"INTRODUCTORY TO \"THE SCARLET LETTER\"\n\nIt is a little remarkable, that--though disinclined to talk\novermuch of myself and my affairs at the fireside, and to my\npersonal friends--an autobiographical impulse should twice in my\nlife have taken possession of me, in addressing the public.  The\nfirst time was three or four years since, when I favoured the\nreader--inexcusably, and for no earthly reason that either the\nindulgent reader or the intrusive author could imagine--with a\ndescription of my way of life in the deep quietude of an Old\nManse.  And now--because, beyond my deserts, I was happy enough\nto find a listener or two on the former occasion--I again seize\nthe public by the button, and talk of my three years' experience\nin a Custom-House.  The example of the famous \"P. P., Clerk of\nthis Parish,\" was never more faithfully followed.  The truth\nseems to be, however, that when he casts his leaves forth upon\nthe wind, the author addresses, not the many who will fling\naside his volume, or never take it up, but the few who will\nunderstand him better than most of his schoolmates or lifemates.\nSome authors, indeed, do far more than this, and indulge\nthemselves in such confidential depths of revelation as could\nfittingly be addressed only and exclusively to the one heart and\nmind of perfect sympathy; as if the printed book, thrown at\nlarge on the wide world, were certain to find out the divided\nsegment of the writer's own nature, and complete his circle of\nexistence by bringing him into communion with it.  It is scarcely\ndecorous, however, to speak all, even where we speak\nimpersonally.  But, as thoughts are frozen and utterance\nbenumbed, unless the speaker stand in some true relation with\nhis audience, it may be pardonable to imagine that a friend, a\nkind and apprehensive, though not the closest friend, is\nlistening to our talk; and then, a native reserve being thawed\nby this genial consciousness, we may prate of the circumstances\nthat lie around us, and even of ourself, but still keep the\ninmost Me behind its veil.  To this extent, and within these\nlimits, an author, methinks, may be autobiographical, without\nviolating either the reader's rights or his own.\n\nIt will be seen, likewise, that this Custom-House sketch has a\ncertain propriety, of a kind always recognised in literature, as\nexplaining how a large portion of the following pages came into\nmy possession, and as offering proofs of the authenticity of a\nnarrative therein contained.  This, in fact--a desire to put\nmyself in my true position as editor, or very little more, of\nthe most prolix among the tales that make up my volume--this,\nand no other, is my true reason for assuming a personal relation\nwith the public.  In accomplishing the main purpose, it has\nappeared allowable, by a few extra touches, to give a faint\nrepresentation of a mode of life not heretofore described,\ntogether with some of the characters that move in it, among whom\nthe author happened to make one.\n\nIn my native town of Salem, at the head of what, half a century\nago, in the days of old King Derby, was a bustling wharf--but\nwhich is now burdened with decayed wooden warehouses, and\nexhibits few or no symptoms of commercial life; except, perhaps,\na bark or brig, half-way down its melancholy length, discharging\nhides; or, nearer at hand, a Nova Scotia schooner, pitching out\nher cargo of firewood--at the head, I say, of this dilapidated\nwharf, which the tide often overflows, and along which, at the\nbase and in the rear of the row of buildings, the track of many\nlanguid years is seen in a border of unthrifty grass--here, with\na view from its front windows adown this not very enlivening\nprospect, and thence across the harbour, stands a spacious\nedifice of brick.  From the loftiest point of its roof, during\nprecisely three and a half hours of each forenoon, floats or\ndroops, in breeze or calm, the banner of the republic; but with\nthe thirteen stripes turned vertically, instead of horizontally,\nand thus indicating that a civil, and not a military, post of\nUncle Sam's government is here established.  Its front is\nornamented with a portico of half-a-dozen wooden pillars,\nsupporting a balcony, beneath which a flight of wide granite\nsteps descends towards the street.  Over the entrance hovers an\nenormous specimen of the American eagle, with outspread wings, a\nshield before her breast, and, if I recollect aright, a bunch of\nintermingled thunderbolts and barbed arrows in each claw.  With\nthe customary infirmity of temper that characterizes this\nunhappy fowl, she appears by the fierceness of her beak and eye,\nand the general truculency of her attitude, to threaten mischief\nto the inoffensive community; and especially to warn all\ncitizens careful of their safety against intruding on the\npremises which she overshadows with her wings.  Nevertheless,\nvixenly as she looks, many people are seeking at this very\nmoment to shelter themselves under the wing of the federal\neagle; imagining, I presume, that her bosom has all the softness\nand snugness of an eiderdown pillow.  But she has no great\ntenderness even in her best of moods, and, sooner or\nlater--oftener soon than late--is apt to fling off her nestlings\nwith a scratch of her claw, a dab of her beak, or a rankling\nwound from her barbed arrows.\n\nThe pavement round about the above-described edifice--which we\nmay as well name at once as the Custom-House of the port--has\ngrass enough growing in its chinks to show that it has not, of\nlate days, been worn by any multitudinous resort of business.  In\nsome months of the year, however, there often chances a forenoon\nwhen affairs move onward with a livelier tread.  Such occasions\nmight remind the elderly citizen of that period, before the last\nwar with England, when Salem was a port by itself; not scorned,\nas she is now, by her own merchants and ship-owners, who permit\nher wharves to crumble to ruin while their ventures go to swell,\nneedlessly and imperceptibly, the mighty flood of commerce at\nNew York or Boston.  On some such morning, when three or four\nvessels happen to have arrived at once usually from Africa or\nSouth America--or to be on the verge of their departure\nthitherward, there is a sound of frequent feet passing briskly\nup and down the granite steps.  Here, before his own wife has\ngreeted him, you may greet the sea-flushed ship-master, just in\nport, with his vessel's papers under his arm in a tarnished tin\nbox.  Here, too, comes his owner, cheerful, sombre, gracious or\nin the sulks, accordingly as his scheme of the now accomplished\nvoyage has been realized in merchandise that will readily be\nturned to gold, or has buried him under a bulk of incommodities\nsuch as nobody will care to rid him of.  Here, likewise--the germ\nof the wrinkle-browed, grizzly-bearded, careworn merchant--we\nhave the smart young clerk, who gets the taste of traffic as a\nwolf-cub does of blood, and already sends adventures in his\nmaster's ships, when he had better be sailing mimic boats upon a\nmill-pond.  Another figure in the scene is the outward-bound\nsailor, in quest of a protection; or the recently arrived one,\npale and feeble, seeking a passport to the hospital.  Nor must we\nforget the captains of the rusty little schooners that bring\nfirewood from the British provinces; a rough-looking set of\ntarpaulins, without the alertness of the Yankee aspect, but\ncontributing an item of no slight importance to our decaying\ntrade.\n\nCluster all these individuals together, as they sometimes were,\nwith other miscellaneous ones to diversify the group, and, for\nthe time being, it made the Custom-House a stirring scene.  More\nfrequently, however, on ascending the steps, you would discern--\nin the entry if it were summer time, or in their appropriate\nrooms if wintry or inclement weathers--a row of venerable\nfigures, sitting in old-fashioned chairs, which were tipped on\ntheir hind legs back against the wall.  Oftentimes they were\nasleep, but occasionally might be heard talking together, in\nvoices between a speech and a snore, and with that lack of\nenergy that distinguishes the occupants of alms-houses, and all\nother human beings who depend for subsistence on charity, on\nmonopolized labour, or anything else but their own independent\nexertions.  These old gentlemen--seated, like Matthew at the\nreceipt of custom, but not very liable to be summoned thence,\nlike him, for apostolic errands--were Custom-House officers.\n\nFurthermore, on the left hand as you enter the front door, is a\ncertain room or office, about fifteen feet square, and of a\nlofty height, with two of its arched windows commanding a view\nof the aforesaid dilapidated wharf, and the third looking across\na narrow lane, and along a portion of Derby Street.  All three\ngive glimpses of the shops of grocers, block-makers,\nslop-sellers, and ship-chandlers, around the doors of which are\ngenerally to be seen, laughing and gossiping, clusters of old\nsalts, and such other wharf-rats as haunt the Wapping of a\nseaport.  The room itself is cobwebbed, and dingy with old paint;\nits floor is strewn with grey sand, in a fashion that has\nelsewhere fallen into long disuse; and it is easy to conclude,\nfrom the general slovenliness of the place, that this is a\nsanctuary into which womankind, with her tools of magic, the\nbroom and mop, has very infrequent access.  In the way of\nfurniture, there is a stove with a voluminous funnel; an old\npine desk with a three-legged stool beside it; two or three\nwooden-bottom chairs, exceedingly decrepit and infirm; and--not\nto forget the library--on some shelves, a score or two of\nvolumes of the Acts of Congress, and a bulky Digest of the\nRevenue laws.  A tin pipe ascends through the ceiling, and forms\na medium of vocal communication with other parts of the edifice.\nAnd here, some six months ago--pacing from corner to corner, or\nlounging on the long-legged stool, with his elbow on the desk,\nand his eyes wandering up and down the columns of the morning\nnewspaper--you might have recognised, honoured reader, the same\nindividual who welcomed you into his cheery little study, where\nthe sunshine glimmered so pleasantly through the willow branches\non the western side of the Old Manse.  But now, should you go\nthither to seek him, you would inquire in vain for the Locofoco\nSurveyor.  The besom of reform hath swept him out of office, and\na worthier successor wears his dignity and pockets his\nemoluments.\n\nThis old town of Salem--my native place, though I have dwelt\nmuch away from it both in boyhood and maturer years--possesses,\nor did possess, a hold on my affection, the force of which I\nhave never realized during my seasons of actual residence here.\nIndeed, so far as its physical aspect is concerned, with its\nflat, unvaried surface, covered chiefly with wooden houses, few\nor none of which pretend to architectural beauty--its\nirregularity, which is neither picturesque nor quaint, but only\ntame--its long and lazy street, lounging wearisomely through the\nwhole extent of the peninsula, with Gallows Hill and New Guinea\nat one end, and a view of the alms-house at the other--such\nbeing the features of my native town, it would be quite as\nreasonable to form a sentimental attachment to a disarranged\nchecker-board.  And yet, though invariably happiest elsewhere,\nthere is within me a feeling for Old Salem, which, in lack of a\nbetter phrase, I must be content to call affection.  The\nsentiment is probably assignable to the deep and aged roots\nwhich my family has stuck into the soil.  It is now nearly two\ncenturies and a quarter since the original Briton, the earliest\nemigrant of my name, made his appearance in the wild and\nforest-bordered settlement which has since become a city.  And\nhere his descendants have been born and died, and have mingled\ntheir earthly substance with the soil, until no small portion of\nit must necessarily be akin to the mortal frame wherewith, for a\nlittle while, I walk the streets.  In part, therefore, the\nattachment which I speak of is the mere sensuous sympathy of\ndust for dust.  Few of my countrymen can know what it is; nor, as\nfrequent transplantation is perhaps better for the stock, need\nthey consider it desirable to know.\n\nBut the sentiment has likewise its moral quality.  The figure of\nthat first ancestor, invested by family tradition with a dim and\ndusky grandeur, was present to my boyish imagination as far back\nas I can remember.  It still haunts me, and induces a sort of\nhome-feeling with the past, which I scarcely claim in reference\nto the present phase of the town.  I seem to have a stronger\nclaim to a residence here on account of this grave, bearded,\nsable-cloaked, and steeple-crowned progenitor--who came so\nearly, with his Bible and his sword, and trode the unworn street\nwith such a stately port, and made so large a figure, as a man\nof war and peace--a stronger claim than for myself, whose name\nis seldom heard and my face hardly known.  He was a soldier,\nlegislator, judge; he was a ruler in the Church; he had all the\nPuritanic traits, both good and evil.  He was likewise a bitter\npersecutor; as witness the Quakers, who have remembered him in\ntheir histories, and relate an incident of his hard severity\ntowards a woman of their sect, which will last longer, it is to\nbe feared, than any record of his better deeds, although these\nwere many.  His son, too, inherited the persecuting spirit, and\nmade himself so conspicuous in the martyrdom of the witches,\nthat their blood may fairly be said to have left a stain upon\nhim.  So deep a stain, indeed, that his dry old bones, in the\nCharter-street burial-ground, must still retain it, if they have\nnot crumbled utterly to dust!  I know not whether these ancestors\nof mine bethought themselves to repent, and ask pardon of Heaven\nfor their cruelties; or whether they are now groaning under the\nheavy consequences of them in another state of being.  At all\nevents, I, the present writer, as their representative, hereby\ntake shame upon myself for their sakes, and pray that any curse\nincurred by them--as I have heard, and as the dreary and\nunprosperous condition of the race, for many a long year back,\nwould argue to exist--may be now and henceforth removed.\n\nDoubtless, however, either of these stern and black-browed\nPuritans would have thought it quite a sufficient retribution\nfor his sins that, after so long a lapse of years, the old trunk\nof the family tree, with so much venerable moss upon it, should\nhave borne, as its topmost bough, an idler like myself.  No aim\nthat I have ever cherished would they recognise as laudable; no\nsuccess of mine--if my life, beyond its domestic scope, had ever\nbeen brightened by success--would they deem otherwise than\nworthless, if not positively disgraceful.  \"What is he?\" murmurs\none grey shadow of my forefathers to the other.  \"A writer of\nstory books!  What kind of business in life--what mode of\nglorifying God, or being serviceable to mankind in his day and\ngeneration--may that be?  Why, the degenerate fellow might as\nwell have been a fiddler!\"  Such are the compliments bandied\nbetween my great grandsires and myself, across the gulf of time!\nAnd yet, let them scorn me as they will, strong traits of their\nnature have intertwined themselves with mine.\n\nPlanted deep, in the town's earliest infancy and childhood, by\nthese two earnest and energetic men, the race has ever since\nsubsisted here; always, too, in respectability; never, so far as\nI have known, disgraced by a single unworthy member; but seldom\nor never, on the other hand, after the first two generations,\nperforming any memorable deed, or so much as putting forward a\nclaim to public notice.  Gradually, they have sunk almost out of\nsight; as old houses, here and there about the streets, get\ncovered half-way to the eaves by the accumulation of new soil.\nFrom father to son, for above a hundred years, they followed the\nsea; a grey-headed shipmaster, in each generation, retiring from\nthe quarter-deck to the homestead, while a boy of fourteen took\nthe hereditary place before the mast, confronting the salt spray\nand the gale which had blustered against his sire and grandsire.\nThe boy, also in due time, passed from the forecastle to the\ncabin, spent a tempestuous manhood, and returned from his\nworld-wanderings, to grow old, and die, and mingle his dust with\nthe natal earth.  This long connexion of a family with one spot,\nas its place of birth and burial, creates a kindred between the\nhuman being and the locality, quite independent of any charm in\nthe scenery or moral circumstances that surround him.  It is not\nlove but instinct.  The new inhabitant--who came himself from a\nforeign land, or whose father or grandfather came--has little\nclaim to be called a Salemite; he has no conception of the\noyster-like tenacity with which an old settler, over whom his\nthird century is creeping, clings to the spot where his\nsuccessive generations have been embedded.  It is no matter that\nthe place is joyless for him; that he is weary of the old wooden\nhouses, the mud and dust, the dead level of site and sentiment,\nthe chill east wind, and the chillest of social\natmospheres;--all these, and whatever faults besides he may see\nor imagine, are nothing to the purpose.  The spell survives, and\njust as powerfully as if the natal spot were an earthly\nparadise.  So has it been in my case.  I felt it almost as a\ndestiny to make Salem my home; so that the mould of features and\ncast of character which had all along been familiar here--ever,\nas one representative of the race lay down in the grave, another\nassuming, as it were, his sentry-march along the main\nstreet--might still in my little day be seen and recognised in\nthe old town.  Nevertheless, this very sentiment is an evidence\nthat the connexion, which has become an unhealthy one, should at\nlast be severed.  Human nature will not flourish, any more than\na potato, if it be planted and re-planted, for too long a series\nof generations, in the same worn-out soil.  My children have had\nother birth-places, and, so far as their fortunes may be within\nmy control, shall strike their roots into unaccustomed earth.\n\nOn emerging from the Old Manse, it was chiefly this strange,\nindolent, unjoyous attachment for my native town that brought me\nto fill a place in Uncle Sam's brick edifice, when I might as\nwell, or better, have gone somewhere else.  My doom was on me.  It\nwas not the first time, nor the second, that I had gone away--as\nit seemed, permanently--but yet returned, like the bad\nhalfpenny, or as if Salem were for me the inevitable centre of\nthe universe.  So, one fine morning I ascended the flight of\ngranite steps, with the President's commission in my pocket, and\nwas introduced to the corps of gentlemen who were to aid me in\nmy weighty responsibility as chief executive officer of the\nCustom-House.\n\nI doubt greatly--or, rather, I do not doubt at all--whether any\npublic functionary of the United States, either in the civil or\nmilitary line, has ever had such a patriarchal body of veterans\nunder his orders as myself.  The whereabouts of the Oldest\nInhabitant was at once settled when I looked at them.  For\nupwards of twenty years before this epoch, the independent\nposition of the Collector had kept the Salem Custom-House out of\nthe whirlpool of political vicissitude, which makes the tenure\nof office generally so fragile.  A soldier--New England's most\ndistinguished soldier--he stood firmly on the pedestal of his\ngallant services; and, himself secure in the wise liberality of\nthe successive administrations through which he had held office,\nhe had been the safety of his subordinates in many an hour of\ndanger and heart-quake.  General Miller was radically\nconservative; a man over whose kindly nature habit had no slight\ninfluence; attaching himself strongly to familiar faces, and\nwith difficulty moved to change, even when change might have\nbrought unquestionable improvement.  Thus, on taking charge of my\ndepartment, I found few but aged men.  They were ancient\nsea-captains, for the most part, who, after being tossed on\nevery sea, and standing up sturdily against life's tempestuous\nblast, had finally drifted into this quiet nook, where, with\nlittle to disturb them, except the periodical terrors of a\nPresidential election, they one and all acquired a new lease of\nexistence.  Though by no means less liable than their fellow-men\nto age and infirmity, they had evidently some talisman or other\nthat kept death at bay.  Two or three of their number, as I was\nassured, being gouty and rheumatic, or perhaps bed-ridden, never\ndreamed of making their appearance at the Custom-House during a\nlarge part of the year; but, after a torpid winter, would creep\nout into the warm sunshine of May or June, go lazily about what\nthey termed duty, and, at their own leisure and convenience,\nbetake themselves to bed again.  I must plead guilty to the\ncharge of abbreviating the official breath of more than one of\nthese venerable servants of the republic.  They were allowed, on\nmy representation, to rest from their arduous labours, and soon\nafterwards--as if their sole principle of life had been zeal for\ntheir country's service--as I verily believe it was--withdrew to\na better world.  It is a pious consolation to me that, through my\ninterference, a sufficient space was allowed them for repentance\nof the evil and corrupt practices into which, as a matter of\ncourse, every Custom-House officer must be supposed to fall.\nNeither the front nor the back entrance of the Custom-House\nopens on the road to Paradise.\n\nThe greater part of my officers were Whigs.  It was well for\ntheir venerable brotherhood that the new Surveyor was not a\npolitician, and though a faithful Democrat in principle, neither\nreceived nor held his office with any reference to political\nservices.  Had it been otherwise--had an active politician been\nput into this influential post, to assume the easy task of\nmaking head against a Whig Collector, whose infirmities withheld\nhim from the personal administration of his office--hardly a man\nof the old corps would have drawn the breath of official life\nwithin a month after the exterminating angel had come up the\nCustom-House steps.  According to the received code in such\nmatters, it would have been nothing short of duty, in a\npolitician, to bring every one of those white heads under the\naxe of the guillotine.  It was plain enough to discern that the\nold fellows dreaded some such discourtesy at my hands.  It\npained, and at the same time amused me, to behold the terrors\nthat attended my advent, to see a furrowed cheek, weather-beaten\nby half a century of storm, turn ashy pale at the glance of so\nharmless an individual as myself; to detect, as one or another\naddressed me, the tremor of a voice which, in long-past days,\nhad been wont to bellow through a speaking-trumpet, hoarsely\nenough to frighten Boreas himself to silence.  They knew, these\nexcellent old persons, that, by all established rule--and, as\nregarded some of them, weighed by their own lack of efficiency\nfor business--they ought to have given place to younger men,\nmore orthodox in politics, and altogether fitter than themselves\nto serve our common Uncle.  I knew it, too, but could never quite\nfind in my heart to act upon the knowledge.  Much and deservedly\nto my own discredit, therefore, and considerably to the\ndetriment of my official conscience, they continued, during my\nincumbency, to creep about the wharves, and loiter up and down\nthe Custom-House steps.  They spent a good deal of time, also,\nasleep in their accustomed corners, with their chairs tilted\nback against the walls; awaking, however, once or twice in the\nforenoon, to bore one another with the several thousandth\nrepetition of old sea-stories and mouldy jokes, that had grown\nto be passwords and countersigns among them.\n\nThe discovery was soon made, I imagine, that the new Surveyor\nhad no great harm in him.  So, with lightsome hearts and the\nhappy consciousness of being usefully employed--in their own\nbehalf at least, if not for our beloved country--these good old\ngentlemen went through the various formalities of office.\nSagaciously under their spectacles, did they peep into the holds\nof vessels.  Mighty was their fuss about little matters, and\nmarvellous, sometimes, the obtuseness that allowed greater ones\nto slip between their fingers Whenever such a mischance\noccurred--when a waggon-load of valuable merchandise had been\nsmuggled ashore, at noonday, perhaps, and directly beneath their\nunsuspicious noses--nothing could exceed the vigilance and\nalacrity with which they proceeded to lock, and double-lock, and\nsecure with tape and sealing-wax, all the avenues of the\ndelinquent vessel.  Instead of a reprimand for their previous\nnegligence, the case seemed rather to require an eulogium on\ntheir praiseworthy caution after the mischief had happened; a\ngrateful recognition of the promptitude of their zeal the moment\nthat there was no longer any remedy.\n\nUnless people are more than commonly disagreeable, it is my\nfoolish habit to contract a kindness for them.  The better part\nof my companion's character, if it have a better part, is that\nwhich usually comes uppermost in my regard, and forms the type\nwhereby I recognise the man.  As most of these old Custom-House\nofficers had good traits, and as my position in reference to\nthem, being paternal and protective, was favourable to the\ngrowth of friendly sentiments, I soon grew to like them all.  It\nwas pleasant in the summer forenoons--when the fervent heat,\nthat almost liquefied the rest of the human family, merely\ncommunicated a genial warmth to their half torpid systems--it\nwas pleasant to hear them chatting in the back entry, a row of\nthem all tipped against the wall, as usual; while the frozen\nwitticisms of past generations were thawed out, and came\nbubbling with laughter from their lips.  Externally, the jollity\nof aged men has much in common with the mirth of children; the\nintellect, any more than a deep sense of humour, has little to\ndo with the matter; it is, with both, a gleam that plays upon\nthe surface, and imparts a sunny and cheery aspect alike to the\ngreen branch and grey, mouldering trunk.  In one case, however,\nit is real sunshine; in the other, it more resembles the\nphosphorescent glow of decaying wood.\n\nIt would be sad injustice, the reader must understand, to\nrepresent all my excellent old friends as in their dotage.  In\nthe first place, my coadjutors were not invariably old; there\nwere men among them in their strength and prime, of marked\nability and energy, and altogether superior to the sluggish and\ndependent mode of life on which their evil stars had cast them.\nThen, moreover, the white locks of age were sometimes found to\nbe the thatch of an intellectual tenement in good repair.  But,\nas respects the majority of my corps of veterans, there will be\nno wrong done if I characterize them generally as a set of\nwearisome old souls, who had gathered nothing worth preservation\nfrom their varied experience of life.  They seemed to have flung\naway all the golden grain of practical wisdom, which they had\nenjoyed so many opportunities of harvesting, and most carefully\nto have stored their memory with the husks.  They spoke with far\nmore interest and unction of their morning's breakfast, or\nyesterday's, to-day's, or tomorrow's dinner, than of the\nshipwreck of forty or fifty years ago, and all the world's\nwonders which they had witnessed with their youthful eyes.\n\nThe father of the Custom-House--the patriarch, not only of this\nlittle squad of officials, but, I am bold to say, of the\nrespectable body of tide-waiters all over the United States--was\na certain permanent Inspector.  He might truly be termed a\nlegitimate son of the revenue system, dyed in the wool, or\nrather born in the purple; since his sire, a Revolutionary\ncolonel, and formerly collector of the port, had created an\noffice for him, and appointed him to fill it, at a period of the\nearly ages which few living men can now remember.  This\nInspector, when I first knew him, was a man of fourscore years,\nor thereabouts, and certainly one of the most wonderful\nspecimens of winter-green that you would be likely to discover\nin a lifetime's search.  With his florid cheek, his compact\nfigure smartly arrayed in a bright-buttoned blue coat, his brisk\nand vigorous step, and his hale and hearty aspect, altogether he\nseemed--not young, indeed--but a kind of new contrivance of\nMother Nature in the shape of man, whom age and infirmity had no\nbusiness to touch.  His voice and laugh, which perpetually\nre-echoed through the Custom-House, had nothing of the tremulous\nquaver and cackle of an old man's utterance; they came strutting\nout of his lungs, like the crow of a cock, or the blast of a\nclarion.  Looking at him merely as an animal--and there was very\nlittle else to look at--he was a most satisfactory object, from\nthe thorough healthfulness and wholesomeness of his system, and\nhis capacity, at that extreme age, to enjoy all, or nearly all,\nthe delights which he had ever aimed at or conceived of.  The\ncareless security of his life in the Custom-House, on a regular\nincome, and with but slight and infrequent apprehensions of\nremoval, had no doubt contributed to make time pass lightly over\nhim.  The original and more potent causes, however, lay in the\nrare perfection of his animal nature, the moderate proportion of\nintellect, and the very trifling admixture of moral and\nspiritual ingredients; these latter qualities, indeed, being in\nbarely enough measure to keep the old gentleman from walking on\nall-fours.  He possessed no power of thought, no depth of\nfeeling, no troublesome sensibilities: nothing, in short, but a\nfew commonplace instincts, which, aided by the cheerful temper\nwhich grew inevitably out of his physical well-being, did duty\nvery respectably, and to general acceptance, in lieu of a heart.\nHe had been the husband of three wives, all long since dead; the\nfather of twenty children, most of whom, at every age of\nchildhood or maturity, had likewise returned to dust.  Here, one\nwould suppose, might have been sorrow enough to imbue the\nsunniest disposition through and through with a sable tinge.  Not\nso with our old Inspector.  One brief sigh sufficed to carry off\nthe entire burden of these dismal reminiscences.  The next moment\nhe was as ready for sport as any unbreeched infant: far readier\nthan the Collector's junior clerk, who at nineteen years was\nmuch the elder and graver man of the two.\n\nI used to watch and study this patriarchal personage with, I\nthink, livelier curiosity than any other form of humanity there\npresented to my notice.  He was, in truth, a rare phenomenon; so\nperfect, in one point of view; so shallow, so delusive, so\nimpalpable such an absolute nonentity, in every other.  My\nconclusion was that he had no soul, no heart, no mind; nothing,\nas I have already said, but instincts; and yet, withal, so\ncunningly had the few materials of his character been put\ntogether that there was no painful perception of deficiency,\nbut, on my part, an entire contentment with what I found in him.\nIt might be difficult--and it was so--to conceive how he should\nexist hereafter, so earthly and sensuous did he seem; but surely\nhis existence here, admitting that it was to terminate with his\nlast breath, had been not unkindly given; with no higher moral\nresponsibilities than the beasts of the field, but with a larger\nscope of enjoyment than theirs, and with all their blessed\nimmunity from the dreariness and duskiness of age.\n\nOne point in which he had vastly the advantage over his\nfour-footed brethren was his ability to recollect the good\ndinners which it had made no small portion of the happiness of\nhis life to eat.  His gourmandism was a highly agreeable trait;\nand to hear him talk of roast meat was as appetizing as a pickle\nor an oyster.  As he possessed no higher attribute, and neither\nsacrificed nor vitiated any spiritual endowment by devoting all\nhis energies and ingenuities to subserve the delight and profit\nof his maw, it always pleased and satisfied me to hear him\nexpatiate on fish, poultry, and butcher's meat, and the most\neligible methods of preparing them for the table.  His\nreminiscences of good cheer, however ancient the date of the\nactual banquet, seemed to bring the savour of pig or turkey\nunder one's very nostrils.  There were flavours on his palate\nthat had lingered there not less than sixty or seventy years,\nand were still apparently as fresh as that of the mutton chop\nwhich he had just devoured for his breakfast.  I have heard him\nsmack his lips over dinners, every guest at which, except\nhimself, had long been food for worms.  It was marvellous to\nobserve how the ghosts of bygone meals were continually rising\nup before him--not in anger or retribution, but as if grateful\nfor his former appreciation, and seeking to reduplicate an\nendless series of enjoyment, at once shadowy and sensual: a\ntenderloin of beef, a hind-quarter of veal, a spare-rib of\npork, a particular chicken, or a remarkably praiseworthy turkey,\nwhich had perhaps adorned his board in the days of the elder\nAdams, would be remembered; while all the subsequent experience\nof our race, and all the events that brightened or darkened his\nindividual career, had gone over him with as little permanent\neffect as the passing breeze.  The chief tragic event of the old\nman's life, so far as I could judge, was his mishap with a\ncertain goose, which lived and died some twenty or forty years\nago: a goose of most promising figure, but which, at table,\nproved so inveterately tough, that the carving-knife would make\nno impression on its carcase, and it could only be divided with\nan axe and handsaw.\n\nBut it is time to quit this sketch; on which, however, I should\nbe glad to dwell at considerably more length, because of all men\nwhom I have ever known, this individual was fittest to be a\nCustom-House officer.  Most persons, owing to causes which I may\nnot have space to hint at, suffer moral detriment from this\npeculiar mode of life.  The old Inspector was incapable of it;\nand, were he to continue in office to the end of time, would be\njust as good as he was then, and sit down to dinner with just as\ngood an appetite.\n\nThere is one likeness, without which my gallery of Custom-House\nportraits would be strangely incomplete, but which my\ncomparatively few opportunities for observation enable me to\nsketch only in the merest outline.  It is that of the Collector,\nour gallant old General, who, after his brilliant military\nservice, subsequently to which he had ruled over a wild Western\nterritory, had come hither, twenty years before, to spend the\ndecline of his varied and honourable life.\n\nThe brave soldier had already numbered, nearly or quite, his\nthree-score years and ten, and was pursuing the remainder of his\nearthly march, burdened with infirmities which even the martial\nmusic of his own spirit-stirring recollections could do little\ntowards lightening.  The step was palsied now, that had been\nforemost in the charge.  It was only with the assistance of a\nservant, and by leaning his hand heavily on the iron balustrade,\nthat he could slowly and painfully ascend the Custom-House\nsteps, and, with a toilsome progress across the floor, attain\nhis customary chair beside the fireplace.  There he used to sit,\ngazing with a somewhat dim serenity of aspect at the figures\nthat came and went, amid the rustle of papers, the administering\nof oaths, the discussion of business, and the casual talk of the\noffice; all which sounds and circumstances seemed but\nindistinctly to impress his senses, and hardly to make their way\ninto his inner sphere of contemplation.  His countenance, in this\nrepose, was mild and kindly.  If his notice was sought, an\nexpression of courtesy and interest gleamed out upon his\nfeatures, proving that there was light within him, and that it\nwas only the outward medium of the intellectual lamp that\nobstructed the rays in their passage.  The closer you penetrated\nto the substance of his mind, the sounder it appeared.  When no\nlonger called upon to speak or listen--either of which\noperations cost him an evident effort--his face would briefly\nsubside into its former not uncheerful quietude.  It was not\npainful to behold this look; for, though dim, it had not the\nimbecility of decaying age.  The framework of his nature,\noriginally strong and massive, was not yet crumpled into ruin.\n\nTo observe and define his character, however, under such\ndisadvantages, was as difficult a task as to trace out and build\nup anew, in imagination, an old fortress, like Ticonderoga, from\na view of its grey and broken ruins.  Here and there, perchance,\nthe walls may remain almost complete; but elsewhere may be only\na shapeless mound, cumbrous with its very strength, and\novergrown, through long years of peace and neglect, with grass\nand alien weeds.\n\nNevertheless, looking at the old warrior with affection--for,\nslight as was the communication between us, my feeling towards\nhim, like that of all bipeds and quadrupeds who knew him, might\nnot improperly be termed so,--I could discern the main points of\nhis portrait.  It was marked with the noble and heroic qualities\nwhich showed it to be not a mere accident, but of good right,\nthat he had won a distinguished name.  His spirit could never, I\nconceive, have been characterized by an uneasy activity; it\nmust, at any period of his life, have required an impulse to set\nhim in motion; but once stirred up, with obstacles to overcome,\nand an adequate object to be attained, it was not in the man to\ngive out or fail.  The heat that had formerly pervaded his\nnature, and which was not yet extinct, was never of the kind\nthat flashes and flickers in a blaze; but rather a deep red\nglow, as of iron in a furnace.  Weight, solidity, firmness--this\nwas the expression of his repose, even in such decay as had\ncrept untimely over him at the period of which I speak.  But I\ncould imagine, even then, that, under some excitement which\nshould go deeply into his consciousness--roused by a trumpet's\npeal, loud enough to awaken all of his energies that were not\ndead, but only slumbering--he was yet capable of flinging off\nhis infirmities like a sick man's gown, dropping the staff of\nage to seize a battle-sword, and starting up once more a\nwarrior.  And, in so intense a moment his demeanour would have\nstill been calm.  Such an exhibition, however, was but to be\npictured in fancy; not to be anticipated, nor desired.  What I\nsaw in him--as evidently as the indestructible ramparts of Old\nTiconderoga, already cited as the most appropriate simile--was\nthe features of stubborn and ponderous endurance, which might\nwell have amounted to obstinacy in his earlier days; of\nintegrity, that, like most of his other endowments, lay in a\nsomewhat heavy mass, and was just as unmalleable or unmanageable\nas a ton of iron ore; and of benevolence which, fiercely as he\nled the bayonets on at Chippewa or Fort Erie, I take to be of\nquite as genuine a stamp as what actuates any or all the\npolemical philanthropists of the age.  He had slain men with his\nown hand, for aught I know--certainly, they had fallen like\nblades of grass at the sweep of the scythe before the charge to\nwhich his spirit imparted its triumphant energy--but, be that as\nit might, there was never in his heart so much cruelty as would\nhave brushed the down off a butterfly's wing.  I have not known\nthe man to whose innate kindliness I would more confidently make\nan appeal.\n\nMany characteristics--and those, too, which contribute not the\nleast forcibly to impart resemblance in a sketch--must have\nvanished, or been obscured, before I met the General.  All merely\ngraceful attributes are usually the most evanescent; nor does\nnature adorn the human ruin with blossoms of new beauty, that\nhave their roots and proper nutriment only in the chinks and\ncrevices of decay, as she sows wall-flowers over the ruined\nfortress of Ticonderoga.  Still, even in respect of grace and\nbeauty, there were points well worth noting.  A ray of humour,\nnow and then, would make its way through the veil of dim\nobstruction, and glimmer pleasantly upon our faces.  A trait of\nnative elegance, seldom seen in the masculine character after\nchildhood or early youth, was shown in the General's fondness\nfor the sight and fragrance of flowers.  An old soldier might be\nsupposed to prize only the bloody laurel on his brow; but here\nwas one who seemed to have a young girl's appreciation of the\nfloral tribe.\n\nThere, beside the fireplace, the brave old General used to sit;\nwhile the Surveyor--though seldom, when it could be avoided,\ntaking upon himself the difficult task of engaging him in\nconversation--was fond of standing at a distance, and watching\nhis quiet and almost slumberous countenance.  He seemed away from\nus, although we saw him but a few yards off; remote, though we\npassed close beside his chair; unattainable, though we might\nhave stretched forth our hands and touched his own.  It might be\nthat he lived a more real life within his thoughts than amid the\nunappropriate environment of the Collector's office.  The\nevolutions of the parade; the tumult of the battle; the flourish\nof old heroic music, heard thirty years before--such scenes and\nsounds, perhaps, were all alive before his intellectual sense.\nMeanwhile, the merchants and ship-masters, the spruce clerks and\nuncouth sailors, entered and departed; the bustle of his\ncommercial and Custom-House life kept up its little murmur round\nabout him; and neither with the men nor their affairs did the\nGeneral appear to sustain the most distant relation.  He was as\nmuch out of place as an old sword--now rusty, but which had\nflashed once in the battle's front, and showed still a bright\ngleam along its blade--would have been among the inkstands,\npaper-folders, and mahogany rulers on the Deputy Collector's\ndesk.