daylight
of
this
world
shall
not
see
our
meeting!"
Pearl
laughed
again.
But
before
Mr.
Dimmesdale
had
done
speaking,
a
light
gleamed
far
and
wide
over
all
the
muffled
sky.
It
was
doubtless
caused
by
one
of
those
meteors,
which
the
night-watcher
may
so
often
observe
burning
out
to
waste,
in
the
vacant
regions
of
the
atmosphere.
So
powerful
was
its
radiance,
that
it
thoroughly
illuminated
the
dense
medium
of
cloud
betwixt
the
sky
and
earth.
The
great
vault
brightened,
like
the
dome
of
an
immense
lamp.
It
showed
the
familiar
scene
of
the
street
with
the
distinctness
of
mid-day,
but
also
with
the
awfulness
that
is
always
imparted
to
familiar
objects
by
an
unaccustomed
light.
The
wooden
houses,
with
their
jutting
storeys
and
quaint
gable-peaks;
the
doorsteps
and
thresholds
with
the
early
grass
springing
up
about
them;
the
garden-plots,
black
with
freshly-turned
earth;
the
wheel-track,
little
worn,
and
even
in
the
market-place
margined
with
green
on
either
side--all
were
visible,
but
with
a
singularity
of
aspect
that
seemed
to
give
another
moral
interpretation
to
the
things
of
this
world
than
they
had
ever
borne
before.
And
there
stood
the
minister,
with
his
hand
over
his
heart;
and
Hester
Prynne,
with
the
embroidered
letter
glimmering
on
her
bosom;
and
little
Pearl,
herself
a
symbol,
and
the
connecting
link
between
those
two.
They
stood
in
the
noon
of
that
strange
and
solemn
splendour,
as
if
it
were
the
light
that
is
to
reveal
all
secrets,
and
the
daybreak
that
shall
unite
all
who
belong
to
one
another.
There
was
witchcraft
in
little
Pearl's
eyes;
and
her
face,
as
she
glanced
upward
at
the
minister,
wore
that
naughty
smile
which
made
its
expression
frequently
so
elvish.
She
withdrew
her
hand
from
Mr.
Dimmesdale's,
and
pointed
across
the
street.
But
he
clasped
both
his
hands
over
his
breast,
and
cast
his
eyes
towards
the
zenith.
Nothing
was
more
common,
in
those
days,
than
to
interpret
all
meteoric
appearances,
and
other
natural
phenomena
that
occurred
with
less
regularity
than
the
rise
and
set
of
sun
and
moon,
as
so
many
revelations
from
a
supernatural
source.
Thus,
a
blazing
spear,
a
sword
of
flame,
a
bow,
or
a
sheaf
of
arrows
seen
in
the
midnight
sky,
prefigured
Indian
warfare.
Pestilence
was
known
to
have
been
foreboded
by
a
shower
of
crimson
light.
We
doubt
whether
any
marked
event,
for
good
or
evil,
ever
befell
New
England,
from
its
settlement
down
to
revolutionary
times,
of
which
the
inhabitants
had
not
been
previously
warned
by
some
spectacle
of
its
nature.
Not
seldom,
it
had
been
seen
by
multitudes.
Oftener,
however,
its
credibility
rested
on
the
faith
of
some
lonely
eye-witness,
who
beheld
the
wonder
through
the
coloured,
magnifying,
and
distorted
medium
of
his
imagination,
and
shaped
it
more
distinctly
in
his
after-thought.
It
was,
indeed,
a
majestic
idea
that
the
destiny
of
nations
should
be
revealed,
in
these
awful
hieroglyphics,
on
the
cope
of
heaven.
A
scroll
so
wide
might
not
be
deemed
too
expensive
for
Providence
to
write
a
people's
doom
upon.
The
belief
was
a
favourite
one
with
our
forefathers,
as
betokening
that
their
infant
commonwealth
was
under
a
celestial
guardianship
of
peculiar
intimacy
and
strictness.
But
what
shall
we
say,
when
an
individual
discovers
a
revelation
addressed
to
himself
alone,
on
the
same
vast
sheet
of
record.
In
such
a
case,
it
could
only
be
the
symptom
of
a
highly
disordered
mental
state,
when
a
man,
rendered
morbidly
self-contemplative
by
long,
intense,
and
secret
pain,
had
extended
his
egotism
over
the
whole
expanse
of
nature,
until
the
firmament
itself
should
appear
no
more
than
a
fitting
page
for
his
soul's
history
and
fate.
We
impute
it,
therefore,
solely
to
the
disease
in
his
own
eye
and
heart
that
the
minister,
looking
upward
to
the
zenith,
beheld
there
the
appearance
of
an
immense
letter--the
letter
A--marked
out
in
lines
of
dull
red
light.
Not
but
the
meteor
may
have
shown
itself
at
that
point,
burning
duskily
through
a
veil
of
cloud,
but
with
no
such
shape
as
his
guilty
imagination
gave
it,
or,
at
least,
with
so
little
definiteness,
that
another's
guilt
might
have
seen
another
symbol
in
it.
There
was
a
singular
circumstance
that
characterised
Mr.
Dimmesdale's
psychological
state
at
this
moment.
All
the
time
that
he
gazed
upward
to
the
zenith,
he
was,
nevertheless,
perfectly
aware
that
little
Pearl
was
pointing
her
finger
towards
old
Roger
Chillingworth,
who
stood
at
no
great
distance
from
the
scaffold.
The
minister
appeared
to
see
him,
with
the
same
glance
that
discerned
the
miraculous
letter.
To
his
feature
as
to
all
other
objects,
the
meteoric
light
imparted
a
new
expression;
or
it
might
well
be
that
the
physician
was
not
careful
then,
as
at
all
other
times,
to
hide
the
malevolence
with
which
he
looked
upon
his
victim.
Certainly,
if
the
meteor
kindled
up
the
sky,
and
disclosed
the
earth,
with
an
awfulness
that
admonished
Hester
Prynne
and
the
clergyman
of
the
day
of
judgment,
then
might
Roger
Chillingworth
have
passed
with
them
for
the
arch-fiend,
standing
there
with
a
smile
and
scowl,
to
claim
his
own.
So
vivid
was
the
expression,
or
so
intense
the
minister's
perception
of
it,
that
it
seemed
still
to
remain
painted
on
the
darkness
after
the
meteor
had
vanished,
with
an
effect
as
if
the
street
and
all
things
else
were
at
once
annihilated.
"Who
is
that
man,
Hester?"
gasped
Mr.
Dimmesdale,
overcome
with
terror.
"I
shiver
at
him!
Dost
thou
know
the
man?
I
hate
him,
Hester!"
She
remembered
her
oath,
and
was
silent.
"I
tell
thee,
my
soul
shivers
at
him!"
muttered
the
minister
again.
"Who
is
he?
Who
is
he?
Canst
thou
do
nothing
for
me?
I
have
a
nameless
horror
of
the
man!"
"Minister,"
said
little
Pearl,
"I
can
tell
thee
who
he
is!"
"Quickly,
then,
child!"
said
the
minister,
bending
his
ear
close
to
her
lips.
"Quickly,
and
as
low
as
thou
canst
whisper."
Pearl
mumbled
something
into
his
ear
that
sounded,
indeed,
like
human
language,
but
was
only
such
gibberish
as
children
may
be
heard
amusing
themselves
with
by
the
hour
together.
At
all
events,
if
it
involved
any
secret
information
in
regard
to
old
Roger
Chillingworth,
it
was
in
a
tongue
unknown
to
the
erudite
clergyman,
and
did
but
increase
the
bewilderment
of
his
mind.
The
elvish
child
then
laughed
aloud.
"Dost
thou
mock
me
now?"
said
the
minister.
"Thou
wast
not
bold!--thou
wast
not
true!"
answered
the
child.
"Thou
wouldst
not
promise
to
take
my
hand,
and
mother's
hand,
to-morrow
noon-tide!"
"Worthy
sir,"
answered
the
physician,
who
had
now
advanced
to
the
foot
of
the
platform--"pious
Master
Dimmesdale!
can
this
be
you?
Well,
well,
indeed!
We
men
of
study,
whose
heads
are
in
our
books,
have
need
to
be
straitly
looked
after!
We
dream
in
our
waking
moments,
and
walk
in
our
sleep.
Come,
good
sir,
and
my
dear
friend,
I
pray
you
let
me
lead
you
home!"
"How
knewest
thou
that
I
was
here?"
asked
the
minister,
fearfully.
"Verily,
and
in
good
faith,"
answered
Roger
Chillingworth,
"I
knew
nothing
of
the
matter.
I
had
spent
the
better
part
of
the
night
at
the
bedside
of
the
worshipful
Governor
Winthrop,
doing
what
my
poor
skill
might
to
give
him
ease.
He,
going
home
to
a
better
world,
I,
likewise,
was
on
my
way
homeward,
when
this
light
shone
out.
Come
with
me,
I
beseech
you,
Reverend
sir,
else
you
will
be
poorly
able
to
do
Sabbath
duty
to-morrow.
Aha!
see
now
how
they
trouble
the
brain--these
books!--these
books!
You
should
study
less,
good
sir,
and
take
a
little
pastime,
or
these
night
whimsies
will
grow
upon
you."
"I
will
go
home
with
you,"
said
Mr.
Dimmesdale.
With
a
chill
despondency,
like
one
awakening,
all
nerveless,
from
an
ugly
dream,
he
yielded
himself
to
the
physician,
and
was
led
away.
The
next
day,
however,
being
the
Sabbath,
he
preached
a
discourse
which
was
held
to
be
the
richest
and
most
powerful,
and
the
most
replete
with
heavenly
influences,
that
had
ever
proceeded
from
his
lips.
Souls,
it
is
said,
more
souls
than
one,
were
brought
to
the
truth
by
the
efficacy
of
that
sermon,
and
vowed
within
themselves
to
cherish
a
holy
gratitude
towards
Mr.
Dimmesdale
throughout
the
long
hereafter.
But
as
he
came
down
the
pulpit
steps,
the
grey-bearded
sexton
met
him,
holding
up
a
black
glove,
which
the
minister
recognised
as
his
own.
"It
was
found,"
said
the
Sexton,
"this
morning
on
the
scaffold
where
evil-doers
are
set
up
to
public
shame.
Satan
dropped
it
there,
I
take
it,
intending
a
scurrilous
jest
against
your
reverence.
But,
indeed,
he
was
blind
and
foolish,
as
he
ever
and
always
is.
A
pure
hand
needs
no
glove
to
cover
it!"
"Thank
you,
my
good
friend,"
said
the
minister,
gravely,
but
startled
at
heart;
for
so
confused
was
his
remembrance,
that
he
had
almost
brought
himself
to
look
at
the
events
of
the
past
night
as
visionary.
"Yes,
it
seems
to
be
my
glove,
indeed!"
"And,
since
Satan
saw
fit
to
steal
it,
your
reverence
must
needs
handle
him
without
gloves
henceforward,"
remarked
the
old
sexton,
grimly
smiling.
"But
did
your
reverence
hear
of
the
portent
that
was
seen
last
night?
a
great
red
letter
in
the
sky--the
letter
A,
which
we
interpret
to
stand
for
Angel.
For,
as
our
good
Governor
Winthrop
was
made
an
angel
this
past
night,
it
was
doubtless
held
fit
that
there
should
be
some
notice
thereof!"
"No,"
answered
the
minister;
"I
had
not
heard
of
it."
XIII.
ANOTHER
VIEW
OF
HESTER
In
her
late
singular
interview
with
Mr.
Dimmesdale,
Hester
Prynne
was
shocked
at
the
condition
to
which
she
found
the
clergyman
reduced.
His
nerve
seemed
absolutely
destroyed.
His
moral
force
was
abased
into
more
than
childish
weakness.
It
grovelled
helpless
on
the
ground,
even
while
his
intellectual
faculties
retained
their
pristine
strength,
or
had
perhaps
acquired
a
morbid
energy,
which
disease
only
could
have
given
them.
With
her
knowledge
of
a
train
of
circumstances
hidden
from
all
others,
she
could
readily
infer
that,
besides
the
legitimate
action
of
his
own
conscience,
a
terrible
machinery
had
been
brought
to
bear,
and
was
still
operating,
on
Mr.
Dimmesdale's
well-being
and
repose.
Knowing
what
this
poor
fallen
man
had
once
been,
her
whole
soul
was
moved
by
the
shuddering
terror
with
which
he
had
appealed
to
her--the
outcast
woman--for
support
against
his
instinctively
discovered
enemy.
She
decided,
moreover,
that
he
had
a
right
to
her
utmost
aid.
Little
accustomed,
in
her
long
seclusion
from
society,
to
measure
her
ideas
of
right
and
wrong
by
any
standard
external
to
herself,
Hester
saw--or
seemed
to
see--that
there
lay
a
responsibility
upon
her
in
reference
to
the
clergyman,
which
she
owned
to
no
other,
nor
to
the
whole
world
besides.
The
links
that
united
her
to
the
rest
of
humankind--links
of
flowers,
or
silk,
or
gold,
or
whatever
the
material--had
all
been
broken.
Here
was
the
iron
link
of
mutual
crime,
which
neither
he
nor
she
could
break.
Like
all
other
ties,
it
brought
along
with
it
its
obligations.
Hester
Prynne
did
not
now
occupy
precisely
the
same
position
in
which
we
beheld
her
during
the
earlier
periods
of
her
ignominy.
Years
had
come
and
gone.
Pearl
was
now
seven
years
old.
Her
mother,
with
the
scarlet
letter
on
her
breast,
glittering
in
its
fantastic
embroidery,
had
long
been
a
familiar
object
to
the
townspeople.
As
is
apt
to
be
the
case
when
a
person
stands
out
in
any
prominence
before
the
community,
and,
at
the
same
time,
interferes
neither
with
public
nor
individual
interests
and
convenience,
a
species
of
general
regard
had
ultimately
grown
up
in
reference
to
Hester
Prynne.
It
is
to
the
credit
of
human
nature
that,
except
where
its
selfishness
is
brought
into
play,
it
loves
more
readily
than
it
hates.
Hatred,
by
a
gradual
and
quiet
process,
will
even
be
transformed
to
love,
unless
the
change
be
impeded
by
a
continually
new
irritation
of
the
original
feeling
of
hostility.
In
this
matter
of
Hester
Prynne
there
was
neither
irritation
nor
irksomeness.
She
never
battled
with
the
public,
but
submitted
uncomplainingly
to
its
worst
usage;
she
made
no
claim
upon
it
in
requital
for
what
she
suffered;
she
did
not
weigh
upon
its
sympathies.
Then,
also,
the
blameless
purity
of
her
life
during
all
these
years
in
which
she
had
been
set
apart
to
infamy
was
reckoned
largely
in
her
favour.
With
nothing
now
to
lose,
in
the
sight
of
mankind,
and
with
no
hope,
and
seemingly
no
wish,
of
gaining
anything,
it
could
only
be
a
genuine
regard
for
virtue
that
had
brought
back
the
poor
wanderer
to
its
paths.
It
was
perceived,
too,
that
while
Hester
never
put
forward
even
the
humblest
title
to
share
in
the
world's
privileges--further
than
to
breathe
the
common
air
and
earn
daily
bread
for
little
Pearl
and
herself
by
the
faithful
labour
of
her
hands--she
was
quick
to
acknowledge
her
sisterhood
with
the
race
of
man
whenever
benefits
were
to
be
conferred.
None
so
ready
as
she
to
give
of
her
little
substance
to
every
demand
of
poverty,
even
though
the
bitter-hearted
pauper
threw
back
a
gibe
in
requital
of
the
food
brought
regularly
to
his
door,
or
the
garments
wrought
for
him
by
the
fingers
that
could
have
embroidered
a
monarch's
robe.
None
so
self-devoted
as
Hester
when
pestilence
stalked
through
the
town.
In
all
seasons
of
calamity,
indeed,
whether
general
or
of
individuals,
the
outcast
of
society
at
once
found
her
place.
She
came,
not
as
a
guest,
but
as
a
rightful
inmate,
into
the
household
that
was
darkened
by
trouble,
as
if
its
gloomy
twilight
were
a
medium
in
which
she
was
entitled
to
hold
intercourse
with
her
fellow-creature.
There
glimmered
the
embroidered
letter,
with
comfort
in
its
unearthly
ray.
Elsewhere
the
token
of
sin,
it
was
the
taper
of
the
sick
chamber.
It
had
even
thrown
its
gleam,
in
the
sufferer's
bard
extremity,
across
the
verge
of
time.
It
had
shown
him
where
to
set
his
foot,
while
the
light
of
earth
was
fast
becoming
dim,
and
ere
the
light
of
futurity
could
reach
him.
In
such
emergencies
Hester's
nature
showed
itself
warm
and
rich--a
well-spring
of
human
tenderness,
unfailing
to
every
real
demand,
and
inexhaustible
by
the
largest.
Her
breast,
with
its
badge
of
shame,
was
but
the
softer
pillow
for
the
head
that
needed
one.
She
was
self-ordained
a
Sister
of
Mercy,
or,
we
may
rather
say,
the
world's
heavy
hand
had
so
ordained
her,
when
neither
the
world
nor
she
looked
forward
to
this
result.
The
letter
was
the
symbol
of
her
calling.
Such
helpfulness
was
found
in
her--so
much
power
to
do,
and
power
to
sympathise--that
many
people
refused
to
interpret
the
scarlet
A
by
its
original
signification.
They
said
that
it
meant
Abel,
so
strong
was
Hester
Prynne,
with
a
woman's
strength.
It
was
only
the
darkened
house
that
could
contain
her.
When
sunshine
came
again,
she
was
not
there.
Her
shadow
had
faded
across
the
threshold.
The
helpful
inmate
had
departed,
without
one
backward
glance
to
gather
up
the
meed
of
gratitude,
if
any
were
in
the
hearts
of
those
whom
she
had
served
so
zealously.
Meeting
them
in
the
street,
she
never
raised
her
head
to
receive
their
greeting.
If
they
were
resolute
to
accost
her,
she
laid
her
finger
on
the
scarlet
letter,
and
passed
on.
This
might
be
pride,
but
was
so
like
humility,
that
it
produced
all
the
softening
influence
of
the
latter
quality
on
the
public
mind.
The
public
is
despotic
in
its
temper;
it
is
capable
of
denying
common
justice
when
too
strenuously
demanded
as
a
right;
but
quite
as
frequently
it
awards
more
than
justice,
when
the
appeal
is
made,
as
despots
love
to
have
it
made,
entirely
to
its
generosity.
Interpreting
Hester
Prynne's
deportment
as
an
appeal
of
this
nature,
society
was
inclined
to
show
its
former
victim
a
more
benign
countenance
than
she
cared
to
be
favoured
with,
or,
perchance,
than
she
deserved.
The
rulers,
and
the
wise
and
learned
men
of
the
community,
were
longer
in
acknowledging
the
influence
of
Hester's
good
qualities
than
the
people.
The
prejudices
which
they
shared
in
common
with
the
latter
were
fortified
in
themselves
by
an
iron
frame-work
of
reasoning,
that
made
it
a
far
tougher
labour
to
expel
them.
Day
by
day,
nevertheless,
their
sour
and
rigid
wrinkles
were
relaxing
into
something
which,
in
the
due
course
of
years,
might
grow
to
be
an
expression
of
almost
benevolence.
Thus
it
was
with
the
men
of
rank,
on
whom
their
eminent
position
imposed
the
guardianship
of
the
public
morals.
Individuals
in
private
life,
meanwhile,
had
quite
forgiven
Hester
Prynne
for
her
frailty;
nay,
more,
they
had
begun
to
look
upon
the
scarlet
letter
as
the
token,
not
of
that
one
sin
for
which
she
had
borne
so
long
and
dreary
a
penance,
but
of
her
many
good
deeds
since.
"Do
you
see
that
woman
with
the
embroidered
badge?"
they
would
say
to
strangers.
"It
is
our
Hester--the
town's
own
Hester--who
is
so
kind
to
the
poor,
so
helpful
to
the
sick,
so
comfortable
to
the
afflicted!"
Then,
it
is
true,
the
propensity
of
human
nature
to
tell
the
very
worst
of
itself,
when
embodied
in
the
person
of
another,
would
constrain
them
to
whisper
the
black
scandal
of
bygone
years.
It
was
none
the
less
a
fact,
however,
that
in
the
eyes
of
the
very
men
who
spoke
thus,
the
scarlet
letter
had
the
effect
of
the
cross
on
a
nun's
bosom.
It
imparted
to
the
wearer
a
kind
of
sacredness,
which
enabled
her
to
walk
securely
amid
all
peril.
Had
she
fallen
among
thieves,
it
would
have
kept
her
safe.
It
was
reported,
and
believed
by
many,
that
an
Indian
had
drawn
his
arrow
against
the
badge,
and
that
the
missile
struck
it,
and
fell
harmless
to
the
ground.
The
effect
of
the
symbol--or
rather,
of
the
position
in
respect
to
society
that
was
indicated
by
it--on
the
mind
of
Hester
Prynne
herself
was
powerful
and
peculiar.
All
the
light
and
graceful
foliage
of
her
character
had
been
withered
up
by
this
red-hot
brand,
and
had
long
ago
fallen
away,
leaving
a
bare
and
harsh
outline,
which
might
have
been
repulsive
had
she
possessed
friends
or
companions
to
be
repelled
by
it.
Even
the
attractiveness
of
her
person
had
undergone
a
similar
change.
It
might
be
partly
owing
to
the
studied
austerity
of
her
dress,
and
partly
to
the
lack
of
demonstration
in
her
manners.
It
was
a
sad
transformation,
too,
that
her
rich
and
luxuriant
hair
had
either
been
cut
off,
or
was
so
completely
hidden
by
a
cap,
that
not
a
shining
lock
of
it
ever
once
gushed
into
the
sunshine.
It
was
due
in
part
to
all
these
causes,
but
still
more
to
something
else,
that
there
seemed
to
be
no
longer
anything
in
Hester's
face
for
Love
to
dwell
upon;
nothing
in
Hester's
form,
though
majestic
and
statue
like,
that
Passion
would
ever
dream
of
clasping
in
its
embrace;
nothing
in
Hester's
bosom
to
make
it
ever
again
the
pillow
of
Affection.
Some
attribute
had
departed
from
her,
the
permanence
of
which
had
been
essential
to
keep
her
a
woman.
Such
is
frequently
the
fate,
and
such
the
stern
development,
of
the
feminine
character
and
person,
when
the
woman
has
encountered,
and
lived
through,
an
experience
of
peculiar
severity.
If
she
be
all
tenderness,
she
will
die.
If
she
survive,
the
tenderness
will
either
be
crushed
out
of
her,
or--and
the
outward
semblance
is
the
same--crushed
so
deeply
into
her
heart
that
it
can
never
show
itself
more.
The
latter
is
perhaps
the
truest
theory.
She
who
has
once
been
a
woman,
and
ceased
to
be
so,
might
at
any
moment
become
a
woman
again,
if
there
were
only
the
magic
touch
to
effect
the
transformation.
We
shall
see
whether
Hester
Prynne
were
ever
afterwards
so
touched
and
so
transfigured.
Much
of
the
marble
coldness
of
Hester's
impression
was
to
be
attributed
to
the
circumstance
that
her
life
had
turned,
in
a
great
measure,
from
passion
and
feeling
to
thought.
Standing
alone
in
the
world--alone,
as
to
any
dependence
on
society,
and
with
little
Pearl
to
be
guided
and
protected--alone,
and
hopeless
of
retrieving
her
position,
even
had
she
not
scorned
to
consider
it
desirable--she
cast
away
the
fragment
of
a
broken
chain.
The
world's
law
was
no
law
for
her
mind.
It
was
an
age
in
which
the
human
intellect,
newly
emancipated,
had
taken
a
more
active
and
a
wider
range
than
for
many
centuries
before.
Men
of
the
sword
had
overthrown
nobles
and
kings.
Men
bolder
than
these
had
overthrown
and
rearranged--not
actually,
but
within
the
sphere
of
theory,
which
was
their
most
real
abode--the
whole
system
of
ancient
prejudice,
wherewith
was
linked
much
of
ancient
principle.
Hester
Prynne
imbibed
this
spirit.
She
assumed
a
freedom
of
speculation,
then
common
enough
on
the
other
side
of
the
Atlantic,
but
which
our
forefathers,
had
they
known
it,
would
have
held
to
be
a
deadlier
crime
than
that
stigmatised
by
the
scarlet
letter.
In
her
lonesome
cottage,
by
the
seashore,
thoughts
visited
her
such
as
dared
to
enter
no
other
dwelling
in
New
England;
shadowy
guests,
that
would
have
been
as
perilous
as
demons
to
their
entertainer,
could
they
have
been
seen
so
much
as
knocking
at
her
door.
It
is
remarkable
that
persons
who
speculate
the
most
boldly
often
conform
with
the
most
perfect
quietude
to
the
external
regulations
of
society.
The
thought
suffices
them,
without
investing
itself
in
the
flesh
and
blood
of
action.
So
it
seemed
to
be
with
Hester.
Yet,
had
little
Pearl
never
come
to
her
from
the
spiritual
world,
it
might
have
been
far
otherwise.
Then
she
might
have
come
down
to
us
in
history,
hand
in
hand
with
Ann
Hutchinson,
as
the
foundress
of
a
religious
sect.
She
might,
in
one
of
her
phases,
have
been
a
prophetess.
She
might,
and
not
improbably
would,
have
suffered
death
from
the
stern
tribunals
of
the
period,
for
attempting
to
undermine
the
foundations
of
the
Puritan
establishment.
But,
in
the
education
of
her
child,
the
mother's
enthusiasm
of
thought
had
something
to
wreak
itself
upon.
Providence,
in
the
person
of
this
little
girl,
had
assigned
to
Hester's
charge,
the
germ
and
blossom
of
womanhood,
to
be
cherished
and
developed
amid
a
host
of
difficulties.
Everything
was
against
her.
The
world
was
hostile.
The
child's
own
nature
had
something
wrong
in
it
which
continually
betokened
that
she
had
been
born
amiss--the
effluence
of
her
mother's
lawless
passion--and
often
impelled
Hester
to
ask,
in
bitterness
of
heart,
whether
it
were
for
ill
or
good
that
the
poor
little
creature
had
been
born
at
all.
Indeed,
the
same
dark
question
often
rose
into
her
mind
with
reference
to
the
whole
race
of
womanhood.
Was
existence
worth
accepting
even
to
the
happiest
among
them?
As
concerned
her
own
individual
existence,
she
had
long
ago
decided
in
the
negative,
and
dismissed
the
point
as
settled.
A
tendency
to
speculation,
though
it
may
keep
women
quiet,
as
it
does
man,
yet
makes
her
sad.
She
discerns,
it
may
be,
such
a
hopeless
task
before
her.
As
a
first
step,
the
whole
system
of
society
is
to
be
torn
down
and
built
up
anew.
Then
the
very
nature
of
the
opposite
sex,
or
its
long
hereditary
habit,
which
has
become
like
nature,
is
to
be
essentially
modified
before
woman
can
be
allowed
to
assume
what
seems
a
fair
and
suitable
position.
Finally,
all
other
difficulties
being
obviated,
woman
cannot
take
advantage
of
these
preliminary
reforms
until
she
herself
shall
have
undergone
a
still
mightier
change,
in
which,
perhaps,
the
ethereal
essence,
wherein
she
has
her
truest
life,
will
be
found
to
have
evaporated.
A
woman
never
overcomes
these
problems
by
any
exercise
of
thought.
They
are
not
to
be
solved,
or
only
in
one
way.
If
her
heart
chance
to
come
uppermost,
they
vanish.
Thus
Hester
Prynne,
whose
heart
had
lost
its
regular
and
healthy
throb,
wandered
without
a
clue
in
the
dark
labyrinth
of
mind;
now
turned
aside
by
an
insurmountable
precipice;
now
starting
back
from
a
deep
chasm.
There
was
wild
and
ghastly
scenery
all
around
her,
and
a
home
and
comfort
nowhere.
At
times
a
fearful
doubt
strove
to
possess
her
soul,
whether
it
were
not
better
to
send
Pearl
at
once
to
Heaven,
and
go
herself
to
such
futurity
as
Eternal
Justice
should
provide.
The
scarlet
letter
had
not
done
its
office.
Now,
however,
her
interview
with
the
Reverend
Mr.
Dimmesdale,
on
the
night
of
his
vigil,
had
given
her
a
new
theme
of
reflection,
and
held
up
to
her
an
object
that
appeared
worthy
of
any
exertion
and
sacrifice
for
its
attainment.
She
had
witnessed
the
intense
misery
beneath
which
the
minister
struggled,
or,
to
speak
more
accurately,
had
ceased
to
struggle.
She
saw
that
he
stood
on
the
verge
of
lunacy,
if
he
had
not
already
stepped
across
it.
It
was
impossible
to
doubt
that,
whatever
painful
efficacy
there
might
be
in
the
secret
sting
of
remorse,
a
deadlier
venom
had
been
infused
into
it
by
the
hand
that
proffered
relief.
A
secret
enemy
had
been
continually
by
his
side,
under
the
semblance
of
a
friend
and
helper,
and
had
availed
himself
of
the
opportunities
thus
afforded
for
tampering
with
the
delicate
springs
of
Mr.
Dimmesdale's
nature.
Hester
could
not
but
ask
herself
whether
there
had
not
originally
been
a
defect
of
truth,
courage,
and
loyalty
on
her
own
part,
in
allowing
the
minister
to
be
thrown
into
a
position
where
so
much
evil
was
to
be
foreboded
and
nothing
auspicious
to
be
hoped.
Her
only
justification
lay
in
the
fact
that
she
had
been
able
to
discern
no
method
of
rescuing
him
from
a
blacker
ruin
than
had
overwhelmed
herself
except
by
acquiescing
in
Roger
Chillingworth's
scheme
of
disguise.
Under
that
impulse
she
had
made
her
choice,
and
had
chosen,
as
it
now
appeared,
the
more
wretched
alternative
of
the
two.