\n\nThere was one thing that much aided me in renewing and\nre-creating the stalwart soldier of the Niagara frontier--the\nman of true and simple energy.  It was the recollection of those\nmemorable words of his--\"I'll try, Sir\"--spoken on the very\nverge of a desperate and heroic enterprise, and breathing the\nsoul and spirit of New England hardihood, comprehending all\nperils, and encountering all.  If, in our country, valour were\nrewarded by heraldic honour, this phrase--which it seems so easy\nto speak, but which only he, with such a task of danger and\nglory before him, has ever spoken--would be the best and fittest\nof all mottoes for the General's shield of arms.\n\nIt contributes greatly towards a man's moral and intellectual\nhealth to be brought into habits of companionship with\nindividuals unlike himself, who care little for his pursuits,\nand whose sphere and abilities he must go out of himself to\nappreciate.  The accidents of my life have often afforded me this\nadvantage, but never with more fulness and variety than during\nmy continuance in office.  There was one man, especially, the\nobservation of whose character gave me a new idea of talent.  His\ngifts were emphatically those of a man of business; prompt,\nacute, clear-minded; with an eye that saw through all\nperplexities, and a faculty of arrangement that made them vanish\nas by the waving of an enchanter's wand.  Bred up from boyhood in\nthe Custom-House, it was his proper field of activity; and the\nmany intricacies of business, so harassing to the interloper,\npresented themselves before him with the regularity of a\nperfectly comprehended system.  In my contemplation, he stood as\nthe ideal of his class.  He was, indeed, the Custom-House in\nhimself; or, at all events, the mainspring that kept its\nvariously revolving wheels in motion; for, in an institution\nlike this, where its officers are appointed to subserve their\nown profit and convenience, and seldom with a leading reference\nto their fitness for the duty to be performed, they must\nperforce seek elsewhere the dexterity which is not in them.\nThus, by an inevitable necessity, as a magnet attracts\nsteel-filings, so did our man of business draw to himself the\ndifficulties which everybody met with.  With an easy\ncondescension, and kind forbearance towards our\nstupidity--which, to his order of mind, must have seemed little\nshort of crime--would he forth-with, by the merest touch of his\nfinger, make the incomprehensible as clear as daylight.  The\nmerchants valued him not less than we, his esoteric friends.  His\nintegrity was perfect; it was a law of nature with him, rather\nthan a choice or a principle; nor can it be otherwise than the\nmain condition of an intellect so remarkably clear and accurate\nas his to be honest and regular in the administration of\naffairs.  A stain on his conscience, as to anything that came\nwithin the range of his vocation, would trouble such a man very\nmuch in the same way, though to a far greater degree, than an\nerror in the balance of an account, or an ink-blot on the fair\npage of a book of record.  Here, in a word--and it is a rare\ninstance in my life--I had met with a person thoroughly adapted\nto the situation which he held.\n\nSuch were some of the people with whom I now found myself\nconnected.  I took it in good part, at the hands of Providence,\nthat I was thrown into a position so little akin to my past\nhabits; and set myself seriously to gather from it whatever\nprofit was to be had.  After my fellowship of toil and\nimpracticable schemes with the dreamy brethren of Brook Farm;\nafter living for three years within the subtle influence of an\nintellect like Emerson's; after those wild, free days on the\nAssabeth, indulging fantastic speculations, beside our fire of\nfallen boughs, with Ellery Channing; after talking with Thoreau\nabout pine-trees and Indian relics in his hermitage at Walden;\nafter growing fastidious by sympathy with the classic refinement\nof Hillard's culture; after becoming imbued with poetic\nsentiment at Longfellow's hearthstone--it was time, at length,\nthat I should exercise other faculties of my nature, and nourish\nmyself with food for which I had hitherto had little appetite.\nEven the old Inspector was desirable, as a change of diet, to a\nman who had known Alcott.  I looked upon it as an evidence, in\nsome measure, of a system naturally well balanced, and lacking\nno essential part of a thorough organization, that, with such\nassociates to remember, I could mingle at once with men of\naltogether different qualities, and never murmur at the change.\n\nLiterature, its exertions and objects, were now of little moment\nin my regard.  I cared not at this period for books; they were\napart from me.  Nature--except it were human nature--the nature\nthat is developed in earth and sky, was, in one sense, hidden\nfrom me; and all the imaginative delight wherewith it had been\nspiritualized passed away out of my mind.  A gift, a faculty, if\nit had not been departed, was suspended and inanimate within me.\nThere would have been something sad, unutterably dreary, in all\nthis, had I not been conscious that it lay at my own option to\nrecall whatever was valuable in the past.  It might be true,\nindeed, that this was a life which could not, with impunity, be\nlived too long; else, it might make me permanently other than I\nhad been, without transforming me into any shape which it would\nbe worth my while to take.  But I never considered it as other\nthan a transitory life.  There was always a prophetic instinct, a\nlow whisper in my ear, that within no long period, and whenever\na new change of custom should be essential to my good, change\nwould come.\n\nMeanwhile, there I was, a Surveyor of the Revenue and, so far as\nI have been able to understand, as good a Surveyor as need be.  A\nman of thought, fancy, and sensibility (had he ten times the\nSurveyor's proportion of those qualities), may, at any time, be\na man of affairs, if he will only choose to give himself the\ntrouble.  My fellow-officers, and the merchants and sea-captains\nwith whom my official duties brought me into any manner of\nconnection, viewed me in no other light, and probably knew me in\nno other character.  None of them, I presume, had ever read a\npage of my inditing, or would have cared a fig the more for me\nif they had read them all; nor would it have mended the matter,\nin the least, had those same unprofitable pages been written\nwith a pen like that of Burns or of Chaucer, each of whom was a\nCustom-House officer in his day, as well as I. It is a good\nlesson--though it may often be a hard one--for a man who has\ndreamed of literary fame, and of making for himself a rank among\nthe world's dignitaries by such means, to step aside out of the\nnarrow circle in which his claims are recognized and to find how\nutterly devoid of significance, beyond that circle, is all that\nhe achieves, and all he aims at.  I know not that I especially\nneeded the lesson, either in the way of warning or rebuke; but\nat any rate, I learned it thoroughly: nor, it gives me pleasure\nto reflect, did the truth, as it came home to my perception,\never cost me a pang, or require to be thrown off in a sigh.  In\nthe way of literary talk, it is true, the Naval Officer--an\nexcellent fellow, who came into the office with me, and went out\nonly a little later--would often engage me in a discussion about\none or the other of his favourite topics, Napoleon or\nShakespeare.  The Collector's junior clerk, too a young gentleman\nwho, it was whispered occasionally covered a sheet of Uncle\nSam's letter paper with what (at the distance of a few yards)\nlooked very much like poetry--used now and then to speak to me\nof books, as matters with which I might possibly be conversant.\nThis was my all of lettered intercourse; and it was quite\nsufficient for my necessities.\n\nNo longer seeking nor caring that my name should be blasoned\nabroad on title-pages, I smiled to think that it had now another\nkind of vogue.  The Custom-House marker imprinted it, with a\nstencil and black paint, on pepper-bags, and baskets of anatto,\nand cigar-boxes, and bales of all kinds of dutiable merchandise,\nin testimony that these commodities had paid the impost, and\ngone regularly through the office.  Borne on such queer vehicle\nof fame, a knowledge of my existence, so far as a name conveys\nit, was carried where it had never been before, and, I hope,\nwill never go again.\n\nBut the past was not dead.  Once in a great while, the thoughts\nthat had seemed so vital and so active, yet had been put to rest\nso quietly, revived again.  One of the most remarkable occasions,\nwhen the habit of bygone days awoke in me, was that which brings\nit within the law of literary propriety to offer the public the\nsketch which I am now writing.\n\nIn the second storey of the Custom-House there is a large room,\nin which the brick-work and naked rafters have never been\ncovered with panelling and plaster.  The edifice--originally\nprojected on a scale adapted to the old commercial enterprise of\nthe port, and with an idea of subsequent prosperity destined\nnever to be realized--contains far more space than its occupants\nknow what to do with.  This airy hall, therefore, over the\nCollector's apartments, remains unfinished to this day, and, in\nspite of the aged cobwebs that festoon its dusky beams, appears\nstill to await the labour of the carpenter and mason.  At one end\nof the room, in a recess, were a number of barrels piled one\nupon another, containing bundles of official documents.  Large\nquantities of similar rubbish lay lumbering the floor.  It was\nsorrowful to think how many days, and weeks, and months, and\nyears of toil had been wasted on these musty papers, which were\nnow only an encumbrance on earth, and were hidden away in this\nforgotten corner, never more to be glanced at by human eyes.  But\nthen, what reams of other manuscripts--filled, not with the\ndulness of official formalities, but with the thought of\ninventive brains and the rich effusion of deep hearts--had gone\nequally to oblivion; and that, moreover, without serving a\npurpose in their day, as these heaped-up papers had,\nand--saddest of all--without purchasing for their writers the\ncomfortable livelihood which the clerks of the Custom-House had\ngained by these worthless scratchings of the pen.  Yet not\naltogether worthless, perhaps, as materials of local history.\nHere, no doubt, statistics of the former commerce of Salem might\nbe discovered, and memorials of her princely merchants--old King\nDerby--old Billy Gray--old Simon Forrester--and many another\nmagnate in his day, whose powdered head, however, was scarcely\nin the tomb before his mountain pile of wealth began to dwindle.\nThe founders of the greater part of the families which now\ncompose the aristocracy of Salem might here be traced, from the\npetty and obscure beginnings of their traffic, at periods\ngenerally much posterior to the Revolution, upward to what their\nchildren look upon as long-established rank.\n\nPrior to the Revolution there is a dearth of records; the\nearlier documents and archives of the Custom-House having,\nprobably, been carried off to Halifax, when all the king's\nofficials accompanied the British army in its flight from\nBoston.  It has often been a matter of regret with me; for, going\nback, perhaps, to the days of the Protectorate, those papers\nmust have contained many references to forgotten or remembered\nmen, and to antique customs, which would have affected me with\nthe same pleasure as when I used to pick up Indian arrow-heads\nin the field near the Old Manse.\n\nBut, one idle and rainy day, it was my fortune to make a\ndiscovery of some little interest.  Poking and burrowing into the\nheaped-up rubbish in the corner, unfolding one and another\ndocument, and reading the names of vessels that had long ago\nfoundered at sea or rotted at the wharves, and those of\nmerchants never heard of now on 'Change, nor very readily\ndecipherable on their mossy tombstones; glancing at such matters\nwith the saddened, weary, half-reluctant interest which we\nbestow on the corpse of dead activity--and exerting my fancy,\nsluggish with little use, to raise up from these dry bones an\nimage of the old town's brighter aspect, when India was a new\nregion, and only Salem knew the way thither--I chanced to lay my\nhand on a small package, carefully done up in a piece of ancient\nyellow parchment.  This envelope had the air of an official\nrecord of some period long past, when clerks engrossed their\nstiff and formal chirography on more substantial materials than\nat present.  There was something about it that quickened an\ninstinctive curiosity, and made me undo the faded red tape that\ntied up the package, with the sense that a treasure would here\nbe brought to light.  Unbending the rigid folds of the parchment\ncover, I found it to be a commission, under the hand and seal of\nGovernor Shirley, in favour of one Jonathan Pue, as Surveyor of\nHis Majesty's Customs for the Port of Salem, in the Province of\nMassachusetts Bay.  I remembered to have read (probably in Felt's\n\"Annals\") a notice of the decease of Mr. Surveyor Pue, about\nfourscore years ago; and likewise, in a newspaper of recent\ntimes, an account of the digging up of his remains in the little\ngraveyard of St. Peter's Church, during the renewal of that\nedifice.  Nothing, if I rightly call to mind, was left of my\nrespected predecessor, save an imperfect skeleton, and some\nfragments of apparel, and a wig of majestic frizzle, which,\nunlike the head that it once adorned, was in very satisfactory\npreservation.  But, on examining the papers which the parchment\ncommission served to envelop, I found more traces of Mr. Pue's\nmental part, and the internal operations of his head, than the\nfrizzled wig had contained of the venerable skull itself.\n\nThey were documents, in short, not official, but of a private\nnature, or, at least, written in his private capacity, and\napparently with his own hand.  I could account for their being\nincluded in the heap of Custom-House lumber only by the fact\nthat Mr. Pue's death had happened suddenly, and that these\npapers, which he probably kept in his official desk, had never\ncome to the knowledge of his heirs, or were supposed to relate\nto the business of the revenue.  On the transfer of the archives\nto Halifax, this package, proving to be of no public concern,\nwas left behind, and had remained ever since unopened.\n\nThe ancient Surveyor--being little molested, I suppose, at that\nearly day with business pertaining to his office--seems to have\ndevoted some of his many leisure hours to researches as a local\nantiquarian, and other inquisitions of a similar nature.  These\nsupplied material for petty activity to a mind that would\notherwise have been eaten up with rust.\n\nA portion of his facts, by-the-by, did me good service in the\npreparation of the article entitled \"MAIN STREET,\" included in\nthe present volume.  The remainder may perhaps be applied to\npurposes equally valuable hereafter, or not impossibly may be\nworked up, so far as they go, into a regular history of Salem,\nshould my veneration for the natal soil ever impel me to so\npious a task.  Meanwhile, they shall be at the command of any\ngentleman, inclined and competent, to take the unprofitable\nlabour off my hands.  As a final disposition I contemplate\ndepositing them with the Essex Historical Society.  But the\nobject that most drew my attention to the mysterious package was\na certain affair of fine red cloth, much worn and faded, There\nwere traces about it of gold embroidery, which, however, was\ngreatly frayed and defaced, so that none, or very little, of the\nglitter was left.  It had been wrought, as was easy to perceive,\nwith wonderful skill of needlework; and the stitch (as I am\nassured by ladies conversant with such mysteries) gives evidence\nof a now forgotten art, not to be discovered even by the process\nof picking out the threads.  This rag of scarlet cloth--for time,\nand wear, and a sacrilegious moth had reduced it to little other\nthan a rag--on careful examination, assumed the shape of a\nletter.\n\nIt was the capital letter A.  By an accurate measurement, each\nlimb proved to be precisely three inches and a quarter in\nlength.  It had been intended, there could be no doubt, as an\nornamental article of dress; but how it was to be worn, or what\nrank, honour, and dignity, in by-past times, were signified by\nit, was a riddle which (so evanescent are the fashions of the\nworld in these particulars) I saw little hope of solving.  And\nyet it strangely interested me.  My eyes fastened themselves upon\nthe old scarlet letter, and would not be turned aside.  Certainly\nthere was some deep meaning in it most worthy of interpretation,\nand which, as it were, streamed forth from the mystic symbol,\nsubtly communicating itself to my sensibilities, but evading the\nanalysis of my mind.\n\nWhen thus perplexed--and cogitating, among other hypotheses,\nwhether the letter might not have been one of those decorations\nwhich the white men used to contrive in order to take the eyes\nof Indians--I happened to place it on my breast.  It seemed to\nme--the reader may smile, but must not doubt my word--it seemed\nto me, then, that I experienced a sensation not altogether\nphysical, yet almost so, as of burning heat, and as if the\nletter were not of red cloth, but red-hot iron.  I shuddered,\nand involuntarily let it fall upon the floor.\n\nIn the absorbing contemplation of the scarlet letter, I had\nhitherto neglected to examine a small roll of dingy paper,\naround which it had been twisted.  This I now opened, and had the\nsatisfaction to find recorded by the old Surveyor's pen, a\nreasonably complete explanation of the whole affair.  There were\nseveral foolscap sheets, containing many particulars respecting\nthe life and conversation of one Hester Prynne, who appeared to\nhave been rather a noteworthy personage in the view of our\nancestors.  She had flourished during the period between the\nearly days of Massachusetts and the close of the seventeenth\ncentury.  Aged persons, alive in the time of Mr. Surveyor Pue,\nand from whose oral testimony he had made up his narrative,\nremembered her, in their youth, as a very old, but not decrepit\nwoman, of a stately and solemn aspect.  It had been her habit,\nfrom an almost immemorial date, to go about the country as a\nkind of voluntary nurse, and doing whatever miscellaneous good\nshe might; taking upon herself, likewise, to give advice in all\nmatters, especially those of the heart, by which means--as a\nperson of such propensities inevitably must--she gained from\nmany people the reverence due to an angel, but, I should\nimagine, was looked upon by others as an intruder and a\nnuisance.  Prying further into the manuscript, I found the record\nof other doings and sufferings of this singular woman, for most\nof which the reader is referred to the story entitled \"THE\nSCARLET LETTER\"; and it should be borne carefully in mind that\nthe main facts of that story are authorized and authenticated by\nthe document of Mr. Surveyor Pue.  The original papers, together\nwith the scarlet letter itself--a most curious relic--are still\nin my possession, and shall be freely exhibited to whomsoever,\ninduced by the great interest of the narrative, may desire a\nsight of them.  I must not be understood affirming that, in the\ndressing up of the tale, and imagining the motives and modes of\npassion that influenced the characters who figure in it, I have\ninvariably confined myself within the limits of the old\nSurveyor's half-a-dozen sheets of foolscap.  On the contrary, I\nhave allowed myself, as to such points, nearly, or altogether,\nas much license as if the facts had been entirely of my own\ninvention.  What I contend for is the authenticity of the\noutline.\n\nThis incident recalled my mind, in some degree, to its old\ntrack.  There seemed to be here the groundwork of a tale.  It\nimpressed me as if the ancient Surveyor, in his garb of a\nhundred years gone by, and wearing his immortal wig--which was\nburied with him, but did not perish in the grave--had met me in\nthe deserted chamber of the Custom-House.  In his port was the\ndignity of one who had borne His Majesty's commission, and who\nwas therefore illuminated by a ray of the splendour that shone\nso dazzlingly about the throne.  How unlike alas the hangdog look\nof a republican official, who, as the servant of the people,\nfeels himself less than the least, and below the lowest of his\nmasters.  With his own ghostly hand, the obscurely seen, but\nmajestic, figure had imparted to me the scarlet symbol and the\nlittle roll of explanatory manuscript.  With his own ghostly\nvoice he had exhorted me, on the sacred consideration of my\nfilial duty and reverence towards him--who might reasonably\nregard himself as my official ancestor--to bring his mouldy and\nmoth-eaten lucubrations before the public.  \"Do this,\" said the\nghost of Mr. Surveyor Pue, emphatically nodding the head that\nlooked so imposing within its memorable wig; \"do this, and the\nprofit shall be all your own.  You will shortly need it; for it\nis not in your days as it was in mine, when a man's office was a\nlife-lease, and oftentimes an heirloom.  But I charge you, in\nthis matter of old Mistress Prynne, give to your predecessor's\nmemory the credit which will be rightfully due\" And I said to\nthe ghost of Mr. Surveyor Pue--\"I will\".\n\nOn Hester Prynne's story, therefore, I bestowed much thought.\nIt was the subject of my meditations for many an hour, while\npacing to and fro across my room, or traversing, with a\nhundredfold repetition, the long extent from the front door of\nthe Custom-House to the side entrance, and back again.  Great\nwere the weariness and annoyance of the old Inspector and the\nWeighers and Gaugers, whose slumbers were disturbed by the\nunmercifully lengthened tramp of my passing and returning\nfootsteps.  Remembering their own former habits, they used to say\nthat the Surveyor was walking the quarter-deck.  They probably\nfancied that my sole object--and, indeed, the sole object for\nwhich a sane man could ever put himself into voluntary\nmotion--was to get an appetite for dinner.  And, to say the\ntruth, an appetite, sharpened by the east wind that generally\nblew along the passage, was the only valuable result of so much\nindefatigable exercise.  So little adapted is the atmosphere of a\nCustom-house to the delicate harvest of fancy and sensibility,\nthat, had I remained there through ten Presidencies yet to come,\nI doubt whether the tale of \"The Scarlet Letter\" would ever have\nbeen brought before the public eye.  My imagination was a\ntarnished mirror.  It would not reflect, or only with miserable\ndimness, the figures with which I did my best to people it.  The\ncharacters of the narrative would not be warmed and rendered\nmalleable by any heat that I could kindle at my intellectual\nforge.  They would take neither the glow of passion nor the\ntenderness of sentiment, but retained all the rigidity of dead\ncorpses, and stared me in the face with a fixed and ghastly grin\nof contemptuous defiance.  \"What have you to do with us?\" that\nexpression seemed to say.  \"The little power you might have once\npossessed over the tribe of unrealities is gone!  You have\nbartered it for a pittance of the public gold.  Go then, and earn\nyour wages!\"  In short, the almost torpid creatures of my own\nfancy twitted me with imbecility, and not without fair occasion.\n\nIt was not merely during the three hours and a half which Uncle\nSam claimed as his share of my daily life that this wretched\nnumbness held possession of me.  It went with me on my sea-shore\nwalks and rambles into the country, whenever--which was seldom\nand reluctantly--I bestirred myself to seek that invigorating\ncharm of Nature which used to give me such freshness and\nactivity of thought, the moment that I stepped across the\nthreshold of the Old Manse.  The same torpor, as regarded the\ncapacity for intellectual effort, accompanied me home, and\nweighed upon me in the chamber which I most absurdly termed my\nstudy.  Nor did it quit me when, late at night, I sat in the\ndeserted parlour, lighted only by the glimmering coal-fire and\nthe moon, striving to picture forth imaginary scenes, which, the\nnext day, might flow out on the brightening page in many-hued\ndescription.\n\nIf the imaginative faculty refused to act at such an hour, it\nmight well be deemed a hopeless case.  Moonlight, in a familiar\nroom, falling so white upon the carpet, and showing all its\nfigures so distinctly--making every object so minutely visible,\nyet so unlike a morning or noontide visibility--is a medium the\nmost suitable for a romance-writer to get acquainted with his\nillusive guests.  There is the little domestic scenery of the\nwell-known apartment; the chairs, with each its separate\nindividuality; the centre-table, sustaining a work-basket, a\nvolume or two, and an extinguished lamp; the sofa; the\nbook-case; the picture on the wall--all these details, so\ncompletely seen, are so spiritualised by the unusual light, that\nthey seem to lose their actual substance, and become things of\nintellect.  Nothing is too small or too trifling to undergo this\nchange, and acquire dignity thereby.  A child's shoe; the doll,\nseated in her little wicker carriage; the hobby-horse--whatever,\nin a word, has been used or played with during the day is now\ninvested with a quality of strangeness and remoteness, though\nstill almost as vividly present as by daylight.  Thus, therefore,\nthe floor of our familiar room has become a neutral territory,\nsomewhere between the real world and fairy-land, where the\nActual and the Imaginary may meet, and each imbue itself with\nthe nature of the other.  Ghosts might enter here without\naffrighting us.  It would be too much in keeping with the scene\nto excite surprise, were we to look about us and discover a\nform, beloved, but gone hence, now sitting quietly in a streak\nof this magic moonshine, with an aspect that would make us doubt\nwhether it had returned from afar, or had never once stirred\nfrom our fireside.\n\nThe somewhat dim coal fire has an essential Influence in\nproducing the effect which I would describe.  It throws its\nunobtrusive tinge throughout the room, with a faint ruddiness\nupon the walls and ceiling, and a reflected gleam upon the\npolish of the furniture.  This warmer light mingles itself with\nthe cold spirituality of the moon-beams, and communicates, as it\nwere, a heart and sensibilities of human tenderness to the forms\nwhich fancy summons up.  It converts them from snow-images into\nmen and women.  Glancing at the looking-glass, we behold--deep\nwithin its haunted verge--the smouldering glow of the\nhalf-extinguished anthracite, the white moon-beams on the floor,\nand a repetition of all the gleam and shadow of the picture,\nwith one remove further from the actual, and nearer to the\nimaginative.  Then, at such an hour, and with this scene before\nhim, if a man, sitting all alone, cannot dream strange things,\nand make them look like truth, he need never try to write\nromances.\n\nBut, for myself, during the whole of my Custom-House experience,\nmoonlight and sunshine, and the glow of firelight, were just\nalike in my regard; and neither of them was of one whit more\navail than the twinkle of a tallow-candle.  An entire class of\nsusceptibilities, and a gift connected with them--of no great\nrichness or value, but the best I had--was gone from me.\n\nIt is my belief, however, that had I attempted a different order\nof composition, my faculties would not have been found so\npointless and inefficacious.  I might, for instance, have\ncontented myself with writing out the narratives of a veteran\nshipmaster, one of the Inspectors, whom I should be most\nungrateful not to mention, since scarcely a day passed that he\ndid not stir me to laughter and admiration by his marvelous\ngifts as a story-teller.  Could I have preserved the picturesque\nforce of his style, and the humourous colouring which nature\ntaught him how to throw over his descriptions, the result, I\nhonestly believe, would have been something new in literature.\nOr I might readily have found a more serious task.  It was a\nfolly, with the materiality of this daily life pressing so\nintrusively upon me, to attempt to fling myself back into\nanother age, or to insist on creating the semblance of a world\nout of airy matter, when, at every moment, the impalpable beauty\nof my soap-bubble was broken by the rude contact of some actual\ncircumstance.  The wiser effort would have been to diffuse\nthought and imagination through the opaque substance of to-day,\nand thus to make it a bright transparency; to spiritualise the\nburden that began to weigh so heavily; to seek, resolutely, the\ntrue and indestructible value that lay hidden in the petty and\nwearisome incidents, and ordinary characters with which I was\nnow conversant.  The fault was mine.  The page of life that was\nspread out before me seemed dull and commonplace only because I\nhad not fathomed its deeper import.  A better book than I shall\never write was there; leaf after leaf presenting itself to me,\njust as it was written out by the reality of the flitting hour,\nand vanishing as fast as written, only because my brain wanted\nthe insight, and my hand the cunning, to transcribe it.  At some\nfuture day, it may be, I shall remember a few scattered\nfragments and broken paragraphs, and write them down, and find\nthe letters turn to gold upon the page.\n\nThese perceptions had come too late.  At the Instant, I was only\nconscious that what would have been a pleasure once was now a\nhopeless toil.  There was no occasion to make much moan about\nthis state of affairs.  I had ceased to be a writer of tolerably\npoor tales and essays, and had become a tolerably good Surveyor\nof the Customs.  That was all.  But, nevertheless, it is anything\nbut agreeable to be haunted by a suspicion that one's intellect\nis dwindling away, or exhaling, without your consciousness, like\nether out of a phial; so that, at every glance, you find a\nsmaller and less volatile residuum.  Of the fact there could be\nno doubt and, examining myself and others, I was led to\nconclusions, in reference to the effect of public office on the\ncharacter, not very favourable to the mode of life in question.\nIn some other form, perhaps, I may hereafter develop these\neffects.  Suffice it here to say that a Custom-House officer of\nlong continuance can hardly be a very praiseworthy or\nrespectable personage, for many reasons; one of them, the tenure\nby which he holds his situation, and another, the very nature of\nhis business, which--though, I trust, an honest one--is of such\na sort that he does not share in the united effort of mankind.\n\nAn effect--which I believe to be observable, more or less, in\nevery individual who has occupied the position--is, that while\nhe leans on the mighty arm of the Republic, his own proper\nstrength departs from him.  He loses, in an extent proportioned\nto the weakness or force of his original nature, the capability\nof self-support.  If he possesses an unusual share of native\nenergy, or the enervating magic of place do not operate too long\nupon him, his forfeited powers may be redeemable.  The ejected\nofficer--fortunate in the unkindly shove that sends him forth\nbetimes, to struggle amid a struggling world--may return to\nhimself, and become all that he has ever been.  But this seldom\nhappens.  He usually keeps his ground just long enough for his\nown ruin, and is then thrust out, with sinews all unstrung, to\ntotter along the difficult footpath of life as he best may.\nConscious of his own infirmity--that his tempered steel and\nelasticity are lost--he for ever afterwards looks wistfully\nabout him in quest of support external to himself.  His pervading\nand continual hope--a hallucination, which, in the face of all\ndiscouragement, and making light of impossibilities, haunts him\nwhile he lives, and, I fancy, like the convulsive throes of the\ncholera, torments him for a brief space after death--is, that\nfinally, and in no long time, by some happy coincidence of\ncircumstances, he shall be restored to office.  This faith, more\nthan anything else, steals the pith and availability out of\nwhatever enterprise he may dream of undertaking.  Why should he\ntoil and moil, and be at so much trouble to pick himself up out\nof the mud, when, in a little while hence, the strong arm of his\nUncle will raise and support him?  Why should he work for his\nliving here, or go to dig gold in California, when he is so soon\nto be made happy, at monthly intervals, with a little pile of\nglittering coin out of his Uncle's pocket?  It is sadly curious\nto observe how slight a taste of office suffices to infect a\npoor fellow with this singular disease.  Uncle Sam's\ngold--meaning no disrespect to the worthy old gentleman--has, in\nthis respect, a quality of enchantment like that of the devil's\nwages.  Whoever touches it should look well to himself, or he may\nfind the bargain to go hard against him, involving, if not his\nsoul, yet many of its better attributes; its sturdy force, its\ncourage and constancy, its truth, its self-reliance, and all\nthat gives the emphasis to manly character.\n\nHere was a fine prospect in the distance.  Not that the Surveyor\nbrought the lesson home to himself, or admitted that he could be\nso utterly undone, either by continuance in office or ejectment.\nYet my reflections were not the most comfortable.  I began to\ngrow melancholy and restless; continually prying into my mind,\nto discover which of its poor properties were gone, and what\ndegree of detriment had already accrued to the remainder.  I\nendeavoured to calculate how much longer I could stay in the\nCustom-House, and yet go forth a man.  To confess the truth, it\nwas my greatest apprehension--as it would never be a measure of\npolicy to turn out so quiet an individual as myself; and it\nbeing hardly in the nature of a public officer to resign--it was\nmy chief trouble, therefore, that I was likely to grow grey and\ndecrepit in the Surveyorship, and become much such another\nanimal as the old Inspector.  Might it not, in the tedious lapse\nof official life that lay before me, finally be with me as it\nwas with this venerable friend--to make the dinner-hour the\nnucleus of the day, and to spend the rest of it, as an old dog\nspends it, asleep in the sunshine or in the shade?  A dreary\nlook-forward, this, for a man who felt it to be the best\ndefinition of happiness to live throughout the whole range of\nhis faculties and sensibilities.  But, all this while, I was\ngiving myself very unnecessary alarm.  Providence had meditated\nbetter things for me than I could possibly imagine for myself.\n\nA remarkable event of the third year of my Surveyorship--to\nadopt the tone of \"P. P. \"--was the election of General Taylor\nto the Presidency.  It is essential, in order to form a complete\nestimate of the advantages of official life, to view the\nincumbent at the in-coming of a hostile administration.  His\nposition is then one of the most singularly irksome, and, in\nevery contingency, disagreeable, that a wretched mortal can\npossibly occupy; with seldom an alternative of good on either\nhand, although what presents itself to him as the worst event\nmay very probably be the best.  But it is a strange experience,\nto a man of pride and sensibility, to know that his interests\nare within the control of individuals who neither love nor\nunderstand him, and by whom, since one or the other must needs\nhappen, he would rather be injured than obliged.  Strange, too,\nfor one who has kept his calmness throughout the contest, to\nobserve the bloodthirstiness that is developed in the hour of\ntriumph, and to be conscious that he is himself among its\nobjects!  There are few uglier traits of human nature than this\ntendency--which I now witnessed in men no worse than their\nneighbours--to grow cruel, merely because they possessed the\npower of inflicting harm.  If the guillotine, as applied to\noffice-holders, were a literal fact, instead of one of the most\napt of metaphors, it is my sincere belief that the active\nmembers of the victorious party were sufficiently excited to\nhave chopped off all our heads, and have thanked Heaven for the\nopportunity!  It appears to me--who have been a calm and curious\nobserver, as well in victory as defeat--that this fierce and\nbitter spirit of malice and revenge has never distinguished the\nmany triumphs of my own party as it now did that of the Whigs.\nThe Democrats take the offices, as a general rule, because they\nneed them, and because the practice of many years has made it\nthe law of political warfare, which unless a different system be\nproclaimed, it was weakness and cowardice to murmur at.  But the\nlong habit of victory has made them generous.  They know how to\nspare when they see occasion; and when they strike, the axe may\nbe sharp indeed, but its edge is seldom poisoned with ill-will;\nnor is it their custom ignominiously to kick the head which they\nhave just struck off.\n\nIn short, unpleasant as was my predicament, at best, I saw much\nreason to congratulate myself that I was on the losing side\nrather than the triumphant one.  If, heretofore, I had been none\nof the warmest of partisans I began now, at this season of peril\nand adversity, to be pretty acutely sensible with which party my\npredilections lay; nor was it without something like regret and\nshame that, according to a reasonable calculation of chances, I\nsaw my own prospect of retaining office to be better than those\nof my democratic brethren.  But who can see an inch into futurity\nbeyond his nose?  My own head was the first that fell.\n\nThe moment when a man's head drops off is seldom or never, I am\ninclined to think, precisely the most agreeable of his life.\nNevertheless, like the greater part of our misfortunes, even so\nserious a contingency brings its remedy and consolation with it,\nif the sufferer will but make the best rather than the worst, of\nthe accident which has befallen him.  In my particular case the\nconsolatory topics were close at hand, and, indeed, had\nsuggested themselves to my meditations a considerable time\nbefore it was requisite to use them.  In view of my previous\nweariness of office, and vague thoughts of resignation, my\nfortune somewhat resembled that of a person who should entertain\nan idea of committing suicide, and although beyond his hopes,\nmeet with the good hap to be murdered.  In the Custom-House, as\nbefore in the Old Manse, I had spent three years--a term long\nenough to rest a weary brain: long enough to break off old\nintellectual habits, and make room for new ones: long enough,\nand too long, to have lived in an unnatural state, doing what\nwas really of no advantage nor delight to any human being, and\nwithholding myself from toil that would, at least, have stilled\nan unquiet impulse in me.  Then, moreover, as regarded his\nunceremonious ejectment, the late Surveyor was not altogether\nill-pleased to be recognised by the Whigs as an enemy; since his\ninactivity in political affairs--his tendency to roam, at will,\nin that broad and quiet field where all mankind may meet, rather\nthan confine himself to those narrow paths where brethren of the\nsame household must diverge from one another--had sometimes made\nit questionable with his brother Democrats whether he was a\nfriend.  Now, after he had won the crown of martyrdom (though\nwith no longer a head to wear it on), the point might be looked\nupon as settled.  Finally, little heroic as he was, it seemed\nmore decorous to be overthrown in the downfall of the party with\nwhich he had been content to stand than to remain a forlorn\nsurvivor, when so many worthier men were falling: and at last,\nafter subsisting for four years on the mercy of a hostile\nadministration, to be compelled then to define his position\nanew, and claim the yet more humiliating mercy of a friendly\none.\n\nMeanwhile, the press had taken up my affair, and kept me for a\nweek or two careering through the public prints, in my\ndecapitated state, like Irving's Headless Horseman, ghastly and\ngrim, and longing to be buried, as a political dead man ought.\nSo much for my figurative self.  The real human being all this\ntime, with his head safely on his shoulders, had brought himself\nto the comfortable conclusion that everything was for the best;\nand making an investment in ink, paper, and steel pens, had\nopened his long-disused writing desk, and was again a literary\nman.\n\nNow it was that the lucubrations of my ancient predecessor, Mr.\nSurveyor Pue, came into play.  Rusty through long idleness, some\nlittle space was requisite before my intellectual machinery\ncould be brought to work upon the tale with an effect in any\ndegree satisfactory.  Even yet, though my thoughts were\nultimately much absorbed in the task, it wears, to my eye, a\nstern and sombre aspect: too much ungladdened by genial\nsunshine; too little relieved by the tender and familiar\ninfluences which soften almost every scene of nature and real\nlife, and undoubtedly should soften every picture of them.  This\nuncaptivating effect is perhaps due to the period of hardly\naccomplished revolution, and still seething turmoil, in which\nthe story shaped itself.  It is no indication, however, of a lack\nof cheerfulness in the writer's mind: for he was happier while\nstraying through the gloom of these sunless fantasies than at\nany time since he had quitted the Old Manse.  Some of the briefer\narticles, which contribute to make up the volume, have likewise\nbeen written since my involuntary withdrawal from the toils and\nhonours of public life, and the remainder are gleaned from\nannuals and magazines, of such antique date, that they have gone\nround the circle, and come back to novelty again.  Keeping up the\nmetaphor of the political guillotine, the whole may be\nconsidered as the POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF A DECAPITATED SURVEYOR:\nand the sketch which I am now bringing to a close, if too\nautobiographical for a modest person to publish in his lifetime,\nwill readily be excused in a gentleman who writes from beyond\nthe grave.  