She
determined
to
redeem
her
error
so
far
as
it
might
yet
be
possible.
Strengthened
by
years
of
hard
and
solemn
trial,
she
felt
herself
no
longer
so
inadequate
to
cope
with
Roger
Chillingworth
as
on
that
night,
abased
by
sin
and
half-maddened
by
the
ignominy
that
was
still
new,
when
they
had
talked
together
in
the
prison-chamber.
She
had
climbed
her
way
since
then
to
a
higher
point.
The
old
man,
on
the
other
hand,
had
brought
himself
nearer
to
her
level,
or,
perhaps,
below
it,
by
the
revenge
which
he
had
stooped
for.
In
fine,
Hester
Prynne
resolved
to
meet
her
former
husband,
and
do
what
might
be
in
her
power
for
the
rescue
of
the
victim
on
whom
he
had
so
evidently
set
his
gripe.
The
occasion
was
not
long
to
seek.
One
afternoon,
walking
with
Pearl
in
a
retired
part
of
the
peninsula,
she
beheld
the
old
physician
with
a
basket
on
one
arm
and
a
staff
in
the
other
hand,
stooping
along
the
ground
in
quest
of
roots
and
herbs
to
concoct
his
medicine
withal.
XIV.
HESTER
AND
THE
PHYSICIAN
Hester
bade
little
Pearl
run
down
to
the
margin
of
the
water,
and
play
with
the
shells
and
tangled
sea-weed,
until
she
should
have
talked
awhile
with
yonder
gatherer
of
herbs.
So
the
child
flew
away
like
a
bird,
and,
making
bare
her
small
white
feet
went
pattering
along
the
moist
margin
of
the
sea.
Here
and
there
she
came
to
a
full
stop,
and
peeped
curiously
into
a
pool,
left
by
the
retiring
tide
as
a
mirror
for
Pearl
to
see
her
face
in.
Forth
peeped
at
her,
out
of
the
pool,
with
dark,
glistening
curls
around
her
head,
and
an
elf-smile
in
her
eyes,
the
image
of
a
little
maid
whom
Pearl,
having
no
other
playmate,
invited
to
take
her
hand
and
run
a
race
with
her.
But
the
visionary
little
maid
on
her
part,
beckoned
likewise,
as
if
to
say--"This
is
a
better
place;
come
thou
into
the
pool."
And
Pearl,
stepping
in
mid-leg
deep,
beheld
her
own
white
feet
at
the
bottom;
while,
out
of
a
still
lower
depth,
came
the
gleam
of
a
kind
of
fragmentary
smile,
floating
to
and
fro
in
the
agitated
water.
Meanwhile
her
mother
had
accosted
the
physician.
"I
would
speak
a
word
with
you,"
said
she--"a
word
that
concerns
us
much."
"Aha!
and
is
it
Mistress
Hester
that
has
a
word
for
old
Roger
Chillingworth?"
answered
he,
raising
himself
from
his
stooping
posture.
"With
all
my
heart!
Why,
mistress,
I
hear
good
tidings
of
you
on
all
hands!
No
longer
ago
than
yester-eve,
a
magistrate,
a
wise
and
godly
man,
was
discoursing
of
your
affairs,
Mistress
Hester,
and
whispered
me
that
there
had
been
question
concerning
you
in
the
council.
It
was
debated
whether
or
no,
with
safety
to
the
commonweal,
yonder
scarlet
letter
might
be
taken
off
your
bosom.
On
my
life,
Hester,
I
made
my
intreaty
to
the
worshipful
magistrate
that
it
might
be
done
forthwith."
"It
lies
not
in
the
pleasure
of
the
magistrates
to
take
off
the
badge,"
calmly
replied
Hester.
"Were
I
worthy
to
be
quit
of
it,
it
would
fall
away
of
its
own
nature,
or
be
transformed
into
something
that
should
speak
a
different
purport."
"Nay,
then,
wear
it,
if
it
suit
you
better,"
rejoined
he,
"A
woman
must
needs
follow
her
own
fancy
touching
the
adornment
of
her
person.
The
letter
is
gaily
embroidered,
and
shows
right
bravely
on
your
bosom!"
All
this
while
Hester
had
been
looking
steadily
at
the
old
man,
and
was
shocked,
as
well
as
wonder-smitten,
to
discern
what
a
change
had
been
wrought
upon
him
within
the
past
seven
years.
It
was
not
so
much
that
he
had
grown
older;
for
though
the
traces
of
advancing
life
were
visible
he
bore
his
age
well,
and
seemed
to
retain
a
wiry
vigour
and
alertness.
But
the
former
aspect
of
an
intellectual
and
studious
man,
calm
and
quiet,
which
was
what
she
best
remembered
in
him,
had
altogether
vanished,
and
been
succeeded
by
an
eager,
searching,
almost
fierce,
yet
carefully
guarded
look.
It
seemed
to
be
his
wish
and
purpose
to
mask
this
expression
with
a
smile,
but
the
latter
played
him
false,
and
flickered
over
his
visage
so
derisively
that
the
spectator
could
see
his
blackness
all
the
better
for
it.
Ever
and
anon,
too,
there
came
a
glare
of
red
light
out
of
his
eyes,
as
if
the
old
man's
soul
were
on
fire
and
kept
on
smouldering
duskily
within
his
breast,
until
by
some
casual
puff
of
passion
it
was
blown
into
a
momentary
flame.
This
he
repressed
as
speedily
as
possible,
and
strove
to
look
as
if
nothing
of
the
kind
had
happened.
In
a
word,
old
Roger
Chillingworth
was
a
striking
evidence
of
man's
faculty
of
transforming
himself
into
a
devil,
if
he
will
only,
for
a
reasonable
space
of
time,
undertake
a
devil's
office.
This
unhappy
person
had
effected
such
a
transformation
by
devoting
himself
for
seven
years
to
the
constant
analysis
of
a
heart
full
of
torture,
and
deriving
his
enjoyment
thence,
and
adding
fuel
to
those
fiery
tortures
which
he
analysed
and
gloated
over.
The
scarlet
letter
burned
on
Hester
Prynne's
bosom.
Here
was
another
ruin,
the
responsibility
of
which
came
partly
home
to
her.
"What
see
you
in
my
face,"
asked
the
physician,
"that
you
look
at
it
so
earnestly?"
"Something
that
would
make
me
weep,
if
there
were
any
tears
bitter
enough
for
it,"
answered
she.
"But
let
it
pass!
It
is
of
yonder
miserable
man
that
I
would
speak."
"And
what
of
him?"
cried
Roger
Chillingworth,
eagerly,
as
if
he
loved
the
topic,
and
were
glad
of
an
opportunity
to
discuss
it
with
the
only
person
of
whom
he
could
make
a
confidant.
"Not
to
hide
the
truth,
Mistress
Hester,
my
thoughts
happen
just
now
to
be
busy
with
the
gentleman.
So
speak
freely
and
I
will
make
answer."
"When
we
last
spake
together,"
said
Hester,
"now
seven
years
ago,
it
was
your
pleasure
to
extort
a
promise
of
secrecy
as
touching
the
former
relation
betwixt
yourself
and
me.
As
the
life
and
good
fame
of
yonder
man
were
in
your
hands
there
seemed
no
choice
to
me,
save
to
be
silent
in
accordance
with
your
behest.
Yet
it
was
not
without
heavy
misgivings
that
I
thus
bound
myself,
for,
having
cast
off
all
duty
towards
other
human
beings,
there
remained
a
duty
towards
him,
and
something
whispered
me
that
I
was
betraying
it
in
pledging
myself
to
keep
your
counsel.
Since
that
day
no
man
is
so
near
to
him
as
you.
You
tread
behind
his
every
footstep.
You
are
beside
him,
sleeping
and
waking.
You
search
his
thoughts.
You
burrow
and
rankle
in
his
heart!
Your
clutch
is
on
his
life,
and
you
cause
him
to
die
daily
a
living
death,
and
still
he
knows
you
not.
In
permitting
this
I
have
surely
acted
a
false
part
by
the
only
man
to
whom
the
power
was
left
me
to
be
true!"
"What
choice
had
you?"
asked
Roger
Chillingworth.
"My
finger,
pointed
at
this
man,
would
have
hurled
him
from
his
pulpit
into
a
dungeon,
thence,
peradventure,
to
the
gallows!"
"It
had
been
better
so!"
said
Hester
Prynne.
"What
evil
have
I
done
the
man?"
asked
Roger
Chillingworth
again.
"I
tell
thee,
Hester
Prynne,
the
richest
fee
that
ever
physician
earned
from
monarch
could
not
have
bought
such
care
as
I
have
wasted
on
this
miserable
priest!
But
for
my
aid
his
life
would
have
burned
away
in
torments
within
the
first
two
years
after
the
perpetration
of
his
crime
and
thine.
For,
Hester,
his
spirit
lacked
the
strength
that
could
have
borne
up,
as
thine
has,
beneath
a
burden
like
thy
scarlet
letter.
Oh,
I
could
reveal
a
goodly
secret!
But
enough.
What
art
can
do,
I
have
exhausted
on
him.
That
he
now
breathes
and
creeps
about
on
earth
is
owing
all
to
me!"
"Better
he
had
died
at
once!"
said
Hester
Prynne.
"Yea,
woman,
thou
sayest
truly!"
cried
old
Roger
Chillingworth,
letting
the
lurid
fire
of
his
heart
blaze
out
before
her
eyes.
"Better
had
he
died
at
once!
Never
did
mortal
suffer
what
this
man
has
suffered.
And
all,
all,
in
the
sight
of
his
worst
enemy!
He
has
been
conscious
of
me.
He
has
felt
an
influence
dwelling
always
upon
him
like
a
curse.
He
knew,
by
some
spiritual
sense--for
the
Creator
never
made
another
being
so
sensitive
as
this--he
knew
that
no
friendly
hand
was
pulling
at
his
heartstrings,
and
that
an
eye
was
looking
curiously
into
him,
which
sought
only
evil,
and
found
it.
But
he
knew
not
that
the
eye
and
hand
were
mine!
With
the
superstition
common
to
his
brotherhood,
he
fancied
himself
given
over
to
a
fiend,
to
be
tortured
with
frightful
dreams
and
desperate
thoughts,
the
sting
of
remorse
and
despair
of
pardon,
as
a
foretaste
of
what
awaits
him
beyond
the
grave.
But
it
was
the
constant
shadow
of
my
presence,
the
closest
propinquity
of
the
man
whom
he
had
most
vilely
wronged,
and
who
had
grown
to
exist
only
by
this
perpetual
poison
of
the
direst
revenge!
Yea,
indeed,
he
did
not
err,
there
was
a
fiend
at
his
elbow!
A
mortal
man,
with
once
a
human
heart,
has
become
a
fiend
for
his
especial
torment."
The
unfortunate
physician,
while
uttering
these
words,
lifted
his
hands
with
a
look
of
horror,
as
if
he
had
beheld
some
frightful
shape,
which
he
could
not
recognise,
usurping
the
place
of
his
own
image
in
a
glass.
It
was
one
of
those
moments--which
sometimes
occur
only
at
the
interval
of
years--when
a
man's
moral
aspect
is
faithfully
revealed
to
his
mind's
eye.
Not
improbably
he
had
never
before
viewed
himself
as
he
did
now.
"Hast
thou
not
tortured
him
enough?"
said
Hester,
noticing
the
old
man's
look.
"Has
he
not
paid
thee
all?"
"No,
no!
He
has
but
increased
the
debt!"
answered
the
physician,
and
as
he
proceeded,
his
manner
lost
its
fiercer
characteristics,
and
subsided
into
gloom.
"Dost
thou
remember
me,
Hester,
as
I
was
nine
years
agone?
Even
then
I
was
in
the
autumn
of
my
days,
nor
was
it
the
early
autumn.
But
all
my
life
had
been
made
up
of
earnest,
studious,
thoughtful,
quiet
years,
bestowed
faithfully
for
the
increase
of
mine
own
knowledge,
and
faithfully,
too,
though
this
latter
object
was
but
casual
to
the
other--faithfully
for
the
advancement
of
human
welfare.
No
life
had
been
more
peaceful
and
innocent
than
mine;
few
lives
so
rich
with
benefits
conferred.
Dost
thou
remember
me?
Was
I
not,
though
you
might
deem
me
cold,
nevertheless
a
man
thoughtful
for
others,
craving
little
for
himself--kind,
true,
just
and
of
constant,
if
not
warm
affections?
Was
I
not
all
this?"
"All
this,
and
more,"
said
Hester.
"And
what
am
I
now?"
demanded
he,
looking
into
her
face,
and
permitting
the
whole
evil
within
him
to
be
written
on
his
features.
"I
have
already
told
thee
what
I
am--a
fiend!
Who
made
me
so?"
"It
was
myself,"
cried
Hester,
shuddering.
"It
was
I,
not
less
than
he.
Why
hast
thou
not
avenged
thyself
on
me?"
"I
have
left
thee
to
the
scarlet
letter,"
replied
Roger
Chillingworth.
"If
that
has
not
avenged
me,
I
can
do
no
more!"
He
laid
his
finger
on
it
with
a
smile.
"It
has
avenged
thee,"
answered
Hester
Prynne.
"I
judged
no
less,"
said
the
physician.
"And
now
what
wouldst
thou
with
me
touching
this
man?"
"I
must
reveal
the
secret,"
answered
Hester,
firmly.
"He
must
discern
thee
in
thy
true
character.
What
may
be
the
result
I
know
not.
But
this
long
debt
of
confidence,
due
from
me
to
him,
whose
bane
and
ruin
I
have
been,
shall
at
length
be
paid.
So
far
as
concerns
the
overthrow
or
preservation
of
his
fair
fame
and
his
earthly
state,
and
perchance
his
life,
he
is
in
my
hands.
Nor
do
I--whom
the
scarlet
letter
has
disciplined
to
truth,
though
it
be
the
truth
of
red-hot
iron
entering
into
the
soul--nor
do
I
perceive
such
advantage
in
his
living
any
longer
a
life
of
ghastly
emptiness,
that
I
shall
stoop
to
implore
thy
mercy.
Do
with
him
as
thou
wilt!
There
is
no
good
for
him,
no
good
for
me,
no
good
for
thee.
There
is
no
good
for
little
Pearl.
There
is
no
path
to
guide
us
out
of
this
dismal
maze."
"Woman,
I
could
well-nigh
pity
thee,"
said
Roger
Chillingworth,
unable
to
restrain
a
thrill
of
admiration
too,
for
there
was
a
quality
almost
majestic
in
the
despair
which
she
expressed.
"Thou
hadst
great
elements.
Peradventure,
hadst
thou
met
earlier
with
a
better
love
than
mine,
this
evil
had
not
been.
I
pity
thee,
for
the
good
that
has
been
wasted
in
thy
nature."
"And
I
thee,"
answered
Hester
Prynne,
"for
the
hatred
that
has
transformed
a
wise
and
just
man
to
a
fiend!
Wilt
thou
yet
purge
it
out
of
thee,
and
be
once
more
human?
If
not
for
his
sake,
then
doubly
for
thine
own!
Forgive,
and
leave
his
further
retribution
to
the
Power
that
claims
it!
I
said,
but
now,
that
there
could
be
no
good
event
for
him,
or
thee,
or
me,
who
are
here
wandering
together
in
this
gloomy
maze
of
evil,
and
stumbling
at
every
step
over
the
guilt
wherewith
we
have
strewn
our
path.
It
is
not
so!
There
might
be
good
for
thee,
and
thee
alone,
since
thou
hast
been
deeply
wronged
and
hast
it
at
thy
will
to
pardon.
Wilt
thou
give
up
that
only
privilege?
Wilt
thou
reject
that
priceless
benefit?"
"Peace,
Hester--peace!"
replied
the
old
man,
with
gloomy
sternness--"it
is
not
granted
me
to
pardon.
I
have
no
such
power
as
thou
tellest
me
of.
My
old
faith,
long
forgotten,
comes
back
to
me,
and
explains
all
that
we
do,
and
all
we
suffer.
By
thy
first
step
awry,
thou
didst
plant
the
germ
of
evil;
but
since
that
moment
it
has
all
been
a
dark
necessity.
Ye
that
have
wronged
me
are
not
sinful,
save
in
a
kind
of
typical
illusion;
neither
am
I
fiend-like,
who
have
snatched
a
fiend's
office
from
his
hands.
It
is
our
fate.
Let
the
black
flower
blossom
as
it
may!
Now,
go
thy
ways,
and
deal
as
thou
wilt
with
yonder
man."
He
waved
his
hand,
and
betook
himself
again
to
his
employment
of
gathering
herbs.
XV.
HESTER
AND
PEARL
So
Roger
Chillingworth--a
deformed
old
figure
with
a
face
that
haunted
men's
memories
longer
than
they
liked--took
leave
of
Hester
Prynne,
and
went
stooping
away
along
the
earth.
He
gathered
here
and
there
a
herb,
or
grubbed
up
a
root
and
put
it
into
the
basket
on
his
arm.
His
gray
beard
almost
touched
the
ground
as
he
crept
onward.
Hester
gazed
after
him
a
little
while,
looking
with
a
half
fantastic
curiosity
to
see
whether
the
tender
grass
of
early
spring
would
not
be
blighted
beneath
him
and
show
the
wavering
track
of
his
footsteps,
sere
and
brown,
across
its
cheerful
verdure.
She
wondered
what
sort
of
herbs
they
were
which
the
old
man
was
so
sedulous
to
gather.
Would
not
the
earth,
quickened
to
an
evil
purpose
by
the
sympathy
of
his
eye,
greet
him
with
poisonous
shrubs
of
species
hitherto
unknown,
that
would
start
up
under
his
fingers?
Or
might
it
suffice
him
that
every
wholesome
growth
should
be
converted
into
something
deleterious
and
malignant
at
his
touch?
Did
the
sun,
which
shone
so
brightly
everywhere
else,
really
fall
upon
him?
Or
was
there,
as
it
rather
seemed,
a
circle
of
ominous
shadow
moving
along
with
his
deformity
whichever
way
he
turned
himself?
And
whither
was
he
now
going?
Would
he
not
suddenly
sink
into
the
earth,
leaving
a
barren
and
blasted
spot,
where,
in
due
course
of
time,
would
be
seen
deadly
nightshade,
dogwood,
henbane,
and
whatever
else
of
vegetable
wickedness
the
climate
could
produce,
all
flourishing
with
hideous
luxuriance?
Or
would
he
spread
bat's
wings
and
flee
away,
looking
so
much
the
uglier
the
higher
he
rose
towards
heaven?
"Be
it
sin
or
no,"
said
Hester
Prynne,
bitterly,
as
still
she
gazed
after
him,
"I
hate
the
man!"
She
upbraided
herself
for
the
sentiment,
but
could
not
overcome
or
lessen
it.
Attempting
to
do
so,
she
thought
of
those
long-past
days
in
a
distant
land,
when
he
used
to
emerge
at
eventide
from
the
seclusion
of
his
study
and
sit
down
in
the
firelight
of
their
home,
and
in
the
light
of
her
nuptial
smile.
He
needed
to
bask
himself
in
that
smile,
he
said,
in
order
that
the
chill
of
so
many
lonely
hours
among
his
books
might
be
taken
off
the
scholar's
heart.
Such
scenes
had
once
appeared
not
otherwise
than
happy,
but
now,
as
viewed
through
the
dismal
medium
of
her
subsequent
life,
they
classed
themselves
among
her
ugliest
remembrances.
She
marvelled
how
such
scenes
could
have
been!
She
marvelled
how
she
could
ever
have
been
wrought
upon
to
marry
him!
She
deemed
it
her
crime
most
to
be
repented
of,
that
she
had
ever
endured
and
reciprocated
the
lukewarm
grasp
of
his
hand,
and
had
suffered
the
smile
of
her
lips
and
eyes
to
mingle
and
melt
into
his
own.
And
it
seemed
a
fouler
offence
committed
by
Roger
Chillingworth
than
any
which
had
since
been
done
him,
that,
in
the
time
when
her
heart
knew
no
better,
he
had
persuaded
her
to
fancy
herself
happy
by
his
side.
"Yes,
I
hate
him!"
repeated
Hester
more
bitterly
than
before.
"He
betrayed
me!
He
has
done
me
worse
wrong
than
I
did
him!"
Let
men
tremble
to
win
the
hand
of
woman,
unless
they
win
along
with
it
the
utmost
passion
of
her
heart!
Else
it
may
be
their
miserable
fortune,
as
it
was
Roger
Chillingworth's,
when
some
mightier
touch
than
their
own
may
have
awakened
all
her
sensibilities,
to
be
reproached
even
for
the
calm
content,
the
marble
image
of
happiness,
which
they
will
have
imposed
upon
her
as
the
warm
reality.
But
Hester
ought
long
ago
to
have
done
with
this
injustice.
What
did
it
betoken?
Had
seven
long
years,
under
the
torture
of
the
scarlet
letter,
inflicted
so
much
of
misery
and
wrought
out
no
repentance?
The
emotion
of
that
brief
space,
while
she
stood
gazing
after
the
crooked
figure
of
old
Roger
Chillingworth,
threw
a
dark
light
on
Hester's
state
of
mind,
revealing
much
that
she
might
not
otherwise
have
acknowledged
to
herself.
He
being
gone,
she
summoned
back
her
child.
"Pearl!
Little
Pearl!
Where
are
you?"
Pearl,
whose
activity
of
spirit
never
flagged,
had
been
at
no
loss
for
amusement
while
her
mother
talked
with
the
old
gatherer
of
herbs.
At
first,
as
already
told,
she
had
flirted
fancifully
with
her
own
image
in
a
pool
of
water,
beckoning
the
phantom
forth,
and--as
it
declined
to
venture--seeking
a
passage
for
herself
into
its
sphere
of
impalpable
earth
and
unattainable
sky.
Soon
finding,
however,
that
either
she
or
the
image
was
unreal,
she
turned
elsewhere
for
better
pastime.
She
made
little
boats
out
of
birch-bark,
and
freighted
them
with
snailshells,
and
sent
out
more
ventures
on
the
mighty
deep
than
any
merchant
in
New
England;
but
the
larger
part
of
them
foundered
near
the
shore.
She
seized
a
live
horse-shoe
by
the
tail,
and
made
prize
of
several
five-fingers,
and
laid
out
a
jelly-fish
to
melt
in
the
warm
sun.
Then
she
took
up
the
white
foam
that
streaked
the
line
of
the
advancing
tide,
and
threw
it
upon
the
breeze,
scampering
after
it
with
winged
footsteps
to
catch
the
great
snowflakes
ere
they
fell.
Perceiving
a
flock
of
beach-birds
that
fed
and
fluttered
along
the
shore,
the
naughty
child
picked
up
her
apron
full
of
pebbles,
and,
creeping
from
rock
to
rock
after
these
small
sea-fowl,
displayed
remarkable
dexterity
in
pelting
them.
One
little
gray
bird,
with
a
white
breast,
Pearl
was
almost
sure
had
been
hit
by
a
pebble,
and
fluttered
away
with
a
broken
wing.
But
then
the
elf-child
sighed,
and
gave
up
her
sport,
because
it
grieved
her
to
have
done
harm
to
a
little
being
that
was
as
wild
as
the
sea-breeze,
or
as
wild
as
Pearl
herself.
Her
final
employment
was
to
gather
seaweed
of
various
kinds,
and
make
herself
a
scarf
or
mantle,
and
a
head-dress,
and
thus
assume
the
aspect
of
a
little
mermaid.
She
inherited
her
mother's
gift
for
devising
drapery
and
costume.
As
the
last
touch
to
her
mermaid's
garb,
Pearl
took
some
eel-grass
and
imitated,
as
best
she
could,
on
her
own
bosom
the
decoration
with
which
she
was
so
familiar
on
her
mother's.
A
letter--the
letter
A--but
freshly
green
instead
of
scarlet.
The
child
bent
her
chin
upon
her
breast,
and
contemplated
this
device
with
strange
interest,
even
as
if
the
one
only
thing
for
which
she
had
been
sent
into
the
world
was
to
make
out
its
hidden
import.
"I
wonder
if
mother
will
ask
me
what
it
means?"
thought
Pearl.
Just
then
she
heard
her
mother's
voice,
and,
flitting
along
as
lightly
as
one
of
the
little
sea-birds,
appeared
before
Hester
Prynne
dancing,
laughing,
and
pointing
her
finger
to
the
ornament
upon
her
bosom.
"My
little
Pearl,"
said
Hester,
after
a
moment's
silence,
"the
green
letter,
and
on
thy
childish
bosom,
has
no
purport.
But
dost
thou
know,
my
child,
what
this
letter
means
which
thy
mother
is
doomed
to
wear?"
"Yes,
mother,"
said
the
child.
"It
is
the
great
letter
A.
Thou
hast
taught
me
in
the
horn-book."
Hester
looked
steadily
into
her
little
face;
but
though
there
was
that
singular
expression
which
she
had
so
often
remarked
in
her
black
eyes,
she
could
not
satisfy
herself
whether
Pearl
really
attached
any
meaning
to
the
symbol.
She
felt
a
morbid
desire
to
ascertain
the
point.
"Dost
thou
know,
child,
wherefore
thy
mother
wears
this
letter?"
"Truly
do
I!"
answered
Pearl,
looking
brightly
into
her
mother's
face.
"It
is
for
the
same
reason
that
the
minister
keeps
his
hand
over
his
heart!"
"And
what
reason
is
that?"
asked
Hester,
half
smiling
at
the
absurd
incongruity
of
the
child's
observation;
but
on
second
thoughts
turning
pale.
"What
has
the
letter
to
do
with
any
heart
save
mine?"
"Nay,
mother,
I
have
told
all
I
know,"
said
Pearl,
more
seriously
than
she
was
wont
to
speak.
"Ask
yonder
old
man
whom
thou
hast
been
talking
with,--it
may
be
he
can
tell.
But
in
good
earnest
now,
mother
dear,
what
does
this
scarlet
letter
mean?--and
why
dost
thou
wear
it
on
thy
bosom?--and
why
does
the
minister
keep
his
hand
over
his
heart?"
She
took
her
mother's
hand
in
both
her
own,
and
gazed
into
her
eyes
with
an
earnestness
that
was
seldom
seen
in
her
wild
and
capricious
character.
The
thought
occurred
to
Hester,
that
the
child
might
really
be
seeking
to
approach
her
with
childlike
confidence,
and
doing
what
she
could,
and
as
intelligently
as
she
knew
how,
to
establish
a
meeting-point
of
sympathy.
It
showed
Pearl
in
an
unwonted
aspect.
Heretofore,
the
mother,
while
loving
her
child
with
the
intensity
of
a
sole
affection,
had
schooled
herself
to
hope
for
little
other
return
than
the
waywardness
of
an
April
breeze,
which
spends
its
time
in
airy
sport,
and
has
its
gusts
of
inexplicable
passion,
and
is
petulant
in
its
best
of
moods,
and
chills
oftener
than
caresses
you,
when
you
take
it
to
your
bosom;
in
requital
of
which
misdemeanours
it
will
sometimes,
of
its
own
vague
purpose,
kiss
your
cheek
with
a
kind
of
doubtful
tenderness,
and
play
gently
with
your
hair,
and
then
be
gone
about
its
other
idle
business,
leaving
a
dreamy
pleasure
at
your
heart.
And
this,
moreover,
was
a
mother's
estimate
of
the
child's
disposition.
Any
other
observer
might
have
seen
few
but
unamiable
traits,
and
have
given
them
a
far
darker
colouring.
But
now
the
idea
came
strongly
into
Hester's
mind,
that
Pearl,
with
her
remarkable
precocity
and
acuteness,
might
already
have
approached
the
age
when
she
could
have
been
made
a
friend,
and
intrusted
with
as
much
of
her
mother's
sorrows
as
could
be
imparted,
without
irreverence
either
to
the
parent
or
the
child.
In
the
little
chaos
of
Pearl's
character
there
might
be
seen
emerging
and
could
have
been
from
the
very
first--the
steadfast
principles
of
an
unflinching
courage--an
uncontrollable
will--sturdy
pride,
which
might
be
disciplined
into
self-respect--and
a
bitter
scorn
of
many
things
which,
when
examined,
might
be
found
to
have
the
taint
of
falsehood
in
them.
She
possessed
affections,
too,
though
hitherto
acrid
and
disagreeable,
as
are
the
richest
flavours
of
unripe
fruit.
With
all
these
sterling
attributes,
thought
Hester,
the
evil
which
she
inherited
from
her
mother
must
be
great
indeed,
if
a
noble
woman
do
not
grow
out
of
this
elfish
child.
Pearl's
inevitable
tendency
to
hover
about
the
enigma
of
the
scarlet
letter
seemed
an
innate
quality
of
her
being.
From
the
earliest
epoch
of
her
conscious
life,
she
had
entered
upon
this
as
her
appointed
mission.
Hester
had
often
fancied
that
Providence
had
a
design
of
justice
and
retribution,
in
endowing
the
child
with
this
marked
propensity;
but
never,
until
now,
had
she
bethought
herself
to
ask,
whether,
linked
with
that
design,
there
might
not
likewise
be
a
purpose
of
mercy
and
beneficence.
If
little
Pearl
were
entertained
with
faith
and
trust,
as
a
spirit
messenger
no
less
than
an
earthly
child,
might
it
not
be
her
errand
to
soothe
away
the
sorrow
that
lay
cold
in
her
mother's
heart,
and
converted
it
into
a
tomb?--and
to
help
her
to
overcome
the
passion,
once
so
wild,
and
even
yet
neither
dead
nor
asleep,
but
only
imprisoned
within
the
same
tomb-like
heart?
Such
were
some
of
the
thoughts
that
now
stirred
in
Hester's
mind,
with
as
much
vivacity
of
impression
as
if
they
had
actually
been
whispered
into
her
ear.
And
there
was
little
Pearl,
all
this
while,
holding
her
mother's
hand
in
both
her
own,
and
turning
her
face
upward,
while
she
put
these
searching
questions,
once
and
again,
and
still
a
third
time.
"What
does
the
letter
mean,
mother?
and
why
dost
thou
wear
it?
and
why
does
the
minister
keep
his
hand
over
his
heart?"
"What
shall
I
say?"
thought
Hester
to
herself.
"No!
if
this
be
the
price
of
the
child's
sympathy,
I
cannot
pay
it."
Then
she
spoke
aloud--
"Silly
Pearl,"
said
she,
"what
questions
are
these?
There
are
many
things
in
this
world
that
a
child
must
not
ask
about.
What
know
I
of
the
minister's
heart?
And
as
for
the
scarlet
letter,
I
wear
it
for
the
sake
of
its
gold
thread."
In
all
the
seven
bygone
years,
Hester
Prynne
had
never
before
been
false
to
the
symbol
on
her
bosom.
It
may
be
that
it
was
the
talisman
of
a
stern
and
severe,
but
yet
a
guardian
spirit,
who
now
forsook
her;
as
recognising
that,
in
spite
of
his
strict
watch
over
her
heart,
some
new
evil
had
crept
into
it,
or
some
old
one
had
never
been
expelled.
As
for
little
Pearl,
the
earnestness
soon
passed
out
of
her
face.
But
the
child
did
not
see
fit
to
let
the
matter
drop.
Two
or
three
times,
as
her
mother
and
she
went
homeward,
and
as
often
at
supper-time,
and
while
Hester
was
putting
her
to
bed,
and
once
after
she
seemed
to
be
fairly
asleep,
Pearl
looked
up,
with
mischief
gleaming
in
her
black
eyes.
"Mother,"
said
she,
"what
does
the
scarlet
letter
mean?"
And
the
next
morning,
the
first
indication
the
child
gave
of
being
awake
was
by
popping
up
her
head
from
the
pillow,
and
making
that
other
enquiry,
which
she
had
so
unaccountably
connected
with
her
investigations
about
the
scarlet
letter--
"Mother!--Mother!--Why
does
the
minister
keep
his
hand
over
his
heart?"
"Hold
thy
tongue,
naughty
child!"
answered
her
mother,
with
an
asperity
that
she
had
never
permitted
to
herself
before.
"Do
not
tease
me;
else
I
shall
put
thee
into
the
dark
closet!"
XVI.
A
FOREST
WALK
Hester
Prynne
remained
constant
in
her
resolve
to
make
known
to
Mr.
Dimmesdale,
at
whatever
risk
of
present
pain
or
ulterior
consequences,
the
true
character
of
the
man
who
had
crept
into
his
intimacy.
For
several
days,
however,
she
vainly
sought
an
opportunity
of
addressing
him
in
some
of
the
meditative
walks
which
she
knew
him
to
be
in
the
habit
of
taking
along
the
shores
of
the
Peninsula,
or
on
the
wooded
hills
of
the
neighbouring
country.
There
would
have
been
no
scandal,
indeed,
nor
peril
to
the
holy
whiteness
of
the
clergyman's
good
fame,
had
she
visited
him
in
his
own
study,
where
many
a
penitent,
ere
now,
had
confessed
sins
of
perhaps
as
deep
a
dye
as
the
one
betokened
by
the
scarlet
letter.
But,
partly
that
she
dreaded
the
secret
or
undisguised
interference
of
old
Roger
Chillingworth,
and
partly
that
her
conscious
heart
imparted
suspicion
where
none
could
have
been
felt,
and
partly
that
both
the
minister
and
she
would
need
the
whole
wide
world
to
breathe
in,
while
they
talked
together--for
all
these
reasons
Hester
never
thought
of
meeting
him
in
any
narrower
privacy
than
beneath
the
open
sky.
At
last,
while
attending
a
sick
chamber,
whither
the
Rev.
Mr.
Dimmesdale
had
been
summoned
to
make
a
prayer,
she
learnt
that
he
had
gone,
the
day
before,
to
visit
the
Apostle
Eliot,
among
his
Indian
converts.
He
would
probably
return
by
a
certain
hour
in
the
afternoon
of
the
morrow.
Betimes,
therefore,
the
next
day,
Hester
took
little
Pearl--who
was
necessarily
the
companion
of
all
her
mother's
expeditions,
however
inconvenient
her
presence--and
set
forth.
The
road,
after
the
two
wayfarers
had
crossed
from
the
Peninsula
to
the
mainland,
was
no
other
than
a
foot-path.
It
straggled
onward
into
the
mystery
of
the
primeval
forest.
This
hemmed
it
in
so
narrowly,
and
stood
so
black
and
dense
on
either
side,
and
disclosed
such
imperfect
glimpses
of
the
sky
above,
that,
to
Hester's
mind,
it
imaged
not
amiss
the
moral
wilderness
in
which
she
had
so
long
been
wandering.
The
day
was
chill
and
sombre.
Overhead
was
a
gray
expanse
of
cloud,
slightly
stirred,
however,
by
a
breeze;
so
that
a
gleam
of
flickering
sunshine
might
now
and
then
be
seen
at
its
solitary
play
along
the
path.
This
flitting
cheerfulness
was
always
at
the
further
extremity
of
some
long
vista
through
the
forest.
The
sportive
sunlight--feebly
sportive,
at
best,
in
the
predominant
pensiveness
of
the
day
and
scene--withdrew
itself
as
they
came
nigh,
and
left
the
spots
where
it
had
danced
the
drearier,
because
they
had
hoped
to
find
them
bright.
"Mother,"
said
little
Pearl,
"the
sunshine
does
not
love
you.
It
runs
away
and
hides
itself,
because
it
is
afraid
of
something
on
your
bosom.
Now,
see!
There
it
is,
playing
a
good
way
off.
Stand
you
here,
and
let
me
run
and
catch
it.
I
am
but
a
child.
It
will
not
flee
from
me--for
I
wear
nothing
on
my
bosom
yet!"
"Nor
ever
will,
my
child,
I
hope,"
said
Hester.
"And
why
not,
mother?"
asked
Pearl,
stopping
short,
just
at
the
beginning
of
her
race.
"Will
not
it
come
of
its
own
accord
when
I
am
a
woman
grown?"
"Run
away,
child,"
answered
her
mother,
"and
catch
the
sunshine.
It
will
soon
be
gone."
Pearl
set
forth
at
a
great
pace,
and
as
Hester
smiled
to
perceive,
did
actually
catch
the
sunshine,
and
stood
laughing
in
the
midst
of
it,
all
brightened
by
its
splendour,
and
scintillating
with
the
vivacity
excited
by
rapid
motion.
The
light
lingered
about
the
lonely
child,
as
if
glad
of
such
a
playmate,
until
her
mother
had
drawn
almost
nigh
enough
to
step
into
the
magic
circle
too.
"It
will
go
now,"
said
Pearl,
shaking
her
head.
"See!"
answered
Hester,
smiling;
"now
I
can
stretch
out
my
hand
and
grasp
some
of
it."
As
she
attempted
to
do
so,
the
sunshine
vanished;
or,
to
judge
from
the
bright
expression
that
was
dancing
on
Pearl's
features,
her
mother
could
have
fancied
that
the
child
had
absorbed
it
into
herself,
and
would
give
it
forth
again,
with
a
gleam
about
her
path,
as
they
should
plunge
into
some
gloomier
shade.
There
was
no
other
attribute
that
so
much
impressed
her
with
a
sense
of
new
and
untransmitted
vigour
in
Pearl's
nature,
as
this
never
failing
vivacity
of
spirits:
she
had
not
the
disease
of
sadness,
which
almost
all
children,
in
these
latter
days,
inherit,
with
the
scrofula,
from
the
troubles
of
their
ancestors.
Perhaps
this,
too,
was
a
disease,
and
but
the
reflex
of
the
wild
energy
with
which
Hester
had
fought
against
her
sorrows
before
Pearl's
birth.
It
was
certainly
a
doubtful
charm,
imparting
a
hard,
metallic
lustre
to
the
child's
character.
She
wanted--what
some
people
want
throughout
life--a
grief
that
should
deeply
touch
her,
and
thus
humanise
and
make
her
capable
of
sympathy.
But
there
was
time
enough
yet
for
little
Pearl.
"Come,
my
child!"
said
Hester,
looking
about
her
from
the
spot
where
Pearl
had
stood
still
in
the
sunshine--"we
will
sit
down
a
little
way
within
the
wood,
and
rest
ourselves."
"I
am
not
aweary,
mother,"
replied
the
little
girl.
"But
you
may
sit
down,
if
you
will
tell
me
a
story
meanwhile."
"A
story,
child!"
said
Hester.
"And
about
what?"
"Oh,
a
story
about
the
Black
Man,"
answered
Pearl,
taking
hold
of
her
mother's
gown,
and
looking
up,
half
earnestly,
half
mischievously,
into
her
face.
"How
he
haunts
this
forest,
and
carries
a
book
with
him
a
big,
heavy
book,
with
iron
clasps;
and
how
this
ugly
Black
Man
offers
his
book
and
an
iron
pen
to
everybody
that
meets
him
here
among
the
trees;
and
they
are
to
write
their
names
with
their
own
blood;
and
then
he
sets
his
mark
on
their
bosoms.
Didst
thou
ever
meet
the
Black
Man,
mother?"
"And
who
told
you
this
story,
Pearl,"
asked
her
mother,
recognising
a
common
superstition
of
the
period.
"It
was
the
old
dame
in
the
chimney
corner,
at
the
house
where
you
watched
last
night,"
said
the
child.
"But
she
fancied
me
asleep
while
she
was
talking
of
it.
She
said
that
a
thousand
and
a
thousand
people
had
met
him
here,
and
had
written
in
his
book,
and
have
his
mark
on
them.
And
that
ugly
tempered
lady,
old
Mistress
Hibbins,
was
one.
And,
mother,
the
old
dame
said
that
this
scarlet
letter
was
the
Black
Man's
mark
on
thee,
and
that
it
glows
like
a
red
flame
when
thou
meetest
him
at
midnight,
here
in
the
dark
wood.
Is
it
true,
mother?
And
dost
thou
go
to
meet
him
in
the
nighttime?"
"Didst
thou
ever
awake
and
find
thy
mother
gone?"
asked
Hester.
"Not
that
I
remember,"
said
the
child.
"If
thou
fearest
to
leave
me
in
our
cottage,
thou
mightest
take
me
along
with
thee.
I
would
very
gladly
go!
But,
mother,
tell
me
now!
Is
there
such
a
Black
Man?
And
didst
thou
ever
meet
him?
And
is
this
his
mark?"
"Wilt
thou
let
me
be
at
peace,
if
I
once
tell
thee?"
asked
her
mother.
"Yes,
if
thou
tellest
me
all,"
answered
Pearl.
"Once
in
my
life
I
met
the
Black
Man!"
said
her
mother.
"This
scarlet
letter
is
his
mark!"
Thus
conversing,
they
entered
sufficiently
deep
into
the
wood
to
secure
themselves
from
the
observation
of
any
casual
passenger
along
the
forest
track.
Here
they
sat
down
on
a
luxuriant
heap
of
moss;
which
at
some
epoch
of
the
preceding
century,
had
been
a
gigantic
pine,
with
its
roots
and
trunk
in
the
darksome
shade,
and
its
head
aloft
in
the
upper
atmosphere.
It
was
a
little
dell
where
they
had
seated
themselves,
with
a
leaf-strewn
bank
rising
gently
on
either
side,
and
a
brook
flowing
through
the
midst,
over
a
bed
of
fallen
and
drowned
leaves.
The
trees
impending
over
it
had
flung
down
great
branches
from
time
to
time,
which
choked
up
the
current,
and
compelled
it
to
form
eddies
and
black
depths
at
some
points;
while,
in
its
swifter
and
livelier
passages
there
appeared
a
channel-way
of
pebbles,
and
brown,
sparkling
sand.
Letting
the
eyes
follow
along
the
course
of
the
stream,
they
could
catch
the
reflected
light
from
its
water,
at
some
short
distance
within
the
forest,
but
soon
lost
all
traces
of
it
amid
the
bewilderment
of
tree-trunks
and
underbrush,
and
here
and
there
a
huge
rock
covered
over
with
gray
lichens.
All
these
giant
trees
and
boulders
of
granite
seemed
intent
on
making
a
mystery
of
the
course
of
this
small
brook;
fearing,
perhaps,
that,
with
its
never-ceasing
loquacity,
it
should
whisper
tales
out
of
the
heart
of
the
old
forest
whence
it
flowed,
or
mirror
its
revelations
on
the
smooth
surface
of
a
pool.
Continually,
indeed,
as
it
stole
onward,
the
streamlet
kept
up
a
babble,
kind,
quiet,
soothing,
but
melancholy,
like
the
voice
of
a
young
child
that
was
spending
its
infancy
without
playfulness,
and
knew
not
how
to
be
merry
among
sad
acquaintance
and
events
of
sombre
hue.
"Oh,
brook!
Oh,
foolish
and
tiresome
little
brook!"
cried
Pearl,
after
listening
awhile
to
its
talk,
"Why
art
thou
so
sad?
Pluck
up
a
spirit,
and
do
not
be
all
the
time
sighing
and
murmuring!"
But
the
brook,
in
the
course
of
its
little
lifetime
among
the
forest
trees,
had
gone
through
so
solemn
an
experience
that
it
could
not
help
talking
about
it,
and
seemed
to
have
nothing
else
to
say.
Pearl
resembled
the
brook,
inasmuch
as
the
current
of
her
life
gushed
from
a
well-spring
as
mysterious,
and
had
flowed
through
scenes
shadowed
as
heavily
with
gloom.
But,
unlike
the
little
stream,
she
danced
and
sparkled,
and
prattled
airily
along
her
course.
"What
does
this
sad
little
brook
say,
mother?"
inquired
she.
"If
thou
hadst
a
sorrow
of
thine
own,
the
brook
might
tell
thee
of
it,"
answered
her
mother,
"even
as
it
is
telling
me
of
mine.
But
now,
Pearl,
I
hear
a
footstep
along
the
path,
and
the
noise
of
one
putting
aside
the
branches.
I
would
have
thee
betake
thyself
to
play,
and
leave
me
to
speak
with
him
that
comes
yonder."
"Is
it
the
Black
Man?"
asked
Pearl.
"Wilt
thou
go
and
play,
child?"
repeated
her
mother,
"But
do
not
stray
far
into
the
wood.
And
take
heed
that
thou
come
at
my
first
call."
"Yes,
mother,"
answered
Pearl,
"But
if
it
be
the
Black
Man,
wilt
thou
not
let
me
stay
a
moment,
and
look
at
him,
with
his
big
book
under
his
arm?"
"Go,
silly
child!"
said
her
mother
impatiently.
"It
is
no
Black
Man!
Thou
canst
see
him
now,
through
the
trees.
It
is
the
minister!"
"And
so
it
is!"
said
the
child.
"And,
mother,
he
has
his
hand
over
his
heart!
Is
it
because,
when
the
minister
wrote
his
name
in
the
book,
the
Black
Man
set
his
mark
in
that
place?
But
why
does
he
not
wear
it
outside
his
bosom,
as
thou
dost,
mother?"
"Go
now,
child,
and
thou
shalt
tease
me
as
thou
wilt
another
time,"
cried
Hester
Prynne.
"But
do
not
stray
far.
Keep
where
thou
canst
hear
the
babble
of
the
brook."
The
child
went
singing
away,
following
up
the
current
of
the
brook,
and
striving
to
mingle
a
more
lightsome
cadence
with
its
melancholy
voice.
But
the
little
stream
would
not
be
comforted,
and
still
kept
telling
its
unintelligible
secret
of
some
very
mournful
mystery
that
had
happened--or
making
a
prophetic
lamentation
about
something
that
was
yet
to
happen--within
the
verge
of
the
dismal
forest.
So
Pearl,
who
had
enough
of
shadow
in
her
own
little
life,
chose
to
break
off
all
acquaintance
with
this
repining
brook.
She
set
herself,
therefore,
to
gathering
violets
and
wood-anemones,
and
some
scarlet
columbines
that
she
found
growing
in
the
crevice
of
a
high
rock.
When
her
elf-child
had
departed,
Hester
Prynne
made
a
step
or
two
towards
the
track
that
led
through
the
forest,
but
still
remained
under
the
deep
shadow
of
the
trees.
She
beheld
the
minister
advancing
along
the
path
entirely
alone,
and
leaning
on
a
staff
which
he
had
cut
by
the
wayside.
He
looked
haggard
and
feeble,
and
betrayed
a
nerveless
despondency
in
his
air,
which
had
never
so
remarkably
characterised
him
in
his
walks
about
the
settlement,
nor
in
any
other
situation
where
he
deemed
himself
liable
to
notice.
Here
it
was
wofully
visible,
in
this
intense
seclusion
of
the
forest,
which
of
itself
would
have
been
a
heavy
trial
to
the
spirits.
There
was
a
listlessness
in
his
gait,
as
if
he
saw
no
reason
for
taking
one
step
further,
nor
felt
any
desire
to
do
so,
but
would
have
been
glad,
could
he
be
glad
of
anything,
to
fling
himself
down
at
the
root
of
the
nearest
tree,
and
lie
there
passive
for
evermore.
The
leaves
might
bestrew
him,
and
the
soil
gradually
accumulate
and
form
a
little
hillock
over
his
frame,
no
matter
whether
there
were
life
in
it
or
no.
Death
was
too
definite
an
object
to
be
wished
for
or
avoided.
To
Hester's
eye,
the
Reverend
Mr.
Dimmesdale
exhibited
no
symptom
of
positive
and
vivacious
suffering,
except
that,
as
little
Pearl
had
remarked,
he
kept
his
hand
over
his
heart.
XVII.
THE
PASTOR
AND
HIS
PARISHIONER
Slowly
as
the
minister
walked,
he
had
almost
gone
by
before
Hester
Prynne
could
gather
voice
enough
to
attract
his
observation.
At
length
she
succeeded.
"Arthur
Dimmesdale!"
she
said,
faintly
at
first,
then
louder,
but
hoarsely--"Arthur
Dimmesdale!"
"Who
speaks?"
answered
the
minister.
Gathering
himself
quickly
up,
he
stood
more
erect,
like
a
man
taken
by
surprise
in
a
mood
to
which
he
was
reluctant
to
have
witnesses.
Throwing
his
eyes
anxiously
in
the
direction
of
the
voice,
he
indistinctly
beheld
a
form
under
the
trees,
clad
in
garments
so
sombre,
and
so
little
relieved
from
the
gray
twilight
into
which
the
clouded
sky
and
the
heavy
foliage
had
darkened
the
noontide,
that
he
knew
not
whether
it
were
a
woman
or
a
shadow.
It
may
be
that
his
pathway
through
life
was
haunted
thus
by
a
spectre
that
had
stolen
out
from
among
his
thoughts.
He
made
a
step
nigher,
and
discovered
the
scarlet
letter.
"Hester!
Hester
Prynne!",
said
he;
"is
it
thou?
Art
thou
in
life?"
"Even
so."
she
answered.
"In
such
life
as
has
been
mine
these
seven
years
past!
And
thou,
Arthur
Dimmesdale,
dost
thou
yet
live?"
It
was
no
wonder
that
they
thus
questioned
one
another's
actual
and
bodily
existence,
and
even
doubted
of
their
own.
So
strangely
did
they
meet
in
the
dim
wood
that
it
was
like
the
first
encounter
in
the
world
beyond
the
grave
of
two
spirits
who
had
been
intimately
connected
in
their
former
life,
but
now
stood
coldly
shuddering
in
mutual
dread,
as
not
yet
familiar
with
their
state,
nor
wonted
to
the
companionship
of
disembodied
beings.
Each
a
ghost,
and
awe-stricken
at
the
other
ghost.
They
were
awe-stricken
likewise
at
themselves,
because
the
crisis
flung
back
to
them
their
consciousness,
and
revealed
to
each
heart
its
history
and
experience,
as
life
never
does,
except
at
such
breathless
epochs.
The
soul
beheld
its
features
in
the
mirror
of
the
passing
moment.
It
was
with
fear,
and
tremulously,
and,
as
it
were,
by
a
slow,
reluctant
necessity,
that
Arthur
Dimmesdale
put
forth
his
hand,
chill
as
death,
and
touched
the
chill
hand
of
Hester
Prynne.
The
grasp,
cold
as
it
was,
took
away
what
was
dreariest
in
the
interview.
They
now
felt
themselves,
at
least,
inhabitants
of
the
same
sphere.
Without
a
word
more
spoken--neither
he
nor
she
assuming
the
guidance,
but
with
an
unexpressed
consent--they
glided
back
into
the
shadow
of
the
woods
whence
Hester
had
emerged,
and
sat
down
on
the
heap
of
moss
where
she
and
Pearl
had
before
been
sitting.
When
they
found
voice
to
speak,
it
was
at
first
only
to
utter
remarks
and
inquiries
such
as
any
two
acquaintances
might
have
made,
about
the
gloomy
sky,
the
threatening
storm,
and,
next,
the
health
of
each.
Thus
they
went
onward,
not
boldly,
but
step
by
step,
into
the
themes
that
were
brooding
deepest
in
their
hearts.
So
long
estranged
by
fate
and
circumstances,
they
needed
something
slight
and
casual
to
run
before
and
throw
open
the
doors
of
intercourse,
so
that
their
real
thoughts
might
be
led
across
the
threshold.
After
awhile,
the
minister
fixed
his
eyes
on
Hester
Prynne's.
"Hester,"
said
he,
"hast
thou
found
peace?"
She
smiled
drearily,
looking
down
upon
her
bosom.
"Hast
thou?"
she
asked.
"None--nothing
but
despair!"
he
answered.
"What
else
could
I
look
for,
being
what
I
am,
and
leading
such
a
life
as
mine?
Were
I
an
atheist--a
man
devoid
of
conscience--a
wretch
with
coarse
and
brutal
instincts--I
might
have
found
peace
long
ere
now.
Nay,
I
never
should
have
lost
it.
But,
as
matters
stand
with
my
soul,
whatever
of
good
capacity
there
originally
was
in
me,
all
of
God's
gifts
that
were
the
choicest
have
become
the
ministers
of
spiritual
torment.
Hester,
I
am
most
miserable!"
"The
people
reverence
thee,"
said
Hester.
"And
surely
thou
workest
good
among
them!
Doth
this
bring
thee
no
comfort?"
"More
misery,
Hester!--Only
the
more
misery!"
answered
the
clergyman
with
a
bitter
smile.
"As
concerns
the
good
which
I
may
appear
to
do,
I
have
no
faith
in
it.
It
must
needs
be
a
delusion.
What
can
a
ruined
soul
like
mine
effect
towards
the
redemption
of
other
souls?--or
a
polluted
soul
towards
their
purification?
And
as
for
the
people's
reverence,
would
that
it
were
turned
to
scorn
and
hatred!
Canst
thou
deem
it,
Hester,
a
consolation
that
I
must
stand
up
in
my
pulpit,
and
meet
so
many
eyes
turned
upward
to
my
face,
as
if
the
light
of
heaven
were
beaming
from
it!--must
see
my
flock
hungry
for
the
truth,
and
listening
to
my
words
as
if
a
tongue
of
Pentecost
were
speaking!--and
then
look
inward,
and
discern
the
black
reality
of
what
they
idolise?
I
have
laughed,
in
bitterness
and
agony
of
heart,
at
the
contrast
between
what
I
seem
and
what
I
am!
And
Satan
laughs
at
it!"
"You
wrong
yourself
in
this,"
said
Hester
gently.
"You
have
deeply
and
sorely
repented.
Your
sin
is
left
behind
you
in
the
days
long
past.
Your
present
life
is
not
less
holy,
in
very
truth,
than
it
seems
in
people's
eyes.
Is
there
no
reality
in
the
penitence
thus
sealed
and
witnessed
by
good
works?
And
wherefore
should
it
not
bring
you
peace?"
"No,
Hester--no!"
replied
the
clergyman.
"There
is
no
substance
in
it!
It
is
cold
and
dead,
and
can
do
nothing
for
me!
Of
penance,
I
have
had
enough!
Of
penitence,
there
has
been
none!
Else,
I
should
long
ago
have
thrown
off
these
garments
of
mock
holiness,
and
have
shown
myself
to
mankind
as
they
will
see
me
at
the
judgment-seat.
Happy
are
you,
Hester,
that
wear
the
scarlet
letter
openly
upon
your
bosom!
Mine
burns
in
secret!
Thou
little
knowest
what
a
relief
it
is,
after
the
torment
of
a
seven
years'
cheat,
to
look
into
an
eye
that
recognises
me
for
what
I
am!
Had
I
one
friend--or
were
it
my
worst
enemy!--to
whom,
when
sickened
with
the
praises
of
all
other
men,
I
could
daily
betake
myself,
and
be
known
as
the
vilest
of
all
sinners,
methinks
my
soul
might
keep
itself
alive
thereby.
Even
thus
much
of
truth
would
save
me!
But
now,
it
is
all
falsehood!--all
emptiness!--all
death!"
Hester
Prynne
looked
into
his
face,
but
hesitated
to
speak.
Yet,
uttering
his
long-restrained
emotions
so
vehemently
as
he
did,
his
words
here
offered
her
the
very
point
of
circumstances
in
which
to
interpose
what
she
came
to
say.
She
conquered
her
fears,
and
spoke:
"Such
a
friend
as
thou
hast
even
now
wished
for,"
said
she,
"with
whom
to
weep
over
thy
sin,
thou
hast
in
me,
the
partner
of
it!"
Again
she
hesitated,
but
brought
out
the
words
with
an
effort.--"Thou
hast
long
had
such
an
enemy,
and
dwellest
with
him,
under
the
same
roof!"
The
minister
started
to
his
feet,
gasping
for
breath,
and
clutching
at
his
heart,
as
if
he
would
have
torn
it
out
of
his
bosom.
"Ha!
What
sayest
thou?"
cried
he.
"An
enemy!
And
under
mine
own
roof!
What
mean
you?"
Hester
Prynne
was
now
fully
sensible
of
the
deep
injury
for
which
she
was
responsible
to
this
unhappy
man,
in
permitting
him
to
lie
for
so
many
years,
or,
indeed,
for
a
single
moment,
at
the
mercy
of
one
whose
purposes
could
not
be
other
than
malevolent.
The
very
contiguity
of
his
enemy,
beneath
whatever
mask
the
latter
might
conceal
himself,
was
enough
to
disturb
the
magnetic
sphere
of
a
being
so
sensitive
as
Arthur
Dimmesdale.
There
had
been
a
period
when
Hester
was
less
alive
to
this
consideration;
or,
perhaps,
in
the
misanthropy
of
her
own
trouble,
she
left
the
minister
to
bear
what
she
might
picture
to
herself
as
a
more
tolerable
doom.
But
of
late,
since
the
night
of
his
vigil,
all
her
sympathies
towards
him
had
been
both
softened
and
invigorated.
She
now
read
his
heart
more
accurately.
She
doubted
not
that
the
continual
presence
of
Roger
Chillingworth--the
secret
poison
of
his
malignity,
infecting
all
the
air
about
him--and
his
authorised
interference,
as
a
physician,
with
the
minister's
physical
and
spiritual
infirmities--that
these
bad
opportunities
had
been
turned
to
a
cruel
purpose.
By
means
of
them,
the
sufferer's
conscience
had
been
kept
in
an
irritated
state,
the
tendency
of
which
was,
not
to
cure
by
wholesome
pain,
but
to
disorganize
and
corrupt
his
spiritual
being.
Its
result,
on
earth,
could
hardly
fail
to
be
insanity,
and
hereafter,
that
eternal
alienation
from
the
Good
and
True,
of
which
madness
is
perhaps
the
earthly
type.
Such
was
the
ruin
to
which
she
had
brought
the
man,
once--nay,
why
should
we
not
speak
it?--still
so
passionately
loved!
Hester
felt
that
the
sacrifice
of
the
clergyman's
good
name,
and
death
itself,
as
she
had
already
told
Roger
Chillingworth,
would
have
been
infinitely
preferable
to
the
alternative
which
she
had
taken
upon
herself
to
choose.
And
now,
rather
than
have
had
this
grievous
wrong
to
confess,
she
would
gladly
have
laid
down
on
the
forest
leaves,
and
died
there,
at
Arthur
Dimmesdale's
feet.
"Oh,
Arthur!"
cried
she,
"forgive
me!
In
all
things
else,
I
have
striven
to
be
true!
Truth
was
the
one
virtue
which
I
might
have
held
fast,
and
did
hold
fast,
through
all
extremity;
save
when
thy
good--thy
life--thy
fame--were
put
in
question!
Then
I
consented
to
a
deception.
But
a
lie
is
never
good,
even
though
death
threaten
on
the
other
side!
Dost
thou
not
see
what
I
would
say?
That
old
man!--the
physician!--he
whom
they
call
Roger
Chillingworth!--he
was
my
husband!"
The
minister
looked
at
her
for
an
instant,
with
all
that
violence
of
passion,
which--intermixed
in
more
shapes
than
one
with
his
higher,
purer,
softer
qualities--was,
in
fact,
the
portion
of
him
which
the
devil
claimed,
and
through
which
he
sought
to
win
the
rest.
Never
was
there
a
blacker
or
a
fiercer
frown
than
Hester
now
encountered.
For
the
brief
space
that
it
lasted,
it
was
a
dark
transfiguration.
But
his
character
had
been
so
much
enfeebled
by
suffering,
that
even
its
lower
energies
were
incapable
of
more
than
a
temporary
struggle.
He
sank
down
on
the
ground,
and
buried
his
face
in
his
hands.
"I
might
have
known
it,"
murmured
he--"I
did
know
it!
Was
not
the
secret
told
me,
in
the
natural
recoil
of
my
heart
at
the
first
sight
of
him,
and
as
often
as
I
have
seen
him
since?
Why
did
I
not
understand?