Peace be with all the world!  My blessing on my\nfriends!  My forgiveness to my enemies!  For I am in the realm of\nquiet!\n\nThe life of the Custom-House lies like a dream behind me.  The\nold Inspector--who, by-the-bye, I regret to say, was overthrown\nand killed by a horse some time ago, else he would certainly\nhave lived for ever--he, and all those other venerable\npersonages who sat with him at the receipt of custom, are but\nshadows in my view: white-headed and wrinkled images, which my\nfancy used to sport with, and has now flung aside for ever.  The\nmerchants--Pingree, Phillips, Shepard, Upton, Kimball, Bertram,\nHunt--these and many other names, which had such classic\nfamiliarity for my ear six months ago,--these men of traffic,\nwho seemed to occupy so important a position in the world--how\nlittle time has it required to disconnect me from them all, not\nmerely in act, but recollection!  It is with an effort that I\nrecall the figures and appellations of these few.  Soon,\nlikewise, my old native town will loom upon me through the haze\nof memory, a mist brooding over and around it; as if it were no\nportion of the real earth, but an overgrown village in\ncloud-land, with only imaginary inhabitants to people its wooden\nhouses and walk its homely lanes, and the unpicturesque\nprolixity of its main street.  Henceforth it ceases to be a\nreality of my life; I am a citizen of somewhere else.  My good\ntownspeople will not much regret me, for--though it has been as\ndear an object as any, in my literary efforts, to be of some\nimportance in their eyes, and to win myself a pleasant memory in\nthis abode and burial-place of so many of my forefathers--there\nhas never been, for me, the genial atmosphere which a literary\nman requires in order to ripen the best harvest of his mind.  I\nshall do better amongst other faces; and these familiar ones, it\nneed hardly be said, will do just as well without me.\n\nIt may be, however--oh, transporting and triumphant\nthought--that the great-grandchildren of the present race may\nsometimes think kindly of the scribbler of bygone days, when the\nantiquary of days to come, among the sites memorable in the\ntown's history, shall point out the locality of THE TOWN PUMP.\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE SCARLET LETTER\n\n\nI. THE PRISON DOOR\n\nA throng of bearded men, in sad-coloured garments and grey\nsteeple-crowned hats, inter-mixed with women, some wearing\nhoods, and others bareheaded, was assembled in front of a wooden\nedifice, the door of which was heavily timbered with oak, and\nstudded with iron spikes.\n\nThe founders of a new colony, whatever Utopia of human virtue\nand happiness they might originally project, have invariably\nrecognised it among their earliest practical necessities to\nallot a portion of the virgin soil as a cemetery, and another\nportion as the site of a prison.  In accordance with this rule it\nmay safely be assumed that the forefathers of Boston had built\nthe first prison-house somewhere in the Vicinity of Cornhill,\nalmost as seasonably as they marked out the first burial-ground,\non Isaac Johnson's lot, and round about his grave, which\nsubsequently became the nucleus of all the congregated\nsepulchres in the old churchyard of King's Chapel.  Certain it is\nthat, some fifteen or twenty years after the settlement of the\ntown, the wooden jail was already marked with weather-stains and\nother indications of age, which gave a yet darker aspect to its\nbeetle-browed and gloomy front.  The rust on the ponderous\niron-work of its oaken door looked more antique than anything\nelse in the New World.  Like all that pertains to crime, it\nseemed never to have known a youthful era.  Before this ugly\nedifice, and between it and the wheel-track of the street, was a\ngrass-plot, much overgrown with burdock, pig-weed, apple-pern,\nand such unsightly vegetation, which evidently found something\ncongenial in the soil that had so early borne the black flower\nof civilised society, a prison.  But on one side of the portal,\nand rooted almost at the threshold, was a wild rose-bush,\ncovered, in this month of June, with its delicate gems, which\nmight be imagined to offer their fragrance and fragile beauty to\nthe prisoner as he went in, and to the condemned criminal as he\ncame forth to his doom, in token that the deep heart of Nature\ncould pity and be kind to him.\n\nThis rose-bush, by a strange chance, has been kept alive in\nhistory; but whether it had merely survived out of the stern old\nwilderness, so long after the fall of the gigantic pines and\noaks that originally overshadowed it, or whether, as there is\nfair authority for believing, it had sprung up under the\nfootsteps of the sainted Ann Hutchinson as she entered the\nprison-door, we shall not take upon us to determine.  Finding it\nso directly on the threshold of our narrative, which is now\nabout to issue from that inauspicious portal, we could hardly do\notherwise than pluck one of its flowers, and present it to the\nreader.  It may serve, let us hope, to symbolise some sweet moral\nblossom that may be found along the track, or relieve the\ndarkening close of a tale of human frailty and sorrow.\n\n\n\nII. THE MARKET-PLACE\n\nThe grass-plot before the jail, in Prison Lane, on a certain\nsummer morning, not less than two centuries ago, was occupied by\na pretty large number of the inhabitants of Boston, all with\ntheir eyes intently fastened on the iron-clamped oaken door.\nAmongst any other population, or at a later period in the\nhistory of New England, the grim rigidity that petrified the\nbearded physiognomies of these good people would have augured\nsome awful business in hand.  It could have betokened nothing\nshort of the anticipated execution of some noted culprit, on\nwhom the sentence of a legal tribunal had but confirmed the\nverdict of public sentiment.  But, in that early severity of the\nPuritan character, an inference of this kind could not so\nindubitably be drawn.  It might be that a sluggish bond-servant,\nor an undutiful child, whom his parents had given over to the\ncivil authority, was to be corrected at the whipping-post.  It\nmight be that an Antinomian, a Quaker, or other heterodox\nreligionist, was to be scourged out of the town, or an idle or\nvagrant Indian, whom the white man's firewater had made riotous\nabout the streets, was to be driven with stripes into the shadow\nof the forest.  It might be, too, that a witch, like old Mistress\nHibbins, the bitter-tempered widow of the magistrate, was to die\nupon the gallows.  In either case, there was very much the same\nsolemnity of demeanour on the part of the spectators, as\nbefitted a people among whom religion and law were almost\nidentical, and in whose character both were so thoroughly\ninterfused, that the mildest and severest acts of public\ndiscipline were alike made venerable and awful.  Meagre, indeed,\nand cold, was the sympathy that a transgressor might look for,\nfrom such bystanders, at the scaffold.  On the other hand, a\npenalty which, in our days, would infer a degree of mocking\ninfamy and ridicule, might then be invested with almost as stern\na dignity as the punishment of death itself.\n\nIt was a circumstance to be noted on the summer morning when our\nstory begins its course, that the women, of whom there were\nseveral in the crowd, appeared to take a peculiar interest in\nwhatever penal infliction might be expected to ensue.  The age\nhad not so much refinement, that any sense of impropriety\nrestrained the wearers of petticoat and farthingale from\nstepping forth into the public ways, and wedging their not\nunsubstantial persons, if occasion were, into the throng nearest\nto the scaffold at an execution.  Morally, as well as materially,\nthere was a coarser fibre in those wives and maidens of old\nEnglish birth and breeding than in their fair descendants,\nseparated from them by a series of six or seven generations;\nfor, throughout that chain of ancestry, every successive mother\nhad transmitted to her child a fainter bloom, a more delicate\nand briefer beauty, and a slighter physical frame, if not\ncharacter of less force and solidity than her own.  The women who\nwere now standing about the prison-door stood within less than\nhalf a century of the period when the man-like Elizabeth had\nbeen the not altogether unsuitable representative of the sex.\nThey were her countrywomen: and the beef and ale of their native\nland, with a moral diet not a whit more refined, entered largely\ninto their composition.  The bright morning sun, therefore, shone\non broad shoulders and well-developed busts, and on round and\nruddy cheeks, that had ripened in the far-off island, and had\nhardly yet grown paler or thinner in the atmosphere of New\nEngland.  There was, moreover, a boldness and rotundity of speech\namong these matrons, as most of them seemed to be, that would\nstartle us at the present day, whether in respect to its purport\nor its volume of tone.\n\n\"Goodwives,\" said a hard-featured dame of fifty, \"I'll tell ye a\npiece of my mind.  It would be greatly for the public behoof if\nwe women, being of mature age and church-members in good repute,\nshould have the handling of such malefactresses as this Hester\nPrynne.  What think ye, gossips?  If the hussy stood up for\njudgment before us five, that are now here in a knot together,\nwould she come off with such a sentence as the worshipful\nmagistrates have awarded?  Marry, I trow not.\"\n\n\"People say,\" said another, \"that the Reverend Master\nDimmesdale, her godly pastor, takes it very grievously to heart\nthat such a scandal should have come upon his congregation.\"\n\n\"The magistrates are God-fearing gentlemen, but merciful\novermuch--that is a truth,\" added a third autumnal matron.  \"At\nthe very least, they should have put the brand of a hot iron on\nHester Prynne's forehead.  Madame Hester would have winced at\nthat, I warrant me.  But she--the naughty baggage--little will\nshe care what they put upon the bodice of her gown!  Why, look\nyou, she may cover it with a brooch, or such like heathenish\nadornment, and so walk the streets as brave as ever!\"\n\n\"Ah, but,\" interposed, more softly, a young wife, holding a\nchild by the hand, \"let her cover the mark as she will, the pang\nof it will be always in her heart.\"\n\n\"What do we talk of marks and brands, whether on the bodice of\nher gown or the flesh of her forehead?\" cried another female,\nthe ugliest as well as the most pitiless of these\nself-constituted judges.  \"This woman has brought shame upon us\nall, and ought to die; is there not law for it?  Truly there is,\nboth in the Scripture and the statute-book.  Then let the\nmagistrates, who have made it of no effect, thank themselves if\ntheir own wives and daughters go astray.\"\n\n\"Mercy on us, goodwife!\" exclaimed a man in the crowd, \"is there\nno virtue in woman, save what springs from a wholesome fear of\nthe gallows?  That is the hardest word yet!  Hush now, gossips for\nthe lock is turning in the prison-door, and here comes Mistress\nPrynne herself.\"\n\nThe door of the jail being flung open from within there\nappeared, in the first place, like a black shadow emerging into\nsunshine, the grim and grisly presence of the town-beadle, with\na sword by his side, and his staff of office in his hand.  This\npersonage prefigured and represented in his aspect the whole\ndismal severity of the Puritanic code of law, which it was his\nbusiness to administer in its final and closest application to\nthe offender.  Stretching forth the official staff in his left\nhand, he laid his right upon the shoulder of a young woman, whom\nhe thus drew forward, until, on the threshold of the\nprison-door, she repelled him, by an action marked with natural\ndignity and force of character, and stepped into the open air as\nif by her own free will.  She bore in her arms a child, a baby of\nsome three months old, who winked and turned aside its little\nface from the too vivid light of day; because its existence,\nheretofore, had brought it acquaintance only with the grey\ntwilight of a dungeon, or other darksome apartment of the\nprison.\n\nWhen the young woman--the mother of this child--stood fully\nrevealed before the crowd, it seemed to be her first impulse to\nclasp the infant closely to her bosom; not so much by an impulse\nof motherly affection, as that she might thereby conceal a\ncertain token, which was wrought or fastened into her dress.  In\na moment, however, wisely judging that one token of her shame\nwould but poorly serve to hide another, she took the baby on her\narm, and with a burning blush, and yet a haughty smile, and a\nglance that would not be abashed, looked around at her\ntownspeople and neighbours.  On the breast of her gown, in fine\nred cloth, surrounded with an elaborate embroidery and fantastic\nflourishes of gold thread, appeared the letter A. It was so\nartistically done, and with so much fertility and gorgeous\nluxuriance of fancy, that it had all the effect of a last and\nfitting decoration to the apparel which she wore, and which was\nof a splendour in accordance with the taste of the age, but\ngreatly beyond what was allowed by the sumptuary regulations of\nthe colony.\n\nThe young woman was tall, with a figure of perfect elegance on a\nlarge scale.  She had dark and abundant hair, so glossy that it\nthrew off the sunshine with a gleam; and a face which, besides\nbeing beautiful from regularity of feature and richness of\ncomplexion, had the impressiveness belonging to a marked brow\nand deep black eyes.  She was ladylike, too, after the manner of\nthe feminine gentility of those days; characterised by a certain\nstate and dignity, rather than by the delicate, evanescent, and\nindescribable grace which is now recognised as its indication.\nAnd never had Hester Prynne appeared more ladylike, in the\nantique interpretation of the term, than as she issued from the\nprison.  Those who had before known her, and had expected to\nbehold her dimmed and obscured by a disastrous cloud, were\nastonished, and even startled, to perceive how her beauty shone\nout, and made a halo of the misfortune and ignominy in which she\nwas enveloped.  It may be true that, to a sensitive observer,\nthere was some thing exquisitely painful in it.  Her attire,\nwhich indeed, she had wrought for the occasion in prison, and\nhad modelled much after her own fancy, seemed to express the\nattitude of her spirit, the desperate recklessness of her mood,\nby its wild and picturesque peculiarity.  But the point which\ndrew all eyes, and, as it were, transfigured the wearer--so that\nboth men and women who had been familiarly acquainted with\nHester Prynne were now impressed as if they beheld her for the\nfirst time--was that SCARLET LETTER, so fantastically\nembroidered and illuminated upon her bosom.  It had the effect of\na spell, taking her out of the ordinary relations with humanity,\nand enclosing her in a sphere by herself.\n\n\"She hath good skill at her needle, that's certain,\" remarked\none of her female spectators; \"but did ever a woman, before this\nbrazen hussy, contrive such a way of showing it?  Why, gossips,\nwhat is it but to laugh in the faces of our godly magistrates,\nand make a pride out of what they, worthy gentlemen, meant for a\npunishment?\"\n\n\"It were well,\" muttered the most iron-visaged of the old dames,\n\"if we stripped Madame Hester's rich gown off her dainty\nshoulders; and as for the red letter which she hath stitched so\ncuriously, I'll bestow a rag of mine own rheumatic flannel to\nmake a fitter one!\"\n\n\"Oh, peace, neighbours--peace!\" whispered their youngest\ncompanion; \"do not let her hear you!  Not a stitch in that\nembroidered letter but she has felt it in her heart.\"\n\nThe grim beadle now made a gesture with his staff.  \"Make way,\ngood people--make way, in the King's name!\" cried he.  \"Open a\npassage; and I promise ye, Mistress Prynne shall be set where\nman, woman, and child may have a fair sight of her brave apparel\nfrom this time till an hour past meridian.  A blessing on the\nrighteous colony of the Massachusetts, where iniquity is dragged\nout into the sunshine!  Come along, Madame Hester, and show your\nscarlet letter in the market-place!\"\n\nA lane was forthwith opened through the crowd of spectators.\nPreceded by the beadle, and attended by an irregular procession\nof stern-browed men and unkindly visaged women, Hester Prynne\nset forth towards the place appointed for her punishment.  A\ncrowd of eager and curious schoolboys, understanding little of\nthe matter in hand, except that it gave them a half-holiday, ran\nbefore her progress, turning their heads continually to stare\ninto her face and at the winking baby in her arms, and at the\nignominious letter on her breast.  It was no great distance, in\nthose days, from the prison door to the market-place.  Measured\nby the prisoner's experience, however, it might be reckoned a\njourney of some length; for haughty as her demeanour was, she\nperchance underwent an agony from every footstep of those that\nthronged to see her, as if her heart had been flung into the\nstreet for them all to spurn and trample upon.  In our nature,\nhowever, there is a provision, alike marvellous and merciful,\nthat the sufferer should never know the intensity of what he\nendures by its present torture, but chiefly by the pang that\nrankles after it.  With almost a serene deportment, therefore,\nHester Prynne passed through this portion of her ordeal, and\ncame to a sort of scaffold, at the western extremity of the\nmarket-place.  It stood nearly beneath the eaves of Boston's\nearliest church, and appeared to be a fixture there.\n\nIn fact, this scaffold constituted a portion of a penal machine,\nwhich now, for two or three generations past, has been merely\nhistorical and traditionary among us, but was held, in the old\ntime, to be as effectual an agent, in the promotion of good\ncitizenship, as ever was the guillotine among the terrorists of\nFrance.  It was, in short, the platform of the pillory; and above\nit rose the framework of that instrument of discipline, so\nfashioned as to confine the human head in its tight grasp, and\nthus hold it up to the public gaze.  The very ideal of ignominy\nwas embodied and made manifest in this contrivance of wood and\niron.  There can be no outrage, methinks, against our common\nnature--whatever be the delinquencies of the individual--no\noutrage more flagrant than to forbid the culprit to hide his\nface for shame; as it was the essence of this punishment to do.\nIn Hester Prynne's instance, however, as not unfrequently in\nother cases, her sentence bore that she should stand a certain\ntime upon the platform, but without undergoing that gripe about\nthe neck and confinement of the head, the proneness to which was\nthe most devilish characteristic of this ugly engine.  Knowing\nwell her part, she ascended a flight of wooden steps, and was\nthus displayed to the surrounding multitude, at about the height\nof a man's shoulders above the street.\n\nHad there been a Papist among the crowd of Puritans, he might\nhave seen in this beautiful woman, so picturesque in her attire\nand mien, and with the infant at her bosom, an object to remind\nhim of the image of Divine Maternity, which so many illustrious\npainters have vied with one another to represent; something\nwhich should remind him, indeed, but only by contrast, of that\nsacred image of sinless motherhood, whose infant was to redeem\nthe world.  Here, there was the taint of deepest sin in the most\nsacred quality of human life, working such effect, that the\nworld was only the darker for this woman's beauty, and the more\nlost for the infant that she had borne.\n\nThe scene was not without a mixture of awe, such as must always\ninvest the spectacle of guilt and shame in a fellow-creature,\nbefore society shall have grown corrupt enough to smile, instead\nof shuddering at it.  The witnesses of Hester Prynne's disgrace\nhad not yet passed beyond their simplicity.  They were stern\nenough to look upon her death, had that been the sentence,\nwithout a murmur at its severity, but had none of the\nheartlessness of another social state, which would find only a\ntheme for jest in an exhibition like the present.  Even had there\nbeen a disposition to turn the matter into ridicule, it must\nhave been repressed and overpowered by the solemn presence of\nmen no less dignified than the governor, and several of his\ncounsellors, a judge, a general, and the ministers of the town,\nall of whom sat or stood in a balcony of the meeting-house,\nlooking down upon the platform.  When such personages could\nconstitute a part of the spectacle, without risking the majesty,\nor reverence of rank and office, it was safely to be inferred\nthat the infliction of a legal sentence would have an earnest\nand effectual meaning.  Accordingly, the crowd was sombre and\ngrave.  The unhappy culprit sustained herself as best a woman\nmight, under the heavy weight of a thousand unrelenting eyes,\nall fastened upon her, and concentrated at her bosom.  It was\nalmost intolerable to be borne.  Of an impulsive and passionate\nnature, she had fortified herself to encounter the stings and\nvenomous stabs of public contumely, wreaking itself in every\nvariety of insult; but there was a quality so much more terrible\nin the solemn mood of the popular mind, that she longed rather\nto behold all those rigid countenances contorted with scornful\nmerriment, and herself the object.  Had a roar of laughter burst\nfrom the multitude--each man, each woman, each little\nshrill-voiced child, contributing their individual parts--Hester\nPrynne might have repaid them all with a bitter and disdainful\nsmile.  But, under the leaden infliction which it was her doom to\nendure, she felt, at moments, as if she must needs shriek out\nwith the full power of her lungs, and cast herself from the\nscaffold down upon the ground, or else go mad at once.\n\nYet there were intervals when the whole scene, in which she was\nthe most conspicuous object, seemed to vanish from her eyes, or,\nat least, glimmered indistinctly before them, like a mass of\nimperfectly shaped and spectral images.  Her mind, and especially\nher memory, was preternaturally active, and kept bringing up\nother scenes than this roughly hewn street of a little town, on\nthe edge of the western wilderness: other faces than were\nlowering upon her from beneath the brims of those\nsteeple-crowned hats.  Reminiscences, the most trifling and\nimmaterial, passages of infancy and school-days, sports,\nchildish quarrels, and the little domestic traits of her maiden\nyears, came swarming back upon her, intermingled with\nrecollections of whatever was gravest in her subsequent life;\none picture precisely as vivid as another; as if all were of\nsimilar importance, or all alike a play.  Possibly, it was an\ninstinctive device of her spirit to relieve itself by the\nexhibition of these phantasmagoric forms, from the cruel weight\nand hardness of the reality.\n\nBe that as it might, the scaffold of the pillory was a point of\nview that revealed to Hester Prynne the entire track along which\nshe had been treading, since her happy infancy.  Standing on that\nmiserable eminence, she saw again her native village, in Old\nEngland, and her paternal home: a decayed house of grey stone,\nwith a poverty-stricken aspect, but retaining a half obliterated\nshield of arms over the portal, in token of antique gentility.\nShe saw her father's face, with its bold brow, and reverend\nwhite beard that flowed over the old-fashioned Elizabethan ruff;\nher mother's, too, with the look of heedful and anxious love\nwhich it always wore in her remembrance, and which, even since\nher death, had so often laid the impediment of a gentle\nremonstrance in her daughter's pathway.  She saw her own face,\nglowing with girlish beauty, and illuminating all the interior\nof the dusky mirror in which she had been wont to gaze at it.\nThere she beheld another countenance, of a man well stricken in\nyears, a pale, thin, scholar-like visage, with eyes dim and\nbleared by the lamp-light that had served them to pore over many\nponderous books.  Yet those same bleared optics had a strange,\npenetrating power, when it was their owner's purpose to read the\nhuman soul.  This figure of the study and the cloister, as Hester\nPrynne's womanly fancy failed not to recall, was slightly\ndeformed, with the left shoulder a trifle higher than the right.\nNext rose before her in memory's picture-gallery, the intricate\nand narrow thoroughfares, the tall, grey houses, the huge\ncathedrals, and the public edifices, ancient in date and quaint\nin architecture, of a continental city; where new life had\nawaited her, still in connexion with the misshapen scholar: a\nnew life, but feeding itself on time-worn materials, like a tuft\nof green moss on a crumbling wall.  Lastly, in lieu of these\nshifting scenes, came back the rude market-place of the Puritan,\nsettlement, with all the townspeople assembled, and levelling\ntheir stern regards at Hester Prynne--yes, at herself--who stood\non the scaffold of the pillory, an infant on her arm, and the\nletter A, in scarlet, fantastically embroidered with gold\nthread, upon her bosom.\n\nCould it be true?   She clutched the child so fiercely to her\nbreast that it sent forth a cry; she turned her eyes downward at\nthe scarlet letter, and even touched it with her finger, to\nassure herself that the infant and the shame were real.  Yes\nthese were her realities--all else had vanished!\n\n\n\nIII.  THE RECOGNITION\n\nFrom this intense consciousness of being the object of severe\nand universal observation, the wearer of the scarlet letter was\nat length relieved, by discerning, on the outskirts of the\ncrowd, a figure which irresistibly took possession of her\nthoughts.  An Indian in his native garb was standing there; but\nthe red men were not so infrequent visitors of the English\nsettlements that one of them would have attracted any notice\nfrom Hester Prynne at such a time; much less would he have\nexcluded all other objects and ideas from her mind.  By the\nIndian's side, and evidently sustaining a companionship with\nhim, stood a white man, clad in a strange disarray of civilized\nand savage costume.\n\nHe was small in stature, with a furrowed visage, which as yet\ncould hardly be termed aged.  There was a remarkable intelligence\nin his features, as of a person who had so cultivated his mental\npart that it could not fail to mould the physical to itself and\nbecome manifest by unmistakable tokens.  Although, by a seemingly\ncareless arrangement of his heterogeneous garb, he had\nendeavoured to conceal or abate the peculiarity, it was\nsufficiently evident to Hester Prynne that one of this man's\nshoulders rose higher than the other.  Again, at the first\ninstant of perceiving that thin visage, and the slight deformity\nof the figure, she pressed her infant to her bosom with so\nconvulsive a force that the poor babe uttered another cry of\npain.  But the mother did not seem to hear it.\n\nAt his arrival in the market-place, and some time before she saw\nhim, the stranger had bent his eyes on Hester Prynne.  It was\ncarelessly at first, like a man chiefly accustomed to look\ninward, and to whom external matters are of little value and\nimport, unless they bear relation to something within his mind.\nVery soon, however, his look became keen and penetrative.  A\nwrithing horror twisted itself across his features, like a snake\ngliding swiftly over them, and making one little pause, with all\nits wreathed intervolutions in open sight.  His face darkened\nwith some powerful emotion, which, nevertheless, he so\ninstantaneously controlled by an effort of his will, that, save\nat a single moment, its expression might have passed for\ncalmness.  After a brief space, the convulsion grew almost\nimperceptible, and finally subsided into the depths of his\nnature.  When he found the eyes of Hester Prynne fastened on his\nown, and saw that she appeared to recognize him, he slowly and\ncalmly raised his finger, made a gesture with it in the air, and\nlaid it on his lips.\n\nThen touching the shoulder of a townsman who stood near to him,\nhe addressed him in a formal and courteous manner:\n\n\"I pray you, good Sir,\" said he, \"who is this woman?--and\nwherefore is she here set up to public shame?\"\n\n\"You must needs be a stranger in this region, friend,\" answered\nthe townsman, looking curiously at the questioner and his savage\ncompanion, \"else you would surely have heard of Mistress Hester\nPrynne and her evil doings.  She hath raised a great scandal, I\npromise you, in godly Master Dimmesdale's church.\"\n\n\"You say truly,\" replied the other; \"I am a stranger, and have\nbeen a wanderer, sorely against my will.  I have met with\ngrievous mishaps by sea and land, and have been long held in\nbonds among the heathen-folk to the southward; and am now\nbrought hither by this Indian to be redeemed out of my\ncaptivity.  Will it please you, therefore, to tell me of Hester\nPrynne's--have I her name rightly?--of this woman's offences,\nand what has brought her to yonder scaffold?\"\n\n\"Truly, friend; and methinks it must gladden your heart, after\nyour troubles and sojourn in the wilderness,\" said the townsman,\n\"to find yourself at length in a land where iniquity is searched\nout and punished in the sight of rulers and people, as here in\nour godly New England.  Yonder woman, Sir, you must know, was the\nwife of a certain learned man, English by birth, but who had\nlong ago dwelt in Amsterdam, whence some good time agone he was\nminded to cross over and cast in his lot with us of the\nMassachusetts.  To this purpose he sent his wife before him,\nremaining himself to look after some necessary affairs.  Marry,\ngood Sir, in some two years, or less, that the woman has been a\ndweller here in Boston, no tidings have come of this learned\ngentleman, Master Prynne; and his young wife, look you, being\nleft to her own misguidance--\"\n\n\"Ah!--aha!--I conceive you,\" said the stranger with a bitter\nsmile.  \"So learned a man as you speak of should have learned\nthis too in his books.  And who, by your favour, Sir, may be the\nfather of yonder babe--it is some three or four months old, I\nshould judge--which Mistress Prynne is holding in her arms?\"\n\n\"Of a truth, friend, that matter remaineth a riddle; and the\nDaniel who shall expound it is yet a-wanting,\" answered the\ntownsman.  \"Madame Hester absolutely refuseth to speak, and the\nmagistrates have laid their heads together in vain.  Peradventure\nthe guilty one stands looking on at this sad spectacle, unknown\nof man, and forgetting that God sees him.\"\n\n\"The learned man,\" observed the stranger with another smile,\n\"should come himself to look into the mystery.\"\n\n\"It behoves him well if he be still in life,\" responded the\ntownsman.  \"Now, good Sir, our Massachusetts magistracy,\nbethinking themselves that this woman is youthful and fair, and\ndoubtless was strongly tempted to her fall, and that, moreover,\nas is most likely, her husband may be at the bottom of the sea,\nthey have not been bold to put in force the extremity of our\nrighteous law against her.  The penalty thereof is death.  But in\ntheir great mercy and tenderness of heart they have doomed\nMistress Prynne to stand only a space of three hours on the\nplatform of the pillory, and then and thereafter, for the\nremainder of her natural life to wear a mark of shame upon her\nbosom.\"\n\n\"A wise sentence,\" remarked the stranger, gravely, bowing his\nhead.  \"Thus she will be a living sermon against sin, until the\nignominious letter be engraved upon her tombstone.  It irks me,\nnevertheless, that the partner of her iniquity should not at\nleast, stand on the scaffold by her side.  But he will be\nknown--he will be known!--he will be known!\"\n\nHe bowed courteously to the communicative townsman, and\nwhispering a few words to his Indian attendant, they both made\ntheir way through the crowd.\n\nWhile this passed, Hester Prynne had been standing on her\npedestal, still with a fixed gaze towards the stranger--so fixed\na gaze that, at moments of intense absorption, all other objects\nin the visible world seemed to vanish, leaving only him and her.\nSuch an interview, perhaps, would have been more terrible than\neven to meet him as she now did, with the hot mid-day sun\nburning down upon her face, and lighting up its shame; with the\nscarlet token of infamy on her breast; with the sin-born infant\nin her arms; with a whole people, drawn forth as to a festival,\nstaring at the features that should have been seen only in the\nquiet gleam of the fireside, in the happy shadow of a home, or\nbeneath a matronly veil at church.  Dreadful as it was, she was\nconscious of a shelter in the presence of these thousand\nwitnesses.  It was better to stand thus, with so many betwixt him\nand her, than to greet him face to face--they two alone.  She\nfled for refuge, as it were, to the public exposure, and dreaded\nthe moment when its protection should be withdrawn from her.\nInvolved in these thoughts, she scarcely heard a voice behind\nher until it had repeated her name more than once, in a loud and\nsolemn tone, audible to the whole multitude.\n\n\"Hearken unto me, Hester Prynne!\" said the voice.\n\nIt has already been noticed that directly over the platform on\nwhich Hester Prynne stood was a kind of balcony, or open\ngallery, appended to the meeting-house.  It was the place whence\nproclamations were wont to be made, amidst an assemblage of the\nmagistracy, with all the ceremonial that attended such public\nobservances in those days.  Here, to witness the scene which we\nare describing, sat Governor Bellingham himself with four\nsergeants about his chair, bearing halberds, as a guard of\nhonour.  He wore a dark feather in his hat, a border of\nembroidery on his cloak, and a black velvet tunic beneath--a\ngentleman advanced in years, with a hard experience written in\nhis wrinkles.  He was not ill-fitted to be the head and\nrepresentative of a community which owed its origin and\nprogress, and its present state of development, not to the\nimpulses of youth, but to the stern and tempered energies of\nmanhood and the sombre sagacity of age; accomplishing so much,\nprecisely because it imagined and hoped so little.  The other\neminent characters by whom the chief ruler was surrounded were\ndistinguished by a dignity of mien, belonging to a period when\nthe forms of authority were felt to possess the sacredness of\nDivine institutions.  They were, doubtless, good men, just and\nsage.  But, out of the whole human family, it would not have been\neasy to select the same number of wise and virtuous persons, who\nshould be less capable of sitting in judgment on an erring\nwoman's heart, and disentangling its mesh of good and evil, than\nthe sages of rigid aspect towards whom Hester Prynne now turned\nher face.  She seemed conscious, indeed, that whatever sympathy\nshe might expect lay in the larger and warmer heart of the\nmultitude; for, as she lifted her eyes towards the balcony, the\nunhappy woman grew pale, and trembled.\n\nThe voice which had called her attention was that of the\nreverend and famous John Wilson, the eldest clergyman of Boston,\na great scholar, like most of his contemporaries in the\nprofession, and withal a man of kind and genial spirit.  This\nlast attribute, however, had been less carefully developed than\nhis intellectual gifts, and was, in truth, rather a matter of\nshame than self-congratulation with him.  There he stood, with a\nborder of grizzled locks beneath his skull-cap, while his grey\neyes, accustomed to the shaded light of his study, were winking,\nlike those of Hester's infant, in the unadulterated sunshine.  He\nlooked like the darkly engraved portraits which we see prefixed\nto old volumes of sermons, and had no more right than one of\nthose portraits would have to step forth, as he now did, and\nmeddle with a question of human guilt, passion, and anguish.\n\n\"Hester Prynne,\" said the clergyman, \"I have striven with my\nyoung brother here, under whose preaching of the Word you have\nbeen privileged to sit\"--here Mr. Wilson laid his hand on the\nshoulder of a pale young man beside him--\"I have sought, I say,\nto persuade this godly youth, that he should deal with you, here\nin the face of Heaven, and before these wise and upright rulers,\nand in hearing of all the people, as touching the vileness and\nblackness of your sin.  Knowing your natural temper better than\nI, he could the better judge what arguments to use, whether of\ntenderness or terror, such as might prevail over your hardness\nand obstinacy, insomuch that you should no longer hide the name\nof him who tempted you to this grievous fall.  But he opposes to\nme--with a young man's over-softness, albeit wise beyond his\nyears--that it were wronging the very nature of woman to force\nher to lay open her heart's secrets in such broad daylight, and\nin presence of so great a multitude.  Truly, as I sought to\nconvince him, the shame lay in the commission of the sin, and\nnot in the showing of it forth.  What say you to it, once again,\nbrother Dimmesdale?  Must it be thou, or I, that shall deal with\nthis poor sinner's soul?\"\n\nThere was a murmur among the dignified and reverend occupants of\nthe balcony; and Governor Bellingham gave expression to its\npurport, speaking in an authoritative voice, although tempered\nwith respect towards the youthful clergyman whom he addressed:\n\n\"Good Master Dimmesdale,\" said he, \"the responsibility of this\nwoman's soul lies greatly with you.  It behoves you; therefore,\nto exhort her to repentance and to confession, as a proof and\nconsequence thereof.\"\n\nThe directness of this appeal drew the eyes of the whole crowd\nupon the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale--young clergyman, who had come\nfrom one of the great English universities, bringing all the\nlearning of the age into our wild forest land.  His eloquence and\nreligious fervour had already given the earnest of high eminence\nin his profession.  He was a person of very striking aspect, with\na white, lofty, and impending brow; large, brown, melancholy\neyes, and a mouth which, unless when he forcibly compressed it,\nwas apt to be tremulous, expressing both nervous sensibility and\na vast power of self restraint.  Notwithstanding his high native\ngifts and scholar-like attainments, there was an air about this\nyoung minister--an apprehensive, a startled, a half-frightened\nlook--as of a being who felt himself quite astray, and at a loss\nin the pathway of human existence, and could only be at ease in\nsome seclusion of his own.  Therefore, so far as his duties would\npermit, he trod in the shadowy by-paths, and thus kept himself\nsimple and childlike, coming forth, when occasion was, with a\nfreshness, and fragrance, and dewy purity of thought, which, as\nmany people said, affected them like the speech of an angel.\n\nSuch was the young man whom the Reverend Mr. Wilson and the\nGovernor had introduced so openly to the public notice, bidding\nhim speak, in the hearing of all men, to that mystery of a\nwoman's soul, so sacred even in its pollution.  The trying nature\nof his position drove the blood from his cheek, and made his\nlips tremulous.\n\n\"Speak to the woman, my brother,\" said Mr. Wilson.  \"It is of\nmoment to her soul, and, therefore, as the worshipful Governor\nsays, momentous to thine own, in whose charge hers is.  Exhort\nher to confess the truth!\"\n\nThe Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale bent his head, in silent prayer,\nas it seemed, and then came forward.\n\n\"Hester Prynne,\" said he, leaning over the balcony and looking\ndown steadfastly into her eyes, \"thou hearest what this good man\nsays, and seest the accountability under which I labour.  If thou\nfeelest it to be for thy soul's peace, and that thy earthly\npunishment will thereby be made more effectual to salvation, I\ncharge thee to speak out the name of thy fellow-sinner and\nfellow-sufferer!  Be not silent from any mistaken pity and\ntenderness for him; for, believe me, Hester, though he were to\nstep down from a high place, and stand there beside thee, on thy\npedestal of shame, yet better were it so than to hide a guilty\nheart through life.  What can thy silence do for him, except it\ntempt him--yea, compel him, as it were--to add hypocrisy to sin?\nHeaven hath granted thee an open ignominy, that thereby thou\nmayest work out an open triumph over the evil within thee and\nthe sorrow without.  Take heed how thou deniest to him--who,\nperchance, hath not the courage to grasp it for himself--the\nbitter, but wholesome, cup that is now presented to thy lips!\"\n\nThe young pastor's voice was tremulously sweet, rich, deep, and\nbroken.  The feeling that it so evidently manifested, rather than\nthe direct purport of the words, caused it to vibrate within all\nhearts, and brought the listeners into one accord of sympathy.\nEven the poor baby at Hester's bosom was affected by the same\ninfluence, for it directed its hitherto vacant gaze towards Mr.\nDimmesdale, and held up its little arms with a half-pleased,\nhalf-plaintive murmur.  So powerful seemed the minister's appeal\nthat the people could not believe but that Hester Prynne would\nspeak out the guilty name, or else that the guilty one himself\nin whatever high or lowly place he stood, would be drawn forth\nby an inward and inevitable necessity, and compelled to ascend\nthe scaffold.\n\nHester shook her head.\n\n\"Woman, transgress not beyond the limits of Heaven's mercy!\"\ncried the Reverend Mr. Wilson, more harshly than before.  \"That\nlittle babe hath been gifted with a voice, to second and confirm\nthe counsel which thou hast heard.  Speak out the name!  That, and\nthy repentance, may avail to take the scarlet letter off thy\nbreast.\"\n\n\"Never,\" replied Hester Prynne, looking, not at Mr. Wilson, but\ninto the deep and troubled eyes of the younger clergyman.  \"It is\ntoo deeply branded.  