Oh,
Hester
Prynne,
thou
little,
little
knowest
all
the
horror
of
this
thing!
And
the
shame!--the
indelicacy!--the
horrible
ugliness
of
this
exposure
of
a
sick
and
guilty
heart
to
the
very
eye
that
would
gloat
over
it!
Woman,
woman,
thou
art
accountable
for
this!--I
cannot
forgive
thee!"
"Thou
shalt
forgive
me!"
cried
Hester,
flinging
herself
on
the
fallen
leaves
beside
him.
"Let
God
punish!
Thou
shalt
forgive!"
With
sudden
and
desperate
tenderness
she
threw
her
arms
around
him,
and
pressed
his
head
against
her
bosom,
little
caring
though
his
cheek
rested
on
the
scarlet
letter.
He
would
have
released
himself,
but
strove
in
vain
to
do
so.
Hester
would
not
set
him
free,
lest
he
should
look
her
sternly
in
the
face.
All
the
world
had
frowned
on
her--for
seven
long
years
had
it
frowned
upon
this
lonely
woman--and
still
she
bore
it
all,
nor
ever
once
turned
away
her
firm,
sad
eyes.
Heaven,
likewise,
had
frowned
upon
her,
and
she
had
not
died.
But
the
frown
of
this
pale,
weak,
sinful,
and
sorrow-stricken
man
was
what
Hester
could
not
bear,
and
live!
"Wilt
thou
yet
forgive
me?"
she
repeated,
over
and
over
again.
"Wilt
thou
not
frown?
Wilt
thou
forgive?"
"I
do
forgive
you,
Hester,"
replied
the
minister
at
length,
with
a
deep
utterance,
out
of
an
abyss
of
sadness,
but
no
anger.
"I
freely
forgive
you
now.
May
God
forgive
us
both.
We
are
not,
Hester,
the
worst
sinners
in
the
world.
There
is
one
worse
than
even
the
polluted
priest!
That
old
man's
revenge
has
been
blacker
than
my
sin.
He
has
violated,
in
cold
blood,
the
sanctity
of
a
human
heart.
Thou
and
I,
Hester,
never
did
so!"
"Never,
never!"
whispered
she.
"What
we
did
had
a
consecration
of
its
own.
We
felt
it
so!
We
said
so
to
each
other.
Hast
thou
forgotten
it?"
"Hush,
Hester!"
said
Arthur
Dimmesdale,
rising
from
the
ground.
"No;
I
have
not
forgotten!"
They
sat
down
again,
side
by
side,
and
hand
clasped
in
hand,
on
the
mossy
trunk
of
the
fallen
tree.
Life
had
never
brought
them
a
gloomier
hour;
it
was
the
point
whither
their
pathway
had
so
long
been
tending,
and
darkening
ever,
as
it
stole
along--and
yet
it
unclosed
a
charm
that
made
them
linger
upon
it,
and
claim
another,
and
another,
and,
after
all,
another
moment.
The
forest
was
obscure
around
them,
and
creaked
with
a
blast
that
was
passing
through
it.
The
boughs
were
tossing
heavily
above
their
heads;
while
one
solemn
old
tree
groaned
dolefully
to
another,
as
if
telling
the
sad
story
of
the
pair
that
sat
beneath,
or
constrained
to
forbode
evil
to
come.
And
yet
they
lingered.
How
dreary
looked
the
forest-track
that
led
backward
to
the
settlement,
where
Hester
Prynne
must
take
up
again
the
burden
of
her
ignominy
and
the
minister
the
hollow
mockery
of
his
good
name!
So
they
lingered
an
instant
longer.
No
golden
light
had
ever
been
so
precious
as
the
gloom
of
this
dark
forest.
Here
seen
only
by
his
eyes,
the
scarlet
letter
need
not
burn
into
the
bosom
of
the
fallen
woman!
Here
seen
only
by
her
eyes,
Arthur
Dimmesdale,
false
to
God
and
man,
might
be,
for
one
moment
true!
He
started
at
a
thought
that
suddenly
occurred
to
him.
"Hester!"
cried
he,
"here
is
a
new
horror!
Roger
Chillingworth
knows
your
purpose
to
reveal
his
true
character.
Will
he
continue,
then,
to
keep
our
secret?
What
will
now
be
the
course
of
his
revenge?"
"There
is
a
strange
secrecy
in
his
nature,"
replied
Hester,
thoughtfully;
"and
it
has
grown
upon
him
by
the
hidden
practices
of
his
revenge.
I
deem
it
not
likely
that
he
will
betray
the
secret.
He
will
doubtless
seek
other
means
of
satiating
his
dark
passion."
"And
I!--how
am
I
to
live
longer,
breathing
the
same
air
with
this
deadly
enemy?"
exclaimed
Arthur
Dimmesdale,
shrinking
within
himself,
and
pressing
his
hand
nervously
against
his
heart--a
gesture
that
had
grown
involuntary
with
him.
"Think
for
me,
Hester!
Thou
art
strong.
Resolve
for
me!"
"Thou
must
dwell
no
longer
with
this
man,"
said
Hester,
slowly
and
firmly.
"Thy
heart
must
be
no
longer
under
his
evil
eye!"
"It
were
far
worse
than
death!"
replied
the
minister.
"But
how
to
avoid
it?
What
choice
remains
to
me?
Shall
I
lie
down
again
on
these
withered
leaves,
where
I
cast
myself
when
thou
didst
tell
me
what
he
was?
Must
I
sink
down
there,
and
die
at
once?"
"Alas!
what
a
ruin
has
befallen
thee!"
said
Hester,
with
the
tears
gushing
into
her
eyes.
"Wilt
thou
die
for
very
weakness?
There
is
no
other
cause!"
"The
judgment
of
God
is
on
me,"
answered
the
conscience-stricken
priest.
"It
is
too
mighty
for
me
to
struggle
with!"
"Heaven
would
show
mercy,"
rejoined
Hester,
"hadst
thou
but
the
strength
to
take
advantage
of
it."
"Be
thou
strong
for
me!"
answered
he.
"Advise
me
what
to
do."
"Is
the
world,
then,
so
narrow?"
exclaimed
Hester
Prynne,
fixing
her
deep
eyes
on
the
minister's,
and
instinctively
exercising
a
magnetic
power
over
a
spirit
so
shattered
and
subdued
that
it
could
hardly
hold
itself
erect.
"Doth
the
universe
lie
within
the
compass
of
yonder
town,
which
only
a
little
time
ago
was
but
a
leaf-strewn
desert,
as
lonely
as
this
around
us?
Whither
leads
yonder
forest-track?
Backward
to
the
settlement,
thou
sayest!
Yes;
but,
onward,
too!
Deeper
it
goes,
and
deeper
into
the
wilderness,
less
plainly
to
be
seen
at
every
step;
until
some
few
miles
hence
the
yellow
leaves
will
show
no
vestige
of
the
white
man's
tread.
There
thou
art
free!
So
brief
a
journey
would
bring
thee
from
a
world
where
thou
hast
been
most
wretched,
to
one
where
thou
mayest
still
be
happy!
Is
there
not
shade
enough
in
all
this
boundless
forest
to
hide
thy
heart
from
the
gaze
of
Roger
Chillingworth?"
"Yes,
Hester;
but
only
under
the
fallen
leaves!"
replied
the
minister,
with
a
sad
smile.
"Then
there
is
the
broad
pathway
of
the
sea!"
continued
Hester.
"It
brought
thee
hither.
If
thou
so
choose,
it
will
bear
thee
back
again.
In
our
native
land,
whether
in
some
remote
rural
village,
or
in
vast
London--or,
surely,
in
Germany,
in
France,
in
pleasant
Italy--thou
wouldst
be
beyond
his
power
and
knowledge!
And
what
hast
thou
to
do
with
all
these
iron
men,
and
their
opinions?
They
have
kept
thy
better
part
in
bondage
too
long
already!"
"It
cannot
be!"
answered
the
minister,
listening
as
if
he
were
called
upon
to
realise
a
dream.
"I
am
powerless
to
go.
Wretched
and
sinful
as
I
am,
I
have
had
no
other
thought
than
to
drag
on
my
earthly
existence
in
the
sphere
where
Providence
hath
placed
me.
Lost
as
my
own
soul
is,
I
would
still
do
what
I
may
for
other
human
souls!
I
dare
not
quit
my
post,
though
an
unfaithful
sentinel,
whose
sure
reward
is
death
and
dishonour,
when
his
dreary
watch
shall
come
to
an
end!"
"Thou
art
crushed
under
this
seven
years'
weight
of
misery,"
replied
Hester,
fervently
resolved
to
buoy
him
up
with
her
own
energy.
"But
thou
shalt
leave
it
all
behind
thee!
It
shall
not
cumber
thy
steps,
as
thou
treadest
along
the
forest-path:
neither
shalt
thou
freight
the
ship
with
it,
if
thou
prefer
to
cross
the
sea.
Leave
this
wreck
and
ruin
here
where
it
hath
happened.
Meddle
no
more
with
it!
Begin
all
anew!
Hast
thou
exhausted
possibility
in
the
failure
of
this
one
trial?
Not
so!
The
future
is
yet
full
of
trial
and
success.
There
is
happiness
to
be
enjoyed!
There
is
good
to
be
done!
Exchange
this
false
life
of
thine
for
a
true
one.
Be,
if
thy
spirit
summon
thee
to
such
a
mission,
the
teacher
and
apostle
of
the
red
men.
Or,
as
is
more
thy
nature,
be
a
scholar
and
a
sage
among
the
wisest
and
the
most
renowned
of
the
cultivated
world.
Preach!
Write!
Act!
Do
anything,
save
to
lie
down
and
die!
Give
up
this
name
of
Arthur
Dimmesdale,
and
make
thyself
another,
and
a
high
one,
such
as
thou
canst
wear
without
fear
or
shame.
Why
shouldst
thou
tarry
so
much
as
one
other
day
in
the
torments
that
have
so
gnawed
into
thy
life?
that
have
made
thee
feeble
to
will
and
to
do?
that
will
leave
thee
powerless
even
to
repent?
Up,
and
away!"
"Oh,
Hester!"
cried
Arthur
Dimmesdale,
in
whose
eyes
a
fitful
light,
kindled
by
her
enthusiasm,
flashed
up
and
died
away,
"thou
tellest
of
running
a
race
to
a
man
whose
knees
are
tottering
beneath
him!
I
must
die
here!
There
is
not
the
strength
or
courage
left
me
to
venture
into
the
wide,
strange,
difficult
world
alone!"
It
was
the
last
expression
of
the
despondency
of
a
broken
spirit.
He
lacked
energy
to
grasp
the
better
fortune
that
seemed
within
his
reach.
He
repeated
the
word--"Alone,
Hester!"
"Thou
shall
not
go
alone!"
answered
she,
in
a
deep
whisper.
Then,
all
was
spoken!
XVIII.
A
FLOOD
OF
SUNSHINE
Arthur
Dimmesdale
gazed
into
Hester's
face
with
a
look
in
which
hope
and
joy
shone
out,
indeed,
but
with
fear
betwixt
them,
and
a
kind
of
horror
at
her
boldness,
who
had
spoken
what
he
vaguely
hinted
at,
but
dared
not
speak.
But
Hester
Prynne,
with
a
mind
of
native
courage
and
activity,
and
for
so
long
a
period
not
merely
estranged,
but
outlawed
from
society,
had
habituated
herself
to
such
latitude
of
speculation
as
was
altogether
foreign
to
the
clergyman.
She
had
wandered,
without
rule
or
guidance,
in
a
moral
wilderness,
as
vast,
as
intricate,
and
shadowy
as
the
untamed
forest,
amid
the
gloom
of
which
they
were
now
holding
a
colloquy
that
was
to
decide
their
fate.
Her
intellect
and
heart
had
their
home,
as
it
were,
in
desert
places,
where
she
roamed
as
freely
as
the
wild
Indian
in
his
woods.
For
years
past
she
had
looked
from
this
estranged
point
of
view
at
human
institutions,
and
whatever
priests
or
legislators
had
established;
criticising
all
with
hardly
more
reverence
than
the
Indian
would
feel
for
the
clerical
band,
the
judicial
robe,
the
pillory,
the
gallows,
the
fireside,
or
the
church.
The
tendency
of
her
fate
and
fortunes
had
been
to
set
her
free.
The
scarlet
letter
was
her
passport
into
regions
where
other
women
dared
not
tread.
Shame,
Despair,
Solitude!
These
had
been
her
teachers--stern
and
wild
ones--and
they
had
made
her
strong,
but
taught
her
much
amiss.
The
minister,
on
the
other
hand,
had
never
gone
through
an
experience
calculated
to
lead
him
beyond
the
scope
of
generally
received
laws;
although,
in
a
single
instance,
he
had
so
fearfully
transgressed
one
of
the
most
sacred
of
them.
But
this
had
been
a
sin
of
passion,
not
of
principle,
nor
even
purpose.
Since
that
wretched
epoch,
he
had
watched
with
morbid
zeal
and
minuteness,
not
his
acts--for
those
it
was
easy
to
arrange--but
each
breath
of
emotion,
and
his
every
thought.
At
the
head
of
the
social
system,
as
the
clergymen
of
that
day
stood,
he
was
only
the
more
trammelled
by
its
regulations,
its
principles,
and
even
its
prejudices.
As
a
priest,
the
framework
of
his
order
inevitably
hemmed
him
in.
As
a
man
who
had
once
sinned,
but
who
kept
his
conscience
all
alive
and
painfully
sensitive
by
the
fretting
of
an
unhealed
wound,
he
might
have
been
supposed
safer
within
the
line
of
virtue
than
if
he
had
never
sinned
at
all.
Thus
we
seem
to
see
that,
as
regarded
Hester
Prynne,
the
whole
seven
years
of
outlaw
and
ignominy
had
been
little
other
than
a
preparation
for
this
very
hour.
But
Arthur
Dimmesdale!
Were
such
a
man
once
more
to
fall,
what
plea
could
be
urged
in
extenuation
of
his
crime?
None;
unless
it
avail
him
somewhat
that
he
was
broken
down
by
long
and
exquisite
suffering;
that
his
mind
was
darkened
and
confused
by
the
very
remorse
which
harrowed
it;
that,
between
fleeing
as
an
avowed
criminal,
and
remaining
as
a
hypocrite,
conscience
might
find
it
hard
to
strike
the
balance;
that
it
was
human
to
avoid
the
peril
of
death
and
infamy,
and
the
inscrutable
machinations
of
an
enemy;
that,
finally,
to
this
poor
pilgrim,
on
his
dreary
and
desert
path,
faint,
sick,
miserable,
there
appeared
a
glimpse
of
human
affection
and
sympathy,
a
new
life,
and
a
true
one,
in
exchange
for
the
heavy
doom
which
he
was
now
expiating.
And
be
the
stern
and
sad
truth
spoken,
that
the
breach
which
guilt
has
once
made
into
the
human
soul
is
never,
in
this
mortal
state,
repaired.
It
may
be
watched
and
guarded,
so
that
the
enemy
shall
not
force
his
way
again
into
the
citadel,
and
might
even
in
his
subsequent
assaults,
select
some
other
avenue,
in
preference
to
that
where
he
had
formerly
succeeded.
But
there
is
still
the
ruined
wall,
and
near
it
the
stealthy
tread
of
the
foe
that
would
win
over
again
his
unforgotten
triumph.
The
struggle,
if
there
were
one,
need
not
be
described.
Let
it
suffice
that
the
clergyman
resolved
to
flee,
and
not
alone.
"If
in
all
these
past
seven
years,"
thought
he,
"I
could
recall
one
instant
of
peace
or
hope,
I
would
yet
endure,
for
the
sake
of
that
earnest
of
Heaven's
mercy.
But
now--since
I
am
irrevocably
doomed--wherefore
should
I
not
snatch
the
solace
allowed
to
the
condemned
culprit
before
his
execution?
Or,
if
this
be
the
path
to
a
better
life,
as
Hester
would
persuade
me,
I
surely
give
up
no
fairer
prospect
by
pursuing
it!
Neither
can
I
any
longer
live
without
her
companionship;
so
powerful
is
she
to
sustain--so
tender
to
soothe!
O
Thou
to
whom
I
dare
not
lift
mine
eyes,
wilt
Thou
yet
pardon
me?"
"Thou
wilt
go!"
said
Hester
calmly,
as
he
met
her
glance.
The
decision
once
made,
a
glow
of
strange
enjoyment
threw
its
flickering
brightness
over
the
trouble
of
his
breast.
It
was
the
exhilarating
effect--upon
a
prisoner
just
escaped
from
the
dungeon
of
his
own
heart--of
breathing
the
wild,
free
atmosphere
of
an
unredeemed,
unchristianised,
lawless
region.
His
spirit
rose,
as
it
were,
with
a
bound,
and
attained
a
nearer
prospect
of
the
sky,
than
throughout
all
the
misery
which
had
kept
him
grovelling
on
the
earth.
Of
a
deeply
religious
temperament,
there
was
inevitably
a
tinge
of
the
devotional
in
his
mood.
"Do
I
feel
joy
again?"
cried
he,
wondering
at
himself.
"Methought
the
germ
of
it
was
dead
in
me!
Oh,
Hester,
thou
art
my
better
angel!
I
seem
to
have
flung
myself--sick,
sin-stained,
and
sorrow-blackened--down
upon
these
forest
leaves,
and
to
have
risen
up
all
made
anew,
and
with
new
powers
to
glorify
Him
that
hath
been
merciful!
This
is
already
the
better
life!
Why
did
we
not
find
it
sooner?"
"Let
us
not
look
back,"
answered
Hester
Prynne.
"The
past
is
gone!
Wherefore
should
we
linger
upon
it
now?
See!
With
this
symbol
I
undo
it
all,
and
make
it
as
if
it
had
never
been!"
So
speaking,
she
undid
the
clasp
that
fastened
the
scarlet
letter,
and,
taking
it
from
her
bosom,
threw
it
to
a
distance
among
the
withered
leaves.
The
mystic
token
alighted
on
the
hither
verge
of
the
stream.
With
a
hand's-breadth
further
flight,
it
would
have
fallen
into
the
water,
and
have
given
the
little
brook
another
woe
to
carry
onward,
besides
the
unintelligible
tale
which
it
still
kept
murmuring
about.
But
there
lay
the
embroidered
letter,
glittering
like
a
lost
jewel,
which
some
ill-fated
wanderer
might
pick
up,
and
thenceforth
be
haunted
by
strange
phantoms
of
guilt,
sinkings
of
the
heart,
and
unaccountable
misfortune.
The
stigma
gone,
Hester
heaved
a
long,
deep
sigh,
in
which
the
burden
of
shame
and
anguish
departed
from
her
spirit.
O
exquisite
relief!
She
had
not
known
the
weight
until
she
felt
the
freedom!
By
another
impulse,
she
took
off
the
formal
cap
that
confined
her
hair,
and
down
it
fell
upon
her
shoulders,
dark
and
rich,
with
at
once
a
shadow
and
a
light
in
its
abundance,
and
imparting
the
charm
of
softness
to
her
features.
There
played
around
her
mouth,
and
beamed
out
of
her
eyes,
a
radiant
and
tender
smile,
that
seemed
gushing
from
the
very
heart
of
womanhood.
A
crimson
flush
was
glowing
on
her
cheek,
that
had
been
long
so
pale.
Her
sex,
her
youth,
and
the
whole
richness
of
her
beauty,
came
back
from
what
men
call
the
irrevocable
past,
and
clustered
themselves
with
her
maiden
hope,
and
a
happiness
before
unknown,
within
the
magic
circle
of
this
hour.
And,
as
if
the
gloom
of
the
earth
and
sky
had
been
but
the
effluence
of
these
two
mortal
hearts,
it
vanished
with
their
sorrow.
All
at
once,
as
with
a
sudden
smile
of
heaven,
forth
burst
the
sunshine,
pouring
a
very
flood
into
the
obscure
forest,
gladdening
each
green
leaf,
transmuting
the
yellow
fallen
ones
to
gold,
and
gleaming
adown
the
gray
trunks
of
the
solemn
trees.
The
objects
that
had
made
a
shadow
hitherto,
embodied
the
brightness
now.
The
course
of
the
little
brook
might
be
traced
by
its
merry
gleam
afar
into
the
wood's
heart
of
mystery,
which
had
become
a
mystery
of
joy.
Such
was
the
sympathy
of
Nature--that
wild,
heathen
Nature
of
the
forest,
never
subjugated
by
human
law,
nor
illumined
by
higher
truth--with
the
bliss
of
these
two
spirits!
Love,
whether
newly-born,
or
aroused
from
a
death-like
slumber,
must
always
create
a
sunshine,
filling
the
heart
so
full
of
radiance,
that
it
overflows
upon
the
outward
world.
Had
the
forest
still
kept
its
gloom,
it
would
have
been
bright
in
Hester's
eyes,
and
bright
in
Arthur
Dimmesdale's!
Hester
looked
at
him
with
a
thrill
of
another
joy.
"Thou
must
know
Pearl!"
said
she.
"Our
little
Pearl!
Thou
hast
seen
her--yes,
I
know
it!--but
thou
wilt
see
her
now
with
other
eyes.
She
is
a
strange
child!
I
hardly
comprehend
her!
But
thou
wilt
love
her
dearly,
as
I
do,
and
wilt
advise
me
how
to
deal
with
her!"
"Dost
thou
think
the
child
will
be
glad
to
know
me?"
asked
the
minister,
somewhat
uneasily.
"I
have
long
shrunk
from
children,
because
they
often
show
a
distrust--a
backwardness
to
be
familiar
with
me.
I
have
even
been
afraid
of
little
Pearl!"
"Ah,
that
was
sad!"
answered
the
mother.
"But
she
will
love
thee
dearly,
and
thou
her.
She
is
not
far
off.
I
will
call
her.
Pearl!
Pearl!"
"I
see
the
child,"
observed
the
minister.
"Yonder
she
is,
standing
in
a
streak
of
sunshine,
a
good
way
off,
on
the
other
side
of
the
brook.
So
thou
thinkest
the
child
will
love
me?"
Hester
smiled,
and
again
called
to
Pearl,
who
was
visible
at
some
distance,
as
the
minister
had
described
her,
like
a
bright-apparelled
vision
in
a
sunbeam,
which
fell
down
upon
her
through
an
arch
of
boughs.
The
ray
quivered
to
and
fro,
making
her
figure
dim
or
distinct--now
like
a
real
child,
now
like
a
child's
spirit--as
the
splendour
went
and
came
again.
She
heard
her
mother's
voice,
and
approached
slowly
through
the
forest.
Pearl
had
not
found
the
hour
pass
wearisomely
while
her
mother
sat
talking
with
the
clergyman.
The
great
black
forest--stern
as
it
showed
itself
to
those
who
brought
the
guilt
and
troubles
of
the
world
into
its
bosom--became
the
playmate
of
the
lonely
infant,
as
well
as
it
knew
how.
Sombre
as
it
was,
it
put
on
the
kindest
of
its
moods
to
welcome
her.
It
offered
her
the
partridge-berries,
the
growth
of
the
preceding
autumn,
but
ripening
only
in
the
spring,
and
now
red
as
drops
of
blood
upon
the
withered
leaves.
These
Pearl
gathered,
and
was
pleased
with
their
wild
flavour.
The
small
denizens
of
the
wilderness
hardly
took
pains
to
move
out
of
her
path.
A
partridge,
indeed,
with
a
brood
of
ten
behind
her,
ran
forward
threateningly,
but
soon
repented
of
her
fierceness,
and
clucked
to
her
young
ones
not
to
be
afraid.
A
pigeon,
alone
on
a
low
branch,
allowed
Pearl
to
come
beneath,
and
uttered
a
sound
as
much
of
greeting
as
alarm.
A
squirrel,
from
the
lofty
depths
of
his
domestic
tree,
chattered
either
in
anger
or
merriment--for
the
squirrel
is
such
a
choleric
and
humorous
little
personage,
that
it
is
hard
to
distinguish
between
his
moods--so
he
chattered
at
the
child,
and
flung
down
a
nut
upon
her
head.
It
was
a
last
year's
nut,
and
already
gnawed
by
his
sharp
tooth.
A
fox,
startled
from
his
sleep
by
her
light
footstep
on
the
leaves,
looked
inquisitively
at
Pearl,
as
doubting
whether
it
were
better
to
steal
off,
or
renew
his
nap
on
the
same
spot.
A
wolf,
it
is
said--but
here
the
tale
has
surely
lapsed
into
the
improbable--came
up
and
smelt
of
Pearl's
robe,
and
offered
his
savage
head
to
be
patted
by
her
hand.
The
truth
seems
to
be,
however,
that
the
mother-forest,
and
these
wild
things
which
it
nourished,
all
recognised
a
kindred
wilderness
in
the
human
child.
And
she
was
gentler
here
than
in
the
grassy-margined
streets
of
the
settlement,
or
in
her
mother's
cottage.
The
Bowers
appeared
to
know
it,
and
one
and
another
whispered
as
she
passed,
"Adorn
thyself
with
me,
thou
beautiful
child,
adorn
thyself
with
me!"--and,
to
please
them,
Pearl
gathered
the
violets,
and
anemones,
and
columbines,
and
some
twigs
of
the
freshest
green,
which
the
old
trees
held
down
before
her
eyes.
With
these
she
decorated
her
hair
and
her
young
waist,
and
became
a
nymph
child,
or
an
infant
dryad,
or
whatever
else
was
in
closest
sympathy
with
the
antique
wood.
In
such
guise
had
Pearl
adorned
herself,
when
she
heard
her
mother's
voice,
and
came
slowly
back.
Slowly--for
she
saw
the
clergyman!
XIX.
THE
CHILD
AT
THE
BROOKSIDE
"Thou
wilt
love
her
dearly,"
repeated
Hester
Prynne,
as
she
and
the
minister
sat
watching
little
Pearl.
"Dost
thou
not
think
her
beautiful?
And
see
with
what
natural
skill
she
has
made
those
simple
flowers
adorn
her!
Had
she
gathered
pearls,
and
diamonds,
and
rubies
in
the
wood,
they
could
not
have
become
her
better!
She
is
a
splendid
child!
But
I
know
whose
brow
she
has!"
"Dost
thou
know,
Hester,"
said
Arthur
Dimmesdale,
with
an
unquiet
smile,
"that
this
dear
child,
tripping
about
always
at
thy
side,
hath
caused
me
many
an
alarm?
Methought--oh,
Hester,
what
a
thought
is
that,
and
how
terrible
to
dread
it!--that
my
own
features
were
partly
repeated
in
her
face,
and
so
strikingly
that
the
world
might
see
them!
But
she
is
mostly
thine!"
"No,
no!
Not
mostly!"
answered
the
mother,
with
a
tender
smile.
"A
little
longer,
and
thou
needest
not
to
be
afraid
to
trace
whose
child
she
is.
But
how
strangely
beautiful
she
looks
with
those
wild
flowers
in
her
hair!
It
is
as
if
one
of
the
fairies,
whom
we
left
in
dear
old
England,
had
decked
her
out
to
meet
us."
It
was
with
a
feeling
which
neither
of
them
had
ever
before
experienced,
that
they
sat
and
watched
Pearl's
slow
advance.
In
her
was
visible
the
tie
that
united
them.
She
had
been
offered
to
the
world,
these
seven
past
years,
as
the
living
hieroglyphic,
in
which
was
revealed
the
secret
they
so
darkly
sought
to
hide--all
written
in
this
symbol--all
plainly
manifest--had
there
been
a
prophet
or
magician
skilled
to
read
the
character
of
flame!
And
Pearl
was
the
oneness
of
their
being.
Be
the
foregone
evil
what
it
might,
how
could
they
doubt
that
their
earthly
lives
and
future
destinies
were
conjoined
when
they
beheld
at
once
the
material
union,
and
the
spiritual
idea,
in
whom
they
met,
and
were
to
dwell
immortally
together;
thoughts
like
these--and
perhaps
other
thoughts,
which
they
did
not
acknowledge
or
define--threw
an
awe
about
the
child
as
she
came
onward.
"Let
her
see
nothing
strange--no
passion
or
eagerness--in
thy
way
of
accosting
her,"
whispered
Hester.
"Our
Pearl
is
a
fitful
and
fantastic
little
elf
sometimes.
Especially
she
is
generally
intolerant
of
emotion,
when
she
does
not
fully
comprehend
the
why
and
wherefore.
But
the
child
hath
strong
affections!
She
loves
me,
and
will
love
thee!"
"Thou
canst
not
think,"
said
the
minister,
glancing
aside
at
Hester
Prynne,
"how
my
heart
dreads
this
interview,
and
yearns
for
it!
But,
in
truth,
as
I
already
told
thee,
children
are
not
readily
won
to
be
familiar
with
me.
They
will
not
climb
my
knee,
nor
prattle
in
my
ear,
nor
answer
to
my
smile,
but
stand
apart,
and
eye
me
strangely.
Even
little
babes,
when
I
take
them
in
my
arms,
weep
bitterly.
Yet
Pearl,
twice
in
her
little
lifetime,
hath
been
kind
to
me!
The
first
time--thou
knowest
it
well!
The
last
was
when
thou
ledst
her
with
thee
to
the
house
of
yonder
stern
old
Governor."
"And
thou
didst
plead
so
bravely
in
her
behalf
and
mine!"
answered
the
mother.
"I
remember
it;
and
so
shall
little
Pearl.
Fear
nothing.
She
may
be
strange
and
shy
at
first,
but
will
soon
learn
to
love
thee!"
By
this
time
Pearl
had
reached
the
margin
of
the
brook,
and
stood
on
the
further
side,
gazing
silently
at
Hester
and
the
clergyman,
who
still
sat
together
on
the
mossy
tree-trunk
waiting
to
receive
her.
Just
where
she
had
paused,
the
brook
chanced
to
form
a
pool
so
smooth
and
quiet
that
it
reflected
a
perfect
image
of
her
little
figure,
with
all
the
brilliant
picturesqueness
of
her
beauty,
in
its
adornment
of
flowers
and
wreathed
foliage,
but
more
refined
and
spiritualized
than
the
reality.