Ye cannot take it off.  And would that I\nmight endure his agony as well as mine!\"\n\n\"Speak, woman!\" said another voice, coldly and sternly,\nproceeding from the crowd about the scaffold, \"Speak; and give\nyour child a father!\"\n\n\"I will not speak!\" answered Hester, turning pale as death, but\nresponding to this voice, which she too surely recognised.  \"And\nmy child must seek a heavenly father; she shall never know an\nearthly one!\"\n\n\"She will not speak!\" murmured Mr. Dimmesdale, who, leaning over\nthe balcony, with his hand upon his heart, had awaited the\nresult of his appeal.  He now drew back with a long respiration.\n\"Wondrous strength and generosity of a woman's heart!  She will\nnot speak!\"\n\nDiscerning the impracticable state of the poor culprit's mind,\nthe elder clergyman, who had carefully prepared himself for the\noccasion, addressed to the multitude a discourse on sin, in all\nits branches, but with continual reference to the ignominious\nletter.  So forcibly did he dwell upon this symbol, for the hour\nor more during which his periods were rolling over the people's\nheads, that it assumed new terrors in their imagination, and\nseemed to derive its scarlet hue from the flames of the infernal\npit.  Hester Prynne, meanwhile, kept her place upon the pedestal\nof shame, with glazed eyes, and an air of weary indifference.\nShe had borne that morning all that nature could endure; and as\nher temperament was not of the order that escapes from too\nintense suffering by a swoon, her spirit could only shelter\nitself beneath a stony crust of insensibility, while the\nfaculties of animal life remained entire.  In this state, the\nvoice of the preacher thundered remorselessly, but unavailingly,\nupon her ears.  The infant, during the latter portion of her\nordeal, pierced the air with its wailings and screams; she\nstrove to hush it mechanically, but seemed scarcely to\nsympathise with its trouble.  With the same hard demeanour, she\nwas led back to prison, and vanished from the public gaze within\nits iron-clamped portal.  It was whispered by those who peered\nafter her that the scarlet letter threw a lurid gleam along the\ndark passage-way of the interior.\n\n\n\nIV.   THE INTERVIEW\n\nAfter her return to the prison, Hester Prynne was found to be in\na state of nervous excitement, that demanded constant\nwatchfulness, lest she should perpetrate violence on herself, or\ndo some half-frenzied mischief to the poor babe.  As night\napproached, it proving impossible to quell her insubordination\nby rebuke or threats of punishment, Master Brackett, the jailer,\nthought fit to introduce a physician.  He described him as a man\nof skill in all Christian modes of physical science, and\nlikewise familiar with whatever the savage people could teach in\nrespect to medicinal herbs and roots that grew in the forest.  To\nsay the truth, there was much need of professional assistance,\nnot merely for Hester herself, but still more urgently for the\nchild--who, drawing its sustenance from the maternal bosom,\nseemed to have drank in with it all the turmoil, the anguish and\ndespair, which pervaded the mother's system.  It now writhed in\nconvulsions of pain, and was a forcible type, in its little\nframe, of the moral agony which Hester Prynne had borne\nthroughout the day.\n\nClosely following the jailer into the dismal apartment, appeared\nthat individual, of singular aspect whose presence in the crowd\nhad been of such deep interest to the wearer of the scarlet\nletter.  He was lodged in the prison, not as suspected of any\noffence, but as the most convenient and suitable mode of\ndisposing of him, until the magistrates should have conferred\nwith the Indian sagamores respecting his ransom.  His name was\nannounced as Roger Chillingworth.  The jailer, after ushering him\ninto the room, remained a moment, marvelling at the comparative\nquiet that followed his entrance; for Hester Prynne had\nimmediately become as still as death, although the child\ncontinued to moan.\n\n\"Prithee, friend, leave me alone with my patient,\" said the\npractitioner.  \"Trust me, good jailer, you shall briefly have\npeace in your house; and, I promise you, Mistress Prynne shall\nhereafter be more amenable to just authority than you may have\nfound her heretofore.\"\n\n\"Nay, if your worship can accomplish that,\" answered Master\nBrackett, \"I shall own you for a man of skill, indeed!  Verily,\nthe woman hath been like a possessed one; and there lacks little\nthat I should take in hand, to drive Satan out of her with\nstripes.\"\n\nThe stranger had entered the room with the characteristic\nquietude of the profession to which he announced himself as\nbelonging.  Nor did his demeanour change when the withdrawal of\nthe prison keeper left him face to face with the woman, whose\nabsorbed notice of him, in the crowd, had intimated so close a\nrelation between himself and her.  His first care was given to\nthe child, whose cries, indeed, as she lay writhing on the\ntrundle-bed, made it of peremptory necessity to postpone all\nother business to the task of soothing her.  He examined the\ninfant carefully, and then proceeded to unclasp a leathern case,\nwhich he took from beneath his dress.  It appeared to contain\nmedical preparations, one of which he mingled with a cup of\nwater.\n\n\"My old studies in alchemy,\" observed he, \"and my sojourn, for\nabove a year past, among a people well versed in the kindly\nproperties of simples, have made a better physician of me than\nmany that claim the medical degree.  Here, woman!  The child is\nyours--she is none of mine--neither will she recognise my voice\nor aspect as a father's.  Administer this draught, therefore,\nwith thine own hand.\"\n\nHester repelled the offered medicine, at the same time gazing\nwith strongly marked apprehension into his face.  \"Wouldst thou\navenge thyself on the innocent babe?\" whispered she.\n\n\"Foolish woman!\" responded the physician, half coldly, half\nsoothingly.  \"What should ail me to harm this misbegotten and\nmiserable babe?  The medicine is potent for good, and were it my\nchild--yea, mine own, as well as thine!  I could do no better for\nit.\"\n\nAs she still hesitated, being, in fact, in no reasonable state\nof mind, he took the infant in his arms, and himself\nadministered the draught.  It soon proved its efficacy, and\nredeemed the leech's pledge.  The moans of the little patient\nsubsided; its convulsive tossings gradually ceased; and in a few\nmoments, as is the custom of young children after relief from\npain, it sank into a profound and dewy slumber.  The physician,\nas he had a fair right to be termed, next bestowed his attention\non the mother.  With calm and intent scrutiny, he felt her pulse,\nlooked into her eyes--a gaze that made her heart shrink and\nshudder, because so familiar, and yet so strange and cold--and,\nfinally, satisfied with his investigation, proceeded to mingle\nanother draught.\n\n\"I know not Lethe nor Nepenthe,\" remarked he; \"but I have\nlearned many new secrets in the wilderness, and here is one of\nthem--a recipe that an Indian taught me, in requital of some\nlessons of my own, that were as old as Paracelsus.  Drink it!  It\nmay be less soothing than a sinless conscience.  That I cannot\ngive thee.  But it will calm the swell and heaving of thy\npassion, like oil thrown on the waves of a tempestuous sea.\"\n\nHe presented the cup to Hester, who received it with a slow,\nearnest look into his face; not precisely a look of fear, yet\nfull of doubt and questioning as to what his purposes might be.\nShe looked also at her slumbering child.\n\n\"I have thought of death,\" said she--\"have wished for it--would\neven have prayed for it, were it fit that such as I should pray\nfor anything.  Yet, if death be in this cup, I bid thee think\nagain, ere thou beholdest me quaff it.  See! it is even now at my\nlips.\"\n\n\"Drink, then,\" replied he, still with the same cold composure.\n\"Dost thou know me so little, Hester Prynne?  Are my purposes\nwont to be so shallow?  Even if I imagine a scheme of vengeance,\nwhat could I do better for my object than to let thee live--than\nto give thee medicines against all harm and peril of life--so\nthat this burning shame may still blaze upon thy bosom?\" As he\nspoke, he laid his long fore-finger on the scarlet letter, which\nforthwith seemed to scorch into Hester's breast, as if it had\nbeen red hot.  He noticed her involuntary gesture, and smiled.\n\"Live, therefore, and bear about thy doom with thee, in the eyes\nof men and women--in the eyes of him whom thou didst call thy\nhusband--in the eyes of yonder child!  And, that thou mayest\nlive, take off this draught.\"\n\nWithout further expostulation or delay, Hester Prynne drained\nthe cup, and, at the motion of the man of skill, seated herself\non the bed, where the child was sleeping; while he drew the only\nchair which the room afforded, and took his own seat beside her.\nShe could not but tremble at these preparations; for she felt\nthat--having now done all that humanity, or principle, or, if so\nit were, a refined cruelty, impelled him to do for the relief of\nphysical suffering--he was next to treat with her as the man\nwhom she had most deeply and irreparably injured.\n\n\"Hester,\" said he, \"I ask not wherefore, nor how thou hast\nfallen into the pit, or say, rather, thou hast ascended to the\npedestal of infamy on which I found thee.  The reason is not far\nto seek.  It was my folly, and thy weakness.  I--a man of\nthought--the book-worm of great libraries--a man already in\ndecay, having given my best years to feed the hungry dream of\nknowledge--what had I to do with youth and beauty like thine\nown?  Misshapen from my birth-hour, how could I delude myself\nwith the idea that intellectual gifts might veil physical\ndeformity in a young girl's fantasy?  Men call me wise.  If sages\nwere ever wise in their own behoof, I might have foreseen all\nthis.  I might have known that, as I came out of the vast and\ndismal forest, and entered this settlement of Christian men, the\nvery first object to meet my eyes would be thyself, Hester\nPrynne, standing up, a statue of ignominy, before the people.\nNay, from the moment when we came down the old church-steps\ntogether, a married pair, I might have beheld the bale-fire of\nthat scarlet letter blazing at the end of our path!\"\n\n\"Thou knowest,\" said Hester--for, depressed as she was, she\ncould not endure this last quiet stab at the token of her\nshame--\"thou knowest that I was frank with thee.  I felt no love,\nnor feigned any.\"\n\n\"True,\" replied he.  \"It was my folly!  I have said it.  But, up\nto that epoch of my life, I had lived in vain.  The world had\nbeen so cheerless!  My heart was a habitation large enough for\nmany guests, but lonely and chill, and without a household fire.\nI longed to kindle one!  It seemed not so wild a dream--old as I\nwas, and sombre as I was, and misshapen as I was--that the\nsimple bliss, which is scattered far and wide, for all mankind\nto gather up, might yet be mine.  And so, Hester, I drew thee\ninto my heart, into its innermost chamber, and sought to warm\nthee by the warmth which thy presence made there!\"\n\n\"I have greatly wronged thee,\" murmured Hester.\n\n\"We have wronged each other,\" answered he.  \"Mine was the first\nwrong, when I betrayed thy budding youth into a false and\nunnatural relation with my decay.  Therefore, as a man who has\nnot thought and philosophised in vain, I seek no vengeance, plot\nno evil against thee.  Between thee and me, the scale hangs\nfairly balanced.  But, Hester, the man lives who has wronged us\nboth!  Who is he?\"\n\n\"Ask me not!\" replied Hester Prynne, looking firmly into his\nface.  \"That thou shalt never know!\"\n\n\"Never, sayest thou?\" rejoined he, with a smile of dark and\nself-relying intelligence.  \"Never know him!  Believe me, Hester,\nthere are few things whether in the outward world, or, to a\ncertain depth, in the invisible sphere of thought--few things\nhidden from the man who devotes himself earnestly and\nunreservedly to the solution of a mystery.  Thou mayest cover up\nthy secret from the prying multitude.  Thou mayest conceal it,\ntoo, from the ministers and magistrates, even as thou didst this\nday, when they sought to wrench the name out of thy heart, and\ngive thee a partner on thy pedestal.  But, as for me, I come to\nthe inquest with other senses than they possess.  I shall seek\nthis man, as I have sought truth in books: as I have sought gold\nin alchemy.  There is a sympathy that will make me conscious of\nhim.  I shall see him tremble.  I shall feel myself shudder,\nsuddenly and unawares.  Sooner or later, he must needs be mine.\"\n\nThe eyes of the wrinkled scholar glowed so intensely upon her,\nthat Hester Prynne clasped her hand over her heart, dreading\nlest he should read the secret there at once.\n\n\"Thou wilt not reveal his name?   Not the less he is mine,\"\nresumed he, with a look of confidence, as if destiny were at one\nwith him.  \"He bears no letter of infamy wrought into his\ngarment, as thou dost, but I shall read it on his heart.  Yet\nfear not for him!  Think not that I shall interfere with Heaven's\nown method of retribution, or, to my own loss, betray him to the\ngripe of human law.  Neither do thou imagine that I shall\ncontrive aught against his life; no, nor against his fame, if as\nI judge, he be a man of fair repute.  Let him live!  Let him hide\nhimself in outward honour, if he may!  Not the less he shall be\nmine!\"\n\n\"Thy acts are like mercy,\" said Hester, bewildered and appalled;\n\"but thy words interpret thee as a terror!\"\n\n\"One thing, thou that wast my wife, I would enjoin upon thee,\"\ncontinued the scholar.  \"Thou hast kept the secret of thy\nparamour.  Keep, likewise, mine!  There are none in this land that\nknow me.  Breathe not to any human soul that thou didst ever call\nme husband!  Here, on this wild outskirt of the earth, I shall\npitch my tent; for, elsewhere a wanderer, and isolated from\nhuman interests, I find here a woman, a man, a child, amongst\nwhom and myself there exist the closest ligaments.  No matter\nwhether of love or hate: no matter whether of right or wrong!\nThou and thine, Hester Prynne, belong to me.  My home is where\nthou art and where he is.  But betray me not!\"\n\n\"Wherefore dost thou desire it?\" inquired Hester, shrinking, she\nhardly knew why, from this secret bond.  \"Why not announce\nthyself openly, and cast me off at once?\"\n\n\"It may be,\" he replied, \"because I will not encounter the\ndishonour that besmirches the husband of a faithless woman.  It\nmay be for other reasons.  Enough, it is my purpose to live and\ndie unknown.  Let, therefore, thy husband be to the world as one\nalready dead, and of whom no tidings shall ever come.  Recognise\nme not, by word, by sign, by look!  Breathe not the secret, above\nall, to the man thou wottest of.  Shouldst thou fail me in this,\nbeware!  His fame, his position, his life will be in my hands.\nBeware!\"\n\n\"I will keep thy secret, as I have his,\" said Hester.\n\n\"Swear it!\" rejoined he.\n\nAnd she took the oath.\n\n\"And now, Mistress Prynne,\" said old Roger Chillingworth, as he\nwas hereafter to be named, \"I leave thee alone: alone with thy\ninfant and the scarlet letter!  How is it, Hester?  Doth thy\nsentence bind thee to wear the token in thy sleep?  Art thou not\nafraid of nightmares and hideous dreams?\"\n\n\"Why dost thou smile so at me?\" inquired Hester, troubled at the\nexpression of his eyes.  \"Art thou like the Black Man that haunts\nthe forest round about us?  Hast thou enticed me into a bond that\nwill prove the ruin of my soul?\"\n\n\"Not thy soul,\" he answered, with another smile.  \"No, not\nthine!\"\n\n\n\nV.  HESTER AT HER NEEDLE\n\nHester Prynne's term of confinement was now at an end.  Her\nprison-door was thrown open, and she came forth into the\nsunshine, which, falling on all alike, seemed, to her sick and\nmorbid heart, as if meant for no other purpose than to reveal\nthe scarlet letter on her breast.  Perhaps there was a more real\ntorture in her first unattended footsteps from the threshold of\nthe prison than even in the procession and spectacle that have\nbeen described, where she was made the common infamy, at which\nall mankind was summoned to point its finger.  Then, she was\nsupported by an unnatural tension of the nerves, and by all the\ncombative energy of her character, which enabled her to convert\nthe scene into a kind of lurid triumph.  It was, moreover, a\nseparate and insulated event, to occur but once in her lifetime,\nand to meet which, therefore, reckless of economy, she might\ncall up the vital strength that would have sufficed for many\nquiet years.  The very law that condemned her--a giant of stern\nfeatures but with vigour to support, as well as to annihilate,\nin his iron arm--had held her up through the terrible ordeal of\nher ignominy.  But now, with this unattended walk from her prison\ndoor, began the daily custom; and she must either sustain and\ncarry it forward by the ordinary resources of her nature, or\nsink beneath it.  She could no longer borrow from the future to\nhelp her through the present grief.  Tomorrow would bring its own\ntrial with it; so would the next day, and so would the next:\neach its own trial, and yet the very same that was now so\nunutterably grievous to be borne.  The days of the far-off future\nwould toil onward, still with the same burden for her to take\nup, and bear along with her, but never to fling down; for the\naccumulating days and added years would pile up their misery\nupon the heap of shame.  Throughout them all, giving up her\nindividuality, she would become the general symbol at which the\npreacher and moralist might point, and in which they might\nvivify and embody their images of woman's frailty and sinful\npassion.  Thus the young and pure would be taught to look at her,\nwith the scarlet letter flaming on her breast--at her, the child\nof honourable parents--at her, the mother of a babe that would\nhereafter be a woman--at her, who had once been innocent--as the\nfigure, the body, the reality of sin.  And over her grave, the\ninfamy that she must carry thither would be her only monument.\n\nIt may seem marvellous that, with the world before her--kept by\nno restrictive clause of her condemnation within the limits of\nthe Puritan settlement, so remote and so obscure--free to return\nto her birth-place, or to any other European land, and there\nhide her character and identity under a new exterior, as\ncompletely as if emerging into another state of being--and\nhaving also the passes of the dark, inscrutable forest open to\nher, where the wildness of her nature might assimilate itself\nwith a people whose customs and life were alien from the law\nthat had condemned her--it may seem marvellous that this woman\nshould still call that place her home, where, and where only,\nshe must needs be the type of shame.  But there is a fatality, a\nfeeling so irresistible and inevitable that it has the force of\ndoom, which almost invariably compels human beings to linger\naround and haunt, ghost-like, the spot where some great and\nmarked event has given the colour to their lifetime; and, still\nthe more irresistibly, the darker the tinge that saddens it.  Her\nsin, her ignominy, were the roots which she had struck into the\nsoil.  It was as if a new birth, with stronger assimilations than\nthe first, had converted the forest-land, still so uncongenial\nto every other pilgrim and wanderer, into Hester Prynne's wild\nand dreary, but life-long home.  All other scenes of earth--even\nthat village of rural England, where happy infancy and stainless\nmaidenhood seemed yet to be in her mother's keeping, like\ngarments put off long ago--were foreign to her, in comparison.\nThe chain that bound her here was of iron links, and galling to\nher inmost soul, but could never be broken.\n\nIt might be, too--doubtless it was so, although she hid the\nsecret from herself, and grew pale whenever it struggled out of\nher heart, like a serpent from its hole--it might be that\nanother feeling kept her within the scene and pathway that had\nbeen so fatal.  There dwelt, there trode, the feet of one with\nwhom she deemed herself connected in a union that, unrecognised\non earth, would bring them together before the bar of final\njudgment, and make that their marriage-altar, for a joint\nfuturity of endless retribution.  Over and over again, the\ntempter of souls had thrust this idea upon Hester's\ncontemplation, and laughed at the passionate and desperate joy\nwith which she seized, and then strove to cast it from her.  She\nbarely looked the idea in the face, and hastened to bar it in\nits dungeon.  What she compelled herself to believe--what,\nfinally, she reasoned upon as her motive for continuing a\nresident of New England--was half a truth, and half a\nself-delusion.  Here, she said to herself had been the scene of\nher guilt, and here should be the scene of her earthly\npunishment; and so, perchance, the torture of her daily shame\nwould at length purge her soul, and work out another purity than\nthat which she had lost: more saint-like, because the result of\nmartyrdom.\n\nHester Prynne, therefore, did not flee.  On the outskirts of the\ntown, within the verge of the peninsula, but not in close\nvicinity to any other habitation, there was a small thatched\ncottage.  It had been built by an earlier settler, and abandoned,\nbecause the soil about it was too sterile for cultivation, while\nits comparative remoteness put it out of the sphere of that\nsocial activity which already marked the habits of the\nemigrants.  It stood on the shore, looking across a basin of the\nsea at the forest-covered hills, towards the west.  A clump of\nscrubby trees, such as alone grew on the peninsula, did not so\nmuch conceal the cottage from view, as seem to denote that here\nwas some object which would fain have been, or at least ought to\nbe, concealed.  In this little lonesome dwelling, with some\nslender means that she possessed, and by the licence of the\nmagistrates, who still kept an inquisitorial watch over her,\nHester established herself, with her infant child.  A mystic\nshadow of suspicion immediately attached itself to the spot.\nChildren, too young to comprehend wherefore this woman should be\nshut out from the sphere of human charities, would creep nigh\nenough to behold her plying her needle at the cottage-window, or\nstanding in the doorway, or labouring in her little garden, or\ncoming forth along the pathway that led townward, and,\ndiscerning the scarlet letter on her breast, would scamper off\nwith a strange contagious fear.\n\nLonely as was Hester's situation, and without a friend on earth\nwho dared to show himself, she, however, incurred no risk of\nwant.  She possessed an art that sufficed, even in a land that\nafforded comparatively little scope for its exercise, to supply\nfood for her thriving infant and herself.  It was the art, then,\nas now, almost the only one within a woman's grasp--of\nneedle-work.  She bore on her breast, in the curiously\nembroidered letter, a specimen of her delicate and imaginative\nskill, of which the dames of a court might gladly have availed\nthemselves, to add the richer and more spiritual adornment of\nhuman ingenuity to their fabrics of silk and gold.  Here, indeed,\nin the sable simplicity that generally characterised the\nPuritanic modes of dress, there might be an infrequent call for\nthe finer productions of her handiwork.  Yet the taste of the\nage, demanding whatever was elaborate in compositions of this\nkind, did not fail to extend its influence over our stern\nprogenitors, who had cast behind them so many fashions which it\nmight seem harder to dispense with.\n\nPublic ceremonies, such as ordinations, the installation of\nmagistrates, and all that could give majesty to the forms in\nwhich a new government manifested itself to the people, were, as\na matter of policy, marked by a stately and well-conducted\nceremonial, and a sombre, but yet a studied magnificence.  Deep\nruffs, painfully wrought bands, and gorgeously embroidered\ngloves, were all deemed necessary to the official state of men\nassuming the reins of power, and were readily allowed to\nindividuals dignified by rank or wealth, even while sumptuary\nlaws forbade these and similar extravagances to the plebeian\norder.  In the array of funerals, too--whether for the apparel of\nthe dead body, or to typify, by manifold emblematic devices of\nsable cloth and snowy lawn, the sorrow of the survivors--there\nwas a frequent and characteristic demand for such labour as\nHester Prynne could supply.  Baby-linen--for babies then wore\nrobes of state--afforded still another possibility of toil and\nemolument.\n\nBy degrees, not very slowly, her handiwork became what would now\nbe termed the fashion.  Whether from commiseration for a woman of\nso miserable a destiny; or from the morbid curiosity that gives\na fictitious value even to common or worthless things; or by\nwhatever other intangible circumstance was then, as now,\nsufficient to bestow, on some persons, what others might seek in\nvain; or because Hester really filled a gap which must otherwise\nhave remained vacant; it is certain that she had ready and\nfairly requited employment for as many hours as she saw fit to\noccupy with her needle.  Vanity, it may be, chose to mortify\nitself, by putting on, for ceremonials of pomp and state, the\ngarments that had been wrought by her sinful hands.  Her\nneedle-work was seen on the ruff of the Governor; military men\nwore it on their scarfs, and the minister on his band; it decked\nthe baby's little cap; it was shut up, to be mildewed and\nmoulder away, in the coffins of the dead.  But it is not recorded\nthat, in a single instance, her skill was called in to embroider\nthe white veil which was to cover the pure blushes of a bride.\nThe exception indicated the ever relentless vigour with which\nsociety frowned upon her sin.\n\nHester sought not to acquire anything beyond a subsistence, of\nthe plainest and most ascetic description, for herself, and a\nsimple abundance for her child.  Her own dress was of the\ncoarsest materials and the most sombre hue, with only that one\nornament--the scarlet letter--which it was her doom to wear.  The\nchild's attire, on the other hand, was distinguished by a\nfanciful, or, we may rather say, a fantastic ingenuity, which\nserved, indeed, to heighten the airy charm that early began to\ndevelop itself in the little girl, but which appeared to have\nalso a deeper meaning.  We may speak further of it hereafter.\nExcept for that small expenditure in the decoration of her\ninfant, Hester bestowed all her superfluous means in charity, on\nwretches less miserable than herself, and who not unfrequently\ninsulted the hand that fed them.  Much of the time, which she\nmight readily have applied to the better efforts of her art, she\nemployed in making coarse garments for the poor.  It is probable\nthat there was an idea of penance in this mode of occupation,\nand that she offered up a real sacrifice of enjoyment in\ndevoting so many hours to such rude handiwork.  She had in her\nnature a rich, voluptuous, Oriental characteristic--a taste for\nthe gorgeously beautiful, which, save in the exquisite\nproductions of her needle, found nothing else, in all the\npossibilities of her life, to exercise itself upon.  Women derive\na pleasure, incomprehensible to the other sex, from the delicate\ntoil of the needle.  To Hester Prynne it might have been a mode\nof expressing, and therefore soothing, the passion of her life.\nLike all other joys, she rejected it as sin.  This morbid\nmeddling of conscience with an immaterial matter betokened, it\nis to be feared, no genuine and steadfast penitence, but\nsomething doubtful, something that might be deeply wrong\nbeneath.\n\nIn this manner, Hester Prynne came to have a part to perform in\nthe world.  With her native energy of character and rare\ncapacity, it could not entirely cast her off, although it had\nset a mark upon her, more intolerable to a woman's heart than\nthat which branded the brow of Cain.  In all her intercourse with\nsociety, however, there was nothing that made her feel as if she\nbelonged to it.  Every gesture, every word, and even the silence\nof those with whom she came in contact, implied, and often\nexpressed, that she was banished, and as much alone as if she\ninhabited another sphere, or communicated with the common nature\nby other organs and senses than the rest of human kind.  She\nstood apart from mortal interests, yet close beside them, like a\nghost that revisits the familiar fireside, and can no longer\nmake itself seen or felt; no more smile with the household joy,\nnor mourn with the kindred sorrow; or, should it succeed in\nmanifesting its forbidden sympathy, awakening only terror and\nhorrible repugnance.  These emotions, in fact, and its bitterest\nscorn besides, seemed to be the sole portion that she retained\nin the universal heart.  It was not an age of delicacy; and her\nposition, although she understood it well, and was in little\ndanger of forgetting it, was often brought before her vivid\nself-perception, like a new anguish, by the rudest touch upon\nthe tenderest spot.  The poor, as we have already said, whom she\nsought out to be the objects of her bounty, often reviled the\nhand that was stretched forth to succour them.  Dames of elevated\nrank, likewise, whose doors she entered in the way of her\noccupation, were accustomed to distil drops of bitterness into\nher heart; sometimes through that alchemy of quiet malice, by\nwhich women can concoct a subtle poison from ordinary trifles;\nand sometimes, also, by a coarser expression, that fell upon the\nsufferer's defenceless breast like a rough blow upon an\nulcerated wound.  Hester had schooled herself long and well; and\nshe never responded to these attacks, save by a flush of crimson\nthat rose irrepressibly over her pale cheek, and again subsided\ninto the depths of her bosom.  She was patient--a martyr, indeed\nbut she forebore to pray for enemies, lest, in spite of her\nforgiving aspirations, the words of the blessing should\nstubbornly twist themselves into a curse.\n\nContinually, and in a thousand other ways, did she feel the\ninnumerable throbs of anguish that had been so cunningly\ncontrived for her by the undying, the ever-active sentence of\nthe Puritan tribunal.  Clergymen paused in the streets, to\naddress words of exhortation, that brought a crowd, with its\nmingled grin and frown, around the poor, sinful woman.  If she\nentered a church, trusting to share the Sabbath smile of the\nUniversal Father, it was often her mishap to find herself the\ntext of the discourse.  She grew to have a dread of children; for\nthey had imbibed from their parents a vague idea of something\nhorrible in this dreary woman gliding silently through the town,\nwith never any companion but one only child.  Therefore, first\nallowing her to pass, they pursued her at a distance with shrill\ncries, and the utterances of a word that had no distinct purport\nto their own minds, but was none the less terrible to her, as\nproceeding from lips that babbled it unconsciously.  It seemed to\nargue so wide a diffusion of her shame, that all nature knew of\nit; it could have caused her no deeper pang had the leaves of\nthe trees whispered the dark story among themselves--had the\nsummer breeze murmured about it--had the wintry blast shrieked\nit aloud!  Another peculiar torture was felt in the gaze of a new\neye.  When strangers looked curiously at the scarlet letter and\nnone ever failed to do so--they branded it afresh in Hester's\nsoul; so that, oftentimes, she could scarcely refrain, yet\nalways did refrain, from covering the symbol with her hand.  But\nthen, again, an accustomed eye had likewise its own anguish to\ninflict.  Its cool stare of familiarity was intolerable.  From\nfirst to last, in short, Hester Prynne had always this dreadful\nagony in feeling a human eye upon the token; the spot never grew\ncallous; it seemed, on the contrary, to grow more sensitive with\ndaily torture.\n\nBut sometimes, once in many days, or perchance in many months,\nshe felt an eye--a human eye--upon the ignominious brand, that\nseemed to give a momentary relief, as if half of her agony were\nshared.  The next instant, back it all rushed again, with still a\ndeeper throb of pain; for, in that brief interval, she had\nsinned anew.  (Had Hester sinned alone?)\n\nHer imagination was somewhat affected, and, had she been of a\nsofter moral and intellectual fibre would have been still more\nso, by the strange and solitary anguish of her life.  Walking to\nand fro, with those lonely footsteps, in the little world with\nwhich she was outwardly connected, it now and then appeared to\nHester--if altogether fancy, it was nevertheless too potent to\nbe resisted--she felt or fancied, then, that the scarlet letter\nhad endowed her with a new sense.  She shuddered to believe, yet\ncould not help believing, that it gave her a sympathetic\nknowledge of the hidden sin in other hearts.  She was\nterror-stricken by the revelations that were thus made.  What were\nthey? Could they be other than the insidious whispers of the bad\nangel, who would fain have persuaded the struggling woman, as\nyet only half his victim, that the outward guise of purity was\nbut a lie, and that, if truth were everywhere to be shown, a\nscarlet letter would blaze forth on many a bosom besides Hester\nPrynne's?  Or, must she receive those intimations--so obscure,\nyet so distinct--as truth?  In all her miserable experience,\nthere was nothing else so awful and so loathsome as this sense.\nIt perplexed, as well as shocked her, by the irreverent\ninopportuneness of the occasions that brought it into vivid\naction.  Sometimes the red infamy upon her breast would give a\nsympathetic throb, as she passed near a venerable minister or\nmagistrate, the model of piety and justice, to whom that age of\nantique reverence looked up, as to a mortal man in fellowship\nwith angels.  \"What evil thing is at hand?\" would Hester say to\nherself.  Lifting her reluctant eyes, there would be nothing\nhuman within the scope of view, save the form of this earthly\nsaint!  Again a mystic sisterhood would contumaciously assert\nitself, as she met the sanctified frown of some matron, who,\naccording to the rumour of all tongues, had kept cold snow\nwithin her bosom throughout life.  That unsunned snow in the\nmatron's bosom, and the burning shame on Hester Prynne's--what\nhad the two in common?  Or, once more, the electric thrill would\ngive her warning--\"Behold Hester, here is a companion!\" and,\nlooking up, she would detect the eyes of a young maiden glancing\nat the scarlet letter, shyly and aside, and quickly averted,\nwith a faint, chill crimson in her cheeks as if her purity were\nsomewhat sullied by that momentary glance.  O Fiend, whose\ntalisman was that fatal symbol, wouldst thou leave nothing,\nwhether in youth or age, for this poor sinner to revere?--such\nloss of faith is ever one of the saddest results of sin.  Be it\naccepted as a proof that all was not corrupt in this poor victim\nof her own frailty, and man's hard law, that Hester Prynne yet\nstruggled to believe that no fellow-mortal was guilty like\nherself.\n\nThe vulgar, who, in those dreary old times, were always\ncontributing a grotesque horror to what interested their\nimaginations, had a story about the scarlet letter which we\nmight readily work up into a terrific legend.  They averred that\nthe symbol was not mere scarlet cloth, tinged in an earthly\ndye-pot, but was red-hot with infernal fire, and could be seen\nglowing all alight whenever Hester Prynne walked abroad in the\nnight-time.  And we must needs say it seared Hester's bosom so\ndeeply, that perhaps there was more truth in the rumour than our\nmodern incredulity may be inclined to admit.\n\n\n\nVI.  PEARL\n\nWe have as yet hardly spoken of the infant; that little\ncreature, whose innocent life had sprung, by the inscrutable\ndecree of Providence, a lovely and immortal flower, out of the\nrank luxuriance of a guilty passion.  How strange it seemed to\nthe sad woman, as she watched the growth, and the beauty that\nbecame every day more brilliant, and the intelligence that threw\nits quivering sunshine over the tiny features of this child!  Her\nPearl--for so had Hester called her; not as a name expressive of\nher aspect, which had nothing of the calm, white, unimpassioned\nlustre that would be indicated by the comparison.  But she named\nthe infant \"Pearl,\" as being of great price--purchased with all\nshe had--her mother's only treasure!  How strange, indeed!  Man\nhad marked this woman's sin by a scarlet letter, which had such\npotent and disastrous efficacy that no human sympathy could\nreach her, save it were sinful like herself.  God, as a direct\nconsequence of the sin which man thus punished, had given her a\nlovely child, whose place was on that same dishonoured bosom, to\nconnect her parent for ever with the race and descent of\nmortals, and to be finally a blessed soul in heaven!  Yet these\nthoughts affected Hester Prynne less with hope than\napprehension.  She knew that her deed had been evil; she could\nhave no faith, therefore, that its result would be good.  Day\nafter day she looked fearfully into the child's expanding\nnature, ever dreading to detect some dark and wild peculiarity\nthat should correspond with the guiltiness to which she owed her\nbeing.\n\nCertainly there was no physical defect.  By its perfect shape,\nits vigour, and its natural dexterity in the use of all its\nuntried limbs, the infant was worthy to have been brought forth\nin Eden: worthy to have been left there to be the plaything of\nthe angels after the world's first parents were driven out.  The\nchild had a native grace which does not invariably co-exist with\nfaultless beauty; its attire, however simple, always impressed\nthe beholder as if it were the very garb that precisely became\nit best.  But little Pearl was not clad in rustic weeds.  Her\nmother, with a morbid purpose that may be better understood\nhereafter, had bought the richest tissues that could be\nprocured, and allowed her imaginative faculty its full play in\nthe arrangement and decoration of the dresses which the child\nwore before the public eye.  So magnificent was the small figure\nwhen thus arrayed, and such was the splendour of Pearl's own\nproper beauty, shining through the gorgeous robes which might\nhave extinguished a paler loveliness, that there was an absolute\ncircle of radiance around her on the darksome cottage floor.  And\nyet a russet gown, torn and soiled with the child's rude play,\nmade a picture of her just as perfect.  Pearl's aspect was imbued\nwith a spell of infinite variety; in this one child there were\nmany children, comprehending the full scope between the\nwild-flower prettiness of a peasant-baby, and the pomp, in\nlittle, of an infant princess.  Throughout all, however, there\nwas a trait of passion, a certain depth of hue, which she never\nlost; and if in any of her changes, she had grown fainter or\npaler, she would have ceased to be herself--it would have been\nno longer Pearl!\n\nThis outward mutability indicated, and did not more than fairly\nexpress, the various properties of her inner life.  Her nature\nappeared to possess depth, too, as well as variety; but--or else\nHester's fears deceived her--it lacked reference and adaptation\nto the world into which she was born.  The child could not be\nmade amenable to rules.  In giving her existence a great law had\nbeen broken; and the result was a being whose elements were\nperhaps beautiful and brilliant, but all in disorder, or with an\norder peculiar to themselves, amidst which the point of variety\nand arrangement was difficult or impossible to be discovered.\nHester could only account for the child's character--and even\nthen most vaguely and imperfectly--by recalling what she herself\nhad been during that momentous period while Pearl was imbibing\nher soul from the spiritual world, and her bodily frame from its\nmaterial of earth.  The mother's impassioned state had been the\nmedium through which were transmitted to the unborn infant the\nrays of its moral life; and, however white and clear originally,\nthey had taken the deep stains of crimson and gold, the fiery\nlustre, the black shadow, and the untempered light of the\nintervening substance.  Above all, the warfare of Hester's spirit\nat that epoch was perpetuated in Pearl.  She could recognize her\nwild, desperate, defiant mood, the flightiness of her temper,\nand even some of the very cloud-shapes of gloom and despondency\nthat had brooded in her heart.  They were now illuminated by the\nmorning radiance of a young child's disposition, but, later in\nthe day of earthly existence, might be prolific of the storm and\nwhirlwind.\n\nThe discipline of the family in those days was of a far more\nrigid kind than now.  The frown, the harsh rebuke, the frequent\napplication of the rod, enjoined by Scriptural authority, were\nused, not merely in the way of punishment for actual offences,\nbut as a wholesome regimen for the growth and promotion of all\nchildish virtues.  Hester Prynne, nevertheless, the loving mother\nof this one child, ran little risk of erring on the side of\nundue severity.  Mindful, however, of her own errors and\nmisfortunes, she early sought to impose a tender but strict\ncontrol over the infant immortality that was committed to her\ncharge.  But the task was beyond her skill.  After testing both\nsmiles and frowns, and proving that neither mode of treatment\npossessed any calculable influence, Hester was ultimately\ncompelled to stand aside and permit the child to be swayed by\nher own impulses.  Physical compulsion or restraint was\neffectual, of course, while it lasted.  As to any other kind of\ndiscipline, whether addressed to her mind or heart, little Pearl\nmight or might not be within its reach, in accordance with the\ncaprice that ruled the moment.  Her mother, while Pearl was yet\nan infant, grew acquainted with a certain peculiar look, that\nwarned her when it would be labour thrown away to insist,\npersuade or plead.\n\nIt was a look so intelligent, yet inexplicable, perverse,\nsometimes so malicious, but generally accompanied by a wild flow\nof spirits, that Hester could not help questioning at such\nmoments whether Pearl was a human child.  She seemed rather an\nairy sprite, which, after playing its fantastic sports for a\nlittle while upon the cottage floor, would flit away with a\nmocking smile.  Whenever that look appeared in her wild, bright,\ndeeply black eyes, it invested her with a strange remoteness and\nintangibility: it was as if she were hovering in the air, and\nmight vanish, like a glimmering light that comes we know not\nwhence and goes we know not whither.  Beholding it, Hester was\nconstrained to rush towards the child--to pursue the little elf\nin the flight which she invariably began--to snatch her to her\nbosom with a close pressure and earnest kisses--not so much from\noverflowing love as to assure herself that Pearl was flesh and\nblood, and not utterly delusive.  But Pearl's laugh, when she was\ncaught, though full of merriment and music, made her mother more\ndoubtful than before.\n\nHeart-smitten at this bewildering and baffling spell, that so\noften came between herself and her sole treasure, whom she had\nbought so dear, and who was all her world, Hester sometimes\nburst into passionate tears.  Then, perhaps--for there was no\nforeseeing how it might affect her--Pearl would frown, and\nclench her little fist, and harden her small features into a\nstern, unsympathising look of discontent.  Not seldom she would\nlaugh anew, and louder than before, like a thing incapable and\nunintelligent of human sorrow.  Or--but this more rarely\nhappened--she would be convulsed with rage of grief and sob out\nher love for her mother in broken words, and seem intent on\nproving that she had a heart by breaking it.  Yet Hester was\nhardly safe in confiding herself to that gusty tenderness: it\npassed as suddenly as it came.  Brooding over all these matters,\nthe mother felt like one who has evoked a spirit, but, by some\nirregularity in the process of conjuration, has failed to win\nthe master-word that should control this new and\nincomprehensible intelligence.  Her only real comfort was when\nthe child lay in the placidity of sleep.  Then she was sure of\nher, and tasted hours of quiet, sad, delicious happiness;\nuntil--perhaps with that perverse expression glimmering from\nbeneath her opening lids--little Pearl awoke!\n\nHow soon--with what strange rapidity, indeed did Pearl arrive at\nan age that was capable of social intercourse beyond the\nmother's ever-ready smile and nonsense-words!  And then what a\nhappiness would it have been could Hester Prynne have heard her\nclear, bird-like voice mingling with the uproar of other\nchildish voices, and have distinguished and unravelled her own\ndarling's tones, amid all the entangled outcry of a group of\nsportive children.  But this could never be.  Pearl was a born\noutcast of the infantile world.  An imp of evil, emblem and\nproduct of sin, she had no right among christened infants.\nNothing was more remarkable than the instinct, as it seemed,\nwith which the child comprehended her loneliness: the destiny\nthat had drawn an inviolable circle round about her: the whole\npeculiarity, in short, of her position in respect to other\nchildren.  Never since her release from prison had Hester met the\npublic gaze without her.  In all her walks about the town, Pearl,\ntoo, was there: first as the babe in arms, and afterwards as the\nlittle girl, small companion of her mother, holding a forefinger\nwith her whole grasp, and tripping along at the rate of three or\nfour footsteps to one of Hester's.  She saw the children of the\nsettlement on the grassy margin of the street, or at the\ndomestic thresholds, disporting themselves in such grim fashions\nas the Puritanic nurture would permit; playing at going to\nchurch, perchance, or at scourging Quakers; or taking scalps in\na sham fight with the Indians, or scaring one another with\nfreaks of imitative witchcraft.  Pearl saw, and gazed intently,\nbut never sought to make acquaintance.  If spoken to, she would\nnot speak again.  If the children gathered about her, as they\nsometimes did, Pearl would grow positively terrible in her puny\nwrath, snatching up stones to fling at them, with shrill,\nincoherent exclamations, that made her mother tremble, because\nthey had so much the sound of a witch's anathemas in some\nunknown tongue.\n\nThe truth was, that the little Puritans, being of the most\nintolerant brood that ever lived, had got a vague idea of\nsomething outlandish, unearthly, or at variance with ordinary\nfashions, in the mother and child, and therefore scorned them in\ntheir hearts, and not unfrequently reviled them with their\ntongues.  Pearl felt the sentiment, and requited it with the\nbitterest hatred that can be supposed to rankle in a childish\nbosom.  These outbreaks of a fierce temper had a kind of value,\nand even comfort for the mother; because there was at least an\nintelligible earnestness in the mood, instead of the fitful\ncaprice that so often thwarted her in the child's\nmanifestations.  It appalled her, nevertheless, to discern here,\nagain, a shadowy reflection of the evil that had existed in\nherself.  All this enmity and passion had Pearl inherited, by\ninalienable right, out of Hester's heart.  Mother and daughter\nstood together in the same circle of seclusion from human\nsociety; and in the nature of the child seemed to be perpetuated\nthose unquiet elements that had distracted Hester Prynne before\nPearl's birth, but had since begun to be soothed away by the\nsoftening influences of maternity.\n\nAt home, within and around her mother's cottage, Pearl wanted\nnot a wide and various circle of acquaintance.  The spell of life\nwent forth from her ever-creative spirit, and communicated\nitself to a thousand objects, as a torch kindles a flame\nwherever it may be applied.  The unlikeliest materials--a stick,\na bunch of rags, a flower--were the puppets of Pearl's\nwitchcraft, and, without undergoing any outward change, became\nspiritually adapted to whatever drama occupied the stage of her\ninner world.  Her one baby-voice served a multitude of imaginary\npersonages, old and young, to talk withal.  The pine-trees, aged,\nblack, and solemn, and flinging groans and other melancholy\nutterances on the breeze, needed little transformation to figure\nas Puritan elders; the ugliest weeds of the garden were their\nchildren, whom Pearl smote down and uprooted most unmercifully.\nIt was wonderful, the vast variety of forms into which she threw\nher intellect, with no continuity, indeed, but darting up and\ndancing, always in a state of preternatural activity--soon\nsinking down, as if exhausted by so rapid and feverish a tide of\nlife--and succeeded by other shapes of a similar wild energy.  It\nwas like nothing so much as the phantasmagoric play of the\nnorthern lights.  In the mere exercise of the fancy, however, and\nthe sportiveness of a growing mind, there might be a little more\nthan was observable in other children of bright faculties;\nexcept as Pearl, in the dearth of human playmates, was thrown\nmore upon the visionary throng which she created.  The\nsingularity lay in the hostile feelings with which the child\nregarded all these offsprings of her own heart and mind.  She\nnever created a friend, but seemed always to be sowing broadcast\nthe dragon's teeth, whence sprung a harvest of armed enemies,\nagainst whom she rushed to battle.  It was inexpressibly\nsad--then what depth of sorrow to a mother, who felt in her own\nheart the cause--to observe, in one so young, this constant\nrecognition of an adverse world, and so fierce a training of the\nenergies that were to make good her cause in the contest that\nmust ensue.\n\nGazing at Pearl, Hester Prynne often dropped her work upon her\nknees, and cried out with an agony which she would fain have\nhidden, but which made utterance for itself betwixt speech and a\ngroan--\"O Father in Heaven--if Thou art still my Father--what is\nthis being which I have brought into the world?\" And Pearl,\noverhearing the ejaculation, or aware through some more subtile\nchannel, of those throbs of anguish, would turn her vivid and\nbeautiful little face upon her mother, smile with sprite-like\nintelligence, and resume her play.\n\nOne peculiarity of the child's deportment remains yet to be\ntold.  The very first thing which she had noticed in her life,\nwas--what?--not the mother's smile, responding to it, as other\nbabies do, by that faint, embryo smile of the little mouth,\nremembered so doubtfully afterwards, and with such fond\ndiscussion whether it were indeed a smile.  By no means!  But that\nfirst object of which Pearl seemed to become aware was--shall we\nsay it?--the scarlet letter on Hester's bosom!  One day, as her\nmother stooped over the cradle, the infant's eyes had been\ncaught by the glimmering of the gold embroidery about the\nletter; and putting up her little hand she grasped at it,\nsmiling, not doubtfully, but with a decided gleam, that gave her\nface the look of a much older child.  Then, gasping for breath,\ndid Hester Prynne clutch the fatal token, instinctively\nendeavouring to tear it away, so infinite was the torture\ninflicted by the intelligent touch of Pearl's baby-hand.  Again,\nas if her mother's agonised gesture were meant only to make\nsport for her, did little Pearl look into her eyes, and smile.\nFrom that epoch, except when the child was asleep, Hester had\nnever felt a moment's safety: not a moment's calm enjoyment of\nher.  Weeks, it is true, would sometimes elapse, during which\nPearl's gaze might never once be fixed upon the scarlet letter;\nbut then, again, it would come at unawares, like the stroke of\nsudden death, and always with that peculiar smile and odd\nexpression of the eyes.\n\nOnce this freakish, elvish cast came into the child's eyes while\nHester was looking at her own image in them, as mothers are fond\nof doing; and suddenly for women in solitude, and with troubled\nhearts, are pestered with unaccountable delusions she fancied\nthat she beheld, not her own miniature portrait, but another\nface in the small black mirror of Pearl's eye.  It was a face,\nfiend-like, full of smiling malice, yet bearing the semblance of\nfeatures that she had known full well, though seldom with a\nsmile, and never with malice in them.  It was as if an evil\nspirit possessed the child, and had just then peeped forth in\nmockery.  Many a time afterwards had Hester been tortured, though\nless vividly, by the same illusion.\n\nIn the afternoon of a certain summer's day, after Pearl grew big\nenough to run about, she amused herself with gathering handfuls\nof wild flowers, and flinging them, one by one, at her mother's\nbosom; dancing up and down like a little elf whenever she hit\nthe scarlet letter.  Hester's first motion had been to cover her\nbosom with her clasped hands.  But whether from pride or\nresignation, or a feeling that her penance might best be wrought\nout by this unutterable pain, she resisted the impulse, and sat\nerect, pale as death, looking sadly into little Pearl's wild\neyes.  Still came the battery of flowers, almost invariably\nhitting the mark, and covering the mother's breast with hurts\nfor which she could find no balm in this world, nor knew how to\nseek it in another.  At last, her shot being all expended, the\nchild stood still and gazed at Hester, with that little laughing\nimage of a fiend peeping out--or, whether it peeped or no, her\nmother so imagined it--from the unsearchable abyss of her black\neyes.\n\n\"Child, what art thou?\" cried the mother.\n\n\"Oh, I am your little Pearl!\" answered the child.\n\nBut while she said it, Pearl laughed, and began to dance up and\ndown with the humoursome gesticulation of a little imp, whose\nnext freak might be to fly up the chimney.\n\n\"Art thou my child, in very truth?\" asked Hester.\n\nNor did she put the question altogether idly, but, for the\nmoment, with a portion of genuine earnestness; for, such was\nPearl's wonderful intelligence, that her mother half doubted\nwhether she were not acquainted with the secret spell of her\nexistence, and might not now reveal herself.\n\n\"Yes; I am little Pearl!\" repeated the child, continuing her\nantics.\n\n\"Thou art not my child!  Thou art no Pearl of mine!\" said the\nmother half playfully; for it was often the case that a sportive\nimpulse came over her in the midst of her deepest suffering.\n\"Tell me, then, what thou art, and who sent thee hither?\"\n\n\"Tell me, mother!\" said the child, seriously, coming up to\nHester, and pressing herself close to her knees.  \"Do thou tell\nme!\"\n\n\"Thy Heavenly Father sent thee!\" answered Hester Prynne.\n\nBut she said it with a hesitation that did not escape the\nacuteness of the child.  Whether moved only by her ordinary\nfreakishness, or because an evil spirit prompted her, she put up\nher small forefinger and touched the scarlet letter.\n\n\"He did not send me!\" cried she, positively.  \"I have no\nHeavenly Father!\"\n\n\"Hush, Pearl, hush!  Thou must not talk so!\" answered the\nmother, suppressing a groan.  \"He sent us all into the world.  He\nsent even me, thy mother.  Then, much more thee!  Or, if not, thou\nstrange and elfish child, whence didst thou come?\"\n\n\"Tell me!  Tell me!\" repeated Pearl, no longer seriously, but\nlaughing and capering about the floor.  \"It is thou that must\ntell me!\"\n\nBut Hester could not resolve the query, being herself in a\ndismal labyrinth of doubt.  She remembered--betwixt a smile and a\nshudder--the talk of the neighbouring townspeople, who, seeking\nvainly elsewhere for the child's paternity, and observing some\nof her odd attributes, had given out that poor little Pearl was\na demon offspring: such as, ever since old Catholic times, had\noccasionally been seen on earth, through the agency of their\nmother's sin, and to promote some foul and wicked purpose.\nLuther, according to the scandal of his monkish enemies, was a\nbrat of that hellish breed; nor was Pearl the only child to whom\nthis inauspicious origin was assigned among the New England\nPuritans.\n\n\n\nVII.  THE GOVERNOR'S HALL\n\nHester Prynne went one day to the mansion of Governor\nBellingham, with a pair of gloves which she had fringed and\nembroidered to his order, and which were to be worn on some\ngreat occasion of state; for, though the chances of a popular\nelection had caused this former ruler to descend a step or two\nfrom the highest rank, he still held an honourable and\ninfluential place among the colonial magistracy.\n\nAnother and far more important reason than the delivery of a\npair of embroidered gloves, impelled Hester, at this time, to\nseek an interview with a personage of so much power and activity\nin the affairs of the settlement.  It had reached her ears that\nthere was a design on the part of some of the leading\ninhabitants, cherishing the more rigid order of principles in\nreligion and government, to deprive her of her child.  On the\nsupposition that Pearl, as already hinted, was of demon origin,\nthese good people not unreasonably argued that a Christian\ninterest in the mother's soul required them to remove such a\nstumbling-block from her path.  If the child, on the other hand,\nwere really capable of moral and religious growth, and possessed\nthe elements of ultimate salvation, then, surely, it would enjoy\nall the fairer prospect of these advantages by being transferred\nto wiser and better guardianship than Hester Prynne's.  Among\nthose who promoted the design, Governor Bellingham was said to\nbe one of the most busy.  It may appear singular, and, indeed,\nnot a little ludicrous, that an affair of this kind, which in\nlater days would have been referred to no higher jurisdiction\nthan that of the select men of the town, should then have been a\nquestion publicly discussed, and on which statesmen of eminence\ntook sides.  At that epoch of pristine simplicity, however,\nmatters of even slighter public interest, and of far less\nintrinsic weight than the welfare of Hester and her child, were\nstrangely mixed up with the deliberations of legislators and\nacts of state.  The period was hardly, if at all, earlier than\nthat of our story, when a dispute concerning the right of\nproperty in a pig not only caused a fierce and bitter contest in\nthe legislative body of the colony, but resulted in an important\nmodification of the framework itself of the legislature.\n\nFull of concern, therefore--but so conscious of her own right\nthat it seemed scarcely an unequal match between the public on\nthe one side, and a lonely woman, backed by the sympathies of\nnature, on the other--Hester Prynne set forth from her solitary\ncottage.  Little Pearl, of course, was her companion.  She was now\nof an age to run lightly along by her mother's side, and,\nconstantly in motion from morn till sunset, could have\naccomplished a much longer journey than that before her.  Often,\nnevertheless, more from caprice than necessity, she demanded to\nbe taken up in arms; but was soon as imperious to be let down\nagain, and frisked onward before Hester on the grassy pathway,\nwith many a harmless trip and tumble.  We have spoken of Pearl's\nrich and luxuriant beauty--a beauty that shone with deep and\nvivid tints, a bright complexion, eyes possessing intensity both\nof depth and glow, and hair already of a deep, glossy brown, and\nwhich, in after years, would be nearly akin to black.  There was\nfire in her and throughout her: she seemed the unpremeditated\noffshoot of a passionate moment.  Her mother, in contriving the\nchild's garb, had allowed the gorgeous tendencies of her\nimagination their full play, arraying her in a crimson velvet\ntunic of a peculiar cut, abundantly embroidered in fantasies and\nflourishes of gold thread.  So much strength of colouring, which\nmust have given a wan and pallid aspect to cheeks of a fainter\nbloom, was admirably adapted to Pearl's beauty, and made her the\nvery brightest little jet of flame that ever danced upon the\nearth.\n\nBut it was a remarkable attribute of this garb, and indeed, of\nthe child's whole appearance, that it irresistibly and\ninevitably reminded the beholder of the token which Hester\nPrynne was doomed to wear upon her bosom.  It was the scarlet\nletter in another form: the scarlet letter endowed with life!\nThe mother herself--as if the red ignominy were so deeply\nscorched into her brain that all her conceptions assumed its\nform--had carefully wrought out the similitude, lavishing many\nhours of morbid ingenuity to create an analogy between the\nobject of her affection and the emblem of her guilt and torture.\nBut, in truth, Pearl was the one as well as the other; and only\nin consequence of that identity had Hester contrived so\nperfectly to represent the scarlet letter in her appearance.\n\nAs the two wayfarers came within the precincts of the town, the\nchildren of the Puritans looked up from their play,--or what\npassed for play with those sombre little urchins--and spoke\ngravely one to another.\n\n\"Behold, verily, there is the woman of the scarlet letter: and\nof a truth, moreover, there is the likeness of the scarlet\nletter running along by her side!  Come, therefore, and let us\nfling mud at them!\"\n\nBut Pearl, who was a dauntless child, after frowning, stamping\nher foot, and shaking her little hand with a variety of\nthreatening gestures, suddenly made a rush at the knot of her\nenemies, and put them all to flight.  She resembled, in her\nfierce pursuit of them, an infant pestilence--the scarlet fever,\nor some such half-fledged angel of judgment--whose mission was\nto punish the sins of the rising generation.  She screamed and\nshouted, too, with a terrific volume of sound, which, doubtless,\ncaused the hearts of the fugitives to quake within them.  The\nvictory accomplished, Pearl returned quietly to her mother, and\nlooked up, smiling, into her face.\n\nWithout further adventure, they reached the dwelling of Governor\nBellingham.  This was a large wooden house, built in a fashion of\nwhich there are specimens still extant in the streets of our\nolder towns now moss-grown, crumbling to decay, and melancholy\nat heart with the many sorrowful or joyful occurrences,\nremembered or forgotten, that have happened and passed away\nwithin their dusky chambers.  Then, however, there was the\nfreshness of the passing year on its exterior, and the\ncheerfulness, gleaming forth from the sunny windows, of a human\nhabitation, into which death had never entered.  It had, indeed,\na very cheery aspect, the walls being overspread with a kind of\nstucco, in which fragments of broken glass were plentifully\nintermixed; so that, when the sunshine fell aslant-wise over the\nfront of the edifice, it glittered and sparkled as if diamonds\nhad been flung against it by the double handful.  The brilliancy\nmight have be fitted Aladdin's palace rather than the mansion of\na grave old Puritan ruler.  It was further decorated with strange\nand seemingly cabalistic figures and diagrams, suitable to the\nquaint taste of the age which had been drawn in the stucco, when\nnewly laid on, and had now grown hard and durable, for the\nadmiration of after times.\n\nPearl, looking at this bright wonder of a house began to caper\nand dance, and imperatively required that the whole breadth of\nsunshine should be stripped off its front, and given her to play\nwith.\n\n\"No, my little Pearl!\" said her mother; \"thou must gather thine\nown sunshine.  I have none to give thee!\"\n\nThey approached the door, which was of an arched form, and\nflanked on each side by a narrow tower or projection of the\nedifice, in both of which were lattice-windows, the wooden\nshutters to close over them at need.  Lifting the iron hammer\nthat hung at the portal, Hester Prynne gave a summons, which was\nanswered by one of the Governor's bond servant--a free-born\nEnglishman, but now a seven years' slave.  During that term he\nwas to be the property of his master, and as much a commodity of\nbargain and sale as an ox, or a joint-stool.  The serf wore the\ncustomary garb of serving-men at that period, and long before,\nin the old hereditary halls of England.\n\n\"Is the worshipful Governor Bellingham within?\" inquired Hester.\n\n\"Yea, forsooth,\" replied the bond-servant, staring with\nwide-open eyes at the scarlet letter, which, being a new-comer\nin the country, he had never before seen.  \"Yea, his honourable\nworship is within.  But he hath a godly minister or two with him,\nand likewise a leech.  Ye may not see his worship now.\"\n\n\"Nevertheless, I will enter,\" answered Hester Prynne; and the\nbond-servant, perhaps judging from the decision of her air, and\nthe glittering symbol in her bosom, that she was a great lady in\nthe land, offered no opposition.\n\nSo the mother and little Pearl were admitted into the hall of\nentrance.  With many variations, suggested by the nature of his\nbuilding materials, diversity of climate, and a different mode\nof social life, Governor Bellingham had planned his new\nhabitation after the residences of gentlemen of fair estate in\nhis native land.  Here, then, was a wide and reasonably lofty\nhall, extending through the whole depth of the house, and\nforming a medium of general communication, more or less\ndirectly, with all the other apartments.  At one extremity, this\nspacious room was lighted by the windows of the two towers,\nwhich formed a small recess on either side of the portal.  At the\nother end, though partly muffled by a curtain, it was more\npowerfully illuminated by one of those embowed hall windows\nwhich we read of in old books, and which was provided with a\ndeep and cushioned seat.  Here, on the cushion, lay a folio tome,\nprobably of the Chronicles of England, or other such substantial\nliterature; even as, in our own days, we scatter gilded volumes\non the centre table, to be turned over by the casual guest.  The\nfurniture of the hall consisted of some ponderous chairs, the\nbacks of which were elaborately carved with wreaths of oaken\nflowers; and likewise a table in the same taste, the whole being\nof the Elizabethan age, or perhaps earlier, and heirlooms,\ntransferred hither from the Governor's paternal home.  On the\ntable--in token that the sentiment of old English hospitality\nhad not been left behind--stood a large pewter tankard, at the\nbottom of which, had Hester or Pearl peeped into it, they might\nhave seen the frothy remnant of a recent draught of ale.\n\nOn the wall hung a row of portraits, representing the\nforefathers of the Bellingham lineage, some with armour on their\nbreasts, and others with stately ruffs and robes of peace.  All\nwere characterised by the sternness and severity which old\nportraits so invariably put on, as if they were the ghosts,\nrather than the pictures, of departed worthies, and were gazing\nwith harsh and intolerant criticism at the pursuits and\nenjoyments of living men.\n\nAt about the centre of the oaken panels that lined the hall was\nsuspended a suit of mail, not, like the pictures, an ancestral\nrelic, but of the most modern date; for it had been manufactured\nby a skilful armourer in London, the same year in which Governor\nBellingham came over to New England.  There was a steel\nhead-piece, a cuirass, a gorget and greaves, with a pair of\ngauntlets and a sword hanging beneath; all, and especially the\nhelmet and breastplate, so highly burnished as to glow with\nwhite radiance, and scatter an illumination everywhere about\nupon the floor.  This bright panoply was not meant for mere idle\nshow, but had been worn by the Governor on many a solemn muster\nand training field, and had glittered, moreover, at the head of\na regiment in the Pequod war.  For, though bred a lawyer, and\naccustomed to speak of Bacon, Coke, Noye, and Finch, as his\nprofessional associates, the exigencies of this new country had\ntransformed Governor Bellingham into a soldier, as well as a\nstatesman and ruler.\n\nLittle Pearl, who was as greatly pleased with the gleaming\narmour as she had been with the glittering frontispiece of the\nhouse, spent some time looking into the polished mirror of the\nbreastplate.\n\n\"Mother,\" cried she, \"I see you here.  Look!  Look!\"\n\nHester looked by way of humouring the child; and she saw that,\nowing to the peculiar effect of this convex mirror, the scarlet\nletter was represented in exaggerated and gigantic proportions,\nso as to be greatly the most prominent feature of her\nappearance.  In truth, she seemed absolutely hidden behind it.\nPearl pointed upwards also, at a similar picture in the\nhead-piece; smiling at her mother, with the elfish intelligence\nthat was so familiar an expression on her small physiognomy.\nThat look of naughty merriment was likewise reflected in the\nmirror, with so much breadth and intensity of effect, that it\nmade Hester Prynne feel as if it could not be the image of her\nown child, but of an imp who was seeking to mould itself into\nPearl's shape.\n\n\"Come along, Pearl,\" said she, drawing her away, \"Come and look\ninto this fair garden.  It may be we shall see flowers there;\nmore beautiful ones than we find in the woods.\"\n\nPearl accordingly ran to the bow-window, at the further end of\nthe hall, and looked along the vista of a garden walk, carpeted\nwith closely-shaven grass, and bordered with some rude and\nimmature attempt at shrubbery.  But the proprietor appeared\nalready to have relinquished as hopeless, the effort to\nperpetuate on this side of the Atlantic, in a hard soil, and\namid the close struggle for subsistence, the native English\ntaste for ornamental gardening.  Cabbages grew in plain sight;\nand a pumpkin-vine, rooted at some distance, had run across the\nintervening space, and deposited one of its gigantic products\ndirectly beneath the hall window, as if to warn the Governor\nthat this great lump of vegetable gold was as rich an ornament\nas New England earth would offer him.  There were a few\nrose-bushes, however, and a number of apple-trees, probably the\ndescendants of those planted by the Reverend Mr. Blackstone, the\nfirst settler of the peninsula; that half mythological personage\nwho rides through our early annals, seated on the back of a\nbull.\n\nPearl, seeing the rose-bushes, began to cry for a red rose, and\nwould not be pacified.\n\n\"Hush, child--hush!\" said her mother, earnestly.  \"Do not cry,\ndear little Pearl!  I hear voices in the garden.  The Governor is\ncoming, and gentlemen along with him.\"\n\nIn fact, adown the vista of the garden avenue, a number of\npersons were seen approaching towards the house.  Pearl, in utter\nscorn of her mother's attempt to quiet her, gave an eldritch\nscream, and then became silent, not from any notion of\nobedience, but because the quick and mobile curiosity of her\ndisposition was excited by the appearance of those new\npersonages.\n\n\n\nVIII.  THE ELF-CHILD AND THE MINISTER\n\nGovernor Bellingham, in a loose gown and easy cap--such as\nelderly gentlemen loved to endue themselves with, in their\ndomestic privacy--walked foremost, and appeared to be showing\noff his estate, and expatiating on his projected improvements.\nThe wide circumference of an elaborate ruff, beneath his grey\nbeard, in the antiquated fashion of King James's reign, caused\nhis head to look not a little like that of John the Baptist in a\ncharger.  The impression made by his aspect, so rigid and severe,\nand frost-bitten with more than autumnal age, was hardly in\nkeeping with the appliances of worldly enjoyment wherewith he\nhad evidently done his utmost to surround himself.  But it is an\nerror to suppose that our great forefathers--though accustomed\nto speak and think of human existence as a state merely of trial\nand warfare, and though unfeignedly prepared to sacrifice goods\nand life at the behest of duty--made it a matter of conscience\nto reject such means of comfort, or even luxury, as lay fairly\nwithin their grasp.  This creed was never taught, for instance,\nby the venerable pastor, John Wilson, whose beard, white as a\nsnow-drift, was seen over Governor Bellingham's shoulders, while\nits wearer suggested that pears and peaches might yet be\nnaturalised in the New England climate, and that purple grapes\nmight possibly be compelled to flourish against the sunny\ngarden-wall.  The old clergyman, nurtured at the rich bosom of\nthe English Church, had a long established and legitimate taste\nfor all good and comfortable things, and however stern he might\nshow himself in the pulpit, or in his public reproof of such\ntransgressions as that of Hester Prynne, still, the genial\nbenevolence of his private life had won him warmer affection\nthan was accorded to any of his professional contemporaries.\n\nBehind the Governor and Mr. Wilson came two other guests--one,\nthe Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale, whom the reader may remember as\nhaving taken a brief and reluctant part in the scene of Hester\nPrynne's disgrace; and, in close companionship with him, old\nRoger Chillingworth, a person of great skill in physic, who for\ntwo or three years past had been settled in the town.  It was\nunderstood that this learned man was the physician as well as\nfriend of the young minister, whose health had severely suffered\nof late by his too unreserved self-sacrifice to the labours and\nduties of the pastoral relation.\n\nThe Governor, in advance of his visitors, ascended one or two\nsteps, and, throwing open the leaves of the great hall window,\nfound himself close to little Pearl.  The shadow of the curtain\nfell on Hester Prynne, and partially concealed her.\n\n\"What have we here?\" said Governor Bellingham, looking with\nsurprise at the scarlet little figure before him.  \"I profess, I\nhave never seen the like since my days of vanity, in old King\nJames's time, when I was wont to esteem it a high favour to be\nadmitted to a court mask!  There used to be a swarm of these\nsmall apparitions in holiday time, and we called them children\nof the Lord of Misrule.  But how gat such a guest into my hall?\"\n\n\"Ay, indeed!\" cried good old Mr. Wilson.  \"What little bird of\nscarlet plumage may this be?  Methinks I have seen just such\nfigures when the sun has been shining through a richly painted\nwindow, and tracing out the golden and crimson images across the\nfloor.  But that was in the old land.  Prithee, young one, who art\nthou, and what has ailed thy mother to bedizen thee in this\nstrange fashion?  Art thou a Christian child--ha?  Dost know thy\ncatechism?  Or art thou one of those naughty elfs or fairies whom\nwe thought to have left behind us, with other relics of\nPapistry, in merry old England?\"\n\n\"I am mother's child,\" answered the scarlet vision, \"and my name\nis Pearl!\"\n\n\"Pearl?--Ruby, rather--or Coral!--or Red Rose, at the very\nleast, judging from thy hue!\" responded the old minister,\nputting forth his hand in a vain attempt to pat little Pearl on\nthe cheek.  \"But where is this mother of thine?  Ah!  I see,\" he\nadded; and, turning to Governor Bellingham, whispered, \"This is\nthe selfsame child of whom we have held speech together; and\nbehold here the unhappy woman, Hester Prynne, her mother!\"\n\n\"Sayest thou so?\" cried the Governor.  \"Nay, we might have\njudged that such a child's mother must needs be a scarlet woman,\nand a worthy type of her of Babylon!  But she comes at a good\ntime, and we will look into this matter forthwith.\"\n\nGovernor Bellingham stepped through the window into the hall,\nfollowed by his three guests.\n\n\"Hester Prynne,\" said he, fixing his naturally stern regard on\nthe wearer of the scarlet letter, \"there hath been much question\nconcerning thee of late.  The point hath been weightily\ndiscussed, whether we, that are of authority and influence, do\nwell discharge our consciences by trusting an immortal soul,\nsuch as there is in yonder child, to the guidance of one who\nhath stumbled and fallen amid the pitfalls of this world.  Speak\nthou, the child's own mother!  Were it not, thinkest thou, for\nthy little one's temporal and eternal welfare that she be taken\nout of thy charge, and clad soberly, and disciplined strictly,\nand instructed in the truths of heaven and earth?  What canst\nthou do for the child in this kind?\"\n\n\"I can teach my little Pearl what I have learned from this!\"\nanswered Hester Prynne, laying her finger on the red token.\n\n\"Woman, it is thy badge of shame!\" replied the stern magistrate.\n\"It is because of the stain which that letter indicates that we\nwould transfer thy child to other hands.\"\n\n\"Nevertheless,\" said the mother, calmly, though growing more\npale, \"this badge hath taught me--it daily teaches me--it is\nteaching me at this moment--lessons whereof my child may be the\nwiser and better, albeit they can profit nothing to myself.\"\n\n\"We will judge warily,\" said Bellingham, \"and look well what we\nare about to do.  Good Master Wilson, I pray you, examine this\nPearl--since that is her name--and see whether she hath had such\nChristian nurture as befits a child of her age.\"\n\nThe old minister seated himself in an arm-chair and made an\neffort to draw Pearl betwixt his knees.  But the child,\nunaccustomed to the touch or familiarity of any but her mother,\nescaped through the open window, and stood on the upper step,\nlooking like a wild tropical bird of rich plumage, ready to take\nflight into the upper air.  Mr. Wilson, not a little astonished\nat this outbreak--for he was a grandfatherly sort of personage,\nand usually a vast favourite with children--essayed, however, to\nproceed with the examination.\n\n\"Pearl,\" said he, with great solemnity, \"thou must take heed to\ninstruction, that so, in due season, thou mayest wear in thy\nbosom the pearl of great price.  Canst thou tell me, my child,\nwho made thee?\"\n\nNow Pearl knew well enough who made her, for Hester Prynne, the\ndaughter of a pious home, very soon after her talk with the\nchild about her Heavenly Father, had begun to inform her of\nthose truths which the human spirit, at whatever stage of\nimmaturity, imbibes with such eager interest.  Pearl,\ntherefore--so large were the attainments of her three years'\nlifetime--could have borne a fair examination in the New England\nPrimer, or the first column of the Westminster Catechisms,\nalthough unacquainted with the outward form of either of those\ncelebrated works.  But that perversity, which all children have\nmore or less of, and of which little Pearl had a tenfold\nportion, now, at the most inopportune moment, took thorough\npossession of her, and closed her lips, or impelled her to speak\nwords amiss.  After putting her finger in her mouth, with many\nungracious refusals to answer good Mr. Wilson's question, the\nchild finally announced that she had not been made at all, but\nhad been plucked by her mother off the bush of wild roses that\ngrew by the prison-door.\n\nThis phantasy was probably suggested by the near proximity of\nthe Governor's red roses, as Pearl stood outside of the window,\ntogether with her recollection of the prison rose-bush, which\nshe had passed in coming hither.\n\nOld Roger Chillingworth, with a smile on his face, whispered\nsomething in the young clergyman's ear.  Hester Prynne looked at\nthe man of skill, and even then, with her fate hanging in the\nbalance, was startled to perceive what a change had come over\nhis features--how much uglier they were, how his dark complexion\nseemed to have grown duskier, and his figure more\nmisshapen--since the days when she had familiarly known him.  She\nmet his eyes for an instant, but was immediately constrained to\ngive all her attention to the scene now going forward.\n\n\"This is awful!\" cried the Governor, slowly recovering from the\nastonishment into which Pearl's response had thrown him.  \"Here\nis a child of three years old, and she cannot tell who made her!\nWithout question, she is equally in the dark as to her soul, its\npresent depravity, and future destiny!  Methinks, gentlemen, we\nneed inquire no further.\"\n\nHester caught hold of Pearl, and drew her forcibly into her\narms, confronting the old Puritan magistrate with almost a\nfierce expression.  Alone in the world, cast off by it, and with\nthis sole treasure to keep her heart alive, she felt that she\npossessed indefeasible rights against the world, and was ready\nto defend them to the death.\n\n\"God gave me the child!\" cried she.  \"He gave her in requital of\nall things else which ye had taken from me.  She is my\nhappiness--she is my torture, none the less!  Pearl keeps me here\nin life!  Pearl punishes me, too!  See ye not, she is the scarlet\nletter, only capable of being loved, and so endowed with a\nmillionfold the power of retribution for my sin?  Ye shall not\ntake her!  I will die first!\"\n\n\"My poor woman,\" said the not unkind old minister, \"the child\nshall be well cared for--far better than thou canst do for it.\"\n\n\"God gave her into my keeping!\" repeated Hester Prynne, raising\nher voice almost to a shriek.  \"I will not give her up!\"  And here\nby a sudden impulse, she turned to the young clergyman, Mr.\nDimmesdale, at whom, up to this moment, she had seemed hardly so\nmuch as once to direct her eyes.  \"Speak thou for me!\" cried she.\n\"Thou wast my pastor, and hadst charge of my soul, and knowest\nme better than these men can.  I will not lose the child!  Speak\nfor me!  Thou knowest--for thou hast sympathies which these men\nlack--thou knowest what is in my heart, and what are a mother's\nrights, and how much the stronger they are when that mother has\nbut her child and the scarlet letter!  Look thou to it!  I will\nnot lose the child!  Look to it!\"\n\nAt this wild and singular appeal, which indicated that Hester\nPrynne's situation had provoked her to little less than madness,\nthe young minister at once came forward, pale, and holding his\nhand over his heart, as was his custom whenever his peculiarly\nnervous temperament was thrown into agitation.  He looked now\nmore careworn and emaciated than as we described him at the\nscene of Hester's public ignominy; and whether it were his\nfailing health, or whatever the cause might be, his large dark\neyes had a world of pain in their troubled and melancholy depth.\n\n\"There is truth in what she says,\" began the minister, with a\nvoice sweet, tremulous, but powerful, insomuch that the hall\nre-echoed and the hollow armour rang with it--\"truth in what\nHester says, and in the feeling which inspires her!  God gave her\nthe child, and gave her, too, an instinctive knowledge of its\nnature and requirements--both seemingly so peculiar--which no\nother mortal being can possess.  And, moreover, is there not a\nquality of awful sacredness in the relation between this mother\nand this child?\"\n\n\"Ay--how is that, good Master Dimmesdale?\" interrupted the\nGovernor.  \"Make that plain, I pray you!\"\n\n\"It must be even so,\" resumed the minister.  \"For, if we deem it\notherwise, do we not thereby say that the Heavenly Father, the\ncreator of all flesh, hath lightly recognised a deed of sin, and\nmade of no account the distinction between unhallowed lust and\nholy love?  This child of its father's guilt and its mother's\nshame has come from the hand of God, to work in many ways upon\nher heart, who pleads so earnestly and with such bitterness of\nspirit the right to keep her.  It was meant for a blessing--for\nthe one blessing of her life!  It was meant, doubtless, the\nmother herself hath told us, for a retribution, too; a torture\nto be felt at many an unthought-of moment; a pang, a sting, an\never-recurring agony, in the midst of a troubled joy!  Hath she\nnot expressed this thought in the garb of the poor child, so\nforcibly reminding us of that red symbol which sears her bosom?\"\n\n\"Well said again!\" cried good Mr. Wilson.  \"I feared the woman\nhad no better thought than to make a mountebank of her child!\"\n\n\"Oh, not so!--not so!\" continued Mr. Dimmesdale.  \"She\nrecognises, believe me, the solemn miracle which God hath\nwrought in the existence of that child.  And may she feel,\ntoo--what, methinks, is the very truth--that this boon was\nmeant, above all things else, to keep the mother's soul alive,\nand to preserve her from blacker depths of sin into which Satan\nmight else have sought to plunge her!  