This
image,
so
nearly
identical
with
the
living
Pearl,
seemed
to
communicate
somewhat
of
its
own
shadowy
and
intangible
quality
to
the
child
herself.
It
was
strange,
the
way
in
which
Pearl
stood,
looking
so
steadfastly
at
them
through
the
dim
medium
of
the
forest
gloom,
herself,
meanwhile,
all
glorified
with
a
ray
of
sunshine,
that
was
attracted
thitherward
as
by
a
certain
sympathy.
In
the
brook
beneath
stood
another
child--another
and
the
same--with
likewise
its
ray
of
golden
light.
Hester
felt
herself,
in
some
indistinct
and
tantalizing
manner,
estranged
from
Pearl,
as
if
the
child,
in
her
lonely
ramble
through
the
forest,
had
strayed
out
of
the
sphere
in
which
she
and
her
mother
dwelt
together,
and
was
now
vainly
seeking
to
return
to
it.
There
were
both
truth
and
error
in
the
impression;
the
child
and
mother
were
estranged,
but
through
Hester's
fault,
not
Pearl's.
Since
the
latter
rambled
from
her
side,
another
inmate
had
been
admitted
within
the
circle
of
the
mother's
feelings,
and
so
modified
the
aspect
of
them
all,
that
Pearl,
the
returning
wanderer,
could
not
find
her
wonted
place,
and
hardly
knew
where
she
was.
"I
have
a
strange
fancy,"
observed
the
sensitive
minister,
"that
this
brook
is
the
boundary
between
two
worlds,
and
that
thou
canst
never
meet
thy
Pearl
again.
Or
is
she
an
elfish
spirit,
who,
as
the
legends
of
our
childhood
taught
us,
is
forbidden
to
cross
a
running
stream?
Pray
hasten
her,
for
this
delay
has
already
imparted
a
tremor
to
my
nerves."
"Come,
dearest
child!"
said
Hester
encouragingly,
and
stretching
out
both
her
arms.
"How
slow
thou
art!
When
hast
thou
been
so
sluggish
before
now?
Here
is
a
friend
of
mine,
who
must
be
thy
friend
also.
Thou
wilt
have
twice
as
much
love
henceforward
as
thy
mother
alone
could
give
thee!
Leap
across
the
brook
and
come
to
us.
Thou
canst
leap
like
a
young
deer!"
Pearl,
without
responding
in
any
manner
to
these
honey-sweet
expressions,
remained
on
the
other
side
of
the
brook.
Now
she
fixed
her
bright
wild
eyes
on
her
mother,
now
on
the
minister,
and
now
included
them
both
in
the
same
glance,
as
if
to
detect
and
explain
to
herself
the
relation
which
they
bore
to
one
another.
For
some
unaccountable
reason,
as
Arthur
Dimmesdale
felt
the
child's
eyes
upon
himself,
his
hand--with
that
gesture
so
habitual
as
to
have
become
involuntary--stole
over
his
heart.
At
length,
assuming
a
singular
air
of
authority,
Pearl
stretched
out
her
hand,
with
the
small
forefinger
extended,
and
pointing
evidently
towards
her
mother's
breast.
And
beneath,
in
the
mirror
of
the
brook,
there
was
the
flower-girdled
and
sunny
image
of
little
Pearl,
pointing
her
small
forefinger
too.
"Thou
strange
child!
why
dost
thou
not
come
to
me?"
exclaimed
Hester.
Pearl
still
pointed
with
her
forefinger,
and
a
frown
gathered
on
her
brow--the
more
impressive
from
the
childish,
the
almost
baby-like
aspect
of
the
features
that
conveyed
it.
As
her
mother
still
kept
beckoning
to
her,
and
arraying
her
face
in
a
holiday
suit
of
unaccustomed
smiles,
the
child
stamped
her
foot
with
a
yet
more
imperious
look
and
gesture.
In
the
brook,
again,
was
the
fantastic
beauty
of
the
image,
with
its
reflected
frown,
its
pointed
finger,
and
imperious
gesture,
giving
emphasis
to
the
aspect
of
little
Pearl.
"Hasten,
Pearl,
or
I
shall
be
angry
with
thee!"
cried
Hester
Prynne,
who,
however,
inured
to
such
behaviour
on
the
elf-child's
part
at
other
seasons,
was
naturally
anxious
for
a
more
seemly
deportment
now.
"Leap
across
the
brook,
naughty
child,
and
run
hither!
Else
I
must
come
to
thee!"
But
Pearl,
not
a
whit
startled
at
her
mother's
threats
any
more
than
mollified
by
her
entreaties,
now
suddenly
burst
into
a
fit
of
passion,
gesticulating
violently,
and
throwing
her
small
figure
into
the
most
extravagant
contortions.
She
accompanied
this
wild
outbreak
with
piercing
shrieks,
which
the
woods
reverberated
on
all
sides,
so
that,
alone
as
she
was
in
her
childish
and
unreasonable
wrath,
it
seemed
as
if
a
hidden
multitude
were
lending
her
their
sympathy
and
encouragement.
Seen
in
the
brook
once
more
was
the
shadowy
wrath
of
Pearl's
image,
crowned
and
girdled
with
flowers,
but
stamping
its
foot,
wildly
gesticulating,
and,
in
the
midst
of
all,
still
pointing
its
small
forefinger
at
Hester's
bosom.
"I
see
what
ails
the
child,"
whispered
Hester
to
the
clergyman,
and
turning
pale
in
spite
of
a
strong
effort
to
conceal
her
trouble
and
annoyance,
"Children
will
not
abide
any,
the
slightest,
change
in
the
accustomed
aspect
of
things
that
are
daily
before
their
eyes.
Pearl
misses
something
that
she
has
always
seen
me
wear!"
"I
pray
you,"
answered
the
minister,
"if
thou
hast
any
means
of
pacifying
the
child,
do
it
forthwith!
Save
it
were
the
cankered
wrath
of
an
old
witch
like
Mistress
Hibbins,"
added
he,
attempting
to
smile,
"I
know
nothing
that
I
would
not
sooner
encounter
than
this
passion
in
a
child.
In
Pearl's
young
beauty,
as
in
the
wrinkled
witch,
it
has
a
preternatural
effect.
Pacify
her
if
thou
lovest
me!"
Hester
turned
again
towards
Pearl
with
a
crimson
blush
upon
her
cheek,
a
conscious
glance
aside
clergyman,
and
then
a
heavy
sigh,
while,
even
before
she
had
time
to
speak,
the
blush
yielded
to
a
deadly
pallor.
"Pearl,"
said
she
sadly,
"look
down
at
thy
feet!
There!--before
thee!--on
the
hither
side
of
the
brook!"
The
child
turned
her
eyes
to
the
point
indicated,
and
there
lay
the
scarlet
letter
so
close
upon
the
margin
of
the
stream
that
the
gold
embroidery
was
reflected
in
it.
"Bring
it
hither!"
said
Hester.
"Come
thou
and
take
it
up!"
answered
Pearl.
"Was
ever
such
a
child!"
observed
Hester
aside
to
the
minister.
"Oh,
I
have
much
to
tell
thee
about
her!
But,
in
very
truth,
she
is
right
as
regards
this
hateful
token.
I
must
bear
its
torture
yet
a
little
longer--only
a
few
days
longer--until
we
shall
have
left
this
region,
and
look
back
hither
as
to
a
land
which
we
have
dreamed
of.
The
forest
cannot
hide
it!
The
mid-ocean
shall
take
it
from
my
hand,
and
swallow
it
up
for
ever!"
With
these
words
she
advanced
to
the
margin
of
the
brook,
took
up
the
scarlet
letter,
and
fastened
it
again
into
her
bosom.
Hopefully,
but
a
moment
ago,
as
Hester
had
spoken
of
drowning
it
in
the
deep
sea,
there
was
a
sense
of
inevitable
doom
upon
her
as
she
thus
received
back
this
deadly
symbol
from
the
hand
of
fate.
She
had
flung
it
into
infinite
space!
she
had
drawn
an
hour's
free
breath!
and
here
again
was
the
scarlet
misery
glittering
on
the
old
spot!
So
it
ever
is,
whether
thus
typified
or
no,
that
an
evil
deed
invests
itself
with
the
character
of
doom.
Hester
next
gathered
up
the
heavy
tresses
of
her
hair
and
confined
them
beneath
her
cap.
As
if
there
were
a
withering
spell
in
the
sad
letter,
her
beauty,
the
warmth
and
richness
of
her
womanhood,
departed
like
fading
sunshine,
and
a
gray
shadow
seemed
to
fall
across
her.
When
the
dreary
change
was
wrought,
she
extended
her
hand
to
Pearl.
"Dost
thou
know
thy
mother
now,
child?",
asked
she,
reproachfully,
but
with
a
subdued
tone.
"Wilt
thou
come
across
the
brook,
and
own
thy
mother,
now
that
she
has
her
shame
upon
her--now
that
she
is
sad?"
"Yes;
now
I
will!"
answered
the
child,
bounding
across
the
brook,
and
clasping
Hester
in
her
arms
"Now
thou
art
my
mother
indeed!
and
I
am
thy
little
Pearl!"
In
a
mood
of
tenderness
that
was
not
usual
with
her,
she
drew
down
her
mother's
head,
and
kissed
her
brow
and
both
her
cheeks.
But
then--by
a
kind
of
necessity
that
always
impelled
this
child
to
alloy
whatever
comfort
she
might
chance
to
give
with
a
throb
of
anguish--Pearl
put
up
her
mouth
and
kissed
the
scarlet
letter,
too.
"That
was
not
kind!"
said
Hester.
"When
thou
hast
shown
me
a
little
love,
thou
mockest
me!"
"Why
doth
the
minister
sit
yonder?"
asked
Pearl.
"He
waits
to
welcome
thee,"
replied
her
mother.
"Come
thou,
and
entreat
his
blessing!
He
loves
thee,
my
little
Pearl,
and
loves
thy
mother,
too.
Wilt
thou
not
love
him?
Come
he
longs
to
greet
thee!"
"Doth
he
love
us?"
said
Pearl,
looking
up
with
acute
intelligence
into
her
mother's
face.
"Will
he
go
back
with
us,
hand
in
hand,
we
three
together,
into
the
town?"
"Not
now,
my
child,"
answered
Hester.
"But
in
days
to
come
he
will
walk
hand
in
hand
with
us.
We
will
have
a
home
and
fireside
of
our
own;
and
thou
shalt
sit
upon
his
knee;
and
he
will
teach
thee
many
things,
and
love
thee
dearly.
Thou
wilt
love
him--wilt
thou
not?"
"And
will
he
always
keep
his
hand
over
his
heart?"
inquired
Pearl.
"Foolish
child,
what
a
question
is
that!"
exclaimed
her
mother.
"Come,
and
ask
his
blessing!"
But,
whether
influenced
by
the
jealousy
that
seems
instinctive
with
every
petted
child
towards
a
dangerous
rival,
or
from
whatever
caprice
of
her
freakish
nature,
Pearl
would
show
no
favour
to
the
clergyman.
It
was
only
by
an
exertion
of
force
that
her
mother
brought
her
up
to
him,
hanging
back,
and
manifesting
her
reluctance
by
odd
grimaces;
of
which,
ever
since
her
babyhood,
she
had
possessed
a
singular
variety,
and
could
transform
her
mobile
physiognomy
into
a
series
of
different
aspects,
with
a
new
mischief
in
them,
each
and
all.
The
minister--painfully
embarrassed,
but
hoping
that
a
kiss
might
prove
a
talisman
to
admit
him
into
the
child's
kindlier
regards--bent
forward,
and
impressed
one
on
her
brow.
Hereupon,
Pearl
broke
away
from
her
mother,
and,
running
to
the
brook,
stooped
over
it,
and
bathed
her
forehead,
until
the
unwelcome
kiss
was
quite
washed
off
and
diffused
through
a
long
lapse
of
the
gliding
water.
She
then
remained
apart,
silently
watching
Hester
and
the
clergyman;
while
they
talked
together
and
made
such
arrangements
as
were
suggested
by
their
new
position
and
the
purposes
soon
to
be
fulfilled.
And
now
this
fateful
interview
had
come
to
a
close.
The
dell
was
to
be
left
in
solitude
among
its
dark,
old
trees,
which,
with
their
multitudinous
tongues,
would
whisper
long
of
what
had
passed
there,
and
no
mortal
be
the
wiser.
And
the
melancholy
brook
would
add
this
other
tale
to
the
mystery
with
which
its
little
heart
was
already
overburdened,
and
whereof
it
still
kept
up
a
murmuring
babble,
with
not
a
whit
more
cheerfulness
of
tone
than
for
ages
heretofore.
XX.
THE
MINISTER
IN
A
MAZE
As
the
minister
departed,
in
advance
of
Hester
Prynne
and
little
Pearl,
he
threw
a
backward
glance,
half
expecting
that
he
should
discover
only
some
faintly
traced
features
or
outline
of
the
mother
and
the
child,
slowly
fading
into
the
twilight
of
the
woods.
So
great
a
vicissitude
in
his
life
could
not
at
once
be
received
as
real.
But
there
was
Hester,
clad
in
her
gray
robe,
still
standing
beside
the
tree-trunk,
which
some
blast
had
overthrown
a
long
antiquity
ago,
and
which
time
had
ever
since
been
covering
with
moss,
so
that
these
two
fated
ones,
with
earth's
heaviest
burden
on
them,
might
there
sit
down
together,
and
find
a
single
hour's
rest
and
solace.
And
there
was
Pearl,
too,
lightly
dancing
from
the
margin
of
the
brook--now
that
the
intrusive
third
person
was
gone--and
taking
her
old
place
by
her
mother's
side.
So
the
minister
had
not
fallen
asleep
and
dreamed!
In
order
to
free
his
mind
from
this
indistinctness
and
duplicity
of
impression,
which
vexed
it
with
a
strange
disquietude,
he
recalled
and
more
thoroughly
defined
the
plans
which
Hester
and
himself
had
sketched
for
their
departure.
It
had
been
determined
between
them
that
the
Old
World,
with
its
crowds
and
cities,
offered
them
a
more
eligible
shelter
and
concealment
than
the
wilds
of
New
England
or
all
America,
with
its
alternatives
of
an
Indian
wigwam,
or
the
few
settlements
of
Europeans
scattered
thinly
along
the
sea-board.
Not
to
speak
of
the
clergyman's
health,
so
inadequate
to
sustain
the
hardships
of
a
forest
life,
his
native
gifts,
his
culture,
and
his
entire
development
would
secure
him
a
home
only
in
the
midst
of
civilization
and
refinement;
the
higher
the
state
the
more
delicately
adapted
to
it
the
man.
In
furtherance
of
this
choice,
it
so
happened
that
a
ship
lay
in
the
harbour;
one
of
those
unquestionable
cruisers,
frequent
at
that
day,
which,
without
being
absolutely
outlaws
of
the
deep,
yet
roamed
over
its
surface
with
a
remarkable
irresponsibility
of
character.
This
vessel
had
recently
arrived
from
the
Spanish
Main,
and
within
three
days'
time
would
sail
for
Bristol.
Hester
Prynne--whose
vocation,
as
a
self-enlisted
Sister
of
Charity,
had
brought
her
acquainted
with
the
captain
and
crew--could
take
upon
herself
to
secure
the
passage
of
two
individuals
and
a
child
with
all
the
secrecy
which
circumstances
rendered
more
than
desirable.
The
minister
had
inquired
of
Hester,
with
no
little
interest,
the
precise
time
at
which
the
vessel
might
be
expected
to
depart.
It
would
probably
be
on
the
fourth
day
from
the
present.
"This
is
most
fortunate!"
he
had
then
said
to
himself.
Now,
why
the
Reverend
Mr.
Dimmesdale
considered
it
so
very
fortunate
we
hesitate
to
reveal.
Nevertheless--to
hold
nothing
back
from
the
reader--it
was
because,
on
the
third
day
from
the
present,
he
was
to
preach
the
Election
Sermon;
and,
as
such
an
occasion
formed
an
honourable
epoch
in
the
life
of
a
New
England
Clergyman,
he
could
not
have
chanced
upon
a
more
suitable
mode
and
time
of
terminating
his
professional
career.
"At
least,
they
shall
say
of
me,"
thought
this
exemplary
man,
"that
I
leave
no
public
duty
unperformed
or
ill-performed!"
Sad,
indeed,
that
an
introspection
so
profound
and
acute
as
this
poor
minister's
should
be
so
miserably
deceived!
We
have
had,
and
may
still
have,
worse
things
to
tell
of
him;
but
none,
we
apprehend,
so
pitiably
weak;
no
evidence,
at
once
so
slight
and
irrefragable,
of
a
subtle
disease
that
had
long
since
begun
to
eat
into
the
real
substance
of
his
character.
No
man,
for
any
considerable
period,
can
wear
one
face
to
himself
and
another
to
the
multitude,
without
finally
getting
bewildered
as
to
which
may
be
the
true.
The
excitement
of
Mr.
Dimmesdale's
feelings
as
he
returned
from
his
interview
with
Hester,
lent
him
unaccustomed
physical
energy,
and
hurried
him
townward
at
a
rapid
pace.
The
pathway
among
the
woods
seemed
wilder,
more
uncouth
with
its
rude
natural
obstacles,
and
less
trodden
by
the
foot
of
man,
than
he
remembered
it
on
his
outward
journey.
But
he
leaped
across
the
plashy
places,
thrust
himself
through
the
clinging
underbrush,
climbed
the
ascent,
plunged
into
the
hollow,
and
overcame,
in
short,
all
the
difficulties
of
the
track,
with
an
unweariable
activity
that
astonished
him.
He
could
not
but
recall
how
feebly,
and
with
what
frequent
pauses
for
breath
he
had
toiled
over
the
same
ground,
only
two
days
before.
As
he
drew
near
the
town,
he
took
an
impression
of
change
from
the
series
of
familiar
objects
that
presented
themselves.
It
seemed
not
yesterday,
not
one,
not
two,
but
many
days,
or
even
years
ago,
since
he
had
quitted
them.
There,
indeed,
was
each
former
trace
of
the
street,
as
he
remembered
it,
and
all
the
peculiarities
of
the
houses,
with
the
due
multitude
of
gable-peaks,
and
a
weather-cock
at
every
point
where
his
memory
suggested
one.
Not
the
less,
however,
came
this
importunately
obtrusive
sense
of
change.
The
same
was
true
as
regarded
the
acquaintances
whom
he
met,
and
all
the
well-known
shapes
of
human
life,
about
the
little
town.
They
looked
neither
older
nor
younger
now;
the
beards
of
the
aged
were
no
whiter,
nor
could
the
creeping
babe
of
yesterday
walk
on
his
feet
to-day;
it
was
impossible
to
describe
in
what
respect
they
differed
from
the
individuals
on
whom
he
had
so
recently
bestowed
a
parting
glance;
and
yet
the
minister's
deepest
sense
seemed
to
inform
him
of
their
mutability.
A
similar
impression
struck
him
most
remarkably
as
he
passed
under
the
walls
of
his
own
church.
The
edifice
had
so
very
strange,
and
yet
so
familiar
an
aspect,
that
Mr.
Dimmesdale's
mind
vibrated
between
two
ideas;
either
that
he
had
seen
it
only
in
a
dream
hitherto,
or
that
he
was
merely
dreaming
about
it
now.
This
phenomenon,
in
the
various
shapes
which
it
assumed,
indicated
no
external
change,
but
so
sudden
and
important
a
change
in
the
spectator
of
the
familiar
scene,
that
the
intervening
space
of
a
single
day
had
operated
on
his
consciousness
like
the
lapse
of
years.
The
minister's
own
will,
and
Hester's
will,
and
the
fate
that
grew
between
them,
had
wrought
this
transformation.
It
was
the
same
town
as
heretofore,
but
the
same
minister
returned
not
from
the
forest.
He
might
have
said
to
the
friends
who
greeted
him--"I
am
not
the
man
for
whom
you
take
me!
I
left
him
yonder
in
the
forest,
withdrawn
into
a
secret
dell,
by
a
mossy
tree
trunk,
and
near
a
melancholy
brook!
Go,
seek
your
minister,
and
see
if
his
emaciated
figure,
his
thin
cheek,
his
white,
heavy,
pain-wrinkled
brow,
be
not
flung
down
there,
like
a
cast-off
garment!"
His
friends,
no
doubt,
would
still
have
insisted
with
him--"Thou
art
thyself
the
man!"
but
the
error
would
have
been
their
own,
not
his.
Before
Mr.
Dimmesdale
reached
home,
his
inner
man
gave
him
other
evidences
of
a
revolution
in
the
sphere
of
thought
and
feeling.
In
truth,
nothing
short
of
a
total
change
of
dynasty
and
moral
code,
in
that
interior
kingdom,
was
adequate
to
account
for
the
impulses
now
communicated
to
the
unfortunate
and
startled
minister.
At
every
step
he
was
incited
to
do
some
strange,
wild,
wicked
thing
or
other,
with
a
sense
that
it
would
be
at
once
involuntary
and
intentional,
in
spite
of
himself,
yet
growing
out
of
a
profounder
self
than
that
which
opposed
the
impulse.
For
instance,
he
met
one
of
his
own
deacons.
The
good
old
man
addressed
him
with
the
paternal
affection
and
patriarchal
privilege
which
his
venerable
age,
his
upright
and
holy
character,
and
his
station
in
the
church,
entitled
him
to
use
and,
conjoined
with
this,
the
deep,
almost
worshipping
respect,
which
the
minister's
professional
and
private
claims
alike
demanded.
Never
was
there
a
more
beautiful
example
of
how
the
majesty
of
age
and
wisdom
may
comport
with
the
obeisance
and
respect
enjoined
upon
it,
as
from
a
lower
social
rank,
and
inferior
order
of
endowment,
towards
a
higher.
Now,
during
a
conversation
of
some
two
or
three
moments
between
the
Reverend
Mr.
Dimmesdale
and
this
excellent
and
hoary-bearded
deacon,
it
was
only
by
the
most
careful
self-control
that
the
former
could
refrain
from
uttering
certain
blasphemous
suggestions
that
rose
into
his
mind,
respecting
the
communion-supper.
He
absolutely
trembled
and
turned
pale
as
ashes,
lest
his
tongue
should
wag
itself
in
utterance
of
these
horrible
matters,
and
plead
his
own
consent
for
so
doing,
without
his
having
fairly
given
it.
And,
even
with
this
terror
in
his
heart,
he
could
hardly
avoid
laughing,
to
imagine
how
the
sanctified
old
patriarchal
deacon
would
have
been
petrified
by
his
minister's
impiety.
Again,
another
incident
of
the
same
nature.
Hurrying
along
the
street,
the
Reverend
Mr.
Dimmesdale
encountered
the
eldest
female
member
of
his
church,
a
most
pious
and
exemplary
old
dame,
poor,
widowed,
lonely,
and
with
a
heart
as
full
of
reminiscences
about
her
dead
husband
and
children,
and
her
dead
friends
of
long
ago,
as
a
burial-ground
is
full
of
storied
gravestones.
Yet
all
this,
which
would
else
have
been
such
heavy
sorrow,
was
made
almost
a
solemn
joy
to
her
devout
old
soul,
by
religious
consolations
and
the
truths
of
Scripture,
wherewith
she
had
fed
herself
continually
for
more
than
thirty
years.
And
since
Mr.
Dimmesdale
had
taken
her
in
charge,
the
good
grandam's
chief
earthly
comfort--which,
unless
it
had
been
likewise
a
heavenly
comfort,
could
have
been
none
at
all--was
to
meet
her
pastor,
whether
casually,
or
of
set
purpose,
and
be
refreshed
with
a
word
of
warm,
fragrant,
heaven-breathing
Gospel
truth,
from
his
beloved
lips,
into
her
dulled,
but
rapturously
attentive
ear.
But,
on
this
occasion,
up
to
the
moment
of
putting
his
lips
to
the
old
woman's
ear,
Mr.
Dimmesdale,
as
the
great
enemy
of
souls
would
have
it,
could
recall
no
text
of
Scripture,
nor
aught
else,
except
a
brief,
pithy,
and,
as
it
then
appeared
to
him,
unanswerable
argument
against
the
immortality
of
the
human
soul.
The
instilment
thereof
into
her
mind
would
probably
have
caused
this
aged
sister
to
drop
down
dead,
at
once,
as
by
the
effect
of
an
intensely
poisonous
infusion.
What
he
really
did
whisper,
the
minister
could
never
afterwards
recollect.
There
was,
perhaps,
a
fortunate
disorder
in
his
utterance,
which
failed
to
impart
any
distinct
idea
to
the
good
widows
comprehension,
or
which
Providence
interpreted
after
a
method
of
its
own.
Assuredly,
as
the
minister
looked
back,
he
beheld
an
expression
of
divine
gratitude
and
ecstasy
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
hands
with
the
tarry
black-guard,
and
recreate
himself
with
a
few
improper
jests,
such
as
dissolute
sailors
so
abound
with,
and
a
volley
of
good,
round,
solid,
satisfactory,
and
heaven-defying
oaths!
It
was
not
so
much
a
better
principle,
as
partly
his
natural
good
taste,
and
still
more
his
buckramed
habit
of
clerical
decorum,
that
carried
him
safely
through
the
latter
crisis.
"What
is
it
that
haunts
and
tempts
me
thus?"
cried
the
minister
to
himself,
at
length,
pausing
in
the
street,
and
striking
his
hand
against
his
forehead.
"Am
I
mad?
or
am
I
given
over
utterly
to
the
fiend?
Did
I
make
a
contract
with
him
in
the
forest,
and
sign
it
with
my
blood?
And
does
he
now
summon
me
to
its
fulfilment,
by
suggesting
the
performance
of
every
wickedness
which
his
most
foul
imagination
can
conceive?"
At
the
moment
when
the
Reverend
Mr.
Dimmesdale
thus
communed
with
himself,
and
struck
his
forehead
with
his
hand,
old
Mistress
Hibbins,
the
reputed
witch-lady,
is
said
to
have
been
passing
by.
She
made
a
very
grand
appearance,
having
on
a
high
head-dress,
a
rich
gown
of
velvet,
and
a
ruff
done
up
with
the
famous
yellow
starch,
of
which
Anne
Turner,
her
especial
friend,
had
taught
her
the
secret,
before
this
last
good
lady
had
been
hanged
for
Sir
Thomas
Overbury's
murder.
Whether
the
witch
had
read
the
minister's
thoughts
or
no,
she
came
to
a
full
stop,
looked
shrewdly
into
his
face,
smiled
craftily,
and--though
little
given
to
converse
with
clergymen--began
a
conversation.
"So,
reverend
sir,
you
have
made
a
visit
into
the
forest,"
observed
the
witch-lady,
nodding
her
high
head-dress
at
him.
"The
next
time
I
pray
you
to
allow
me
only
a
fair
warning,
and
I
shall
be
proud
to
bear
you
company.
Without
taking
overmuch
upon
myself
my
good
word
will
go
far
towards
gaining
any
strange
gentleman
a
fair
reception
from
yonder
potentate
you
wot
of."
"I
profess,
madam,"
answered
the
clergyman,
with
a
grave
obeisance,
such
as
the
lady's
rank
demanded,
and
his
own
good
breeding
made
imperative--"I
profess,
on
my
conscience
and
character,
that
I
am
utterly
bewildered
as
touching
the
purport
of
your
words!
I
went
not
into
the
forest
to
seek
a
potentate,
neither
do
I,
at
any
future
time,
design
a
visit
thither,
with
a
view
to
gaining
the
favour
of
such
personage.
My
one
sufficient
object
was
to
greet
that
pious
friend
of
mine,
the
Apostle
Eliot,
and
rejoice
with
him
over
the
many
precious
souls
he
hath
won
from
heathendom!"
"Ha,
ha,
ha!"
cackled
the
old
witch-lady,
still
nodding
her
high
head-dress
at
the
minister.
"Well,
well!
we
must
needs
talk
thus
in
the
daytime!
You
carry
it
off
like
an
old
hand!
But
at
midnight,
and
in
the
forest,
we
shall
have
other
talk
together!"
She
passed
on
with
her
aged
stateliness,
but
often
turning
back
her
head
and
smiling
at
him,
like
one
willing
to
recognise
a
secret
intimacy
of
connexion.
"Have
I
then
sold
myself,"
thought
the
minister,
"to
the
fiend
whom,
if
men
say
true,
this
yellow-starched
and
velveted
old
hag
has
chosen
for
her
prince
and
master?"
The
wretched
minister!
He
had
made
a
bargain
very
like
it!
Tempted
by
a
dream
of
happiness,
he
had
yielded
himself
with
deliberate
choice,
as
he
had
never
done
before,
to
what
he
knew
was
deadly
sin.
And
the
infectious
poison
of
that
sin
had
been
thus
rapidly
diffused
throughout
his
moral
system.
It
had
stupefied
all
blessed
impulses,
and
awakened
into
vivid
life
the
whole
brotherhood
of
bad
ones.
Scorn,
bitterness,
unprovoked
malignity,
gratuitous
desire
of
ill,
ridicule
of
whatever
was
good
and
holy,
all
awoke
to
tempt,
even
while
they
frightened
him.
And
his
encounter
with
old
Mistress
Hibbins,
if
it
were
a
real
incident,
did
but
show
its
sympathy
and
fellowship
with
wicked
mortals,
and
the
world
of
perverted
spirits.
He
had
by
this
time
reached
his
dwelling
on
the
edge
of
the
burial
ground,
and,
hastening
up
the
stairs,
took
refuge
in
his
study.
The
minister
was
glad
to
have
reached
this
shelter,
without
first
betraying
himself
to
the
world
by
any
of
those
strange
and
wicked
eccentricities
to
which
he
had
been
continually
impelled
while
passing
through
the
streets.