Therefore it is good for\nthis poor, sinful woman, that she hath an infant immortality, a\nbeing capable of eternal joy or sorrow, confided to her care--to\nbe trained up by her to righteousness, to remind her, at every\nmoment, of her fall, but yet to teach her, as if it were by the\nCreator's sacred pledge, that, if she bring the child to heaven,\nthe child also will bring its parents thither!  Herein is the\nsinful mother happier than the sinful father.  For Hester\nPrynne's sake, then, and no less for the poor child's sake, let\nus leave them as Providence hath seen fit to place them!\"\n\n\"You speak, my friend, with a strange earnestness,\" said old\nRoger Chillingworth, smiling at him.\n\n\"And there is a weighty import in what my young brother hath\nspoken,\" added the Rev.  Mr. Wilson.\n\n\"What say you, worshipful Master Bellingham?  Hath he not\npleaded well for the poor woman?\"\n\n\"Indeed hath he,\" answered the magistrate; \"and hath adduced\nsuch arguments, that we will even leave the matter as it now\nstands; so long, at least, as there shall be no further scandal\nin the woman.  Care must be had nevertheless, to put the child to\ndue and stated examination in the catechism, at thy hands or\nMaster Dimmesdale's.  Moreover, at a proper season, the\ntithing-men must take heed that she go both to school and to\nmeeting.\"\n\nThe young minister, on ceasing to speak had withdrawn a few\nsteps from the group, and stood with his face partially\nconcealed in the heavy folds of the window-curtain; while the\nshadow of his figure, which the sunlight cast upon the floor,\nwas tremulous with the vehemence of his appeal.  Pearl, that wild\nand flighty little elf stole softly towards him, and taking his\nhand in the grasp of both her own, laid her cheek against it; a\ncaress so tender, and withal so unobtrusive, that her mother,\nwho was looking on, asked herself--\"Is that my Pearl?\" Yet she\nknew that there was love in the child's heart, although it\nmostly revealed itself in passion, and hardly twice in her\nlifetime had been softened by such gentleness as now.  The\nminister--for, save the long-sought regards of woman, nothing is\nsweeter than these marks of childish preference, accorded\nspontaneously by a spiritual instinct, and therefore seeming to\nimply in us something truly worthy to be loved--the minister\nlooked round, laid his hand on the child's head, hesitated an\ninstant, and then kissed her brow.  Little Pearl's unwonted mood\nof sentiment lasted no longer; she laughed, and went capering\ndown the hall so airily, that old Mr. Wilson raised a question\nwhether even her tiptoes touched the floor.\n\n\"The little baggage hath witchcraft in her, I profess,\" said he\nto Mr. Dimmesdale.  \"She needs no old woman's broomstick to fly\nwithal!\"\n\n\"A strange child!\" remarked old Roger Chillingworth.  \"It is\neasy to see the mother's part in her.  Would it be beyond a\nphilosopher's research, think ye, gentlemen, to analyse that\nchild's nature, and, from it make a mould, to give a shrewd\nguess at the father?\"\n\n\"Nay; it would be sinful, in such a question, to follow the clue\nof profane philosophy,\" said Mr. Wilson.  \"Better to fast and\npray upon it; and still better, it may be, to leave the mystery\nas we find it, unless Providence reveal it of its own accord.\nThereby, every good Christian man hath a title to show a\nfather's kindness towards the poor, deserted babe.\"\n\nThe affair being so satisfactorily concluded, Hester Prynne,\nwith Pearl, departed from the house.  As they descended the\nsteps, it is averred that the lattice of a chamber-window was\nthrown open, and forth into the sunny day was thrust the face of\nMistress Hibbins, Governor Bellingham's bitter-tempered sister,\nand the same who, a few years later, was executed as a witch.\n\n\"Hist, hist!\" said she, while her ill-omened physiognomy seemed\nto cast a shadow over the cheerful newness of the house.  \"Wilt\nthou go with us to-night?  There will be a merry company in the\nforest; and I well-nigh promised the Black Man that comely\nHester Prynne should make one.\"\n\n\"Make my excuse to him, so please you!\" answered Hester, with a\ntriumphant smile.  \"I must tarry at home, and keep watch over my\nlittle Pearl.  Had they taken her from me, I would willingly have\ngone with thee into the forest, and signed my name in the Black\nMan's book too, and that with mine own blood!\"\n\n\"We shall have thee there anon!\" said the witch-lady, frowning,\nas she drew back her head.\n\nBut here--if we suppose this interview betwixt Mistress Hibbins\nand Hester Prynne to be authentic, and not a parable--was\nalready an illustration of the young minister's argument against\nsundering the relation of a fallen mother to the offspring of\nher frailty.  Even thus early had the child saved her from\nSatan's snare.\n\n\n\nIX.  THE LEECH\n\nUnder the appellation of Roger Chillingworth, the reader will\nremember, was hidden another name, which its former wearer had\nresolved should never more be spoken.  It has been related, how,\nin the crowd that witnessed Hester Prynne's ignominious\nexposure, stood a man, elderly, travel-worn, who, just emerging\nfrom the perilous wilderness, beheld the woman, in whom he hoped\nto find embodied the warmth and cheerfulness of home, set up as\na type of sin before the people.  Her matronly fame was trodden\nunder all men's feet.  Infamy was babbling around her in the\npublic market-place.  For her kindred, should the tidings ever\nreach them, and for the companions of her unspotted life, there\nremained nothing but the contagion of her dishonour; which would\nnot fail to be distributed in strict accordance and proportion\nwith the intimacy and sacredness of their previous relationship.\nThen why--since the choice was with himself--should the\nindividual, whose connexion with the fallen woman had been the\nmost intimate and sacred of them all, come forward to vindicate\nhis claim to an inheritance so little desirable?  He resolved not\nto be pilloried beside her on her pedestal of shame.  Unknown to\nall but Hester Prynne, and possessing the lock and key of her\nsilence, he chose to withdraw his name from the roll of mankind,\nand, as regarded his former ties and interest, to vanish out of\nlife as completely as if he indeed lay at the bottom of the\nocean, whither rumour had long ago consigned him.  This purpose\nonce effected, new interests would immediately spring up, and\nlikewise a new purpose; dark, it is true, if not guilty, but of\nforce enough to engage the full strength of his faculties.\n\nIn pursuance of this resolve, he took up his residence in the\nPuritan town as Roger Chillingworth, without other introduction\nthan the learning and intelligence of which he possessed more\nthan a common measure.  As his studies, at a previous period of\nhis life, had made him extensively acquainted with the medical\nscience of the day, it was as a physician that he presented\nhimself and as such was cordially received.  Skilful men, of the\nmedical and chirurgical profession, were of rare occurrence in\nthe colony.  They seldom, it would appear, partook of the\nreligious zeal that brought other emigrants across the Atlantic.\nIn their researches into the human frame, it may be that the\nhigher and more subtle faculties of such men were materialised,\nand that they lost the spiritual view of existence amid the\nintricacies of that wondrous mechanism, which seemed to involve\nart enough to comprise all of life within itself.  At all events,\nthe health of the good town of Boston, so far as medicine had\naught to do with it, had hitherto lain in the guardianship of an\naged deacon and apothecary, whose piety and godly deportment\nwere stronger testimonials in his favour than any that he could\nhave produced in the shape of a diploma.  The only surgeon was\none who combined the occasional exercise of that noble art with\nthe daily and habitual flourish of a razor.  To such a\nprofessional body Roger Chillingworth was a brilliant\nacquisition.  He soon manifested his familiarity with the\nponderous and imposing machinery of antique physic; in which\nevery remedy contained a multitude of far-fetched and\nheterogeneous ingredients, as elaborately compounded as if the\nproposed result had been the Elixir of Life.  In his Indian\ncaptivity, moreover, he had gained much knowledge of the\nproperties of native herbs and roots; nor did he conceal from\nhis patients that these simple medicines, Nature's boon to the\nuntutored savage, had quite as large a share of his own\nconfidence as the European Pharmacopoeia, which so many learned\ndoctors had spent centuries in elaborating.\n\nThis learned stranger was exemplary as regarded at least the\noutward forms of a religious life; and early after his arrival,\nhad chosen for his spiritual guide the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale.\nThe young divine, whose scholar-like renown still lived in\nOxford, was considered by his more fervent admirers as little\nless than a heavenly ordained apostle, destined, should he live\nand labour for the ordinary term of life, to do as great deeds,\nfor the now feeble New England Church, as the early Fathers had\nachieved for the infancy of the Christian faith.  About this\nperiod, however, the health of Mr. Dimmesdale had evidently\nbegun to fail.  By those best acquainted with his habits, the\npaleness of the young minister's cheek was accounted for by his\ntoo earnest devotion to study, his scrupulous fulfilment of\nparochial duty, and more than all, to the fasts and vigils of\nwhich he made a frequent practice, in order to keep the\ngrossness of this earthly state from clogging and obscuring his\nspiritual lamp.  Some declared, that if Mr. Dimmesdale were\nreally going to die, it was cause enough that the world was not\nworthy to be any longer trodden by his feet.  He himself, on the\nother hand, with characteristic humility, avowed his belief that\nif Providence should see fit to remove him, it would be because\nof his own unworthiness to perform its humblest mission here on\nearth.  With all this difference of opinion as to the cause of\nhis decline, there could be no question of the fact.  His form\ngrew emaciated; his voice, though still rich and sweet, had a\ncertain melancholy prophecy of decay in it; he was often\nobserved, on any slight alarm or other sudden accident, to put\nhis hand over his heart with first a flush and then a paleness,\nindicative of pain.\n\nSuch was the young clergyman's condition, and so imminent the\nprospect that his dawning light would be extinguished, all\nuntimely, when Roger Chillingworth made his advent to the town.\nHis first entry on the scene, few people could tell whence,\ndropping down as it were out of the sky or starting from the\nnether earth, had an aspect of mystery, which was easily\nheightened to the miraculous.  He was now known to be a man of\nskill; it was observed that he gathered herbs and the blossoms\nof wild-flowers, and dug up roots and plucked off twigs from the\nforest-trees like one acquainted with hidden virtues in what was\nvalueless to common eyes.  He was heard to speak of Sir Kenelm\nDigby and other famous men--whose scientific attainments were\nesteemed hardly less than supernatural--as having been his\ncorrespondents or associates.  Why, with such rank in the learned\nworld, had he come hither?  What, could he, whose sphere was in\ngreat cities, be seeking in the wilderness?  In answer to this\nquery, a rumour gained ground--and however absurd, was\nentertained by some very sensible people--that Heaven had\nwrought an absolute miracle, by transporting an eminent Doctor\nof Physic from a German university bodily through the air and\nsetting him down at the door of Mr. Dimmesdale's study!\nIndividuals of wiser faith, indeed, who knew that Heaven\npromotes its purposes without aiming at the stage-effect of what\nis called miraculous interposition, were inclined to see a\nprovidential hand in Roger Chillingworth's so opportune arrival.\n\nThis idea was countenanced by the strong interest which the\nphysician ever manifested in the young clergyman; he attached\nhimself to him as a parishioner, and sought to win a friendly\nregard and confidence from his naturally reserved sensibility.\nHe expressed great alarm at his pastor's state of health, but\nwas anxious to attempt the cure, and, if early undertaken,\nseemed not despondent of a favourable result.  The elders, the\ndeacons, the motherly dames, and the young and fair maidens of\nMr. Dimmesdale's flock, were alike importunate that he should\nmake trial of the physician's frankly offered skill.  Mr.\nDimmesdale gently repelled their entreaties.\n\n\"I need no medicine,\" said he.\n\nBut how could the young minister say so, when, with every\nsuccessive Sabbath, his cheek was paler and thinner, and his\nvoice more tremulous than before--when it had now become a\nconstant habit, rather than a casual gesture, to press his hand\nover his heart?  Was he weary of his labours?  Did he wish to die?\nThese questions were solemnly propounded to Mr. Dimmesdale by\nthe elder ministers of Boston, and the deacons of his church,\nwho, to use their own phrase, \"dealt with him,\" on the sin of\nrejecting the aid which Providence so manifestly held out.  He\nlistened in silence, and finally promised to confer with the\nphysician.\n\n\"Were it God's will,\" said the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, when, in\nfulfilment of this pledge, he requested old Roger\nChillingworth's professional advice, \"I could be well content\nthat my labours, and my sorrows, and my sins, and my pains,\nshould shortly end with me, and what is earthly of them be\nburied in my grave, and the spiritual go with me to my eternal\nstate, rather than that you should put your skill to the proof\nin my behalf.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" replied Roger Chillingworth, with that quietness, which,\nwhether imposed or natural, marked all his deportment, \"it is\nthus that a young clergyman is apt to speak.  Youthful men, not\nhaving taken a deep root, give up their hold of life so easily!\nAnd saintly men, who walk with God on earth, would fain be away,\nto walk with him on the golden pavements of the New Jerusalem.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" rejoined the young minister, putting his hand to his\nheart, with a flush of pain flitting over his brow, \"were I\nworthier to walk there, I could be better content to toil here.\"\n\n\"Good men ever interpret themselves too meanly,\" said the\nphysician.\n\nIn this manner, the mysterious old Roger Chillingworth became\nthe medical adviser of the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale.  As not only\nthe disease interested the physician, but he was strongly moved\nto look into the character and qualities of the patient, these\ntwo men, so different in age, came gradually to spend much time\ntogether.  For the sake of the minister's health, and to enable\nthe leech to gather plants with healing balm in them, they took\nlong walks on the sea-shore, or in the forest; mingling various\nwalks with the splash and murmur of the waves, and the solemn\nwind-anthem among the tree-tops.  Often, likewise, one was the\nguest of the other in his place of study and retirement.  There\nwas a fascination for the minister in the company of the man of\nscience, in whom he recognised an intellectual cultivation of no\nmoderate depth or scope; together with a range and freedom of\nideas, that he would have vainly looked for among the members of\nhis own profession.  In truth, he was startled, if not shocked,\nto find this attribute in the physician.  Mr. Dimmesdale was a\ntrue priest, a true religionist, with the reverential sentiment\nlargely developed, and an order of mind that impelled itself\npowerfully along the track of a creed, and wore its passage\ncontinually deeper with the lapse of time.  In no state of\nsociety would he have been what is called a man of liberal\nviews; it would always be essential to his peace to feel the\npressure of a faith about him, supporting, while it confined him\nwithin its iron framework.  Not the less, however, though with a\ntremulous enjoyment, did he feel the occasional relief of\nlooking at the universe through the medium of another kind of\nintellect than those with which he habitually held converse.  It\nwas as if a window were thrown open, admitting a freer\natmosphere into the close and stifled study, where his life was\nwasting itself away, amid lamp-light, or obstructed day-beams,\nand the musty fragrance, be it sensual or moral, that exhales\nfrom books.  But the air was too fresh and chill to be long\nbreathed with comfort.  So the minister, and the physician with\nhim, withdrew again within the limits of what their Church\ndefined as orthodox.\n\nThus Roger Chillingworth scrutinised his patient carefully, both\nas he saw him in his ordinary life, keeping an accustomed\npathway in the range of thoughts familiar to him, and as he\nappeared when thrown amidst other moral scenery, the novelty of\nwhich might call out something new to the surface of his\ncharacter.  He deemed it essential, it would seem, to know the\nman, before attempting to do him good.  Wherever there is a heart\nand an intellect, the diseases of the physical frame are tinged\nwith the peculiarities of these.  In Arthur Dimmesdale, thought\nand imagination were so active, and sensibility so intense, that\nthe bodily infirmity would be likely to have its groundwork\nthere.  So Roger Chillingworth--the man of skill, the kind and\nfriendly physician--strove to go deep into his patient's bosom,\ndelving among his principles, prying into his recollections, and\nprobing everything with a cautious touch, like a treasure-seeker\nin a dark cavern.  Few secrets can escape an investigator, who\nhas opportunity and licence to undertake such a quest, and skill\nto follow it up.  A man burdened with a secret should especially\navoid the intimacy of his physician.  If the latter possess\nnative sagacity, and a nameless something more,--let us call it\nintuition; if he show no intrusive egotism, nor disagreeable\nprominent characteristics of his own; if he have the power,\nwhich must be born with him, to bring his mind into such\naffinity with his patient's, that this last shall unawares have\nspoken what he imagines himself only to have thought; if such\nrevelations be received without tumult, and acknowledged not so\noften by an uttered sympathy as by silence, an inarticulate\nbreath, and here and there a word to indicate that all is\nunderstood; if to these qualifications of a confidant be joined\nthe advantages afforded by his recognised character as a\nphysician;--then, at some inevitable moment, will the soul of\nthe sufferer be dissolved, and flow forth in a dark but\ntransparent stream, bringing all its mysteries into the\ndaylight.\n\nRoger Chillingworth possessed all, or most, of the attributes\nabove enumerated.  Nevertheless, time went on; a kind of\nintimacy, as we have said, grew up between these two cultivated\nminds, which had as wide a field as the whole sphere of human\nthought and study to meet upon; they discussed every topic of\nethics and religion, of public affairs, and private character;\nthey talked much, on both sides, of matters that seemed personal\nto themselves; and yet no secret, such as the physician fancied\nmust exist there, ever stole out of the minister's consciousness\ninto his companion's ear.  The latter had his suspicions, indeed,\nthat even the nature of Mr. Dimmesdale's bodily disease had\nnever fairly been revealed to him.  It was a strange reserve!\n\nAfter a time, at a hint from Roger Chillingworth, the friends of\nMr. Dimmesdale effected an arrangement by which the two were\nlodged in the same house; so that every ebb and flow of the\nminister's life-tide might pass under the eye of his anxious and\nattached physician.  There was much joy throughout the town when\nthis greatly desirable object was attained.  It was held to be\nthe best possible measure for the young clergyman's welfare;\nunless, indeed, as often urged by such as felt authorised to do\nso, he had selected some one of the many blooming damsels,\nspiritually devoted to him, to become his devoted wife.  This\nlatter step, however, there was no present prospect that Arthur\nDimmesdale would be prevailed upon to take; he rejected all\nsuggestions of the kind, as if priestly celibacy were one of his\narticles of Church discipline.  Doomed by his own choice,\ntherefore, as Mr. Dimmesdale so evidently was, to eat his\nunsavoury morsel always at another's board, and endure the\nlife-long chill which must be his lot who seeks to warm himself\nonly at another's fireside, it truly seemed that this sagacious,\nexperienced, benevolent old physician, with his concord of\npaternal and reverential love for the young pastor, was the very\nman, of all mankind, to be constantly within reach of his voice.\n\nThe new abode of the two friends was with a pious widow, of good\nsocial rank, who dwelt in a house covering pretty nearly the\nsite on which the venerable structure of King's Chapel has since\nbeen built.  It had the graveyard, originally Isaac Johnson's\nhome-field, on one side, and so was well adapted to call up\nserious reflections, suited to their respective employments, in\nboth minister and man of physic.  The motherly care of the good\nwidow assigned to Mr. Dimmesdale a front apartment, with a sunny\nexposure, and heavy window-curtains, to create a noontide shadow\nwhen desirable.  The walls were hung round with tapestry, said to\nbe from the Gobelin looms, and, at all events, representing the\nScriptural story of David and Bathsheba, and Nathan the Prophet,\nin colours still unfaded, but which made the fair woman of the\nscene almost as grimly picturesque as the woe-denouncing seer.\nHere the pale clergyman piled up his library, rich with\nparchment-bound folios of the Fathers, and the lore of Rabbis,\nand monkish erudition, of which the Protestant divines, even\nwhile they vilified and decried that class of writers, were yet\nconstrained often to avail themselves.  On the other side of the\nhouse, old Roger Chillingworth arranged his study and\nlaboratory: not such as a modern man of science would reckon\neven tolerably complete, but provided with a distilling\napparatus and the means of compounding drugs and chemicals,\nwhich the practised alchemist knew well how to turn to purpose.\nWith such commodiousness of situation, these two learned persons\nsat themselves down, each in his own domain, yet familiarly\npassing from one apartment to the other, and bestowing a mutual\nand not incurious inspection into one another's business.\n\nAnd the Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale's best discerning friends, as\nwe have intimated, very reasonably imagined that the hand of\nProvidence had done all this for the purpose--besought in so\nmany public and domestic and secret prayers--of restoring the\nyoung minister to health.  But, it must now be said, another\nportion of the community had latterly begun to take its own view\nof the relation betwixt Mr. Dimmesdale and the mysterious old\nphysician.  When an uninstructed multitude attempts to see with\nits eyes, it is exceedingly apt to be deceived.  When, however,\nit forms its judgment, as it usually does, on the intuitions of\nits great and warm heart, the conclusions thus attained are\noften so profound and so unerring as to possess the character of\ntruth supernaturally revealed.  The people, in the case of which\nwe speak, could justify its prejudice against Roger\nChillingworth by no fact or argument worthy of serious\nrefutation.  There was an aged handicraftsman, it is true, who\nhad been a citizen of London at the period of Sir Thomas\nOverbury's murder, now some thirty years agone; he testified to\nhaving seen the physician, under some other name, which the\nnarrator of the story had now forgotten, in company with Dr.\nForman, the famous old conjurer, who was implicated in the\naffair of Overbury.  Two or three individuals hinted that the man\nof skill, during his Indian captivity, had enlarged his medical\nattainments by joining in the incantations of the savage\npriests, who were universally acknowledged to be powerful\nenchanters, often performing seemingly miraculous cures by their\nskill in the black art.  A large number--and many of these were\npersons of such sober sense and practical observation that their\nopinions would have been valuable in other matters--affirmed\nthat Roger Chillingworth's aspect had undergone a remarkable\nchange while he had dwelt in town, and especially since his\nabode with Mr. Dimmesdale.  At first, his expression had been\ncalm, meditative, scholar-like.  Now there was something ugly and\nevil in his face, which they had not previously noticed, and\nwhich grew still the more obvious to sight the oftener they\nlooked upon him.  According to the vulgar idea, the fire in his\nlaboratory had been brought from the lower regions, and was fed\nwith infernal fuel; and so, as might be expected, his visage was\ngetting sooty with the smoke.\n\nTo sum up the matter, it grew to be a widely diffused opinion\nthat the Rev.  Arthur Dimmesdale, like many other personages of\nspecial sanctity, in all ages of the Christian world, was\nhaunted either by Satan himself or Satan's emissary, in the\nguise of old Roger Chillingworth.  This diabolical agent had the\nDivine permission, for a season, to burrow into the clergyman's\nintimacy, and plot against his soul.  No sensible man, it was\nconfessed, could doubt on which side the victory would turn.  The\npeople looked, with an unshaken hope, to see the minister come\nforth out of the conflict transfigured with the glory which he\nwould unquestionably win.  Meanwhile, nevertheless, it was sad to\nthink of the perchance mortal agony through which he must\nstruggle towards his triumph.\n\nAlas!  to judge from the gloom and terror in the depth of the\npoor minister's eyes, the battle was a sore one, and the victory\nanything but secure.\n\n\n\nX.  THE LEECH AND HIS PATIENT\n\nOld Roger Chillingworth, throughout life, had been calm in\ntemperament, kindly, though not of warm affections, but ever,\nand in all his relations with the world, a pure and upright man.\nHe had begun an investigation, as he imagined, with the severe\nand equal integrity of a judge, desirous only of truth, even as\nif the question involved no more than the air-drawn lines and\nfigures of a geometrical problem, instead of human passions, and\nwrongs inflicted on himself.  But, as he proceeded, a terrible\nfascination, a kind of fierce, though still calm, necessity,\nseized the old man within its gripe, and never set him free\nagain until he had done all its bidding.  He now dug into the\npoor clergyman's heart, like a miner searching for gold; or,\nrather, like a sexton delving into a grave, possibly in quest of\na jewel that had been buried on the dead man's bosom, but likely\nto find nothing save mortality and corruption.  Alas, for his own\nsoul, if these were what he sought!\n\nSometimes a light glimmered out of the physician's eyes, burning\nblue and ominous, like the reflection of a furnace, or, let us\nsay, like one of those gleams of ghastly fire that darted from\nBunyan's awful doorway in the hillside, and quivered on the\npilgrim's face.  The soil where this dark miner was working had\nperchance shown indications that encouraged him.\n\n\"This man,\" said he, at one such moment, to himself, \"pure as\nthey deem him--all spiritual as he seems--hath inherited a\nstrong animal nature from his father or his mother.  Let us dig a\nlittle further in the direction of this vein!\"\n\nThen after long search into the minister's dim interior, and\nturning over many precious materials, in the shape of high\naspirations for the welfare of his race, warm love of souls,\npure sentiments, natural piety, strengthened by thought and\nstudy, and illuminated by revelation--all of which invaluable\ngold was perhaps no better than rubbish to the seeker--he would\nturn back, discouraged, and begin his quest towards another\npoint.  He groped along as stealthily, with as cautious a tread,\nand as wary an outlook, as a thief entering a chamber where a\nman lies only half asleep--or, it may be, broad awake--with\npurpose to steal the very treasure which this man guards as the\napple of his eye.  In spite of his premeditated carefulness, the\nfloor would now and then creak; his garments would rustle; the\nshadow of his presence, in a forbidden proximity, would be\nthrown across his victim.  In other words, Mr. Dimmesdale, whose\nsensibility of nerve often produced the effect of spiritual\nintuition, would become vaguely aware that something inimical to\nhis peace had thrust itself into relation with him.  But Old\nRoger Chillingworth, too, had perceptions that were almost\nintuitive; and when the minister threw his startled eyes towards\nhim, there the physician sat; his kind, watchful, sympathising,\nbut never intrusive friend.\n\nYet Mr. Dimmesdale would perhaps have seen this individual's\ncharacter more perfectly, if a certain morbidness, to which sick\nhearts are liable, had not rendered him suspicious of all\nmankind.  Trusting no man as his friend, he could not recognize\nhis enemy when the latter actually appeared.  He therefore still\nkept up a familiar intercourse with him, daily receiving the old\nphysician in his study, or visiting the laboratory, and, for\nrecreation's sake, watching the processes by which weeds were\nconverted into drugs of potency.\n\nOne day, leaning his forehead on his hand, and his elbow on the\nsill of the open window, that looked towards the grave-yard, he\ntalked with Roger Chillingworth, while the old man was examining\na bundle of unsightly plants.\n\n\"Where,\" asked he, with a look askance at them--for it was the\nclergyman's peculiarity that he seldom, now-a-days, looked\nstraight forth at any object, whether human or inanimate,\n\"where, my kind doctor, did you gather those herbs, with such a\ndark, flabby leaf?\"\n\n\"Even in the graveyard here at hand,\" answered the physician,\ncontinuing his employment.  \"They are new to me.  I found them\ngrowing on a grave, which bore no tombstone, no other memorial\nof the dead man, save these ugly weeds, that have taken upon\nthemselves to keep him in remembrance.  They grew out of his\nheart, and typify, it may be, some hideous secret that was\nburied with him, and which he had done better to confess during\nhis lifetime.\"\n\n\"Perchance,\" said Mr. Dimmesdale, \"he earnestly desired it, but\ncould not.\"\n\n\"And wherefore?\" rejoined the physician.\n\n\"Wherefore not; since all the powers of nature call so earnestly\nfor the confession of sin, that these black weeds have sprung up\nout of a buried heart, to make manifest, an outspoken crime?\"\n\n\"That, good sir, is but a phantasy of yours,\" replied the\nminister.  \"There can be, if I forbode aright, no power, short of\nthe Divine mercy, to disclose, whether by uttered words, or by\ntype or emblem, the secrets that may be buried in the human\nheart.  The heart, making itself guilty of such secrets, must\nperforce hold them, until the day when all hidden things shall\nbe revealed.  Nor have I so read or interpreted Holy Writ, as to\nunderstand that the disclosure of human thoughts and deeds, then\nto be made, is intended as a part of the retribution.  That,\nsurely, were a shallow view of it.  No; these revelations, unless\nI greatly err, are meant merely to promote the intellectual\nsatisfaction of all intelligent beings, who will stand waiting,\non that day, to see the dark problem of this life made plain.  A\nknowledge of men's hearts will be needful to the completest\nsolution of that problem.  And, I conceive moreover, that the\nhearts holding such miserable secrets as you speak of, will\nyield them up, at that last day, not with reluctance, but with a\njoy unutterable.\"\n\n\"Then why not reveal it here?\" asked Roger Chillingworth,\nglancing quietly aside at the minister.  \"Why should not the\nguilty ones sooner avail themselves of this unutterable solace?\"\n\n\"They mostly do,\" said the clergyman, griping hard at his\nbreast, as if afflicted with an importunate throb of pain.\n\"Many, many a poor soul hath given its confidence to me, not\nonly on the death-bed, but while strong in life, and fair in\nreputation.  And ever, after such an outpouring, oh, what a\nrelief have I witnessed in those sinful brethren! even as in one\nwho at last draws free air, after a long stifling with his own\npolluted breath.  How can it be otherwise?  Why should a wretched\nman--guilty, we will say, of murder--prefer to keep the dead\ncorpse buried in his own heart, rather than fling it forth at\nonce, and let the universe take care of it!\"\n\n\"Yet some men bury their secrets thus,\" observed the calm\nphysician.\n\n\"True; there are such men,\" answered Mr. Dimmesdale.  \"But not\nto suggest more obvious reasons, it may be that they are kept\nsilent by the very constitution of their nature.  Or--can we not\nsuppose it?--guilty as they may be, retaining, nevertheless, a\nzeal for God's glory and man's welfare, they shrink from\ndisplaying themselves black and filthy in the view of men;\nbecause, thenceforward, no good can be achieved by them; no evil\nof the past be redeemed by better service.  So, to their own\nunutterable torment, they go about among their fellow-creatures,\nlooking pure as new-fallen snow, while their hearts are all\nspeckled and spotted with iniquity of which they cannot rid\nthemselves.\"\n\n\"These men deceive themselves,\" said Roger Chillingworth, with\nsomewhat more emphasis than usual, and making a slight gesture\nwith his forefinger.  \"They fear to take up the shame that\nrightfully belongs to them.  Their love for man, their zeal for\nGod's service--these holy impulses may or may not coexist in\ntheir hearts with the evil inmates to which their guilt has\nunbarred the door, and which must needs propagate a hellish\nbreed within them.  But, if they seek to glorify God, let them\nnot lift heavenward their unclean hands!  If they would serve\ntheir fellowmen, let them do it by making manifest the power and\nreality of conscience, in constraining them to penitential\nself-abasement!  Would thou have me to believe, O wise and pious\nfriend, that a false show can be better--can be more for God's\nglory, or man' welfare--than God's own truth?  Trust me, such men\ndeceive themselves!\"\n\n\"It may be so,\" said the young clergyman, indifferently, as\nwaiving a discussion that he considered irrelevant or\nunseasonable.  He had a ready faculty, indeed, of escaping from\nany topic that agitated his too sensitive and nervous\ntemperament.--\"But, now, I would ask of my well-skilled\nphysician, whether, in good sooth, he deems me to have profited\nby his kindly care of this weak frame of mine?\"\n\nBefore Roger Chillingworth could answer, they heard the clear,\nwild laughter of a young child's voice, proceeding from the\nadjacent burial-ground.  Looking instinctively from the open\nwindow--for it was summer-time--the minister beheld Hester\nPrynne and little Pearl passing along the footpath that\ntraversed the enclosure.  Pearl looked as beautiful as the day,\nbut was in one of those moods of perverse merriment which,\nwhenever they occurred, seemed to remove her entirely out of the\nsphere of sympathy or human contact.  She now skipped\nirreverently from one grave to another; until coming to the\nbroad, flat, armorial tombstone of a departed worthy--perhaps of\nIsaac Johnson himself--she began to dance upon it.  In reply to\nher mother's command and entreaty that she would behave more\ndecorously, little Pearl paused to gather the prickly burrs from\na tall burdock which grew beside the tomb.  Taking a handful of\nthese, she arranged them along the lines of the scarlet letter\nthat decorated the maternal bosom, to which the burrs, as their\nnature was, tenaciously adhered.  Hester did not pluck them off.\n\nRoger Chillingworth had by this time approached the window and\nsmiled grimly down.\n\n\"There is no law, nor reverence for authority, no regard for\nhuman ordinances or opinions, right or wrong, mixed up with that\nchild's composition,\" remarked he, as much to himself as to his\ncompanion.  \"I saw her, the other day, bespatter the Governor\nhimself with water at the cattle-trough in Spring Lane.  What, in\nheaven's name, is she?  Is the imp altogether evil?  Hath she\naffections?  Hath she any discoverable principle of being?\"\n\n\"None, save the freedom of a broken law,\" answered Mr.\nDimmesdale, in a quiet way, as if he had been discussing the\npoint within himself, \"Whether capable of good, I know not.\"\n\nThe child probably overheard their voices, for, looking up to\nthe window with a bright, but naughty smile of mirth and\nintelligence, she threw one of the prickly burrs at the Rev.  Mr.\nDimmesdale.  The sensitive clergyman shrank, with nervous dread,\nfrom the light missile.  Detecting his emotion, Pearl clapped her\nlittle hands in the most extravagant ecstacy.  Hester Prynne,\nlikewise, had involuntarily looked up, and all these four\npersons, old and young, regarded one another in silence, till\nthe child laughed aloud, and shouted--\"Come away, mother!  Come\naway, or yonder old black man will catch you!  He hath got hold\nof the minister already.  Come away, mother or he will catch you!\nBut he cannot catch little Pearl!\"\n\nSo she drew her mother away, skipping, dancing, and frisking\nfantastically among the hillocks of the dead people, like a\ncreature that had nothing in common with a bygone and buried\ngeneration, nor owned herself akin to it.  It was as if she had\nbeen made afresh out of new elements, and must perforce be\npermitted to live her own life, and be a law unto herself\nwithout her eccentricities being reckoned to her for a crime.\n\n\"There goes a woman,\" resumed Roger Chillingworth, after a\npause, \"who, be her demerits what they may, hath none of that\nmystery of hidden sinfulness which you deem so grievous to be\nborne.  Is Hester Prynne the less miserable, think you, for that\nscarlet letter on her breast?\"\n\n\"I do verily believe it,\" answered the clergyman.\n\"Nevertheless, I cannot answer for her.  There was a look of pain\nin her face which I would gladly have been spared the sight of.\nBut still, methinks, it must needs be better for the sufferer to\nbe free to show his pain, as this poor woman Hester is, than to\ncover it up in his heart.\"\n\nThere was another pause, and the physician began anew to examine\nand arrange the plants which he had gathered.\n\n\"You inquired of me, a little time agone,\" said he, at length,\n\"my judgment as touching your health.\"\n\n\"I did,\" answered the clergyman, \"and would gladly learn it.\nSpeak frankly, I pray you, be it for life or death.\"\n\n\"Freely then, and plainly,\" said the physician, still busy with\nhis plants, but keeping a wary eye on Mr. Dimmesdale, \"the\ndisorder is a strange one; not so much in itself nor as\noutwardly manifested,--in so far, at least as the symptoms have\nbeen laid open to my observation.  Looking daily at you, my good\nsir, and watching the tokens of your aspect now for months gone\nby, I should deem you a man sore sick, it may be, yet not so\nsick but that an instructed and watchful physician might well\nhope to cure you.  But I know not what to say, the disease is\nwhat I seem to know, yet know it not.\"\n\n\"You speak in riddles, learned sir,\" said the pale minister,\nglancing aside out of the window.\n\n\"Then, to speak more plainly,\" continued the physician, \"and I\ncrave pardon, sir, should it seem to require pardon, for this\nneedful plainness of my speech.  Let me ask as your friend, as\none having charge, under Providence, of your life and physical\nwell being, hath all the operations of this disorder been fairly\nlaid open and recounted to me?\"\n\n\"How can you question it?\" asked the minister.  \"Surely it were\nchild's play to call in a physician and then hide the sore!\"\n\n\"You would tell me, then, that I know all?\" said Roger\nChillingworth, deliberately, and fixing an eye, bright with\nintense and concentrated intelligence, on the minister's face.\n\"Be it so!  But again!  He to whom only the outward and physical\nevil is laid open, knoweth, oftentimes, but half the evil which\nhe is called upon to cure.  A bodily disease, which we look upon\nas whole and entire within itself, may, after all, be but a\nsymptom of some ailment in the spiritual part.  Your pardon once\nagain, good sir, if my speech give the shadow of offence.  You,\nsir, of all men whom I have known, are he whose body is the\nclosest conjoined, and imbued, and identified, so to speak, with\nthe spirit whereof it is the instrument.\"\n\n\"Then I need ask no further,\" said the clergyman, somewhat\nhastily rising from his chair.  \"You deal not, I take it, in\nmedicine for the soul!\"\n\n\"Thus, a sickness,\" continued Roger Chillingworth, going on, in\nan unaltered tone, without heeding the interruption, but\nstanding up and confronting the emaciated and white-cheeked\nminister, with his low, dark, and misshapen figure,--\"a\nsickness, a sore place, if we may so call it, in your spirit\nhath immediately its appropriate manifestation in your bodily\nframe.  Would you, therefore, that your physician heal the bodily\nevil?  How may this be unless you first lay open to him the wound\nor trouble in your soul?\"\n\n\"No, not to thee!  not to an earthly physician!\" cried Mr.\nDimmesdale, passionately, and turning his eyes, full and bright,\nand with a kind of fierceness, on old Roger Chillingworth.  \"Not\nto thee!  But, if it be the soul's disease, then do I commit\nmyself to the one Physician of the soul!  He, if it stand with\nHis good pleasure, can cure, or he can kill.  Let Him do with me\nas, in His justice and wisdom, He shall see good.  But who art\nthou, that meddlest in this matter? that dares thrust himself\nbetween the sufferer and his God?\"\n\nWith a frantic gesture he rushed out of the room.\n\n\"It is as well to have made this step,\" said Roger Chillingworth\nto himself, looking after the minister, with a grave smile.\n\"There is nothing lost.  We shall be friends again anon.  But see,\nnow, how passion takes hold upon this man, and hurrieth him out\nof himself!  As with one passion so with another.  He hath done a\nwild thing ere now, this pious Master Dimmesdale, in the hot\npassion of his heart.\"\n\nIt proved not difficult to re-establish the intimacy of the two\ncompanions, on the same footing and in the same degree as\nheretofore.  The young clergyman, after a few hours of privacy,\nwas sensible that the disorder of his nerves had hurried him\ninto an unseemly outbreak of temper, which there had been\nnothing in the physician's words to excuse or palliate.  He\nmarvelled, indeed, at the violence with which he had thrust back\nthe kind old man, when merely proffering the advice which it was\nhis duty to bestow, and which the minister himself had expressly\nsought.  With these remorseful feelings, he lost no time in\nmaking the amplest apologies, and besought his friend still to\ncontinue the care which, if not successful in restoring him to\nhealth, had, in all probability, been the means of prolonging\nhis feeble existence to that hour.  Roger Chillingworth readily\nassented, and went on with his medical supervision of the\nminister; doing his best for him, in all good faith, but always\nquitting the patient's apartment, at the close of the\nprofessional interview, with a mysterious and puzzled smile upon\nhis lips.  This expression was invisible in Mr. Dimmesdale's\npresence, but grew strongly evident as the physician crossed the\nthreshold.\n\n\"A rare case,\" he muttered.  \"I must needs look deeper into it.\nA strange sympathy betwixt soul and body!  Were it only for the\nart's sake, I must search this matter to the bottom.\"\n\nIt came to pass, not long after the scene above recorded, that\nthe Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, noon-day, and entirely unawares,\nfell into a deep, deep slumber, sitting in his chair, with a\nlarge black-letter volume open before him on the table.  It must\nhave been a work of vast ability in the somniferous school of\nliterature.  The profound depth of the minister's repose was the\nmore remarkable, inasmuch as he was one of those persons whose\nsleep ordinarily is as light as fitful, and as easily scared\naway, as a small bird hopping on a twig.  To such an unwonted\nremoteness, however, had his spirit now withdrawn into itself\nthat he stirred not in his chair when old Roger Chillingworth,\nwithout any extraordinary precaution, came into the room.  The\nphysician advanced directly in front of his patient, laid his\nhand upon his bosom, and thrust aside the vestment, that\nhitherto had always covered it even from the professional eye.\n\nThen, indeed, Mr. Dimmesdale shuddered, and slightly stirred.\n\nAfter a brief pause, the physician turned away.\n\nBut with what a wild look of wonder, joy, and horror!  With what\na ghastly rapture, as it were, too mighty to be expressed only\nby the eye and features, and therefore bursting forth through\nthe whole ugliness of his figure, and making itself even\nriotously manifest by the extravagant gestures with which he\nthrew up his arms towards the ceiling, and stamped his foot upon\nthe floor!  Had a man seen old Roger Chillingworth, at that\nmoment of his ecstasy, he would have had no need to ask how\nSatan comports himself when a precious human soul is lost to\nheaven, and won into his kingdom.\n\nBut what distinguished the physician's ecstasy from Satan's was\nthe trait of wonder in it!\n\n\n\nXI.  THE INTERIOR OF A HEART\n\nAfter the incident last described, the intercourse between the\nclergyman and the physician, though externally the same, was\nreally of another character than it had previously been.  The\nintellect of Roger Chillingworth had now a sufficiently plain\npath before it.  It was not, indeed, precisely that which he had\nlaid out for himself to tread.  Calm, gentle, passionless, as he\nappeared, there was yet, we fear, a quiet depth of malice,\nhitherto latent, but active now, in this unfortunate old man,\nwhich led him to imagine a more intimate revenge than any mortal\nhad ever wreaked upon an enemy.  To make himself the one trusted\nfriend, to whom should be confided all the fear, the remorse,\nthe agony, the ineffectual repentance, the backward rush of\nsinful thoughts, expelled in vain!  All that guilty sorrow,\nhidden from the world, whose great heart would have pitied and\nforgiven, to be revealed to him, the Pitiless--to him, the\nUnforgiving!  All that dark treasure to be lavished on the very\nman, to whom nothing else could so adequately pay the debt of\nvengeance!\n\nThe clergyman's shy and sensitive reserve had balked this\nscheme.  Roger Chillingworth, however, was inclined to be hardly,\nif at all, less satisfied with the aspect of affairs, which\nProvidence--using the avenger and his victim for its own\npurposes, and, perchance, pardoning, where it seemed most to\npunish--had substituted for his black devices.  A revelation, he\ncould almost say, had been granted to him.  It mattered little\nfor his object, whether celestial or from what other region.  By\nits aid, in all the subsequent relations betwixt him and Mr.\nDimmesdale, not merely the external presence, but the very\ninmost soul of the latter, seemed to be brought out before his\neyes, so that he could see and comprehend its every movement.  He\nbecame, thenceforth, not a spectator only, but a chief actor in\nthe poor minister's interior world.  He could play upon him as he\nchose.  Would he arouse him with a throb of agony?  The victim was\nfor ever on the rack; it needed only to know the spring that\ncontrolled the engine: and the physician knew it well.  Would he\nstartle him with sudden fear?  As at the waving of a magician's\nwand, up rose a grisly phantom--up rose a thousand phantoms--in\nmany shapes, of death, or more awful shame, all flocking round\nabout the clergyman, and pointing with their fingers at his\nbreast!\n\nAll this was accomplished with a subtlety so perfect, that the\nminister, though he had constantly a dim perception of some evil\ninfluence watching over him, could never gain a knowledge of its\nactual nature.  True, he looked doubtfully, fearfully--even, at\ntimes, with horror and the bitterness of hatred--at the deformed\nfigure of the old physician.  His gestures, his gait, his\ngrizzled beard, his slightest and most indifferent acts, the\nvery fashion of his garments, were odious in the clergyman's\nsight; a token implicitly to be relied on of a deeper antipathy\nin the breast of the latter than he was willing to acknowledge\nto himself.  For, as it was impossible to assign a reason for\nsuch distrust and abhorrence, so Mr. Dimmesdale, conscious that\nthe poison of one morbid spot was infecting his heart's entire\nsubstance, attributed all his presentiments to no other cause.\nHe took himself to task for his bad sympathies in reference to\nRoger Chillingworth, disregarded the lesson that he should have\ndrawn from them, and did his best to root them out.  Unable to\naccomplish this, he nevertheless, as a matter of principle,\ncontinued his habits of social familiarity with the old man, and\nthus gave him constant opportunities for perfecting the purpose\nto which--poor forlorn creature that he was, and more wretched\nthan his victim--the avenger had devoted himself.\n\nWhile thus suffering under bodily disease, and gnawed and\ntortured by some black trouble of the soul, and given over to\nthe machinations of his deadliest enemy, the Reverend Mr.\nDimmesdale had achieved a brilliant popularity in his sacred\noffice.  He won it indeed, in great part, by his sorrows.  His\nintellectual gifts, his moral perceptions, his power of\nexperiencing and communicating emotion, were kept in a state of\npreternatural activity by the prick and anguish of his daily\nlife.  His fame, though still on its upward slope, already\novershadowed the soberer reputations of his fellow-clergymen,\neminent as several of them were.  There are scholars among them,\nwho had spent more years in acquiring abstruse lore, connected\nwith the divine profession, than Mr. Dimmesdale had lived; and\nwho might well, therefore, be more profoundly versed in such\nsolid and valuable attainments than their youthful brother.\nThere were men, too, of a sturdier texture of mind than his, and\nendowed with a far greater share of shrewd, hard iron, or\ngranite understanding; which, duly mingled with a fair\nproportion of doctrinal ingredient, constitutes a highly\nrespectable, efficacious, and unamiable variety of the clerical\nspecies.  There were others again, true saintly fathers, whose\nfaculties had been elaborated by weary toil among their books,\nand by patient thought, and etherealised, moreover, by spiritual\ncommunications with the better world, into which their purity of\nlife had almost introduced these holy personages, with their\ngarments of mortality still clinging to them.  All that they\nlacked was, the gift that descended upon the chosen disciples at\nPentecost, in tongues of flame; symbolising, it would seem, not\nthe power of speech in foreign and unknown languages, but that\nof addressing the whole human brotherhood in the heart's native\nlanguage.  These fathers, otherwise so apostolic, lacked Heaven's\nlast and rarest attestation of their office, the Tongue of\nFlame.  They would have vainly sought--had they ever dreamed of\nseeking--to express the highest truths through the humblest\nmedium of familiar words and images.  Their voices came down,\nafar and indistinctly, from the upper heights where they\nhabitually dwelt.\n\nNot improbably, it was to this latter class of men that Mr.\nDimmesdale, by many of his traits of character, naturally\nbelonged.  To the high mountain peaks of faith and sanctity he\nwould have climbed, had not the tendency been thwarted by the\nburden, whatever it might be, of crime or anguish, beneath which\nit was his doom to totter.  It kept him down on a level with the\nlowest; him, the man of ethereal attributes, whose voice the\nangels might else have listened to and answered!  But this very\nburden it was that gave him sympathies so intimate with the\nsinful brotherhood of mankind; so that his heart vibrated in\nunison with theirs, and received their pain into itself and sent\nits own throb of pain through a thousand other hearts, in gushes\nof sad, persuasive eloquence.  Oftenest persuasive, but sometimes\nterrible!  The people knew not the power that moved them thus.\nThey deemed the young clergyman a miracle of holiness.  They\nfancied him the mouth-piece of Heaven's messages of wisdom, and\nrebuke, and love.  In their eyes, the very ground on which he\ntrod was sanctified.  The virgins of his church grew pale around\nhim, victims of a passion so imbued with religious sentiment,\nthat they imagined it to be all religion, and brought it openly,\nin their white bosoms, as their most acceptable sacrifice before\nthe altar.  The aged members of his flock, beholding Mr.\nDimmesdale's frame so feeble, while they were themselves so\nrugged in their infirmity, believed that he would go heavenward\nbefore them, and enjoined it upon their children that their old\nbones should be buried close to their young pastor's holy grave.\nAnd all this time, perchance, when poor Mr. Dimmesdale was\nthinking of his grave, he questioned with himself whether the\ngrass would ever grow on it, because an accursed thing must\nthere be buried!\n\nIt is inconceivable, the agony with which this public veneration\ntortured him.  It was his genuine impulse to adore the truth, and\nto reckon all things shadow-like, and utterly devoid of weight\nor value, that had not its divine essence as the life within\ntheir life.  Then what was he?--a substance?--or the dimmest of\nall shadows?  He longed to speak out from his own pulpit at the\nfull height of his voice, and tell the people what he was.  \"I,\nwhom you behold in these black garments of the priesthood--I,\nwho ascend the sacred desk, and turn my pale face heavenward,\ntaking upon myself to hold communion in your behalf with the\nMost High Omniscience--I, in whose daily life you discern the\nsanctity of Enoch--I, whose footsteps, as you suppose, leave a\ngleam along my earthly track, whereby the Pilgrims that shall\ncome after me may be guided to the regions of the blest--I, who\nhave laid the hand of baptism upon your children--I, who have\nbreathed the parting prayer over your dying friends, to whom the\nAmen sounded faintly from a world which they had quitted--I,\nyour pastor, whom you so reverence and trust, am utterly a\npollution and a lie!\"\n\nMore than once, Mr. Dimmesdale had gone into the pulpit, with a\npurpose never to come down its steps until he should have spoken\nwords like the above.  More than once he had cleared his throat,\nand drawn in the long, deep, and tremulous breath, which, when\nsent forth again, would come burdened with the black secret of\nhis soul.  More than once--nay, more than a hundred times--he had\nactually spoken!  Spoken!  But how?  He had told his hearers that\nhe was altogether vile, a viler companion of the vilest, the\nworst of sinners, an abomination, a thing of unimaginable\niniquity, and that the only wonder was that they did not see his\nwretched body shrivelled up before their eyes by the burning\nwrath of the Almighty!  Could there be plainer speech than this?\nWould not the people start up in their seats, by a simultaneous\nimpulse, and tear him down out of the pulpit which he defiled?\nNot so, indeed!  They heard it all, and did but reverence him the\nmore.  They little guessed what deadly purport lurked in those\nself-condemning words.  \"The godly youth!\" said they among\nthemselves.  \"The saint on earth!  Alas! if he discern such\nsinfulness in his own white soul, what horrid spectacle would he\nbehold in thine or mine!\"  The minister well knew--subtle, but\nremorseful hypocrite that he was!--the light in which his vague\nconfession would be viewed.  He had striven to put a cheat upon\nhimself by making the avowal of a guilty conscience, but had\ngained only one other sin, and a self-acknowledged shame,\nwithout the momentary relief of being self-deceived.  He had\nspoken the very truth, and transformed it into the veriest\nfalsehood.  And yet, by the constitution of his nature, he loved\nthe truth, and loathed the lie, as few men ever did.  Therefore,\nabove all things else, he loathed his miserable self!\n\nHis inward trouble drove him to practices more in accordance\nwith the old, corrupted faith of Rome than with the better light\nof the church in which he had been born and bred.  In Mr.\nDimmesdale's secret closet, under lock and key, there was a\nbloody scourge.  Oftentimes, this Protestant and Puritan divine\nhad plied it on his own shoulders, laughing bitterly at himself\nthe while, and smiting so much the more pitilessly because of\nthat bitter laugh.  It was his custom, too, as it has been that\nof many other pious Puritans, to fast--not however, like them,\nin order to purify the body, and render it the fitter medium of\ncelestial illumination--but rigorously, and until his knees\ntrembled beneath him, as an act of penance.  He kept vigils,\nlikewise, night after night, sometimes in utter darkness,\nsometimes with a glimmering lamp, and sometimes, viewing his own\nface in a looking-glass, by the most powerful light which he\ncould throw upon it.  He thus typified the constant introspection\nwherewith he tortured, but could not purify himself.  In these\nlengthened vigils, his brain often reeled, and visions seemed to\nflit before him; perhaps seen doubtfully, and by a faint light\nof their own, in the remote dimness of the chamber, or more\nvividly and close beside him, within the looking-glass.  Now it\nwas a herd of diabolic shapes, that grinned and mocked at the\npale minister, and beckoned him away with them; now a group of\nshining angels, who flew upward heavily, as sorrow-laden, but\ngrew more ethereal as they rose.  Now came the dead friends of\nhis youth, and his white-bearded father, with a saint-like\nfrown, and his mother turning her face away as she passed by.\nGhost of a mother--thinnest fantasy of a mother--methinks she\nmight yet have thrown a pitying glance towards her son!  And now,\nthrough the chamber which these spectral thoughts had made so\nghastly, glided Hester Prynne leading along little Pearl, in her\nscarlet garb, and pointing her forefinger, first at the scarlet\nletter on her bosom, and then at the clergyman's own breast.\n\nNone of these visions ever quite deluded him.  At any moment, by\nan effort of his will, he could discern substances through their\nmisty lack of substance, and convince himself that they were not\nsolid in their nature, like yonder table of carved oak, or that\nbig, square, leather-bound and brazen-clasped volume of\ndivinity.  But, for all that, they were, in one sense, the truest\nand most substantial things which the poor minister now dealt\nwith.  It is the unspeakable misery of a life so false as his,\nthat it steals the pith and substance out of whatever realities\nthere are around us, and which were meant by Heaven to be the\nspirit's joy and nutriment.  To the untrue man, the whole\nuniverse is false--it is impalpable--it shrinks to nothing\nwithin his grasp.  And he himself in so far as he shows himself\nin a false light, becomes a shadow, or, indeed, ceases to exist.\nThe only truth that continued to give Mr. Dimmesdale a real\nexistence on this earth was the anguish in his inmost soul, and\nthe undissembled expression of it in his aspect.  Had he once\nfound power to smile, and wear a face of gaiety, there would\nhave been no such man!\n\nOn one of those ugly nights, which we have faintly hinted at,\nbut forborne to picture forth, the minister started from his\nchair.  A new thought had struck him.  There might be a moment's\npeace in it.  Attiring himself with as much care as if it had\nbeen for public worship, and precisely in the same manner, he\nstole softly down the staircase, undid the door, and issued\nforth.\n\n\n\nXII.  THE MINISTER'S VIGIL\n\nWalking in the shadow of a dream, as it were, and perhaps\nactually under the influence of a species of somnambulism, Mr.\nDimmesdale reached the spot where, now so long since, Hester\nPrynne had lived through her first hours of public ignominy.  The\nsame platform or scaffold, black and weather-stained with the\nstorm or sunshine of seven long years, and foot-worn, too, with\nthe tread of many culprits who had since ascended it, remained\nstanding beneath the balcony of the meeting-house.  The minister\nwent up the steps.\n\nIt was an obscure night in early May.  An unvaried pall of\ncloud muffled the whole expanse of sky from zenith to horizon.\nIf the same multitude which had stood as eye-witnesses while\nHester Prynne sustained her punishment could now have been\nsummoned forth, they would have discerned no face above the\nplatform nor hardly the outline of a human shape, in the dark\ngrey of the midnight.  But the town was all asleep.  There was no\nperil of discovery.  The minister might stand there, if it so\npleased him, until morning should redden in the east, without\nother risk than that the dank and chill night air would creep\ninto his frame, and stiffen his joints with rheumatism, and clog\nhis throat with catarrh and cough; thereby defrauding the\nexpectant audience of to-morrow's prayer and sermon.  No eye\ncould see him, save that ever-wakeful one which had seen him in\nhis closet, wielding the bloody scourge.  Why, then, had he come\nhither?  Was it but the mockery of penitence?  A mockery, indeed,\nbut in which his soul trifled with itself!  A mockery at which\nangels blushed and wept, while fiends rejoiced with jeering\nlaughter!  He had been driven hither by the impulse of that\nRemorse which dogged him everywhere, and whose own sister and\nclosely linked companion was that Cowardice which invariably\ndrew him back, with her tremulous gripe, just when the other\nimpulse had hurried him to the verge of a disclosure.  Poor,\nmiserable man! what right had infirmity like his to burden\nitself with crime?  Crime is for the iron-nerved, who have their\nchoice either to endure it, or, if it press too hard, to exert\ntheir fierce and savage strength for a good purpose, and fling\nit off at once!  This feeble and most sensitive of spirits could\ndo neither, yet continually did one thing or another, which\nintertwined, in the same inextricable knot, the agony of\nheaven-defying guilt and vain repentance.\n\nAnd thus, while standing on the scaffold, in this vain show of\nexpiation, Mr. Dimmesdale was overcome with a great horror of\nmind, as if the universe were gazing at a scarlet token on his\nnaked breast, right over his heart.  On that spot, in very truth,\nthere was, and there had long been, the gnawing and poisonous\ntooth of bodily pain.  Without any effort of his will, or power\nto restrain himself, he shrieked aloud: an outcry that went\npealing through the night, and was beaten back from one house to\nanother, and reverberated from the hills in the background; as\nif a company of devils, detecting so much misery and terror in\nit, had made a plaything of the sound, and were bandying it to\nand fro.\n\n\"It is done!\" muttered the minister, covering his face with his\nhands.  \"The whole town will awake and hurry forth, and find me\nhere!\"\n\nBut it was not so.  The shriek had perhaps sounded with a far\ngreater power, to his own startled ears, than it actually\npossessed.  The town did not awake; or, if it did, the drowsy\nslumberers mistook the cry either for something frightful in a\ndream, or for the noise of witches, whose voices, at that\nperiod, were often heard to pass over the settlements or lonely\ncottages, as they rode with Satan through the air.  The\nclergyman, therefore, hearing no symptoms of disturbance,\nuncovered his eyes and looked about him.  At one of the\nchamber-windows of Governor Bellingham's mansion, which stood at\nsome distance, on the line of another street, he beheld the\nappearance of the old magistrate himself with a lamp in his hand\na white night-cap on his head, and a long white gown enveloping\nhis figure.  He looked like a ghost evoked unseasonably from the\ngrave.  The cry had evidently startled him.  At another window of\nthe same house, moreover appeared old Mistress Hibbins, the\nGovernor's sister, also with a lamp, which even thus far off\nrevealed the expression of her sour and discontented face.  She\nthrust forth her head from the lattice, and looked anxiously\nupward.  Beyond the shadow of a doubt, this venerable witch-lady\nhad heard Mr. Dimmesdale's outcry, and interpreted it, with its\nmultitudinous echoes and reverberations, as the clamour of the\nfiends and night-hags, with whom she was well known to make\nexcursions in the forest.\n\nDetecting the gleam of Governor Bellingham's lamp, the old lady\nquickly extinguished her own, and vanished.  Possibly, she went\nup among the clouds.  The minister saw nothing further of her\nmotions.  The magistrate, after a wary observation of the\ndarkness--into which, nevertheless, he could see but little\nfurther than he might into a mill-stone--retired from the\nwindow.\n\nThe minister grew comparatively calm.  His eyes, however, were\nsoon greeted by a little glimmering light, which, at first a\nlong way off was approaching up the street.  It threw a gleam of\nrecognition, on here a post, and there a garden fence, and here\na latticed window-pane, and there a pump, with its full trough\nof water, and here again an arched door of oak, with an iron\nknocker, and a rough log for the door-step.  The Reverend Mr.\nDimmesdale noted all these minute particulars, even while firmly\nconvinced that the doom of his existence was stealing onward, in\nthe footsteps which he now heard; and that the gleam of the\nlantern would fall upon him in a few moments more, and reveal\nhis long-hidden secret.  As the light drew nearer, he beheld,\nwithin its illuminated circle, his brother clergyman--or, to\nspeak more accurately, his professional father, as well as\nhighly valued friend--the Reverend Mr. Wilson, who, as Mr.\nDimmesdale now conjectured, had been praying at the bedside of\nsome dying man.  And so he had.  The good old minister came\nfreshly from the death-chamber of Governor Winthrop, who had\npassed from earth to heaven within that very hour.  And now\nsurrounded, like the saint-like personage of olden times, with a\nradiant halo, that glorified him amid this gloomy night of\nsin--as if the departed Governor had left him an inheritance of\nhis glory, or as if he had caught upon himself the distant shine\nof the celestial city, while looking thitherward to see the\ntriumphant pilgrim pass within its gates--now, in short, good\nFather Wilson was moving homeward, aiding his footsteps with a\nlighted lantern!  The glimmer of this luminary suggested the\nabove conceits to Mr. Dimmesdale, who smiled--nay, almost\nlaughed at them--and then wondered if he was going mad.\n\nAs the Reverend Mr. Wilson passed beside the scaffold, closely\nmuffling his Geneva cloak about him with one arm, and holding\nthe lantern before his breast with the other, the minister could\nhardly restrain himself from speaking--\n\n\"A good evening to you, venerable Father Wilson.  Come up\nhither, I pray you, and pass a pleasant hour with me!\"\n\nGood Heavens!  Had Mr. Dimmesdale actually spoken?  For one\ninstant he believed that these words had passed his lips.  But\nthey were uttered only within his imagination.  The venerable\nFather Wilson continued to step slowly onward, looking carefully\nat the muddy pathway before his feet, and never once turning his\nhead towards the guilty platform.  When the light of the\nglimmering lantern had faded quite away, the minister\ndiscovered, by the faintness which came over him, that the last\nfew moments had been a crisis of terrible anxiety, although his\nmind had made an involuntary effort to relieve itself by a kind\nof lurid playfulness.\n\nShortly afterwards, the like grisly sense of the humorous again\nstole in among the solemn phantoms of his thought.  He felt his\nlimbs growing stiff with the unaccustomed chilliness of the\nnight, and doubted whether he should be able to descend the\nsteps of the scaffold.  Morning would break and find him there.\nThe neighbourhood would begin to rouse itself.  The earliest\nriser, coming forth in the dim twilight, would perceive a\nvaguely-defined figure aloft on the place of shame; and\nhalf-crazed betwixt alarm and curiosity, would go knocking from\ndoor to door, summoning all the people to behold the ghost--as\nhe needs must think it--of some defunct transgressor.  A dusky\ntumult would flap its wings from one house to another.  Then--the\nmorning light still waxing stronger--old patriarchs would rise\nup in great haste, each in his flannel gown, and matronly dames,\nwithout pausing to put off their night-gear.  The whole tribe of\ndecorous personages, who had never heretofore been seen with a\nsingle hair of their heads awry, would start into public view\nwith the disorder of a nightmare in their aspects.  Old Governor\nBellingham would come grimly forth, with his King James' ruff\nfastened askew, and Mistress Hibbins, with some twigs of the\nforest clinging to her skirts, and looking sourer than ever, as\nhaving hardly got a wink of sleep after her night ride; and good\nFather Wilson too, after spending half the night at a death-bed,\nand liking ill to be disturbed, thus early, out of his dreams\nabout the glorified saints.  Hither, likewise, would come the\nelders and deacons of Mr. Dimmesdale's church, and the young\nvirgins who so idolized their minister, and had made a shrine\nfor him in their white bosoms, which now, by-the-bye, in their\nhurry and confusion, they would scantly have given themselves\ntime to cover with their kerchiefs.  All people, in a word, would\ncome stumbling over their thresholds, and turning up their\namazed and horror-stricken visages around the scaffold.  Whom\nwould they discern there, with the red eastern light upon his\nbrow?  Whom, but the Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale, half-frozen to\ndeath, overwhelmed with shame, and standing where Hester Prynne\nhad stood!\n\nCarried away by the grotesque horror of this picture, the\nminister, unawares, and to his own infinite alarm, burst into a\ngreat peal of laughter.  It was immediately responded to by a\nlight, airy, childish laugh, in which, with a thrill of the\nheart--but he knew not whether of exquisite pain, or pleasure as\nacute--he recognised the tones of little Pearl.\n\n\"Pearl!  Little Pearl!\" cried he, after a moment's pause; then,\nsuppressing his voice--\"Hester!  Hester Prynne!  Are you there?\"\n\n\"Yes; it is Hester Prynne!\" she replied, in a tone of surprise;\nand the minister heard her footsteps approaching from the\nside-walk, along which she had been passing.  \"It is I, and my\nlittle Pearl.\"\n\n\"Whence come you, Hester?\" asked the minister.  \"What sent you\nhither?\"\n\n\"I have been watching at a death-bed,\" answered Hester Prynne\n\"at Governor Winthrop's death-bed, and have taken his measure\nfor a robe, and am now going homeward to my dwelling.\"\n\n\"Come up hither, Hester, thou and little Pearl,\" said the\nReverend Mr. Dimmesdale.  \"Ye have both been here before, but I\nwas not with you.  Come up hither once again, and we will stand\nall three together.\"\n\nShe silently ascended the steps, and stood on the platform,\nholding little Pearl by the hand.  The minister felt for the\nchild's other hand, and took it.  The moment that he did so,\nthere came what seemed a tumultuous rush of new life, other life\nthan his own pouring like a torrent into his heart, and hurrying\nthrough all his veins, as if the mother and the child were\ncommunicating their vital warmth to his half-torpid system.  The\nthree formed an electric chain.\n\n\"Minister!\" whispered little Pearl.\n\n\"What wouldst thou say, child?\" asked Mr. Dimmesdale.\n\n\"Wilt thou stand here with mother and me, to-morrow noontide?\"\ninquired Pearl.\n\n\"Nay; not so, my little Pearl,\" answered the minister; for, with\nthe new energy of the moment, all the dread of public exposure,\nthat had so long been the anguish of his life, had returned upon\nhim; and he was already trembling at the conjunction in\nwhich--with a strange joy, nevertheless--he now found\nhimself--\"not so, my child.  I shall, indeed, stand with thy\nmother and thee one other day, but not to-morrow.\"\n\nPearl laughed, and attempted to pull away her hand.  But the\nminister held it fast.\n\n\"A moment longer, my child!\" said he.\n\n\"But wilt thou promise,\" asked Pearl, \"to take my hand, and\nmother's hand, to-morrow noontide?\"\n\n\"Not then, Pearl,\" said the minister; \"but another time.\"\n\n\"And what other time?\" persisted the child.\n\n\"At the great judgment day,\" whispered the minister; and,\nstrangely enough, the sense that he was a professional teacher\nof the truth impelled him to answer the child so.  \"Then, and\nthere, before the judgment-seat, thy mother, and thou, and I\nmust stand together.  But the daylight of this world shall not\nsee our meeting!\"\n\nPearl laughed again.\n\nBut before Mr. Dimmesdale had done speaking, a light gleamed far\nand wide over all the muffled sky.  It was doubtless caused by\none of those meteors, which the night-watcher may so often\nobserve burning out to waste, in the vacant regions of the\natmosphere.  So powerful was its radiance, that it thoroughly\nilluminated the dense medium of cloud betwixt the sky and earth.\nThe great vault brightened, like the dome of an immense lamp.  It\nshowed the familiar scene of the street with the distinctness of\nmid-day, but also with the awfulness that is always imparted to\nfamiliar objects by an unaccustomed light.  The wooden houses,\nwith their jutting storeys and quaint gable-peaks; the doorsteps\nand thresholds with the early grass springing up about them; the\ngarden-plots, black with freshly-turned earth; the wheel-track,\nlittle worn, and even in the market-place margined with green on\neither side--all were visible, but with a singularity of aspect\nthat seemed to give another moral interpretation to the things\nof this world than they had ever borne before.  And there stood\nthe minister, with his hand over his heart; and Hester Prynne,\nwith the embroidered letter glimmering on her bosom; and little\nPearl, herself a symbol, and the connecting link between those\ntwo.  They stood in the noon of that strange and solemn\nsplendour, as if it were the light that is to reveal all\nsecrets, and the daybreak that shall unite all who belong to one\nanother.\n\nThere was witchcraft in little Pearl's eyes; and her face, as\nshe glanced upward at the minister, wore that naughty smile\nwhich made its expression frequently so elvish.  She withdrew her\nhand from Mr. Dimmesdale's, and pointed across the street.  But\nhe clasped both his hands over his breast, and cast his eyes\ntowards the zenith.\n\nNothing was more common, in those days, than to interpret all\nmeteoric appearances, and other natural phenomena that occurred\nwith less regularity than the rise and set of sun and moon, as\nso many revelations from a supernatural source.  Thus, a blazing\nspear, a sword of flame, a bow, or a sheaf of arrows seen in the\nmidnight sky, prefigured Indian warfare.  Pestilence was known to\nhave been foreboded by a shower of crimson light.  We doubt\nwhether any marked event, for good or evil, ever befell New\nEngland, from its settlement down to revolutionary times, of\nwhich the inhabitants had not been previously warned by some\nspectacle of its nature.  Not seldom, it had been seen by\nmultitudes.  Oftener, however, its credibility rested on the\nfaith of some lonely eye-witness, who beheld the wonder through\nthe coloured, magnifying, and distorted medium of his\nimagination, and shaped it more distinctly in his after-thought.\nIt was, indeed, a majestic idea that the destiny of nations\nshould be revealed, in these awful hieroglyphics, on the cope of\nheaven.  A scroll so wide might not be deemed too expensive for\nProvidence to write a people's doom upon.  The belief was a\nfavourite one with our forefathers, as betokening that their\ninfant commonwealth was under a celestial guardianship of\npeculiar intimacy and strictness.  But what shall we say, when an\nindividual discovers a revelation addressed to himself alone, on\nthe same vast sheet of record.  In such a case, it could only be\nthe symptom of a highly disordered mental state, when a man,\nrendered morbidly self-contemplative by long, intense, and\nsecret pain, had extended his egotism over the whole expanse of\nnature, until the firmament itself should appear no more than a\nfitting page for his soul's history and fate.\n\nWe impute it, therefore, solely to the disease in his own eye\nand heart that the minister, looking upward to the zenith,\nbeheld there the appearance of an immense letter--the letter\nA--marked out in lines of dull red light.  Not but the meteor may\nhave shown itself at that point, burning duskily through a veil\nof cloud, but with no such shape as his guilty imagination gave\nit, or, at least, with so little definiteness, that another's\nguilt might have seen another symbol in it.\n\nThere was a singular circumstance that characterised Mr.\nDimmesdale's psychological state at this moment.  All the time\nthat he gazed upward to the zenith, he was, nevertheless,\nperfectly aware that little Pearl was pointing her finger towards\nold Roger Chillingworth, who stood at no great distance from the\nscaffold.  The minister appeared to see him, with the same glance\nthat discerned the miraculous letter.  To his feature as to all\nother objects, the meteoric light imparted a new expression; or\nit might well be that the physician was not careful then, as at\nall other times, to hide the malevolence with which he looked\nupon his victim.  Certainly, if the meteor kindled up the sky,\nand disclosed the earth, with an awfulness that admonished\nHester Prynne and the clergyman of the day of judgment, then\nmight Roger Chillingworth have passed with them for the\narch-fiend, standing there with a smile and scowl, to claim his\nown.  So vivid was the expression, or so intense the minister's\nperception of it, that it seemed still to remain painted on the\ndarkness after the meteor had vanished, with an effect as if the\nstreet and all things else were at once annihilated.\n\n\"Who is that man, Hester?\" gasped Mr. Dimmesdale, overcome with\nterror.  \"I shiver at him!  Dost thou know the man?  I hate him,\nHester!\"\n\nShe remembered her oath, and was silent.\n\n\"I tell thee, my soul shivers at him!\" muttered the minister\nagain.  \"Who is he?  Who is he?  Canst thou do nothing for me?  I\nhave a nameless horror of the man!\"\n\n\"Minister,\" said little Pearl, \"I can tell thee who he is!\"\n\n\"Quickly, then, child!\" said the minister, bending his ear close\nto her lips.  \"Quickly, and as low as thou canst whisper.\"\n\nPearl mumbled something into his ear that sounded, indeed, like\nhuman language, but was only such gibberish as children may be\nheard amusing themselves with by the hour together.  At all\nevents, if it involved any secret information in regard to old\nRoger Chillingworth, it was in a tongue unknown to the erudite\nclergyman, and did but increase the bewilderment of his mind.\nThe elvish child then laughed aloud.\n\n\"Dost thou mock me now?\" said the minister.\n\n\"Thou wast not bold!--thou wast not true!\" answered the child.\n\"Thou wouldst not promise to take my hand, and mother's hand,\nto-morrow noon-tide!\"\n\n\"Worthy sir,\" answered the physician, who had now advanced to\nthe foot of the platform--\"pious Master Dimmesdale! can this be\nyou?  Well, well, indeed!  We men of study, whose heads are in our\nbooks, have need to be straitly looked after!  We dream in our\nwaking moments, and walk in our sleep.  Come, good sir, and my\ndear friend, I pray you let me lead you home!\"\n\n\"How knewest thou that I was here?\" asked the minister,\nfearfully.\n\n\"Verily, and in good faith,\" answered Roger Chillingworth, \"I\nknew nothing of the matter.  I had spent the better part of the\nnight at the bedside of the worshipful Governor Winthrop, doing\nwhat my poor skill might to give him ease.  He, going home to a\nbetter world, I, likewise, was on my way homeward, when this\nlight shone out.  Come with me, I beseech you, Reverend sir, else\nyou will be poorly able to do Sabbath duty to-morrow.  Aha! see\nnow how they trouble the brain--these books!--these books!  You\nshould study less, good sir, and take a little pastime, or these\nnight whimsies will grow upon you.\"\n\n\"I will go home with you,\" said Mr. Dimmesdale.\n\nWith a chill despondency, like one awakening, all nerveless,\nfrom an ugly dream, he yielded himself to the physician, and was\nled away.\n\nThe next day, however, being the Sabbath, he preached a\ndiscourse which was held to be the richest and most powerful,\nand the most replete with heavenly influences, that had ever\nproceeded from his lips.  Souls, it is said, more souls than one,\nwere brought to the truth by the efficacy of that sermon, and\nvowed within themselves to cherish a holy gratitude towards Mr.\nDimmesdale throughout the long hereafter.  But as he came down\nthe pulpit steps, the grey-bearded sexton met him, holding up a\nblack glove, which the minister recognised as his own.\n\n\"It was found,\" said the Sexton, \"this morning on the scaffold\nwhere evil-doers are set up to public shame.  Satan dropped it\nthere, I take it, intending a scurrilous jest against your\nreverence.  But, indeed, he was blind and foolish, as he ever and\nalways is.  A pure hand needs no glove to cover it!\"\n\n\"Thank you, my good friend,\" said the minister, gravely, but\nstartled at heart; for so confused was his remembrance, that he\nhad almost brought himself to look at the events of the past\nnight as visionary.\n\n\"Yes, it seems to be my glove, indeed!\"\n\n\"And, since Satan saw fit to steal it, your reverence must needs\nhandle him without gloves henceforward,\" remarked the old\nsexton, grimly smiling.  \"But did your reverence hear of the\nportent that was seen last night? a great red letter in the\nsky--the letter A, which we interpret to stand for Angel.  For,\nas our good Governor Winthrop was made an angel this past night,\nit was doubtless held fit that there should be some notice\nthereof!\"\n\n\"No,\" answered the minister; \"I had not heard of it.\"\n\n\n\nXIII.  ANOTHER VIEW OF HESTER\n\nIn her late singular interview with Mr. Dimmesdale, Hester\nPrynne was shocked at the condition to which she found the\nclergyman reduced.  His nerve seemed absolutely destroyed.  His\nmoral force was abased into more than childish weakness.  It\ngrovelled helpless on the ground, even while his intellectual\nfaculties retained their pristine strength, or had perhaps\nacquired a morbid energy, which disease only could have given\nthem.  With her knowledge of a train of circumstances hidden from\nall others, she could readily infer that, besides the legitimate\naction of his own conscience, a terrible machinery had been\nbrought to bear, and was still operating, on Mr. Dimmesdale's\nwell-being and repose.  Knowing what this poor fallen man had\nonce been, her whole soul was moved by the shuddering terror\nwith which he had appealed to her--the outcast woman--for\nsupport against his instinctively discovered enemy.  She decided,\nmoreover, that he had a right to her utmost aid.  Little\naccustomed, in her long seclusion from society, to measure her\nideas of right and wrong by any standard external to herself,\nHester saw--or seemed to see--that there lay a responsibility\nupon her in reference to the clergyman, which she owned to no\nother, nor to the whole world besides.  The links that united her\nto the rest of humankind--links of flowers, or silk, or gold, or\nwhatever the material--had all been broken.  Here was the iron\nlink of mutual crime, which neither he nor she could break.  Like\nall other ties, it brought along with it its obligations.