He
entered
the
accustomed
room,
and
looked
around
him
on
its
books,
its
windows,
its
fireplace,
and
the
tapestried
comfort
of
the
walls,
with
the
same
perception
of
strangeness
that
had
haunted
him
throughout
his
walk
from
the
forest
dell
into
the
town
and
thitherward.
Here
he
had
studied
and
written;
here
gone
through
fast
and
vigil,
and
come
forth
half
alive;
here
striven
to
pray;
here
borne
a
hundred
thousand
agonies!
There
was
the
Bible,
in
its
rich
old
Hebrew,
with
Moses
and
the
Prophets
speaking
to
him,
and
God's
voice
through
all.
There
on
the
table,
with
the
inky
pen
beside
it,
was
an
unfinished
sermon,
with
a
sentence
broken
in
the
midst,
where
his
thoughts
had
ceased
to
gush
out
upon
the
page
two
days
before.
He
knew
that
it
was
himself,
the
thin
and
white-cheeked
minister,
who
had
done
and
suffered
these
things,
and
written
thus
far
into
the
Election
Sermon!
But
he
seemed
to
stand
apart,
and
eye
this
former
self
with
scornful
pitying,
but
half-envious
curiosity.
That
self
was
gone.
Another
man
had
returned
out
of
the
forest--a
wiser
one--with
a
knowledge
of
hidden
mysteries
which
the
simplicity
of
the
former
never
could
have
reached.
A
bitter
kind
of
knowledge
that!
While
occupied
with
these
reflections,
a
knock
came
at
the
door
of
the
study,
and
the
minister
said,
"Come
in!"--not
wholly
devoid
of
an
idea
that
he
might
behold
an
evil
spirit.
And
so
he
did!
It
was
old
Roger
Chillingworth
that
entered.
The
minister
stood
white
and
speechless,
with
one
hand
on
the
Hebrew
Scriptures,
and
the
other
spread
upon
his
breast.
"Welcome
home,
reverend
sir,"
said
the
physician
"And
how
found
you
that
godly
man,
the
Apostle
Eliot?
But
methinks,
dear
sir,
you
look
pale,
as
if
the
travel
through
the
wilderness
had
been
too
sore
for
you.
Will
not
my
aid
be
requisite
to
put
you
in
heart
and
strength
to
preach
your
Election
Sermon?"
"Nay,
I
think
not
so,"
rejoined
the
Reverend
Mr.
Dimmesdale.
"My
journey,
and
the
sight
of
the
holy
Apostle
yonder,
and
the
free
air
which
I
have
breathed
have
done
me
good,
after
so
long
confinement
in
my
study.
I
think
to
need
no
more
of
your
drugs,
my
kind
physician,
good
though
they
be,
and
administered
by
a
friendly
hand."
All
this
time
Roger
Chillingworth
was
looking
at
the
minister
with
the
grave
and
intent
regard
of
a
physician
towards
his
patient.
But,
in
spite
of
this
outward
show,
the
latter
was
almost
convinced
of
the
old
man's
knowledge,
or,
at
least,
his
confident
suspicion,
with
respect
to
his
own
interview
with
Hester
Prynne.
The
physician
knew
then
that
in
the
minister's
regard
he
was
no
longer
a
trusted
friend,
but
his
bitterest
enemy.
So
much
being
known,
it
would
appear
natural
that
a
part
of
it
should
be
expressed.
It
is
singular,
however,
how
long
a
time
often
passes
before
words
embody
things;
and
with
what
security
two
persons,
who
choose
to
avoid
a
certain
subject,
may
approach
its
very
verge,
and
retire
without
disturbing
it.
Thus
the
minister
felt
no
apprehension
that
Roger
Chillingworth
would
touch,
in
express
words,
upon
the
real
position
which
they
sustained
towards
one
another.
Yet
did
the
physician,
in
his
dark
way,
creep
frightfully
near
the
secret.
"Were
it
not
better,"
said
he,
"that
you
use
my
poor
skill
tonight?
Verily,
dear
sir,
we
must
take
pains
to
make
you
strong
and
vigorous
for
this
occasion
of
the
Election
discourse.
The
people
look
for
great
things
from
you,
apprehending
that
another
year
may
come
about
and
find
their
pastor
gone."
"Yes,
to
another
world,"
replied
the
minister
with
pious
resignation.
"Heaven
grant
it
be
a
better
one;
for,
in
good
sooth,
I
hardly
think
to
tarry
with
my
flock
through
the
flitting
seasons
of
another
year!
But
touching
your
medicine,
kind
sir,
in
my
present
frame
of
body
I
need
it
not."
"I
joy
to
hear
it,"
answered
the
physician.
"It
may
be
that
my
remedies,
so
long
administered
in
vain,
begin
now
to
take
due
effect.
Happy
man
were
I,
and
well
deserving
of
New
England's
gratitude,
could
I
achieve
this
cure!"
"I
thank
you
from
my
heart,
most
watchful
friend,"
said
the
Reverend
Mr.
Dimmesdale
with
a
solemn
smile.
"I
thank
you,
and
can
but
requite
your
good
deeds
with
my
prayers."
"A
good
man's
prayers
are
golden
recompense!"
rejoined
old
Roger
Chillingworth,
as
he
took
his
leave.
"Yea,
they
are
the
current
gold
coin
of
the
New
Jerusalem,
with
the
King's
own
mint
mark
on
them!"
Left
alone,
the
minister
summoned
a
servant
of
the
house,
and
requested
food,
which,
being
set
before
him,
he
ate
with
ravenous
appetite.
Then
flinging
the
already
written
pages
of
the
Election
Sermon
into
the
fire,
he
forthwith
began
another,
which
he
wrote
with
such
an
impulsive
flow
of
thought
and
emotion,
that
he
fancied
himself
inspired;
and
only
wondered
that
Heaven
should
see
fit
to
transmit
the
grand
and
solemn
music
of
its
oracles
through
so
foul
an
organ
pipe
as
he.
However,
leaving
that
mystery
to
solve
itself,
or
go
unsolved
for
ever,
he
drove
his
task
onward
with
earnest
haste
and
ecstasy.
Thus
the
night
fled
away,
as
if
it
were
a
winged
steed,
and
he
careering
on
it;
morning
came,
and
peeped,
blushing,
through
the
curtains;
and
at
last
sunrise
threw
a
golden
beam
into
the
study,
and
laid
it
right
across
the
minister's
bedazzled
eyes.
There
he
was,
with
the
pen
still
between
his
fingers,
and
a
vast,
immeasurable
tract
of
written
space
behind
him!
XXI.
THE
NEW
ENGLAND
HOLIDAY
Betimes
in
the
morning
of
the
day
on
which
the
new
Governor
was
to
receive
his
office
at
the
hands
of
the
people,
Hester
Prynne
and
little
Pearl
came
into
the
market-place.
It
was
already
thronged
with
the
craftsmen
and
other
plebeian
inhabitants
of
the
town,
in
considerable
numbers,
among
whom,
likewise,
were
many
rough
figures,
whose
attire
of
deer-skins
marked
them
as
belonging
to
some
of
the
forest
settlements,
which
surrounded
the
little
metropolis
of
the
colony.
On
this
public
holiday,
as
on
all
other
occasions
for
seven
years
past,
Hester
was
clad
in
a
garment
of
coarse
gray
cloth.
Not
more
by
its
hue
than
by
some
indescribable
peculiarity
in
its
fashion,
it
had
the
effect
of
making
her
fade
personally
out
of
sight
and
outline;
while
again
the
scarlet
letter
brought
her
back
from
this
twilight
indistinctness,
and
revealed
her
under
the
moral
aspect
of
its
own
illumination.
Her
face,
so
long
familiar
to
the
townspeople,
showed
the
marble
quietude
which
they
were
accustomed
to
behold
there.
It
was
like
a
mask;
or,
rather
like
the
frozen
calmness
of
a
dead
woman's
features;
owing
this
dreary
resemblance
to
the
fact
that
Hester
was
actually
dead,
in
respect
to
any
claim
of
sympathy,
and
had
departed
out
of
the
world
with
which
she
still
seemed
to
mingle.
It
might
be,
on
this
one
day,
that
there
was
an
expression
unseen
before,
nor,
indeed,
vivid
enough
to
be
detected
now;
unless
some
preternaturally
gifted
observer
should
have
first
read
the
heart,
and
have
afterwards
sought
a
corresponding
development
in
the
countenance
and
mien.
Such
a
spiritual
seer
might
have
conceived,
that,
after
sustaining
the
gaze
of
the
multitude
through
several
miserable
years
as
a
necessity,
a
penance,
and
something
which
it
was
a
stern
religion
to
endure,
she
now,
for
one
last
time
more,
encountered
it
freely
and
voluntarily,
in
order
to
convert
what
had
so
long
been
agony
into
a
kind
of
triumph.
"Look
your
last
on
the
scarlet
letter
and
its
wearer!"--the
people's
victim
and
lifelong
bond-slave,
as
they
fancied
her,
might
say
to
them.
"Yet
a
little
while,
and
she
will
be
beyond
your
reach!
A
few
hours
longer
and
the
deep,
mysterious
ocean
will
quench
and
hide
for
ever
the
symbol
which
ye
have
caused
to
burn
on
her
bosom!"
Nor
were
it
an
inconsistency
too
improbable
to
be
assigned
to
human
nature,
should
we
suppose
a
feeling
of
regret
in
Hester's
mind,
at
the
moment
when
she
was
about
to
win
her
freedom
from
the
pain
which
had
been
thus
deeply
incorporated
with
her
being.
Might
there
not
be
an
irresistible
desire
to
quaff
a
last,
long,
breathless
draught
of
the
cup
of
wormwood
and
aloes,
with
which
nearly
all
her
years
of
womanhood
had
been
perpetually
flavoured.
The
wine
of
life,
henceforth
to
be
presented
to
her
lips,
must
be
indeed
rich,
delicious,
and
exhilarating,
in
its
chased
and
golden
beaker,
or
else
leave
an
inevitable
and
weary
languor,
after
the
lees
of
bitterness
wherewith
she
had
been
drugged,
as
with
a
cordial
of
intensest
potency.
Pearl
was
decked
out
with
airy
gaiety.
It
would
have
been
impossible
to
guess
that
this
bright
and
sunny
apparition
owed
its
existence
to
the
shape
of
gloomy
gray;
or
that
a
fancy,
at
once
so
gorgeous
and
so
delicate
as
must
have
been
requisite
to
contrive
the
child's
apparel,
was
the
same
that
had
achieved
a
task
perhaps
more
difficult,
in
imparting
so
distinct
a
peculiarity
to
Hester's
simple
robe.
The
dress,
so
proper
was
it
to
little
Pearl,
seemed
an
effluence,
or
inevitable
development
and
outward
manifestation
of
her
character,
no
more
to
be
separated
from
her
than
the
many-hued
brilliancy
from
a
butterfly's
wing,
or
the
painted
glory
from
the
leaf
of
a
bright
flower.
As
with
these,
so
with
the
child;
her
garb
was
all
of
one
idea
with
her
nature.
On
this
eventful
day,
moreover,
there
was
a
certain
singular
inquietude
and
excitement
in
her
mood,
resembling
nothing
so
much
as
the
shimmer
of
a
diamond,
that
sparkles
and
flashes
with
the
varied
throbbings
of
the
breast
on
which
it
is
displayed.
Children
have
always
a
sympathy
in
the
agitations
of
those
connected
with
them:
always,
especially,
a
sense
of
any
trouble
or
impending
revolution,
of
whatever
kind,
in
domestic
circumstances;
and
therefore
Pearl,
who
was
the
gem
on
her
mother's
unquiet
bosom,
betrayed,
by
the
very
dance
of
her
spirits,
the
emotions
which
none
could
detect
in
the
marble
passiveness
of
Hester's
brow.
This
effervescence
made
her
flit
with
a
bird-like
movement,
rather
than
walk
by
her
mother's
side.
She
broke
continually
into
shouts
of
a
wild,
inarticulate,
and
sometimes
piercing
music.
When
they
reached
the
market-place,
she
became
still
more
restless,
on
perceiving
the
stir
and
bustle
that
enlivened
the
spot;
for
it
was
usually
more
like
the
broad
and
lonesome
green
before
a
village
meeting-house,
than
the
centre
of
a
town's
business.
"Why,
what
is
this,
mother?"
cried
she.
"Wherefore
have
all
the
people
left
their
work
to-day?
Is
it
a
play-day
for
the
whole
world?
See,
there
is
the
blacksmith!
He
has
washed
his
sooty
face,
and
put
on
his
Sabbath-day
clothes,
and
looks
as
if
he
would
gladly
be
merry,
if
any
kind
body
would
only
teach
him
how!
And
there
is
Master
Brackett,
the
old
jailer,
nodding
and
smiling
at
me.
Why
does
he
do
so,
mother?"
"He
remembers
thee
a
little
babe,
my
child,"
answered
Hester.
"He
should
not
nod
and
smile
at
me,
for
all
that--the
black,
grim,
ugly-eyed
old
man!"
said
Pearl.
"He
may
nod
at
thee,
if
he
will;
for
thou
art
clad
in
gray,
and
wearest
the
scarlet
letter.
But
see,
mother,
how
many
faces
of
strange
people,
and
Indians
among
them,
and
sailors!
What
have
they
all
come
to
do,
here
in
the
market-place?"
"They
wait
to
see
the
procession
pass,"
said
Hester.
"For
the
Governor
and
the
magistrates
are
to
go
by,
and
the
ministers,
and
all
the
great
people
and
good
people,
with
the
music
and
the
soldiers
marching
before
them."
"And
will
the
minister
be
there?"
asked
Pearl.
"And
will
he
hold
out
both
his
hands
to
me,
as
when
thou
ledst
me
to
him
from
the
brook-side?"
"He
will
be
there,
child,"
answered
her
mother,
"but
he
will
not
greet
thee
to-day,
nor
must
thou
greet
him."
"What
a
strange,
sad
man
is
he!"
said
the
child,
as
if
speaking
partly
to
herself.
"In
the
dark
nighttime
he
calls
us
to
him,
and
holds
thy
hand
and
mine,
as
when
we
stood
with
him
on
the
scaffold
yonder!
And
in
the
deep
forest,
where
only
the
old
trees
can
hear,
and
the
strip
of
sky
see
it,
he
talks
with
thee,
sitting
on
a
heap
of
moss!
And
he
kisses
my
forehead,
too,
so
that
the
little
brook
would
hardly
wash
it
off!
But,
here,
in
the
sunny
day,
and
among
all
the
people,
he
knows
us
not;
nor
must
we
know
him!
A
strange,
sad
man
is
he,
with
his
hand
always
over
his
heart!"
"Be
quiet,
Pearl--thou
understandest
not
these
things,"
said
her
mother.
"Think
not
now
of
the
minister,
but
look
about
thee,
and
see
how
cheery
is
everybody's
face
to-day.
The
children
have
come
from
their
schools,
and
the
grown
people
from
their
workshops
and
their
fields,
on
purpose
to
be
happy,
for,
to-day,
a
new
man
is
beginning
to
rule
over
them;
and
so--as
has
been
the
custom
of
mankind
ever
since
a
nation
was
first
gathered--they
make
merry
and
rejoice:
as
if
a
good
and
golden
year
were
at
length
to
pass
over
the
poor
old
world!"
It
was
as
Hester
said,
in
regard
to
the
unwonted
jollity
that
brightened
the
faces
of
the
people.
Into
this
festal
season
of
the
year--as
it
already
was,
and
continued
to
be
during
the
greater
part
of
two
centuries--the
Puritans
compressed
whatever
mirth
and
public
joy
they
deemed
allowable
to
human
infirmity;
thereby
so
far
dispelling
the
customary
cloud,
that,
for
the
space
of
a
single
holiday,
they
appeared
scarcely
more
grave
than
most
other
communities
at
a
period
of
general
affliction.
But
we
perhaps
exaggerate
the
gray
or
sable
tinge,
which
undoubtedly
characterized
the
mood
and
manners
of
the
age.
The
persons
now
in
the
market-place
of
Boston
had
not
been
born
to
an
inheritance
of
Puritanic
gloom.
They
were
native
Englishmen,
whose
fathers
had
lived
in
the
sunny
richness
of
the
Elizabethan
epoch;
a
time
when
the
life
of
England,
viewed
as
one
great
mass,
would
appear
to
have
been
as
stately,
magnificent,
and
joyous,
as
the
world
has
ever
witnessed.
Had
they
followed
their
hereditary
taste,
the
New
England
settlers
would
have
illustrated
all
events
of
public
importance
by
bonfires,
banquets,
pageantries,
and
processions.
Nor
would
it
have
been
impracticable,
in
the
observance
of
majestic
ceremonies,
to
combine
mirthful
recreation
with
solemnity,
and
give,
as
it
were,
a
grotesque
and
brilliant
embroidery
to
the
great
robe
of
state,
which
a
nation,
at
such
festivals,
puts
on.
There
was
some
shadow
of
an
attempt
of
this
kind
in
the
mode
of
celebrating
the
day
on
which
the
political
year
of
the
colony
commenced.
The
dim
reflection
of
a
remembered
splendour,
a
colourless
and
manifold
diluted
repetition
of
what
they
had
beheld
in
proud
old
London--we
will
not
say
at
a
royal
coronation,
but
at
a
Lord
Mayor's
show--might
be
traced
in
the
customs
which
our
forefathers
instituted,
with
reference
to
the
annual
installation
of
magistrates.
The
fathers
and
founders
of
the
commonwealth--the
statesman,
the
priest,
and
the
soldier--seemed
it
a
duty
then
to
assume
the
outward
state
and
majesty,
which,
in
accordance
with
antique
style,
was
looked
upon
as
the
proper
garb
of
public
and
social
eminence.
All
came
forth
to
move
in
procession
before
the
people's
eye,
and
thus
impart
a
needed
dignity
to
the
simple
framework
of
a
government
so
newly
constructed.
Then,
too,
the
people
were
countenanced,
if
not
encouraged,
in
relaxing
the
severe
and
close
application
to
their
various
modes
of
rugged
industry,
which
at
all
other
times,
seemed
of
the
same
piece
and
material
with
their
religion.
Here,
it
is
true,
were
none
of
the
appliances
which
popular
merriment
would
so
readily
have
found
in
the
England
of
Elizabeth's
time,
or
that
of
James--no
rude
shows
of
a
theatrical
kind;
no
minstrel,
with
his
harp
and
legendary
ballad,
nor
gleeman
with
an
ape
dancing
to
his
music;
no
juggler,
with
his
tricks
of
mimic
witchcraft;
no
Merry
Andrew,
to
stir
up
the
multitude
with
jests,
perhaps
a
hundred
years
old,
but
still
effective,
by
their
appeals
to
the
very
broadest
sources
of
mirthful
sympathy.
All
such
professors
of
the
several
branches
of
jocularity
would
have
been
sternly
repressed,
not
only
by
the
rigid
discipline
of
law,
but
by
the
general
sentiment
which
give
law
its
vitality.
Not
the
less,
however,
the
great,
honest
face
of
the
people
smiled--grimly,
perhaps,
but
widely
too.
Nor
were
sports
wanting,
such
as
the
colonists
had
witnessed,
and
shared
in,
long
ago,
at
the
country
fairs
and
on
the
village-greens
of
England;
and
which
it
was
thought
well
to
keep
alive
on
this
new
soil,
for
the
sake
of
the
courage
and
manliness
that
were
essential
in
them.
Wrestling
matches,
in
the
different
fashions
of
Cornwall
and
Devonshire,
were
seen
here
and
there
about
the
market-place;
in
one
corner,
there
was
a
friendly
bout
at
quarterstaff;
and--what
attracted
most
interest
of
all--on
the
platform
of
the
pillory,
already
so
noted
in
our
pages,
two
masters
of
defence
were
commencing
an
exhibition
with
the
buckler
and
broadsword.
But,
much
to
the
disappointment
of
the
crowd,
this
latter
business
was
broken
off
by
the
interposition
of
the
town
beadle,
who
had
no
idea
of
permitting
the
majesty
of
the
law
to
be
violated
by
such
an
abuse
of
one
of
its
consecrated
places.
It
may
not
be
too
much
to
affirm,
on
the
whole,
(the
people
being
then
in
the
first
stages
of
joyless
deportment,
and
the
offspring
of
sires
who
had
known
how
to
be
merry,
in
their
day),
that
they
would
compare
favourably,
in
point
of
holiday
keeping,
with
their
descendants,
even
at
so
long
an
interval
as
ourselves.
Their
immediate
posterity,
the
generation
next
to
the
early
emigrants,
wore
the
blackest
shade
of
Puritanism,
and
so
darkened
the
national
visage
with
it,
that
all
the
subsequent
years
have
not
sufficed
to
clear
it
up.
We
have
yet
to
learn
again
the
forgotten
art
of
gaiety.
The
picture
of
human
life
in
the
market-place,
though
its
general
tint
was
the
sad
gray,
brown,
or
black
of
the
English
emigrants,
was
yet
enlivened
by
some
diversity
of
hue.
A
party
of
Indians--in
their
savage
finery
of
curiously
embroidered
deerskin
robes,
wampum-belts,
red
and
yellow
ochre,
and
feathers,
and
armed
with
the
bow
and
arrow
and
stone-headed
spear--stood
apart
with
countenances
of
inflexible
gravity,
beyond
what
even
the
Puritan
aspect
could
attain.
Nor,
wild
as
were
these
painted
barbarians,
were
they
the
wildest
feature
of
the
scene.
This
distinction
could
more
justly
be
claimed
by
some
mariners--a
part
of
the
crew
of
the
vessel
from
the
Spanish
Main--who
had
come
ashore
to
see
the
humours
of
Election
Day.
They
were
rough-looking
desperadoes,
with
sun-blackened
faces,
and
an
immensity
of
beard;
their
wide
short
trousers
were
confined
about
the
waist
by
belts,
often
clasped
with
a
rough
plate
of
gold,
and
sustaining
always
a
long
knife,
and
in
some
instances,
a
sword.
From
beneath
their
broad-brimmed
hats
of
palm-leaf,
gleamed
eyes
which,
even
in
good-nature
and
merriment,
had
a
kind
of
animal
ferocity.
They
transgressed
without
fear
or
scruple,
the
rules
of
behaviour
that
were
binding
on
all
others:
smoking
tobacco
under
the
beadle's
very
nose,
although
each
whiff
would
have
cost
a
townsman
a
shilling;
and
quaffing
at
their
pleasure,
draughts
of
wine
or
aqua-vitae
from
pocket
flasks,
which
they
freely
tendered
to
the
gaping
crowd
around
them.
It
remarkably
characterised
the
incomplete
morality
of
the
age,
rigid
as
we
call
it,
that
a
licence
was
allowed
the
seafaring
class,
not
merely
for
their
freaks
on
shore,
but
for
far
more
desperate
deeds
on
their
proper
element.
The
sailor
of
that
day
would
go
near
to
be
arraigned
as
a
pirate
in
our
own.
There
could
be
little
doubt,
for
instance,
that
this
very
ship's
crew,
though
no
unfavourable
specimens
of
the
nautical
brotherhood,
had
been
guilty,
as
we
should
phrase
it,
of
depredations
on
the
Spanish
commerce,
such
as
would
have
perilled
all
their
necks
in
a
modern
court
of
justice.
But
the
sea
in
those
old
times
heaved,
swelled,
and
foamed
very
much
at
its
own
will,
or
subject
only
to
the
tempestuous
wind,
with
hardly
any
attempts
at
regulation
by
human
law.
The
buccaneer
on
the
wave
might
relinquish
his
calling
and
become
at
once
if
he
chose,
a
man
of
probity
and
piety
on
land;
nor,
even
in
the
full
career
of
his
reckless
life,
was
he
regarded
as
a
personage
with
whom
it
was
disreputable
to
traffic
or
casually
associate.
Thus
the
Puritan
elders
in
their
black
cloaks,
starched
bands,
and
steeple-crowned
hats,
smiled
not
unbenignantly
at
the
clamour
and
rude
deportment
of
these
jolly
seafaring
men;
and
it
excited
neither
surprise
nor
animadversion
when
so
reputable
a
citizen
as
old
Roger
Chillingworth,
the
physician,
was
seen
to
enter
the
market-place
in
close
and
familiar
talk
with
the
commander
of
the
questionable
vessel.
The
latter
was
by
far
the
most
showy
and
gallant
figure,
so
far
as
apparel
went,
anywhere
to
be
seen
among
the
multitude.
He
wore
a
profusion
of
ribbons
on
his
garment,
and
gold
lace
on
his
hat,
which
was
also
encircled
by
a
gold
chain,
and
surmounted
with
a
feather.
There
was
a
sword
at
his
side
and
a
sword-cut
on
his
forehead,
which,
by
the
arrangement
of
his
hair,
he
seemed
anxious
rather
to
display
than
hide.
A
landsman
could
hardly
have
worn
this
garb
and
shown
this
face,
and
worn
and
shown
them
both
with
such
a
galliard
air,
without
undergoing
stern
question
before
a
magistrate,
and
probably
incurring
a
fine
or
imprisonment,
or
perhaps
an
exhibition
in
the
stocks.
As
regarded
the
shipmaster,
however,
all
was
looked
upon
as
pertaining
to
the
character,
as
to
a
fish
his
glistening
scales.
After
parting
from
the
physician,
the
commander
of
the
Bristol
ship
strolled
idly
through
the
market-place;
until
happening
to
approach
the
spot
where
Hester
Prynne
was
standing,
he
appeared
to
recognise,
and
did
not
hesitate
to
address
her.
As
was
usually
the
case
wherever
Hester
stood,
a
small
vacant
area--a
sort
of
magic
circle--had
formed
itself
about
her,
into
which,
though
the
people
were
elbowing
one
another
at
a
little
distance,
none
ventured
or
felt
disposed
to
intrude.
It
was
a
forcible
type
of
the
moral
solitude
in
which
the
scarlet
letter
enveloped
its
fated
wearer;
partly
by
her
own
reserve,
and
partly
by
the
instinctive,
though
no
longer
so
unkindly,
withdrawal
of
her
fellow-creatures.
Now,
if
never
before,
it
answered
a
good
purpose
by
enabling
Hester
and
the
seaman
to
speak
together
without
risk
of
being
overheard;
and
so
changed
was
Hester
Prynne's
repute
before
the
public,
that
the
matron
in
town,
most
eminent
for
rigid
morality,
could
not
have
held
such
intercourse
with
less
result
of
scandal
than
herself.
"So,
mistress,"
said
the
mariner,
"I
must
bid
the
steward
make
ready
one
more
berth
than
you
bargained
for!
No
fear
of
scurvy
or
ship
fever
this
voyage.
What
with
the
ship's
surgeon
and
this
other
doctor,
our
only
danger
will
be
from
drug
or
pill;
more
by
token,
as
there
is
a
lot
of
apothecary's
stuff
aboard,
which
I
traded
for
with
a
Spanish
vessel."
"What
mean
you?"
inquired
Hester,
startled
more
than
she
permitted
to
appear.
"Have
you
another
passenger?"
"Why,
know
you
not,"
cried
the
shipmaster,
"that
this
physician
here--Chillingworth
he
calls
himself--is
minded
to
try
my
cabin-fare
with
you?
Ay,
ay,
you
must
have
known
it;
for
he
tells
me
he
is
of
your
party,
and
a
close
friend
to
the
gentleman
you
spoke
of--he
that
is
in
peril
from
these
sour
old
Puritan
rulers."
"They
know
each
other
well,
indeed,"
replied
Hester,
with
a
mien
of
calmness,
though
in
the
utmost
consternation.
"They
have
long
dwelt
together."
Nothing
further
passed
between
the
mariner
and
Hester
Prynne.
But
at
that
instant
she
beheld
old
Roger
Chillingworth
himself,
standing
in
the
remotest
corner
of
the
market-place
and
smiling
on
her;
a
smile
which--across
the
wide
and
bustling
square,
and
through
all
the
talk
and
laughter,
and
various
thoughts,
moods,
and
interests
of
the
crowd--conveyed
secret
and
fearful
meaning.
XXII.
THE
PROCESSION
Before
Hester
Prynne
could
call
together
her
thoughts,
and
consider
what
was
practicable
to
be
done
in
this
new
and
startling
aspect
of
affairs,
the
sound
of
military
music
was
heard
approaching
along
a
contiguous
street.
It
denoted
the
advance
of
the
procession
of
magistrates
and
citizens
on
its
way
towards
the
meeting-house:
where,
in
compliance
with
a
custom
thus
early
established,
and
ever
since
observed,
the
Reverend
Mr.
Dimmesdale
was
to
deliver
an
Election
Sermon.
Soon
the
head
of
the
procession
showed
itself,
with
a
slow
and
stately
march,
turning
a
corner,
and
making
its
way
across
the
market-place.
First
came
the
music.
It
comprised
a
variety
of
instruments,
perhaps
imperfectly
adapted
to
one
another,
and
played
with
no
great
skill;
but
yet
attaining
the
great
object
for
which
the
harmony
of
drum
and
clarion
addresses
itself
to
the
multitude--that
of
imparting
a
higher
and
more
heroic
air
to
the
scene
of
life
that
passes
before
the
eye.
Little
Pearl
at
first
clapped
her
hands,
but
then
lost
for
an
instant
the
restless
agitation
that
had
kept
her
in
a
continual
effervescence
throughout
the
morning;
she
gazed
silently,
and
seemed
to
be
borne
upward
like
a
floating
sea-bird
on
the
long
heaves
and
swells
of
sound.
But
she
was
brought
back
to
her
former
mood
by
the
shimmer
of
the
sunshine
on
the
weapons
and
bright
armour
of
the
military
company,
which
followed
after
the
music,
and
formed
the
honorary
escort
of
the
procession.
This
body
of
soldiery--which
still
sustains
a
corporate
existence,
and
marches
down
from
past
ages
with
an
ancient
and
honourable
fame--was
composed
of
no
mercenary
materials.
Its
ranks
were
filled
with
gentlemen
who
felt
the
stirrings
of
martial
impulse,
and
sought
to
establish
a
kind
of
College
of
Arms,
where,
as
in
an
association
of
Knights
Templars,
they
might
learn
the
science,
and,
so
far
as
peaceful
exercise
would
teach
them,
the
practices
of
war.
The
high
estimation
then
placed
upon
the
military
character
might
be
seen
in
the
lofty
port
of
each
individual
member
of
the
company.
Some
of
them,
indeed,
by
their
services
in
the
Low
Countries
and
on
other
fields
of
European
warfare,
had
fairly
won
their
title
to
assume
the
name
and
pomp
of
soldiership.
The
entire
array,
moreover,
clad
in
burnished
steel,
and
with
plumage
nodding
over
their
bright
morions,
had
a
brilliancy
of
effect
which
no
modern
display
can
aspire
to
equal.
And
yet
the
men
of
civil
eminence,
who
came
immediately
behind
the
military
escort,
were
better
worth
a
thoughtful
observer's
eye.
Even
in
outward
demeanour
they
showed
a
stamp
of
majesty
that
made
the
warrior's
haughty
stride
look
vulgar,
if
not
absurd.
It
was
an
age
when
what
we
call
talent
had
far
less
consideration
than
now,
but
the
massive
materials
which
produce
stability
and
dignity
of
character
a
great
deal
more.
The
people
possessed
by
hereditary
right
the
quality
of
reverence,
which,
in
their
descendants,
if
it
survive
at
all,
exists
in
smaller
proportion,
and
with
a
vastly
diminished
force
in
the
selection
and
estimate
of
public
men.
The
change
may
be
for
good
or
ill,
and
is
partly,
perhaps,
for
both.
In
that
old
day
the
English
settler
on
these
rude
shores--having
left
king,
nobles,
and
all
degrees
of
awful
rank
behind,
while
still
the
faculty
and
necessity
of
reverence
was
strong
in
him--bestowed
it
on
the
white
hair
and
venerable
brow
of
age--on
long-tried
integrity--on
solid
wisdom
and
sad-coloured
experience--on
endowments
of
that
grave
and
weighty
order
which
gave
the
idea
of
permanence,
and
comes
under
the
general
definition
of
respectability.
These
primitive
statesmen,
therefore--Bradstreet,
Endicott,
Dudley,
Bellingham,
and
their
compeers--who
were
elevated
to
power
by
the
early
choice
of
the
people,
seem
to
have
been
not
often
brilliant,
but
distinguished
by
a
ponderous
sobriety,
rather
than
activity
of
intellect.
They
had
fortitude
and
self-reliance,
and
in
time
of
difficulty
or
peril
stood
up
for
the
welfare
of
the
state
like
a
line
of
cliffs
against
a
tempestuous
tide.
The
traits
of
character
here
indicated
were
well
represented
in
the
square
cast
of
countenance
and
large
physical
development
of
the
new
colonial
magistrates.
So
far
as
a
demeanour
of
natural
authority
was
concerned,
the
mother
country
need
not
have
been
ashamed
to
see
these
foremost
men
of
an
actual
democracy
adopted
into
the
House
of
Peers,
or
make
the
Privy
Council
of
the
Sovereign.
Next
in
order
to
the
magistrates
came
the
young
and
eminently
distinguished
divine,
from
whose
lips
the
religious
discourse
of
the
anniversary
was
expected.
His
was
the
profession
at
that
era
in
which
intellectual
ability
displayed
itself
far
more
than
in
political
life;
for--leaving
a
higher
motive
out
of
the
question
it
offered
inducements
powerful
enough
in
the
almost
worshipping
respect
of
the
community,
to
win
the
most
aspiring
ambition
into
its
service.
Even
political
power--as
in
the
case
of
Increase
Mather--was
within
the
grasp
of
a
successful
priest.
It
was
the
observation
of
those
who
beheld
him
now,
that
never,
since
Mr.
Dimmesdale
first
set
his
foot
on
the
New
England
shore,
had
he
exhibited
such
energy
as
was
seen
in
the
gait
and
air
with
which
he
kept
his
pace
in
the
procession.
There
was
no
feebleness
of
step
as
at
other
times;
his
frame
was
not
bent,
nor
did
his
hand
rest
ominously
upon
his
heart.
Yet,
if
the
clergyman
were
rightly
viewed,
his
strength
seemed
not
of
the
body.
It
might
be
spiritual
and
imparted
to
him
by
angelical
ministrations.
It
might
be
the
exhilaration
of
that
potent
cordial
which
is
distilled
only
in
the
furnace-glow
of
earnest
and
long-continued
thought.
Or
perchance
his
sensitive
temperament
was
invigorated
by
the
loud
and
piercing
music
that
swelled
heaven-ward,
and
uplifted
him
on
its
ascending
wave.
Nevertheless,
so
abstracted
was
his
look,
it
might
be
questioned
whether
Mr.
Dimmesdale
even
heard
the
music.
There
was
his
body,
moving
onward,
and
with
an
unaccustomed
force.
But
where
was
his
mind?
Far
and
deep
in
its
own
region,
busying
itself,
with
preternatural
activity,
to
marshal
a
procession
of
stately
thoughts
that
were
soon
to
issue
thence;
and
so
he
saw
nothing,
heard
nothing,
knew
nothing
of
what
was
around
him;
but
the
spiritual
element
took
up
the
feeble
frame
and
carried
it
along,
unconscious
of
the
burden,
and
converting
it
to
spirit
like
itself.
Men
of
uncommon
intellect,
who
have
grown
morbid,
possess
this
occasional
power
of
mighty
effort,
into
which
they
throw
the
life
of
many
days
and
then
are
lifeless
for
as
many
more.
Hester
Prynne,
gazing
steadfastly
at
the
clergyman,
felt
a
dreary
influence
come
over
her,
but
wherefore
or
whence
she
knew
not,
unless
that
he
seemed
so
remote
from
her
own
sphere,
and
utterly
beyond
her
reach.
One
glance
of
recognition
she
had
imagined
must
needs
pass
between
them.
She
thought
of
the
dim
forest,
with
its
little
dell
of
solitude,
and
love,
and
anguish,
and
the
mossy
tree-trunk,
where,
sitting
hand-in-hand,
they
had
mingled
their
sad
and
passionate
talk
with
the
melancholy
murmur
of
the
brook.
How
deeply
had
they
known
each
other
then!
And
was
this
the
man?
She
hardly
knew
him
now!
He,
moving
proudly
past,
enveloped
as
it
were,
in
the
rich
music,
with
the
procession
of
majestic
and
venerable
fathers;
he,
so
unattainable
in
his
worldly
position,
and
still
more
so
in
that
far
vista
of
his
unsympathizing
thoughts,
through
which
she
now
beheld
him!
Her
spirit
sank
with
the
idea
that
all
must
have
been
a
delusion,
and
that,
vividly
as
she
had
dreamed
it,
there
could
be
no
real
bond
betwixt
the
clergyman
and
herself.
And
thus
much
of
woman
was
there
in
Hester,
that
she
could
scarcely
forgive
him--least
of
all
now,
when
the
heavy
footstep
of
their
approaching
Fate
might
be
heard,
nearer,
nearer,
nearer!--for
being
able
so
completely
to
withdraw
himself
from
their
mutual
world--while
she
groped
darkly,
and
stretched
forth
her
cold
hands,
and
found
him
not.
Pearl
either
saw
and
responded
to
her
mother's
feelings,
or
herself
felt
the
remoteness
and
intangibility
that
had
fallen
around
the
minister.
While
the
procession
passed,
the
child
was
uneasy,
fluttering
up
and
down,
like
a
bird
on
the
point
of
taking
flight.
When
the
whole
had
gone
by,
she
looked
up
into
Hester's
face--
"Mother,"
said
she,
"was
that
the
same
minister
that
kissed
me
by
the
brook?"
"Hold
thy
peace,
dear
little
Pearl!"
whispered
her
mother.
"We
must
not
always
talk
in
the
marketplace
of
what
happens
to
us
in
the
forest."
"I
could
not
be
sure
that
it
was
he--so
strange
he
looked,"
continued
the
child.
"Else
I
would
have
run
to
him,
and
bid
him
kiss
me
now,
before
all
the
people,
even
as
he
did
yonder
among
the
dark
old
trees.
What
would
the
minister
have
said,
mother?
Would
he
have
clapped
his
hand
over
his
heart,
and
scowled
on
me,
and
bid
me
begone?"
"What
should
he
say,
Pearl,"
answered
Hester,
"save
that
it
was
no
time
to
kiss,
and
that
kisses
are
not
to
be
given
in
the
market-place?
Well
for
thee,
foolish
child,
that
thou
didst
not
speak
to
him!"
Another
shade
of
the
same
sentiment,
in
reference
to
Mr.
Dimmesdale,
was
expressed
by
a
person
whose
eccentricities--insanity,
as
we
should
term
it--led
her
to
do
what
few
of
the
townspeople
would
have
ventured
on--to
begin
a
conversation
with
the
wearer
of
the
scarlet
letter
in
public.
It
was
Mistress
Hibbins,
who,
arrayed
in
great
magnificence,
with
a
triple
ruff,
a
broidered
stomacher,
a
gown
of
rich
velvet,
and
a
gold-headed
cane,
had
come
forth
to
see
the
procession.
As
this
ancient
lady
had
the
renown
(which
subsequently
cost
her
no
less
a
price
than
her
life)
of
being
a
principal
actor
in
all
the
works
of
necromancy
that
were
continually
going
forward,
the
crowd
gave
way
before
her,
and
seemed
to
fear
the
touch
of
her
garment,
as
if
it
carried
the
plague
among
its
gorgeous
folds.
Seen
in
conjunction
with
Hester
Prynne--kindly
as
so
many
now
felt
towards
the
latter--the
dread
inspired
by
Mistress
Hibbins
had
doubled,
and
caused
a
general
movement
from
that
part
of
the
market-place
in
which
the
two
women
stood.
"Now,
what
mortal
imagination
could
conceive
it?"
whispered
the
old
lady
confidentially
to
Hester.
"Yonder
divine
man!
That
saint
on
earth,
as
the
people
uphold
him
to
be,
and
as--I
must
needs
say--he
really
looks!
Who,
now,
that
saw
him
pass
in
the
procession,
would
think
how
little
while
it
is
since
he
went
forth
out
of
his
study--chewing
a
Hebrew
text
of
Scripture
in
his
mouth,
I
warrant--to
take
an
airing
in
the
forest!
Aha!
we
know
what
that
means,
Hester
Prynne!
But
truly,
forsooth,
I
find
it
hard
to
believe
him
the
same
man.
Many
a
church
member
saw
I,
walking
behind
the
music,
that
has
danced
in
the
same
measure
with
me,
when
Somebody
was
fiddler,
and,
it
might
be,
an
Indian
powwow
or
a
Lapland
wizard
changing
hands
with
us!
That
is
but
a
trifle,
when
a
woman
knows
the
world.
But
this
minister.
Couldst
thou
surely
tell,
Hester,
whether
he
was
the
same
man
that
encountered
thee
on
the
forest
path?"
"Madam,
I
know
not
of
what
you
speak,"
answered
Hester
Prynne,
feeling
Mistress
Hibbins
to
be
of
infirm
mind;
yet
strangely
startled
and
awe-stricken
by
the
confidence
with
which
she
affirmed
a
personal
connexion
between
so
many
persons
(herself
among
them)
and
the
Evil
One.
"It
is
not
for
me
to
talk
lightly
of
a
learned
and
pious
minister
of
the
Word,
like
the
Reverend
Mr.
Dimmesdale."
"Fie,
woman--fie!"
cried
the
old
lady,
shaking
her
finger
at
Hester.
"Dost
thou
think
I
have
been
to
the
forest
so
many
times,
and
have
yet
no
skill
to
judge
who
else
has
been
there?
Yea,
though
no
leaf
of
the
wild
garlands
which
they
wore
while
they
danced
be
left
in
their
hair!
I
know
thee,
Hester,
for
I
behold
the
token.
We
may
all
see
it
in
the
sunshine!
and
it
glows
like
a
red
flame
in
the
dark.
Thou
wearest
it
openly,
so
there
need
be
no
question
about
that.
But
this
minister!
Let
me
tell
thee
in
thine
ear!
When
the
Black
Man
sees
one
of
his
own
servants,
signed
and
sealed,
so
shy
of
owning
to
the
bond
as
is
the
Reverend
Mr.
Dimmesdale,
he
hath
a
way
of
ordering
matters
so
that
the
mark
shall
be
disclosed,
in
open
daylight,
to
the
eyes
of
all
the
world!
What
is
that
the
minister
seeks
to
hide,
with
his
hand
always
over
his
heart?
Ha,
Hester
Prynne?"
"What
is
it,
good
Mistress
Hibbins?"
eagerly
asked
little
Pearl.
"Hast
thou
seen
it?"
"No
matter,
darling!"
responded
Mistress
Hibbins,
making
Pearl
a
profound
reverence.
"Thou
thyself
wilt
see
it,
one
time
or
another.
They
say,
child,
thou
art
of
the
lineage
of
the
Prince
of
Air!
Wilt
thou
ride
with
me
some
fine
night
to
see
thy
father?
Then
thou
shalt
know
wherefore
the
minister
keeps
his
hand
over
his
heart!"
Laughing
so
shrilly
that
all
the
market-place
could
hear
her,
the
weird
old
gentlewoman
took
her
departure.
By
this
time
the
preliminary
prayer
had
been
offered
in
the
meeting-house,
and
the
accents
of
the
Reverend
Mr.
Dimmesdale
were
heard
commencing
his
discourse.
An
irresistible
feeling
kept
Hester
near
the
spot.
As
the
sacred
edifice
was
too
much
thronged
to
admit
another
auditor,
she
took
up
her
position
close
beside
the
scaffold
of
the
pillory.
It
was
in
sufficient
proximity
to
bring
the
whole
sermon
to
her
ears,
in
the
shape
of
an
indistinct
but
varied
murmur
and
flow
of
the
minister's
very
peculiar
voice.
This
vocal
organ
was
in
itself
a
rich
endowment,
insomuch
that
a
listener,
comprehending
nothing
of
the
language
in
which
the
preacher
spoke,
might
still
have
been
swayed
to
and
fro
by
the
mere
tone
and
cadence.
Like
all
other
music,
it
breathed
passion
and
pathos,
and
emotions
high
or
tender,
in
a
tongue
native
to
the
human
heart,
wherever
educated.
Muffled
as
the
sound
was
by
its
passage
through
the
church
walls,
Hester
Prynne
listened
with
such
intenseness,
and
sympathized
so
intimately,
that
the
sermon
had
throughout
a
meaning
for
her,
entirely
apart
from
its
indistinguishable
words.
These,
perhaps,
if
more
distinctly
heard,
might
have
been
only
a
grosser
medium,
and
have
clogged
the
spiritual
sense.
Now
she
caught
the
low
undertone,
as
of
the
wind
sinking
down
to
repose
itself;
then
ascended
with
it,
as
it
rose
through
progressive
gradations
of
sweetness
and
power,
until
its
volume
seemed
to
envelop
her
with
an
atmosphere
of
awe
and
solemn
grandeur.
And
yet,
majestic
as
the
voice
sometimes
became,
there
was
for
ever
in
it
an
essential
character
of
plaintiveness.
A
loud
or
low
expression
of
anguish--the
whisper,
or
the
shriek,
as
it
might
be
conceived,
of
suffering
humanity,
that
touched
a
sensibility
in
every
bosom!
At
times
this
deep
strain
of
pathos
was
all
that
could
be
heard,
and
scarcely
heard
sighing
amid
a
desolate
silence.
But
even
when
the
minister's
voice
grew
high
and
commanding--when
it
gushed
irrepressibly
upward--when
it
assumed
its
utmost
breadth
and
power,
so
overfilling
the
church
as
to
burst
its
way
through
the
solid
walls,
and
diffuse
itself
in
the
open
air--still,
if
the
auditor
listened
intently,
and
for
the
purpose,
he
could
detect
the
same
cry
of
pain.
What
was
it?
The
complaint
of
a
human
heart,
sorrow-laden,
perchance
guilty,
telling
its
secret,
whether
of
guilt
or
sorrow,
to
the
great
heart
of
mankind;
beseeching
its
sympathy
or
forgiveness,--at
every
moment,--in
each
accent,--and
never
in
vain!
It
was
this
profound
and
continual
undertone
that
gave
the
clergyman
his
most
appropriate
power.
During
all
this
time,
Hester
stood,
statue-like,
at
the
foot
of
the
scaffold.
If
the
minister's
voice
had
not
kept
her
there,
there
would,
nevertheless,
have
been
an
inevitable
magnetism
in
that
spot,
whence
she
dated
the
first
hour
of
her
life
of
ignominy.
There
was
a
sense
within
her--too
ill-defined
to
be
made
a
thought,
but
weighing
heavily
on
her
mind--that
her
whole
orb
of
life,
both
before
and
after,
was
connected
with
this
spot,
as
with
the
one
point
that
gave
it
unity.
Little
Pearl,
meanwhile,
had
quitted
her
mother's
side,
and
was
playing
at
her
own
will
about
the
market-place.
She
made
the
sombre
crowd
cheerful
by
her
erratic
and
glistening
ray,
even
as
a
bird
of
bright
plumage
illuminates
a
whole
tree
of
dusky
foliage
by
darting
to
and
fro,
half
seen
and
half
concealed
amid
the
twilight
of
the
clustering
leaves.
She
had
an
undulating,
but
oftentimes
a
sharp
and
irregular
movement.
It
indicated
the
restless
vivacity
of
her
spirit,
which
to-day
was
doubly
indefatigable
in
its
tip-toe
dance,
because
it
was
played
upon
and
vibrated
with
her
mother's
disquietude.
Whenever
Pearl
saw
anything
to
excite
her
ever
active
and
wandering
curiosity,
she
flew
thitherward,
and,
as
we
might
say,
seized
upon
that
man
or
thing
as
her
own
property,
so
far
as
she
desired
it,
but
without
yielding
the
minutest
degree
of
control
over
her
motions
in
requital.
The
Puritans
looked
on,
and,
if
they
smiled,
were
none
the
less
inclined
to
pronounce
the
child
a
demon
offspring,
from
the
indescribable
charm
of
beauty
and
eccentricity
that
shone
through
her
little
figure,
and
sparkled
with
its
activity.
She
ran
and
looked
the
wild
Indian
in
the
face,
and
he
grew
conscious
of
a
nature
wilder
than
his
own.
Thence,
with
native
audacity,
but
still
with
a
reserve
as
characteristic,
she
flew
into
the
midst
of
a
group
of
mariners,
the
swarthy-cheeked
wild
men
of
the
ocean,
as
the
Indians
were
of
the
land;
and
they
gazed
wonderingly
and
admiringly
at
Pearl,
as
if
a
flake
of
the
sea-foam
had
taken
the
shape
of
a
little
maid,
and
were
gifted
with
a
soul
of
the
sea-fire,
that
flashes
beneath
the
prow
in
the
night-time.
One
of
these
seafaring
men
the
shipmaster,
indeed,
who
had
spoken
to
Hester
Prynne
was
so
smitten
with
Pearl's
aspect,
that
he
attempted
to
lay
hands
upon
her,
with
purpose
to
snatch
a
kiss.
Finding
it
as
impossible
to
touch
her
as
to
catch
a
humming-bird
in
the
air,
he
took
from
his
hat
the
gold
chain
that
was
twisted
about
it,
and
threw
it
to
the
child.
Pearl
immediately
twined
it
around
her
neck
and
waist
with
such
happy
skill,
that,
once
seen
there,
it
became
a
part
of
her,
and
it
was
difficult
to
imagine
her
without
it.
"Thy
mother
is
yonder
woman
with
the
scarlet
letter,"
said
the
seaman,
"Wilt
thou
carry
her
a
message
from
me?"
"If
the
message
pleases
me,
I
will,"
answered
Pearl.
"Then
tell
her,"
rejoined
he,
"that
I
spake
again
with
the
black-a-visaged,
hump
shouldered
old
doctor,
and
he
engages
to
bring
his
friend,
the
gentleman
she
wots
of,
aboard
with
him.
So
let
thy
mother
take
no
thought,
save
for
herself
and
thee.
Wilt
thou
tell
her
this,
thou
witch-baby?"
"Mistress
Hibbins
says
my
father
is
the
Prince
of
the
Air!"
cried
Pearl,
with
a
naughty
smile.
"If
thou
callest
me
that
ill-name,
I
shall
tell
him
of
thee,
and
he
will
chase
thy
ship
with
a
tempest!"
Pursuing
a
zigzag
course
across
the
marketplace,
the
child
returned
to
her
mother,
and
communicated
what
the
mariner
had
said.
Hester's
strong,
calm
steadfastly-enduring
spirit
almost
sank,
at
last,
on
beholding
this
dark
and
grim
countenance
of
an
inevitable
doom,
which
at
the
moment
when
a
passage
seemed
to
open
for
the
minister
and
herself
out
of
their
labyrinth
of
misery--showed
itself
with
an
unrelenting
smile,
right
in
the
midst
of
their
path.
With
her
mind
harassed
by
the
terrible
perplexity
in
which
the
shipmaster's
intelligence
involved
her,
she
was
also
subjected
to
another
trial.
There
were
many
people
present
from
the
country
round
about,
who
had
often
heard
of
the
scarlet
letter,
and
to
whom
it
had
been
made
terrific
by
a
hundred
false
or
exaggerated
rumours,
but
who
had
never
beheld
it
with
their
own
bodily
eyes.
These,
after
exhausting
other
modes
of
amusement,
now
thronged
about
Hester
Prynne
with
rude
and
boorish
intrusiveness.
Unscrupulous
as
it
was,
however,
it
could
not
bring
them
nearer
than
a
circuit
of
several
yards.
At
that
distance
they
accordingly
stood,
fixed
there
by
the
centrifugal
force
of
the
repugnance
which
the
mystic
symbol
inspired.
The
whole
gang
of
sailors,
likewise,
observing
the
press
of
spectators,
and
learning
the
purport
of
the
scarlet
letter,
came
and
thrust
their
sunburnt
and
desperado-looking
faces
into
the
ring.
Even
the
Indians
were
affected
by
a
sort
of
cold
shadow
of
the
white
man's
curiosity
and,
gliding
through
the
crowd,
fastened
their
snake-like
black
eyes
on
Hester's
bosom,
conceiving,
perhaps,
that
the
wearer
of
this
brilliantly
embroidered
badge
must
needs
be
a
personage
of
high
dignity
among
her
people.
Lastly,
the
inhabitants
of
the
town
(their
own
interest
in
this
worn-out
subject
languidly
reviving
itself,
by
sympathy
with
what
they
saw
others
feel)
lounged
idly
to
the
same
quarter,
and
tormented
Hester
Prynne,
perhaps
more
than
all
the
rest,
with
their
cool,
well-acquainted
gaze
at
her
familiar
shame.
Hester
saw
and
recognized
the
selfsame
faces
of
that
group
of
matrons,
who
had
awaited
her
forthcoming
from
the
prison-door
seven
years
ago;
all
save
one,
the
youngest
and
only
compassionate
among
them,
whose
burial-robe
she
had
since
made.
At
the
final
hour,
when
she
was
so
soon
to
fling
aside
the
burning
letter,
it
had
strangely
become
the
centre
of
more
remark
and
excitement,
and
was
thus
made
to
sear
her
breast
more
painfully,
than
at
any
time
since
the
first
day
she
put
it
on.
While
Hester
stood
in
that
magic
circle
of
ignominy,
where
the
cunning
cruelty
of
her
sentence
seemed
to
have
fixed
her
for
ever,
the
admirable
preacher
was
looking
down
from
the
sacred
pulpit
upon
an
audience
whose
very
inmost
spirits
had
yielded
to
his
control.
The
sainted
minister
in
the
church!
The
woman
of
the
scarlet
letter
in
the
marketplace!
What
imagination
would
have
been
irreverent
enough
to
surmise
that
the
same
scorching
stigma
was
on
them
both!
XXIII.
THE
REVELATION
OF
THE
SCARLET
LETTER
The
eloquent
voice,
on
which
the
souls
of
the
listening
audience
had
been
borne
aloft
as
on
the
swelling
waves
of
the
sea,
at
length
came
to
a
pause.
There
was
a
momentary
silence,
profound
as
what
should
follow
the
utterance
of
oracles.
Then
ensued
a
murmur
and
half-hushed
tumult,
as
if
the
auditors,
released
from
the
high
spell
that
had
transported
them
into
the
region
of
another's
mind,
were
returning
into
themselves,
with
all
their
awe
and
wonder
still
heavy
on
them.
In
a
moment
more
the
crowd
began
to
gush
forth
from
the
doors
of
the
church.
Now
that
there
was
an
end,
they
needed
more
breath,
more
fit
to
support
the
gross
and
earthly
life
into
which
they
relapsed,
than
that
atmosphere
which
the
preacher
had
converted
into
words
of
flame,
and
had
burdened
with
the
rich
fragrance
of
his
thought.
In
the
open
air
their
rapture
broke
into
speech.
The
street
and
the
market-place
absolutely
babbled,
from
side
to
side,
with
applauses
of
the
minister.
His
hearers
could
not
rest
until
they
had
told
one
another
of
what
each
knew
better
than
he
could
tell
or
hear.
According
to
their
united
testimony,
never
had
man
spoken
in
so
wise,
so
high,
and
so
holy
a
spirit,
as
he
that
spake
this
day;
nor
had
inspiration
ever
breathed
through
mortal
lips
more
evidently
than
it
did
through
his.
Its
influence
could
be
seen,
as
it
were,
descending
upon
him,
and
possessing
him,
and
continually
lifting
him
out
of
the
written
discourse
that
lay
before
him,
and
filling
him
with
ideas
that
must
have
been
as
marvellous
to
himself
as
to
his
audience.
His
subject,
it
appeared,
had
been
the
relation
between
the
Deity
and
the
communities
of
mankind,
with
a
special
reference
to
the
New
England
which
they
were
here
planting
in
the
wilderness.
And,
as
he
drew
towards
the
close,
a
spirit
as
of
prophecy
had
come
upon
him,
constraining
him
to
its
purpose
as
mightily
as
the
old
prophets
of
Israel
were
constrained,
only
with
this
difference,
that,
whereas
the
Jewish
seers
had
denounced
judgments
and
ruin
on
their
country,
it
was
his
mission
to
foretell
a
high
and
glorious
destiny
for
the
newly
gathered
people
of
the
Lord.
But,
throughout
it
all,
and
through
the
whole
discourse,
there
had
been
a
certain
deep,
sad
undertone
of
pathos,
which
could
not
be
interpreted
otherwise
than
as
the
natural
regret
of
one
soon
to
pass
away.
Yes;
their
minister
whom
they
so
loved--and
who
so
loved
them
all,
that
he
could
not
depart
heavenward
without
a
sigh--had
the
foreboding
of
untimely
death
upon
him,
and
would
soon
leave
them
in
their
tears.
This
idea
of
his
transitory
stay
on
earth
gave
the
last
emphasis
to
the
effect
which
the
preacher
had
produced;
it
was
as
if
an
angel,
in
his
passage
to
the
skies,
had
shaken
his
bright
wings
over
the
people
for
an
instant--at
once
a
shadow
and
a
splendour--and
had
shed
down
a
shower
of
golden
truths
upon
them.
Thus,
there
had
come
to
the
Reverend
Mr.
Dimmesdale--as
to
most
men,
in
their
various
spheres,
though
seldom
recognised
until
they
see
it
far
behind
them--an
epoch
of
life
more
brilliant
and
full
of
triumph
than
any
previous
one,
or
than
any
which
could
hereafter
be.
He
stood,
at
this
moment,
on
the
very
proudest
eminence
of
superiority,
to
which
the
gifts
or
intellect,
rich
lore,
prevailing
eloquence,
and
a
reputation
of
whitest
sanctity,
could
exalt
a
clergyman
in
New
England's
earliest
days,
when
the
professional
character
was
of
itself
a
lofty
pedestal.
Such
was
the
position
which
the
minister
occupied,
as
he
bowed
his
head
forward
on
the
cushions
of
the
pulpit
at
the
close
of
his
Election
Sermon.
Meanwhile
Hester
Prynne
was
standing
beside
the
scaffold
of
the
pillory,
with
the
scarlet
letter
still
burning
on
her
breast!
Now
was
heard
again
the
clamour
of
the
music,
and
the
measured
tramp
of
the
military
escort
issuing
from
the
church
door.
The
procession
was
to
be
marshalled
thence
to
the
town
hall,
where
a
solemn
banquet
would
complete
the
ceremonies
of
the
day.
Once
more,
therefore,
the
train
of
venerable
and
majestic
fathers
were
seen
moving
through
a
broad
pathway
of
the
people,
who
drew
back
reverently,
on
either
side,
as
the
Governor
and
magistrates,
the
old
and
wise
men,
the
holy
ministers,
and
all
that
were
eminent
and
renowned,
advanced
into
the
midst
of
them.
When
they
were
fairly
in
the
marketplace,
their
presence
was
greeted
by
a
shout.
This--though
doubtless
it
might
acquire
additional
force
and
volume
from
the
child-like
loyalty
which
the
age
awarded
to
its
rulers--was
felt
to
be
an
irrepressible
outburst
of
enthusiasm
kindled
in
the
auditors
by
that
high
strain
of
eloquence
which
was
yet
reverberating
in
their
ears.
Each
felt
the
impulse
in
himself,
and
in
the
same
breath,
caught
it
from
his
neighbour.
Within
the
church,
it
had
hardly
been
kept
down;
beneath
the
sky
it
pealed
upward
to
the
zenith.
There
were
human
beings
enough,
and
enough
of
highly
wrought
and
symphonious
feeling
to
produce
that
more
impressive
sound
than
the
organ
tones
of
the
blast,
or
the
thunder,
or
the
roar
of
the
sea;
even
that
mighty
swell
of
many
voices,
blended
into
one
great
voice
by
the
universal
impulse
which
makes
likewise
one
vast
heart
out
of
the
many.
Never,
from
the
soil
of
New
England
had
gone
up
such
a
shout!
Never,
on
New
England
soil
had
stood
the
man
so
honoured
by
his
mortal
brethren
as
the
preacher!
How
fared
it
with
him,
then?
Were
there
not
the
brilliant
particles
of
a
halo
in
the
air
about
his
head?
So
etherealised
by
spirit
as
he
was,
and
so
apotheosised
by
worshipping
admirers,
did
his
footsteps,
in
the
procession,
really
tread
upon
the
dust
of
earth?
As
the
ranks
of
military
men
and
civil
fathers
moved
onward,
all
eyes
were
turned
towards
the
point
where
the
minister
was
seen
to
approach
among
them.
The
shout
died
into
a
murmur,
as
one
portion
of
the
crowd
after
another
obtained
a
glimpse
of
him.
How
feeble
and
pale
he
looked,
amid
all
his
triumph!
The
energy--or
say,
rather,
the
inspiration
which
had
held
him
up,
until
he
should
have
delivered
the
sacred
message
that
had
brought
its
own
strength
along
with
it
from
heaven--was
withdrawn,
now
that
it
had
so
faithfully
performed
its
office.
The
glow,
which
they
had
just
before
beheld
burning
on
his
cheek,
was
extinguished,
like
a
flame
that
sinks
down
hopelessly
among
the
late
decaying
embers.
It
seemed
hardly
the
face
of
a
man
alive,
with
such
a
death-like
hue:
it
was
hardly
a
man
with
life
in
him,
that
tottered
on
his
path
so
nervously,
yet
tottered,
and
did
not
fall!
One
of
his
clerical
brethren--it
was
the
venerable
John
Wilson--observing
the
state
in
which
Mr.
Dimmesdale
was
left
by
the
retiring
wave
of
intellect
and
sensibility,
stepped
forward
hastily
to
offer
his
support.
The
minister
tremulously,
but
decidedly,
repelled
the
old
man's
arm.
He
still
walked
onward,
if
that
movement
could
be
so
described,
which
rather
resembled
the
wavering
effort
of
an
infant,
with
its
mother's
arms
in
view,
outstretched
to
tempt
him
forward.
And
now,
almost
imperceptible
as
were
the
latter
steps
of
his
progress,
he
had
come
opposite
the
well-remembered
and
weather-darkened
scaffold,
where,
long
since,
with
all
that
dreary
lapse
of
time
between,
Hester
Prynne
had
encountered
the
world's
ignominious
stare.
There
stood
Hester,
holding
little
Pearl
by
the
hand!
And
there
was
the
scarlet
letter
on
her
breast!
The
minister
here
made
a
pause;
although
the
music
still
played
the
stately
and
rejoicing
march
to
which
the
procession
moved.
It
summoned
him
onward--inward
to
the
festival!--but
here
he
made
a
pause.
Bellingham,
for
the
last
few
moments,
had
kept
an
anxious
eye
upon
him.
He
now
left
his
own
place
in
the
procession,
and
advanced
to
give
assistance
judging,
from
Mr.
Dimmesdale's
aspect
that
he
must
otherwise
inevitably
fall.
But
there
was
something
in
the
latter's
expression
that
warned
back
the
magistrate,
although
a
man
not
readily
obeying
the
vague
intimations
that
pass
from
one
spirit
to
another.
The
crowd,
meanwhile,
looked
on
with
awe
and
wonder.
This
earthly
faintness,
was,
in
their
view,
only
another
phase
of
the
minister's
celestial
strength;
nor
would
it
have
seemed
a
miracle
too
high
to
be
wrought
for
one
so
holy,
had
he
ascended
before
their
eyes,
waxing
dimmer
and
brighter,
and
fading
at
last
into
the
light
of
heaven!
He
turned
towards
the
scaffold,
and
stretched
forth
his
arms.
"Hester,"
said
he,
"come
hither!
Come,
my
little
Pearl!"
It
was
a
ghastly
look
with
which
he
regarded
them;
but
there
was
something
at
once
tender
and
strangely
triumphant
in
it.
The
child,
with
the
bird-like
motion,
which
was
one
of
her
characteristics,
flew
to
him,
and
clasped
her
arms
about
his
knees.
Hester
Prynne--slowly,
as
if
impelled
by
inevitable
fate,
and
against
her
strongest
will--likewise
drew
near,
but
paused
before
she
reached
him.
At
this
instant
old
Roger
Chillingworth
thrust
himself
through
the
crowd--or,
perhaps,
so
dark,
disturbed,
and
evil
was
his
look,
he
rose
up
out
of
some
nether
region--to
snatch
back
his
victim
from
what
he
sought
to
do!
Be
that
as
it
might,
the
old
man
rushed
forward,
and
caught
the
minister
by
the
arm.
"Madman,
hold!
what
is
your
purpose?"
whispered
he.
"Wave
back
that
woman!
Cast
off
this
child!
All
shall
be
well!
Do
not
blacken
your
fame,
and
perish
in
dishonour!
I
can
yet
save
you!
Would
you
bring
infamy
on
your
sacred
profession?"
"Ha,
tempter!
Methinks
thou
art
too
late!"
answered
the
minister,
encountering
his
eye,
fearfully,
but
firmly.
"Thy
power
is
not
what
it
was!
With
God's
help,
I
shall
escape
thee
now!"
He
again
extended
his
hand
to
the
woman
of
the
scarlet
letter.
"Hester
Prynne,"
cried
he,
with
a
piercing
earnestness,
"in
the
name
of
Him,
so
terrible
and
so
merciful,
who
gives
me
grace,
at
this
last
moment,
to
do
what--for
my
own
heavy
sin
and
miserable
agony--I
withheld
myself
from
doing
seven
years
ago,
come
hither
now,
and
twine
thy
strength
about
me!
Thy
strength,
Hester;
but
let
it
be
guided
by
the
will
which
God
hath
granted
me!
This
wretched
and
wronged
old
man
is
opposing
it
with
all
his
might!--with
all
his
own
might,
and
the
fiend's!
Come,
Hester--come!
Support
me
up
yonder
scaffold."
The
crowd
was
in
a
tumult.
The
men
of
rank
and
dignity,
who
stood
more
immediately
around
the
clergyman,
were
so
taken
by
surprise,
and
so
perplexed
as
to
the
purport
of
what
they
saw--unable
to
receive
the
explanation
which
most
readily
presented
itself,
or
to
imagine
any
other--that
they
remained
silent
and
inactive
spectators
of
the
judgement
which
Providence
seemed
about
to
work.
They
beheld
the
minister,
leaning
on
Hester's
shoulder,
and
supported
by
her
arm
around
him,
approach
the
scaffold,
and
ascend
its
steps;
while
still
the
little
hand
of
the
sin-born
child
was
clasped
in
his.
Old
Roger
Chillingworth
followed,
as
one
intimately
connected
with
the
drama
of
guilt
and
sorrow
in
which
they
had
all
been
actors,
and
well
entitled,
therefore
to
be
present
at
its
closing
scene.
"Hadst
thou
sought
the
whole
earth
over,"
said
he
looking
darkly
at
the
clergyman,
"there
was
no
one
place
so
secret--no
high
place
nor
lowly
place,
where
thou
couldst
have
escaped
me--save
on
this
very
scaffold!"
"Thanks
be
to
Him
who
hath
led
me
hither!"
answered
the
minister.
Yet
he
trembled,
and
turned
to
Hester,
with
an
expression
of
doubt
and
anxiety
in
his
eyes,
not
the
less
evidently
betrayed,
that
there
was
a
feeble
smile
upon
his
lips.
"Is
not
this
better,"
murmured
he,
"than
what
we
dreamed
of
in
the
forest?"
"I
know
not!
I
know
not!"
she
hurriedly
replied.
"Better?
Yea;
so
we
may
both
die,
and
little
Pearl
die
with
us!"
"For
thee
and
Pearl,
be
it
as
God
shall
order,"
said
the
minister;
"and
God
is
merciful!
Let
me
now
do
the
will
which
He
hath
made
plain
before
my
sight.
For,
Hester,
I
am
a
dying
man.
So
let
me
make
haste
to
take
my
shame
upon
me!"
Partly
supported
by
Hester
Prynne,
and
holding
one
hand
of
little
Pearl's,
the
Reverend
Mr.
Dimmesdale
turned
to
the
dignified
and
venerable
rulers;
to
the
holy
ministers,
who
were
his
brethren;
to
the
people,
whose
great
heart
was
thoroughly
appalled
yet
overflowing
with
tearful
sympathy,
as
knowing
that
some
deep
life-matter--which,
if
full
of
sin,
was
full
of
anguish
and
repentance
likewise--was
now
to
be
laid
open
to
them.
The
sun,
but
little
past
its
meridian,
shone
down
upon
the
clergyman,
and
gave
a
distinctness
to
his
figure,
as
he
stood
out
from
all
the
earth,
to
put
in
his
plea
of
guilty
at
the
bar
of
Eternal
Justice.
"People
of
New
England!"
cried
he,
with
a
voice
that
rose
over
them,
high,
solemn,
and
majestic--yet
had
always
a
tremor
through
it,
and
sometimes
a
shriek,
struggling
up
out
of
a
fathomless
depth
of
remorse
and
woe--"ye,
that
have
loved
me!--ye,
that
have
deemed
me
holy!--behold
me
here,
the
one
sinner
of
the
world!
At
last--at
last!--I
stand
upon
the
spot
where,
seven
years
since,
I
should
have
stood,
here,
with
this
woman,
whose
arm,
more
than
the
little
strength
wherewith
I
have
crept
hitherward,
sustains
me
at
this
dreadful
moment,
from
grovelling
down
upon
my
face!
Lo,
the
scarlet
letter
which
Hester
wears!
Ye
have
all
shuddered
at
it!
Wherever
her
walk
hath
been--wherever,
so
miserably
burdened,
she
may
have
hoped
to
find
repose--it
hath
cast
a
lurid
gleam
of
awe
and
horrible
repugnance
round
about
her.
But
there
stood
one
in
the
midst
of
you,
at
whose
brand
of
sin
and
infamy
ye
have
not
shuddered!"
It
seemed,
at
this
point,
as
if
the
minister
must
leave
the
remainder
of
his
secret
undisclosed.
But
he
fought
back
the
bodily
weakness--and,
still
more,
the
faintness
of
heart--that
was
striving
for
the
mastery
with
him.
He
threw
off
all
assistance,
and
stepped
passionately
forward
a
pace
before
the
woman
and
the
children.
"It
was
on
him!"
he
continued,
with
a
kind
of
fierceness;
so
determined
was
he
to
speak
out
the
whole.
"God's
eye
beheld
it!
The
angels
were
for
ever
pointing
at
it!
(The
Devil
knew
it
well,
and
fretted
it
continually
with
the
touch
of
his
burning
finger!)
But
he
hid
it
cunningly
from
men,
and
walked
among
you
with
the
mien
of
a
spirit,
mournful,
because
so
pure
in
a
sinful
world!--and
sad,
because
he
missed
his
heavenly
kindred!
Now,
at
the
death-hour,
he
stands
up
before
you!
He
bids
you
look
again
at
Hester's
scarlet
letter!
He
tells
you,
that,
with
all
its
mysterious
horror,
it
is
but
the
shadow
of
what
he
bears
on
his
own
breast,
and
that
even
this,
his
own
red
stigma,
is
no
more
than
the
type
of
what
has
seared
his
inmost
heart!
Stand
any
here
that
question
God's
judgment
on
a
sinner!
Behold!
Behold,
a
dreadful
witness
of
it!"
With
a
convulsive
motion,
he
tore
away
the
ministerial
band
from
before
his
breast.
It
was
revealed!
But
it
were
irreverent
to
describe
that
revelation.
For
an
instant,
the
gaze
of
the
horror-stricken
multitude
was
concentrated
on
the
ghastly
miracle;
while
the
minister
stood,
with
a
flush
of
triumph
in
his
face,
as
one
who,
in
the
crisis
of
acutest
pain,
had
won
a
victory.
Then,
down
he
sank
upon
the
scaffold!
Hester
partly
raised
him,
and
supported
his
head
against
her
bosom.
Old
Roger
Chillingworth
knelt
down
beside
him,
with
a
blank,
dull
countenance,
out
of
which
the
life
seemed
to
have
departed.
"Thou
hast
escaped
me!"
he
repeated
more
than
once.
"Thou
hast
escaped
me!"
"May
God
forgive
thee!"
said
the
minister.
"Thou,
too,
hast
deeply
sinned!"
He
withdrew
his
dying
eyes
from
the
old
man,
and
fixed
them
on
the
woman
and
the
child.
"My
little
Pearl,"
said
he,
feebly
and
there
was
a
sweet
and
gentle
smile
over
his
face,
as
of
a
spirit
sinking
into
deep
repose;
nay,
now
that
the
burden
was
removed,
it
seemed
almost
as
if
he
would
be
sportive
with
the
child--"dear
little
Pearl,
wilt
thou
kiss
me
now?
Thou
wouldst
not,
yonder,
in
the
forest!
But
now
thou
wilt?"
Pearl
kissed
his
lips.
A
spell
was
broken.
The
great
scene
of
grief,
in
which
the
wild
infant
bore
a
part
had
developed
all
her
sympathies;
and
as
her
tears
fell
upon
her
father's
cheek,
they
were
the
pledge
that
she
would
grow
up
amid
human
joy
and
sorrow,
nor
forever
do
battle
with
the
world,
but
be
a
woman
in
it.
Towards
her
mother,
too,
Pearl's
errand
as
a
messenger
of
anguish
was
fulfilled.
"Hester,"
said
the
clergyman,
"farewell!"
"Shall
we
not
meet
again?"
whispered
she,
bending
her
face
down
close
to
his.
"Shall
we
not
spend
our
immortal
life
together?
Surely,
surely,
we
have
ransomed
one
another,
with
all
this
woe!
Thou
lookest
far
into
eternity,
with
those
bright
dying
eyes!
Then
tell
me
what
thou
seest!"
"Hush,
Hester--hush!"
said
he,
with
tremulous
solemnity.
"The
law
we
broke!--the
sin
here
awfully
revealed!--let
these
alone
be
in
thy
thoughts!
I
fear!
I
fear!
It
may
be,
that,
when
we
forgot
our
God--when
we
violated
our
reverence
each
for
the
other's
soul--it
was
thenceforth
vain
to
hope
that
we
could
meet
hereafter,
in
an
everlasting
and
pure
reunion.
God
knows;
and
He
is
merciful!
He
hath
proved
his
mercy,
most
of
all,
in
my
afflictions.
By
giving
me
this
burning
torture
to
bear
upon
my
breast!
By
sending
yonder
dark
and
terrible
old
man,
to
keep
the
torture
always
at
red-heat!
By
bringing
me
hither,
to
die
this
death
of
triumphant
ignominy
before
the
people!
Had
either
of
these
agonies
been
wanting,
I
had
been
lost
for
ever!
Praised
be
His
name!
His
will
be
done!
Farewell!"
That
final
word
came
forth
with
the
minister's
expiring
breath.
The
multitude,
silent
till
then,
broke
out
in
a
strange,
deep
voice
of
awe
and
wonder,
which
could
not
as
yet
find
utterance,
save
in
this
murmur
that
rolled
so
heavily
after
the
departed
spirit.
XXIV.
CONCLUSION
After
many
days,
when
time
sufficed
for
the
people
to
arrange
their
thoughts
in
reference
to
the
foregoing
scene,
there
was
more
than
one
account
of
what
had
been
witnessed
on
the
scaffold.
Most
of
the
spectators
testified
to
having
seen,
on
the
breast
of
the
unhappy
minister,
a
SCARLET
LETTER--the
very
semblance
of
that
worn
by
Hester
Prynne--imprinted
in
the
flesh.
As
regarded
its
origin
there
were
various
explanations,
all
of
which
must
necessarily
have
been
conjectural.
Some
affirmed
that
the
Reverend
Mr.
Dimmesdale,
on
the
very
day
when
Hester
Prynne
first
wore
her
ignominious
badge,
had
begun
a
course
of
penance--which
he
afterwards,
in
so
many
futile
methods,
followed
out--by
inflicting
a
hideous
torture
on
himself.
Others
contended
that
the
stigma
had
not
been
produced
until
a
long
time
subsequent,
when
old
Roger
Chillingworth,
being
a
potent
necromancer,
had
caused
it
to
appear,
through
the
agency
of
magic
and
poisonous
drugs.
Others,
again
and
those
best
able
to
appreciate
the
minister's
peculiar
sensibility,
and
the
wonderful
operation
of
his
spirit
upon
the
body--whispered
their
belief,
that
the
awful
symbol
was
the
effect
of
the
ever-active
tooth
of
remorse,
gnawing
from
the
inmost
heart
outwardly,
and
at
last
manifesting
Heaven's
dreadful
judgment
by
the
visible
presence
of
the
letter.
The
reader
may
choose
among
these
theories.
We
have
thrown
all
the
light
we
could
acquire
upon
the
portent,
and
would
gladly,
now
that
it
has
done
its
office,
erase
its
deep
print
out
of
our
own
brain,
where
long
meditation
has
fixed
it
in
very
undesirable
distinctness.
It
is
singular,
nevertheless,
that
certain
persons,
who
were
spectators
of
the
whole
scene,
and
professed
never
once
to
have
removed
their
eyes
from
the
Reverend
Mr.
Dimmesdale,
denied
that
there
was
any
mark
whatever
on
his
breast,
more
than
on
a
new-born
infant's.
Neither,
by
their
report,
had
his
dying
words
acknowledged,
nor
even
remotely
implied,
any--the
slightest--connexion
on
his
part,
with
the
guilt
for
which
Hester
Prynne
had
so
long
worn
the
scarlet
letter.
According
to
these
highly-respectable
witnesses,
the
minister,
conscious
that
he
was
dying--conscious,
also,
that
the
reverence
of
the
multitude
placed
him
already
among
saints
and
angels--had
desired,
by
yielding
up
his
breath
in
the
arms
of
that
fallen
woman,
to
express
to
the
world
how
utterly
nugatory
is
the
choicest
of
man's
own
righteousness.
After
exhausting
life
in
his
efforts
for
mankind's
spiritual
good,
he
had
made
the
manner
of
his
death
a
parable,
in
order
to
impress
on
his
admirers
the
mighty
and
mournful
lesson,
that,
in
the
view
of
Infinite
Purity,
we
are
sinners
all
alike.
It
was
to
teach
them,
that
the
holiest
amongst
us
has
but
attained
so
far
above
his
fellows
as
to
discern
more
clearly
the
Mercy
which
looks
down,
and
repudiate
more
utterly
the
phantom
of
human
merit,
which
would
look
aspiringly
upward.
Without
disputing
a
truth
so
momentous,
we
must
be
allowed
to
consider
this
version
of
Mr.
Dimmesdale's
story
as
only
an
instance
of
that
stubborn
fidelity
with
which
a
man's
friends--and
especially
a
clergyman's--will
sometimes
uphold
his
character,
when
proofs,
clear
as
the
mid-day
sunshine
on
the
scarlet
letter,
establish
him
a
false
and
sin-stained
creature
of
the
dust.
The
authority
which
we
have
chiefly
followed--a
manuscript
of
old
date,
drawn
up
from
the
verbal
testimony
of
individuals,
some
of
whom
had
known
Hester
Prynne,
while
others
had
heard
the
tale
from
contemporary
witnesses
fully
confirms
the
view
taken
in
the
foregoing
pages.
Among
many
morals
which
press
upon
us
from
the
poor
minister's
miserable
experience,
we
put
only
this
into
a
sentence:--"Be
true!
Be
true!
Be
true!
Show
freely
to
the
world,
if
not
your
worst,
yet
some
trait
whereby
the
worst
may
be
inferred!"
Nothing
was
more
remarkable
than
the
change
which
took
place,
almost
immediately
after
Mr.
Dimmesdale's
death,
in
the
appearance
and
demeanour
of
the
old
man
known
as
Roger
Chillingworth.
All
his
strength
and
energy--all
his
vital
and
intellectual
force--seemed
at
once
to
desert
him,
insomuch
that
he
positively
withered
up,
shrivelled
away
and
almost
vanished
from
mortal
sight,
like
an
uprooted
weed
that
lies
wilting
in
the
sun.
This
unhappy
man
had
made
the
very
principle
of
his
life
to
consist
in
the
pursuit
and
systematic
exercise
of
revenge;
and
when,
by
its
completest
triumph
consummation
that
evil
principle
was
left
with
no
further
material
to
support
it--when,
in
short,
there
was
no
more
Devil's
work
on
earth
for
him
to
do,
it
only
remained
for
the
unhumanised
mortal
to
betake
himself
whither
his
master
would
find
him
tasks
enough,
and
pay
him
his
wages
duly.
But,
to
all
these
shadowy
beings,
so
long
our
near
acquaintances--as
well
Roger
Chillingworth
as
his
companions
we
would
fain
be
merciful.
It
is
a
curious
subject
of
observation
and
inquiry,
whether
hatred
and
love
be
not
the
same
thing
at
bottom.
Each,
in
its
utmost
development,
supposes
a
high
degree
of
intimacy
and
heart-knowledge;
each
renders
one
individual
dependent
for
the
food
of
his
affections
and
spiritual
fife
upon
another:
each
leaves
the
passionate
lover,
or
the
no
less
passionate
hater,
forlorn
and
desolate
by
the
withdrawal
of
his
subject.
Philosophically
considered,
therefore,
the
two
passions
seem
essentially
the
same,
except
that
one
happens
to
be
seen
in
a
celestial
radiance,
and
the
other
in
a
dusky
and
lurid
glow.
In
the
spiritual
world,
the
old
physician
and
the
minister--mutual
victims
as
they
have
been--may,
unawares,
have
found
their
earthly
stock
of
hatred
and
antipathy
transmuted
into
golden
love.
Leaving
this
discussion
apart,
we
have
a
matter
of
business
to
communicate
to
the
reader.
At
old
Roger
Chillingworth's
decease,
(which
took
place
within
the
year),
and
by
his
last
will
and
testament,
of
which
Governor
Bellingham
and
the
Reverend
Mr.
Wilson
were
executors,
he
bequeathed
a
very
considerable
amount
of
property,
both
here
and
in
England
to
little
Pearl,
the
daughter
of
Hester
Prynne.
So
Pearl--the
elf
child--the
demon
offspring,
as
some
people
up
to
that
epoch
persisted
in
considering
her--became
the
richest
heiress
of
her
day
in
the
New
World.
Not
improbably
this
circumstance
wrought
a
very
material
change
in
the
public
estimation;
and
had
the
mother
and
child
remained
here,
little
Pearl
at
a
marriageable
period
of
life
might
have
mingled
her
wild
blood
with
the
lineage
of
the
devoutest
Puritan
among
them
all.
But,
in
no
long
time
after
the
physician's
death,
the
wearer
of
the
scarlet
letter
disappeared,
and
Pearl
along
with
her.
For
many
years,
though
a
vague
report
would
now
and
then
find
its
way
across
the
sea--like
a
shapeless
piece
of
driftwood
tossed
ashore
with
the
initials
of
a
name
upon
it--yet
no
tidings
of
them
unquestionably
authentic
were
received.
The
story
of
the
scarlet
letter
grew
into
a
legend.
Its
spell,
however,
was
still
potent,
and
kept
the
scaffold
awful
where
the
poor
minister
had
died,
and
likewise
the
cottage
by
the
sea-shore
where
Hester
Prynne
had
dwelt.
Near
this
latter
spot,
one
afternoon
some
children
were
at
play,
when
they
beheld
a
tall
woman
in
a
gray
robe
approach
the
cottage-door.
In
all
those
years
it
had
never
once
been
opened;
but
either
she
unlocked
it
or
the
decaying
wood
and
iron
yielded
to
her
hand,
or
she
glided
shadow-like
through
these
impediments--and,
at
all
events,
went
in.
On
the
threshold
she
paused--turned
partly
round--for
perchance
the
idea
of
entering
alone
and
all
so
changed,
the
home
of
so
intense
a
former
life,
was
more
dreary
and
desolate
than
even
she
could
bear.
But
her
hesitation
was
only
for
an
instant,
though
long
enough
to
display
a
scarlet
letter
on
her
breast.
And
Hester
Prynne
had
returned,
and
taken
up
her
long-forsaken
shame!
But
where
was
little
Pearl?
If
still
alive
she
must
now
have
been
in
the
flush
and
bloom
of
early
womanhood.
None
knew--nor
ever
learned
with
the
fulness
of
perfect
certainty--whether
the
elf-child
had
gone
thus
untimely
to
a
maiden
grave;
or
whether
her
wild,
rich
nature
had
been
softened
and
subdued
and
made
capable
of
a
woman's
gentle
happiness.
But
through
the
remainder
of
Hester's
life
there
were
indications
that
the
recluse
of
the
scarlet
letter
was
the
object
of
love
and
interest
with
some
inhabitant
of
another
land.
Letters
came,
with
armorial
seals
upon
them,
though
of
bearings
unknown
to
English
heraldry.
In
the
cottage
there
were
articles
of
comfort
and
luxury
such
as
Hester
never
cared
to
use,
but
which
only
wealth
could
have
purchased
and
affection
have
imagined
for
her.
There
were
trifles
too,
little
ornaments,
beautiful
tokens
of
a
continual
remembrance,
that
must
have
been
wrought
by
delicate
fingers
at
the
impulse
of
a
fond
heart.
And
once
Hester
was
seen
embroidering
a
baby-garment
with
such
a
lavish
richness
of
golden
fancy
as
would
have
raised
a
public
tumult
had
any
infant
thus
apparelled,
been
shown
to
our
sober-hued
community.
In
fine,
the
gossips
of
that
day
believed--and
Mr.
Surveyor
Pue,
who
made
investigations
a
century
later,
believed--and
one
of
his
recent
successors
in
office,
moreover,
faithfully
believes--that
Pearl
was
not
only
alive,
but
married,
and
happy,
and
mindful
of
her
mother;
and
that
she
would
most
joyfully
have
entertained
that
sad
and
lonely
mother
at
her
fireside.
But
there
was
a
more
real
life
for
Hester
Prynne,
here,
in
New
England,
than
in
that
unknown
region
where
Pearl
had
found
a
home.
Here
had
been
her
sin;
here,
her
sorrow;
and
here
was
yet
to
be
her
penitence.
She
had
returned,
therefore,
and
resumed--of
her
own
free
will,
for
not
the
sternest
magistrate
of
that
iron
period
would
have
imposed
it--resumed
the
symbol
of
which
we
have
related
so
dark
a
tale.
Never
afterwards
did
it
quit
her
bosom.
But,
in
the
lapse
of
the
toilsome,
thoughtful,
and
self-devoted
years
that
made
up
Hester's
life,
the
scarlet
letter
ceased
to
be
a
stigma
which
attracted
the
world's
scorn
and
bitterness,
and
became
a
type
of
something
to
be
sorrowed
over,
and
looked
upon
with
awe,
yet
with
reverence
too.
And,
as
Hester
Prynne
had
no
selfish
ends,
nor
lived
in
any
measure
for
her
own
profit
and
enjoyment,
people
brought
all
their
sorrows
and
perplexities,
and
besought
her
counsel,
as
one
who
had
herself
gone
through
a
mighty
trouble.
Women,
more
especially--in
the
continually
recurring
trials
of
wounded,
wasted,
wronged,
misplaced,
or
erring
and
sinful
passion--or
with
the
dreary
burden
of
a
heart
unyielded,
because
unvalued
and
unsought
came
to
Hester's
cottage,
demanding
why
they
were
so
wretched,
and
what
the
remedy!
Hester
comforted
and
counselled
them,
as
best
she
might.
She
assured
them,
too,
of
her
firm
belief
that,
at
some
brighter
period,
when
the
world
should
have
grown
ripe
for
it,
in
Heaven's
own
time,
a
new
truth
would
be
revealed,
in
order
to
establish
the
whole
relation
between
man
and
woman
on
a
surer
ground
of
mutual
happiness.
Earlier
in
life,
Hester
had
vainly
imagined
that
she
herself
might
be
the
destined
prophetess,
but
had
long
since
recognised
the
impossibility
that
any
mission
of
divine
and
mysterious
truth
should
be
confided
to
a
woman
stained
with
sin,
bowed
down
with
shame,
or
even
burdened
with
a
life-long
sorrow.
The
angel
and
apostle
of
the
coming
revelation
must
be
a
woman,
indeed,
but
lofty,
pure,
and
beautiful,
and
wise;
moreover,
not
through
dusky
grief,
but
the
ethereal
medium
of
joy;
and
showing
how
sacred
love
should
make
us
happy,
by
the
truest
test
of
a
life
successful
to
such
an
end.
So
said
Hester
Prynne,
and
glanced
her
sad
eyes
downward
at
the
scarlet
letter.
And,
after
many,
many
years,
a
new
grave
was
delved,
near
an
old
and
sunken
one,
in
that
burial-ground
beside
which
King's
Chapel
has
since
been
built.
It
was
near
that
old
and
sunken
grave,
yet
with
a
space
between,
as
if
the
dust
of
the
two
sleepers
had
no
right
to
mingle.
Yet
one
tomb-stone
served
for
both.
All
around,
there
were
monuments
carved
with
armorial
bearings;
and
on
this
simple
slab
of
slate--as
the
curious
investigator
may
still
discern,
and
perplex
himself
with
the
purport--there
appeared
the
semblance
of
an
engraved
escutcheon.
It
bore
a
device,
a
herald's
wording
of
which
may
serve
for
a
motto
and
brief
description
of
our
now
concluded
legend;
so
sombre
is
it,
and
relieved
only
by
one
ever-glowing
point
of
light
gloomier
than
the
shadow:--
"ON
A
FIELD,
SABLE,
THE
LETTER
A,
GULES"