\n\nHester Prynne did not now occupy precisely the same position in\nwhich we beheld her during the earlier periods of her ignominy.\nYears had come and gone.  Pearl was now seven years old.  Her\nmother, with the scarlet letter on her breast, glittering in its\nfantastic embroidery, had long been a familiar object to the\ntownspeople.  As is apt to be the case when a person stands out\nin any prominence before the community, and, at the same time,\ninterferes neither with public nor individual interests and\nconvenience, a species of general regard had ultimately grown up\nin reference to Hester Prynne.  It is to the credit of human\nnature that, except where its selfishness is brought into play,\nit loves more readily than it hates.  Hatred, by a gradual and\nquiet process, will even be transformed to love, unless the\nchange be impeded by a continually new irritation of the\noriginal feeling of hostility.  In this matter of Hester Prynne\nthere was neither irritation nor irksomeness.  She never battled\nwith the public, but submitted uncomplainingly to its worst\nusage; she made no claim upon it in requital for what she\nsuffered; she did not weigh upon its sympathies.  Then, also, the\nblameless purity of her life during all these years in which she\nhad been set apart to infamy was reckoned largely in her favour.\nWith nothing now to lose, in the sight of mankind, and with no\nhope, and seemingly no wish, of gaining anything, it could only\nbe a genuine regard for virtue that had brought back the poor\nwanderer to its paths.\n\nIt was perceived, too, that while Hester never put forward even\nthe humblest title to share in the world's privileges--further\nthan to breathe the common air and earn daily bread for little\nPearl and herself by the faithful labour of her hands--she was\nquick to acknowledge her sisterhood with the race of man\nwhenever benefits were to be conferred.  None so ready as she to\ngive of her little substance to every demand of poverty, even\nthough the bitter-hearted pauper threw back a gibe in requital\nof the food brought regularly to his door, or the garments\nwrought for him by the fingers that could have embroidered a\nmonarch's robe.  None so self-devoted as Hester when pestilence\nstalked through the town.  In all seasons of calamity, indeed,\nwhether general or of individuals, the outcast of society at\nonce found her place.  She came, not as a guest, but as a\nrightful inmate, into the household that was darkened by\ntrouble, as if its gloomy twilight were a medium in which she\nwas entitled to hold intercourse with her fellow-creature.  There\nglimmered the embroidered letter, with comfort in its unearthly\nray.  Elsewhere the token of sin, it was the taper of the sick\nchamber.  It had even thrown its gleam, in the sufferer's bard\nextremity, across the verge of time.  It had shown him where to\nset his foot, while the light of earth was fast becoming dim,\nand ere the light of futurity could reach him.  In such\nemergencies Hester's nature showed itself warm and rich--a\nwell-spring of human tenderness, unfailing to every real demand,\nand inexhaustible by the largest.  Her breast, with its badge of\nshame, was but the softer pillow for the head that needed one.\nShe was self-ordained a Sister of Mercy, or, we may rather say,\nthe world's heavy hand had so ordained her, when neither the\nworld nor she looked forward to this result.  The letter was the\nsymbol of her calling.  Such helpfulness was found in her--so\nmuch power to do, and power to sympathise--that many people\nrefused to interpret the scarlet A by its original\nsignification.  They said that it meant Abel, so strong was\nHester Prynne, with a woman's strength.\n\nIt was only the darkened house that could contain her.  When\nsunshine came again, she was not there.  Her shadow had faded\nacross the threshold.  The helpful inmate had departed, without\none backward glance to gather up the meed of gratitude, if any\nwere in the hearts of those whom she had served so zealously.\nMeeting them in the street, she never raised her head to receive\ntheir greeting.  If they were resolute to accost her, she laid\nher finger on the scarlet letter, and passed on.  This might be\npride, but was so like humility, that it produced all the\nsoftening influence of the latter quality on the public mind.\nThe public is despotic in its temper; it is capable of denying\ncommon justice when too strenuously demanded as a right; but\nquite as frequently it awards more than justice, when the appeal\nis made, as despots love to have it made, entirely to its\ngenerosity.  Interpreting Hester Prynne's deportment as an appeal\nof this nature, society was inclined to show its former victim a\nmore benign countenance than she cared to be favoured with, or,\nperchance, than she deserved.\n\nThe rulers, and the wise and learned men of the community, were\nlonger in acknowledging the influence of Hester's good qualities\nthan the people.  The prejudices which they shared in common with\nthe latter were fortified in themselves by an iron frame-work of\nreasoning, that made it a far tougher labour to expel them.  Day\nby day, nevertheless, their sour and rigid wrinkles were\nrelaxing into something which, in the due course of years, might\ngrow to be an expression of almost benevolence.  Thus it was with\nthe men of rank, on whom their eminent position imposed the\nguardianship of the public morals.  Individuals in private life,\nmeanwhile, had quite forgiven Hester Prynne for her frailty;\nnay, more, they had begun to look upon the scarlet letter as the\ntoken, not of that one sin for which she had borne so long and\ndreary a penance, but of her many good deeds since.  \"Do you see\nthat woman with the embroidered badge?\" they would say to\nstrangers.  \"It is our Hester--the town's own Hester--who is so\nkind to the poor, so helpful to the sick, so comfortable to the\nafflicted!\"  Then, it is true, the propensity of human nature to\ntell the very worst of itself, when embodied in the person of\nanother, would constrain them to whisper the black scandal of\nbygone years.  It was none the less a fact, however, that in the\neyes of the very men who spoke thus, the scarlet letter had the\neffect of the cross on a nun's bosom.  It imparted to the wearer\na kind of sacredness, which enabled her to walk securely amid\nall peril.  Had she fallen among thieves, it would have kept her\nsafe.  It was reported, and believed by many, that an Indian had\ndrawn his arrow against the badge, and that the missile struck\nit, and fell harmless to the ground.\n\nThe effect of the symbol--or rather, of the position in respect\nto society that was indicated by it--on the mind of Hester\nPrynne herself was powerful and peculiar.  All the light and\ngraceful foliage of her character had been withered up by this\nred-hot brand, and had long ago fallen away, leaving a bare and\nharsh outline, which might have been repulsive had she possessed\nfriends or companions to be repelled by it.  Even the\nattractiveness of her person had undergone a similar change.  It\nmight be partly owing to the studied austerity of her dress, and\npartly to the lack of demonstration in her manners.  It was a sad\ntransformation, too, that her rich and luxuriant hair had either\nbeen cut off, or was so completely hidden by a cap, that not a\nshining lock of it ever once gushed into the sunshine.  It was\ndue in part to all these causes, but still more to something\nelse, that there seemed to be no longer anything in Hester's\nface for Love to dwell upon; nothing in Hester's form, though\nmajestic and statue like, that Passion would ever dream of\nclasping in its embrace; nothing in Hester's bosom to make it\never again the pillow of Affection.  Some attribute had departed\nfrom her, the permanence of which had been essential to keep her\na woman.  Such is frequently the fate, and such the stern\ndevelopment, of the feminine character and person, when the\nwoman has encountered, and lived through, an experience of\npeculiar severity.  If she be all tenderness, she will die.  If\nshe survive, the tenderness will either be crushed out of her,\nor--and the outward semblance is the same--crushed so deeply\ninto her heart that it can never show itself more.  The latter is\nperhaps the truest theory.  She who has once been a woman, and\nceased to be so, might at any moment become a woman again, if\nthere were only the magic touch to effect the transformation.  We\nshall see whether Hester Prynne were ever afterwards so touched\nand so transfigured.\n\nMuch of the marble coldness of Hester's impression was to be\nattributed to the circumstance that her life had turned, in a\ngreat measure, from passion and feeling to thought.  Standing\nalone in the world--alone, as to any dependence on society, and\nwith little Pearl to be guided and protected--alone, and\nhopeless of retrieving her position, even had she not scorned to\nconsider it desirable--she cast away the fragment of a broken\nchain.  The world's law was no law for her mind.  It was an age in\nwhich the human intellect, newly emancipated, had taken a more\nactive and a wider range than for many centuries before.  Men of\nthe sword had overthrown nobles and kings.  Men bolder than these\nhad overthrown and rearranged--not actually, but within the\nsphere of theory, which was their most real abode--the whole\nsystem of ancient prejudice, wherewith was linked much of\nancient principle.  Hester Prynne imbibed this spirit.  She\nassumed a freedom of speculation, then common enough on the\nother side of the Atlantic, but which our forefathers, had they\nknown it, would have held to be a deadlier crime than that\nstigmatised by the scarlet letter.  In her lonesome cottage, by\nthe seashore, thoughts visited her such as dared to enter no\nother dwelling in New England; shadowy guests, that would have\nbeen as perilous as demons to their entertainer, could they have\nbeen seen so much as knocking at her door.\n\nIt is remarkable that persons who speculate the most boldly\noften conform with the most perfect quietude to the external\nregulations of society.  The thought suffices them, without\ninvesting itself in the flesh and blood of action.  So it seemed\nto be with Hester.  Yet, had little Pearl never come to her from\nthe spiritual world, it might have been far otherwise.  Then she\nmight have come down to us in history, hand in hand with Ann\nHutchinson, as the foundress of a religious sect.  She might, in\none of her phases, have been a prophetess.  She might, and not\nimprobably would, have suffered death from the stern tribunals\nof the period, for attempting to undermine the foundations of\nthe Puritan establishment.  But, in the education of her child,\nthe mother's enthusiasm of thought had something to wreak itself\nupon.  Providence, in the person of this little girl, had\nassigned to Hester's charge, the germ and blossom of womanhood,\nto be cherished and developed amid a host of difficulties.\nEverything was against her.  The world was hostile.  The child's\nown nature had something wrong in it which continually betokened\nthat she had been born amiss--the effluence of her mother's\nlawless passion--and often impelled Hester to ask, in bitterness\nof heart, whether it were for ill or good that the poor little\ncreature had been born at all.\n\nIndeed, the same dark question often rose into her mind with\nreference to the whole race of womanhood.  Was existence worth\naccepting even to the happiest among them?  As concerned her own\nindividual existence, she had long ago decided in the negative,\nand dismissed the point as settled.  A tendency to speculation,\nthough it may keep women quiet, as it does man, yet makes her\nsad.  She discerns, it may be, such a hopeless task before her.\nAs a first step, the whole system of society is to be torn down\nand built up anew.  Then the very nature of the opposite sex, or\nits long hereditary habit, which has become like nature, is to\nbe essentially modified before woman can be allowed to assume\nwhat seems a fair and suitable position.  Finally, all other\ndifficulties being obviated, woman cannot take advantage of\nthese preliminary reforms until she herself shall have undergone\na still mightier change, in which, perhaps, the ethereal\nessence, wherein she has her truest life, will be found to have\nevaporated.  A woman never overcomes these problems by any\nexercise of thought.  They are not to be solved, or only in one\nway.  If her heart chance to come uppermost, they vanish.  Thus\nHester Prynne, whose heart had lost its regular and healthy\nthrob, wandered without a clue in the dark labyrinth of mind;\nnow turned aside by an insurmountable precipice; now starting\nback from a deep chasm.  There was wild and ghastly scenery all\naround her, and a home and comfort nowhere.  At times a fearful\ndoubt strove to possess her soul, whether it were not better to\nsend Pearl at once to Heaven, and go herself to such futurity as\nEternal Justice should provide.\n\nThe scarlet letter had not done its office.  Now, however, her\ninterview with the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, on the night of his\nvigil, had given her a new theme of reflection, and held up to\nher an object that appeared worthy of any exertion and sacrifice\nfor its attainment.  She had witnessed the intense misery beneath\nwhich the minister struggled, or, to speak more accurately, had\nceased to struggle.  She saw that he stood on the verge of\nlunacy, if he had not already stepped across it.  It was\nimpossible to doubt that, whatever painful efficacy there might\nbe in the secret sting of remorse, a deadlier venom had been\ninfused into it by the hand that proffered relief.  A secret\nenemy had been continually by his side, under the semblance of a\nfriend and helper, and had availed himself of the opportunities\nthus afforded for tampering with the delicate springs of Mr.\nDimmesdale's nature.  Hester could not but ask herself whether\nthere had not originally been a defect of truth, courage, and\nloyalty on her own part, in allowing the minister to be thrown\ninto a position where so much evil was to be foreboded and nothing\nauspicious to be hoped.  Her only justification lay in the fact\nthat she had been able to discern no method of rescuing him from\na blacker ruin than had overwhelmed herself except by\nacquiescing in Roger Chillingworth's scheme of disguise.  Under\nthat impulse she had made her choice, and had chosen, as it now\nappeared, the more wretched alternative of the two.  She\ndetermined to redeem her error so far as it might yet be\npossible.  Strengthened by years of hard and solemn trial, she\nfelt herself no longer so inadequate to cope with Roger\nChillingworth as on that night, abased by sin and half-maddened\nby the ignominy that was still new, when they had talked\ntogether in the prison-chamber.  She had climbed her way since\nthen to a higher point.  The old man, on the other hand, had\nbrought himself nearer to her level, or, perhaps, below it, by\nthe revenge which he had stooped for.\n\nIn fine, Hester Prynne resolved to meet her former husband, and\ndo what might be in her power for the rescue of the victim on\nwhom he had so evidently set his gripe.  The occasion was not\nlong to seek.  One afternoon, walking with Pearl in a retired\npart of the peninsula, she beheld the old physician with a\nbasket on one arm and a staff in the other hand, stooping along\nthe ground in quest of roots and herbs to concoct his medicine\nwithal.\n\n\n\nXIV.  HESTER AND THE PHYSICIAN\n\nHester bade little Pearl run down to the margin of the water,\nand play with the shells and tangled sea-weed, until she should\nhave talked awhile with yonder gatherer of herbs.  So the child\nflew away like a bird, and, making bare her small white feet\nwent pattering along the moist margin of the sea.  Here and there\nshe came to a full stop, and peeped curiously into a pool, left\nby the retiring tide as a mirror for Pearl to see her face in.\nForth peeped at her, out of the pool, with dark, glistening\ncurls around her head, and an elf-smile in her eyes, the image\nof a little maid whom Pearl, having no other playmate, invited\nto take her hand and run a race with her.  But the visionary\nlittle maid on her part, beckoned likewise, as if to say--\"This\nis a better place; come thou into the pool.\"  And Pearl, stepping\nin mid-leg deep, beheld her own white feet at the bottom; while,\nout of a still lower depth, came the gleam of a kind of\nfragmentary smile, floating to and fro in the agitated water.\n\nMeanwhile her mother had accosted the physician.  \"I would speak\na word with you,\" said she--\"a word that concerns us much.\"\n\n\"Aha! and is it Mistress Hester that has a word for old Roger\nChillingworth?\" answered he, raising himself from his stooping\nposture.  \"With all my heart!  Why, mistress, I hear good tidings\nof you on all hands!  No longer ago than yester-eve, a\nmagistrate, a wise and godly man, was discoursing of your\naffairs, Mistress Hester, and whispered me that there had been\nquestion concerning you in the council.  It was debated whether\nor no, with safety to the commonweal, yonder scarlet letter\nmight be taken off your bosom.  On my life, Hester, I made my\nintreaty to the worshipful magistrate that it might be done\nforthwith.\"\n\n\"It lies not in the pleasure of the magistrates to take off the\nbadge,\" calmly replied Hester.  \"Were I worthy to be quit of it,\nit would fall away of its own nature, or be transformed into\nsomething that should speak a different purport.\"\n\n\"Nay, then, wear it, if it suit you better,\" rejoined he, \"A\nwoman must needs follow her own fancy touching the adornment of\nher person.  The letter is gaily embroidered, and shows right\nbravely on your bosom!\"\n\nAll this while Hester had been looking steadily at the old man,\nand was shocked, as well as wonder-smitten, to discern what a\nchange had been wrought upon him within the past seven years.  It\nwas not so much that he had grown older; for though the traces\nof advancing life were visible he bore his age well, and seemed\nto retain a wiry vigour and alertness.  But the former aspect of\nan intellectual and studious man, calm and quiet, which was what\nshe best remembered in him, had altogether vanished, and been\nsucceeded by an eager, searching, almost fierce, yet carefully\nguarded look.  It seemed to be his wish and purpose to mask this\nexpression with a smile, but the latter played him false, and\nflickered over his visage so derisively that the spectator could\nsee his blackness all the better for it.  Ever and anon, too,\nthere came a glare of red light out of his eyes, as if the old\nman's soul were on fire and kept on smouldering duskily within\nhis breast, until by some casual puff of passion it was blown\ninto a momentary flame.  This he repressed as speedily as\npossible, and strove to look as if nothing of the kind had\nhappened.\n\nIn a word, old Roger Chillingworth was a striking evidence of\nman's faculty of transforming himself into a devil, if he will\nonly, for a reasonable space of time, undertake a devil's\noffice.  This unhappy person had effected such a transformation\nby devoting himself for seven years to the constant analysis of\na heart full of torture, and deriving his enjoyment thence, and\nadding fuel to those fiery tortures which he analysed and\ngloated over.\n\nThe scarlet letter burned on Hester Prynne's bosom.  Here was\nanother ruin, the responsibility of which came partly home to\nher.\n\n\"What see you in my face,\" asked the physician, \"that you look\nat it so earnestly?\"\n\n\"Something that would make me weep, if there were any tears\nbitter enough for it,\" answered she.  \"But let it pass!  It is of\nyonder miserable man that I would speak.\"\n\n\"And what of him?\" cried Roger Chillingworth, eagerly, as if he\nloved the topic, and were glad of an opportunity to discuss it\nwith the only person of whom he could make a confidant.  \"Not to\nhide the truth, Mistress Hester, my thoughts happen just now to\nbe busy with the gentleman.  So speak freely and I will make\nanswer.\"\n\n\"When we last spake together,\" said Hester, \"now seven years\nago, it was your pleasure to extort a promise of secrecy as\ntouching the former relation betwixt yourself and me.  As the\nlife and good fame of yonder man were in your hands there seemed\nno choice to me, save to be silent in accordance with your\nbehest.  Yet it was not without heavy misgivings that I thus\nbound myself, for, having cast off all duty towards other human\nbeings, there remained a duty towards him, and something\nwhispered me that I was betraying it in pledging myself to keep\nyour counsel.  Since that day no man is so near to him as you.\nYou tread behind his every footstep.  You are beside him,\nsleeping and waking.  You search his thoughts.  You burrow and\nrankle in his heart!  Your clutch is on his life, and you cause\nhim to die daily a living death, and still he knows you not.  In\npermitting this I have surely acted a false part by the only man\nto whom the power was left me to be true!\"\n\n\"What choice had you?\" asked Roger Chillingworth.  \"My finger,\npointed at this man, would have hurled him from his pulpit into\na dungeon, thence, peradventure, to the gallows!\"\n\n\"It had been better so!\" said Hester Prynne.\n\n\"What evil have I done the man?\" asked Roger Chillingworth\nagain.  \"I tell thee, Hester Prynne, the richest fee that ever\nphysician earned from monarch could not have bought such care as\nI have wasted on this miserable priest!  But for my aid his life\nwould have burned away in torments within the first two years\nafter the perpetration of his crime and thine.  For, Hester, his\nspirit lacked the strength that could have borne up, as thine\nhas, beneath a burden like thy scarlet letter.  Oh, I could\nreveal a goodly secret!  But enough.  What art can do, I have\nexhausted on him.  That he now breathes and creeps about on earth\nis owing all to me!\"\n\n\"Better he had died at once!\" said Hester Prynne.\n\n\"Yea, woman, thou sayest truly!\" cried old Roger Chillingworth,\nletting the lurid fire of his heart blaze out before her eyes.\n\"Better had he died at once!  Never did mortal suffer what this\nman has suffered.  And all, all, in the sight of his worst enemy!\nHe has been conscious of me.  He has felt an influence dwelling\nalways upon him like a curse.  He knew, by some spiritual\nsense--for the Creator never made another being so sensitive as\nthis--he knew that no friendly hand was pulling at his\nheartstrings, and that an eye was looking curiously into him,\nwhich sought only evil, and found it.  But he knew not that the\neye and hand were mine!  With the superstition common to his\nbrotherhood, he fancied himself given over to a fiend, to be\ntortured with frightful dreams and desperate thoughts, the sting\nof remorse and despair of pardon, as a foretaste of what awaits\nhim beyond the grave.  But it was the constant shadow of my\npresence, the closest propinquity of the man whom he had most\nvilely wronged, and who had grown to exist only by this\nperpetual poison of the direst revenge!  Yea, indeed, he did not\nerr, there was a fiend at his elbow!  A mortal man, with once a\nhuman heart, has become a fiend for his especial torment.\"\n\nThe unfortunate physician, while uttering these words, lifted\nhis hands with a look of horror, as if he had beheld some\nfrightful shape, which he could not recognise, usurping the\nplace of his own image in a glass.  It was one of those\nmoments--which sometimes occur only at the interval of\nyears--when a man's moral aspect is faithfully revealed to his\nmind's eye.  Not improbably he had never before viewed himself as\nhe did now.\n\n\"Hast thou not tortured him enough?\" said Hester, noticing the\nold man's look.  \"Has he not paid thee all?\"\n\n\"No, no!  He has but increased the debt!\" answered the\nphysician, and as he proceeded, his manner lost its fiercer\ncharacteristics, and subsided into gloom.  \"Dost thou remember\nme, Hester, as I was nine years agone?  Even then I was in the\nautumn of my days, nor was it the early autumn.  But all my life\nhad been made up of earnest, studious, thoughtful, quiet years,\nbestowed faithfully for the increase of mine own knowledge, and\nfaithfully, too, though this latter object was but casual to the\nother--faithfully for the advancement of human welfare.  No life\nhad been more peaceful and innocent than mine; few lives so rich\nwith benefits conferred.  Dost thou remember me?  Was I not,\nthough you might deem me cold, nevertheless a man thoughtful for\nothers, craving little for himself--kind, true, just and of\nconstant, if not warm affections?  Was I not all this?\"\n\n\"All this, and more,\" said Hester.\n\n\"And what am I now?\" demanded he, looking into her face, and\npermitting the whole evil within him to be written on his\nfeatures.  \"I have already told thee what I am--a fiend!  Who made\nme so?\"\n\n\"It was myself,\" cried Hester, shuddering.  \"It was I, not less\nthan he.  Why hast thou not avenged thyself on me?\"\n\n\"I have left thee to the scarlet letter,\" replied Roger\nChillingworth.  \"If that has not avenged me, I can do no more!\"\n\nHe laid his finger on it with a smile.\n\n\"It has avenged thee,\" answered Hester Prynne.\n\n\"I judged no less,\" said the physician.  \"And now what wouldst\nthou with me touching this man?\"\n\n\"I must reveal the secret,\" answered Hester, firmly.  \"He must\ndiscern thee in thy true character.  What may be the result I\nknow not.  But this long debt of confidence, due from me to him,\nwhose bane and ruin I have been, shall at length be paid.  So far\nas concerns the overthrow or preservation of his fair fame and\nhis earthly state, and perchance his life, he is in my hands.\nNor do I--whom the scarlet letter has disciplined to truth,\nthough it be the truth of red-hot iron entering into the\nsoul--nor do I perceive such advantage in his living any longer\na life of ghastly emptiness, that I shall stoop to implore thy\nmercy.  Do with him as thou wilt!  There is no good for him, no\ngood for me, no good for thee.  There is no good for little\nPearl.  There is no path to guide us out of this dismal maze.\"\n\n\"Woman, I could well-nigh pity thee,\" said Roger Chillingworth,\nunable to restrain a thrill of admiration too, for there was a\nquality almost majestic in the despair which she expressed.\n\"Thou hadst great elements.  Peradventure, hadst thou met earlier\nwith a better love than mine, this evil had not been.  I pity\nthee, for the good that has been wasted in thy nature.\"\n\n\"And I thee,\" answered Hester Prynne, \"for the hatred that has\ntransformed a wise and just man to a fiend!  Wilt thou yet purge\nit out of thee, and be once more human?  If not for his sake,\nthen doubly for thine own!  Forgive, and leave his further\nretribution to the Power that claims it!  I said, but now, that\nthere could be no good event for him, or thee, or me, who are\nhere wandering together in this gloomy maze of evil, and\nstumbling at every step over the guilt wherewith we have strewn\nour path.  It is not so!  There might be good for thee, and thee\nalone, since thou hast been deeply wronged and hast it at thy\nwill to pardon.  Wilt thou give up that only privilege?  Wilt thou\nreject that priceless benefit?\"\n\n\"Peace, Hester--peace!\" replied the old man, with gloomy\nsternness--\"it is not granted me to pardon.  I have no such power\nas thou tellest me of.  My old faith, long forgotten, comes back\nto me, and explains all that we do, and all we suffer.  By thy\nfirst step awry, thou didst plant the germ of evil; but since\nthat moment it has all been a dark necessity.  Ye that have\nwronged me are not sinful, save in a kind of typical illusion;\nneither am I fiend-like, who have snatched a fiend's office from\nhis hands.  It is our fate.  Let the black flower blossom as it\nmay!  Now, go thy ways, and deal as thou wilt with yonder man.\"\n\nHe waved his hand, and betook himself again to his employment of\ngathering herbs.\n\n\n\n\nXV.  HESTER AND PEARL\n\nSo Roger Chillingworth--a deformed old figure with a face that\nhaunted men's memories longer than they liked--took leave of\nHester Prynne, and went stooping away along the earth.  He\ngathered here and there a herb, or grubbed up a root and put it\ninto the basket on his arm.  His gray beard almost touched the\nground as he crept onward.  Hester gazed after him a little\nwhile, looking with a half fantastic curiosity to see whether\nthe tender grass of early spring would not be blighted beneath\nhim and show the wavering track of his footsteps, sere and\nbrown, across its cheerful verdure.  She wondered what sort of\nherbs they were which the old man was so sedulous to gather.\nWould not the earth, quickened to an evil purpose by the\nsympathy of his eye, greet him with poisonous shrubs of species\nhitherto unknown, that would start up under his fingers?  Or\nmight it suffice him that every wholesome growth should be\nconverted into something deleterious and malignant at his touch?\nDid the sun, which shone so brightly everywhere else, really\nfall upon him?  Or was there, as it rather seemed, a circle of\nominous shadow moving along with his deformity whichever way he\nturned himself?  And whither was he now going?  Would he not\nsuddenly sink into the earth, leaving a barren and blasted spot,\nwhere, in due course of time, would be seen deadly nightshade,\ndogwood, henbane, and whatever else of vegetable wickedness the\nclimate could produce, all flourishing with hideous luxuriance?\nOr would he spread bat's wings and flee away, looking so much\nthe uglier the higher he rose towards heaven?\n\n\"Be it sin or no,\" said Hester Prynne, bitterly, as still she\ngazed after him, \"I hate the man!\"\n\nShe upbraided herself for the sentiment, but could not overcome\nor lessen it.  Attempting to do so, she thought of those\nlong-past days in a distant land, when he used to emerge at\neventide from the seclusion of his study and sit down in the\nfirelight of their home, and in the light of her nuptial smile.\nHe needed to bask himself in that smile, he said, in order that\nthe chill of so many lonely hours among his books might be taken\noff the scholar's heart.  Such scenes had once appeared not\notherwise than happy, but now, as viewed through the dismal\nmedium of her subsequent life, they classed themselves among her\nugliest remembrances.  She marvelled how such scenes could have\nbeen!  She marvelled how she could ever have been wrought upon to\nmarry him!  She deemed it her crime most to be repented of, that\nshe had ever endured and reciprocated the lukewarm grasp of his\nhand, and had suffered the smile of her lips and eyes to mingle\nand melt into his own.  And it seemed a fouler offence committed\nby Roger Chillingworth than any which had since been done him,\nthat, in the time when her heart knew no better, he had\npersuaded her to fancy herself happy by his side.\n\n\"Yes, I hate him!\" repeated Hester more bitterly than before.\n\"He betrayed me!  He has done me worse wrong than I did him!\"\n\nLet men tremble to win the hand of woman, unless they win along\nwith it the utmost passion of her heart!  Else it may be their\nmiserable fortune, as it was Roger Chillingworth's, when some\nmightier touch than their own may have awakened all her\nsensibilities, to be reproached even for the calm content, the\nmarble image of happiness, which they will have imposed upon her\nas the warm reality.  But Hester ought long ago to have done with\nthis injustice.  What did it betoken?  Had seven long years, under\nthe torture of the scarlet letter, inflicted so much of misery\nand wrought out no repentance?\n\nThe emotion of that brief space, while she stood gazing after\nthe crooked figure of old Roger Chillingworth, threw a dark\nlight on Hester's state of mind, revealing much that she might\nnot otherwise have acknowledged to herself.\n\nHe being gone, she summoned back her child.\n\n\"Pearl!  Little Pearl!  Where are you?\"\n\nPearl, whose activity of spirit never flagged, had been at no\nloss for amusement while her mother talked with the old gatherer\nof herbs.  At first, as already told, she had flirted fancifully\nwith her own image in a pool of water, beckoning the phantom\nforth, and--as it declined to venture--seeking a passage for\nherself into its sphere of impalpable earth and unattainable\nsky.  Soon finding, however, that either she or the image was\nunreal, she turned elsewhere for better pastime.  She made little\nboats out of birch-bark, and freighted them with snailshells,\nand sent out more ventures on the mighty deep than any merchant\nin New England; but the larger part of them foundered near the\nshore.  She seized a live horse-shoe by the tail, and made prize\nof several five-fingers, and laid out a jelly-fish to melt in\nthe warm sun.  Then she took up the white foam that streaked the\nline of the advancing tide, and threw it upon the breeze,\nscampering after it with winged footsteps to catch the great\nsnowflakes ere they fell.  Perceiving a flock of beach-birds that\nfed and fluttered along the shore, the naughty child picked up\nher apron full of pebbles, and, creeping from rock to rock after\nthese small sea-fowl, displayed remarkable dexterity in pelting\nthem.  One little gray bird, with a white breast, Pearl was\nalmost sure had been hit by a pebble, and fluttered away with a\nbroken wing.  But then the elf-child sighed, and gave up her\nsport, because it grieved her to have done harm to a little\nbeing that was as wild as the sea-breeze, or as wild as Pearl\nherself.\n\nHer final employment was to gather seaweed of various kinds, and\nmake herself a scarf or mantle, and a head-dress, and thus\nassume the aspect of a little mermaid.  She inherited her\nmother's gift for devising drapery and costume.  As the last\ntouch to her mermaid's garb, Pearl took some eel-grass and\nimitated, as best she could, on her own bosom the decoration\nwith which she was so familiar on her mother's.  A letter--the\nletter A--but freshly green instead of scarlet.  The child bent\nher chin upon her breast, and contemplated this device with\nstrange interest, even as if the one only thing for which she\nhad been sent into the world was to make out its hidden import.\n\n\"I wonder if mother will ask me what it means?\" thought Pearl.\n\nJust then she heard her mother's voice, and, flitting along as\nlightly as one of the little sea-birds, appeared before Hester\nPrynne dancing, laughing, and pointing her finger to the\nornament upon her bosom.\n\n\"My little Pearl,\" said Hester, after a moment's silence, \"the\ngreen letter, and on thy childish bosom, has no purport.  But\ndost thou know, my child, what this letter means which thy\nmother is doomed to wear?\"\n\n\"Yes, mother,\" said the child.  \"It is the great letter A.  Thou\nhast taught me in the horn-book.\"\n\nHester looked steadily into her little face; but though there\nwas that singular expression which she had so often remarked in\nher black eyes, she could not satisfy herself whether Pearl\nreally attached any meaning to the symbol.  She felt a morbid\ndesire to ascertain the point.\n\n\"Dost thou know, child, wherefore thy mother wears this letter?\"\n\n\"Truly do I!\" answered Pearl, looking brightly into her mother's\nface.  \"It is for the same reason that the minister keeps his\nhand over his heart!\"\n\n\"And what reason is that?\" asked Hester, half smiling at the\nabsurd incongruity of the child's observation; but on second\nthoughts turning pale.\n\n\"What has the letter to do with any heart save mine?\"\n\n\"Nay, mother, I have told all I know,\" said Pearl, more\nseriously than she was wont to speak.  \"Ask yonder old man whom\nthou hast been talking with,--it may be he can tell.  But in good\nearnest now, mother dear, what does this scarlet letter\nmean?--and why dost thou wear it on thy bosom?--and why does the\nminister keep his hand over his heart?\"\n\nShe took her mother's hand in both her own, and gazed into her\neyes with an earnestness that was seldom seen in her wild and\ncapricious character.  The thought occurred to Hester, that the\nchild might really be seeking to approach her with childlike\nconfidence, and doing what she could, and as intelligently as\nshe knew how, to establish a meeting-point of sympathy.  It\nshowed Pearl in an unwonted aspect.  Heretofore, the mother,\nwhile loving her child with the intensity of a sole affection,\nhad schooled herself to hope for little other return than the\nwaywardness of an April breeze, which spends its time in airy\nsport, and has its gusts of inexplicable passion, and is\npetulant in its best of moods, and chills oftener than caresses\nyou, when you take it to your bosom; in requital of which\nmisdemeanours it will sometimes, of its own vague purpose, kiss\nyour cheek with a kind of doubtful tenderness, and play gently\nwith your hair, and then be gone about its other idle business,\nleaving a dreamy pleasure at your heart.  And this, moreover, was\na mother's estimate of the child's disposition.  Any other\nobserver might have seen few but unamiable traits, and have\ngiven them a far darker colouring.  But now the idea came\nstrongly into Hester's mind, that Pearl, with her remarkable\nprecocity and acuteness, might already have approached the age\nwhen she could have been made a friend, and intrusted with as\nmuch of her mother's sorrows as could be imparted, without\nirreverence either to the parent or the child.  In the little\nchaos of Pearl's character there might be seen emerging and\ncould have been from the very first--the steadfast principles of\nan unflinching courage--an uncontrollable will--sturdy pride,\nwhich might be disciplined into self-respect--and a bitter scorn\nof many things which, when examined, might be found to have the\ntaint of falsehood in them.  She possessed affections, too,\nthough hitherto acrid and disagreeable, as are the richest\nflavours of unripe fruit.  With all these sterling attributes,\nthought Hester, the evil which she inherited from her mother\nmust be great indeed, if a noble woman do not grow out of this\nelfish child.\n\nPearl's inevitable tendency to hover about the enigma of the\nscarlet letter seemed an innate quality of her being.  From the\nearliest epoch of her conscious life, she had entered upon this\nas her appointed mission.  Hester had often fancied that\nProvidence had a design of justice and retribution, in endowing\nthe child with this marked propensity; but never, until now, had\nshe bethought herself to ask, whether, linked with that design,\nthere might not likewise be a purpose of mercy and beneficence.\nIf little Pearl were entertained with faith and trust, as a\nspirit messenger no less than an earthly child, might it not be\nher errand to soothe away the sorrow that lay cold in her\nmother's heart, and converted it into a tomb?--and to help her\nto overcome the passion, once so wild, and even yet neither dead\nnor asleep, but only imprisoned within the same tomb-like heart?\n\nSuch were some of the thoughts that now stirred in Hester's\nmind, with as much vivacity of impression as if they had\nactually been whispered into her ear.  And there was little\nPearl, all this while, holding her mother's hand in both her\nown, and turning her face upward, while she put these searching\nquestions, once and again, and still a third time.\n\n\"What does the letter mean, mother?  and why dost thou wear it?\nand why does the minister keep his hand over his heart?\"\n\n\"What shall I say?\" thought Hester to herself.  \"No!  if this be\nthe price of the child's sympathy, I cannot pay it.\"\n\nThen she spoke aloud--\n\n\"Silly Pearl,\" said she, \"what questions are these?  There are\nmany things in this world that a child must not ask about.  What\nknow I of the minister's heart?  And as for the scarlet letter, I\nwear it for the sake of its gold thread.\"\n\nIn all the seven bygone years, Hester Prynne had never before\nbeen false to the symbol on her bosom.  It may be that it was the\ntalisman of a stern and severe, but yet a guardian spirit, who\nnow forsook her; as recognising that, in spite of his strict\nwatch over her heart, some new evil had crept into it, or some\nold one had never been expelled.  As for little Pearl, the\nearnestness soon passed out of her face.\n\nBut the child did not see fit to let the matter drop.  Two or\nthree times, as her mother and she went homeward, and as often\nat supper-time, and while Hester was putting her to bed, and\nonce after she seemed to be fairly asleep, Pearl looked up, with\nmischief gleaming in her black eyes.\n\n\"Mother,\" said she, \"what does the scarlet letter mean?\"\n\nAnd the next morning, the first indication the child gave of\nbeing awake was by popping up her head from the pillow, and\nmaking that other enquiry, which she had so unaccountably\nconnected with her investigations about the scarlet letter--\n\n\"Mother!--Mother!--Why does the minister keep his hand over his\nheart?\"\n\n\"Hold thy tongue, naughty child!\" answered her mother, with an\nasperity that she had never permitted to herself before.  \"Do not\ntease me; else I shall put thee into the dark closet!\"\n\n\n\nXVI.  A FOREST WALK\n\nHester Prynne remained constant in her resolve to make known to\nMr. Dimmesdale, at whatever risk of present pain or ulterior\nconsequences, the true character of the man who had crept into\nhis intimacy.  For several days, however, she vainly sought an\nopportunity of addressing him in some of the meditative walks\nwhich she knew him to be in the habit of taking along the shores\nof the Peninsula, or on the wooded hills of the neighbouring\ncountry.  There would have been no scandal, indeed, nor peril to\nthe holy whiteness of the clergyman's good fame, had she visited\nhim in his own study, where many a penitent, ere now, had\nconfessed sins of perhaps as deep a dye as the one betokened by\nthe scarlet letter.  But, partly that she dreaded the secret or\nundisguised interference of old Roger Chillingworth, and partly\nthat her conscious heart imparted suspicion where none could\nhave been felt, and partly that both the minister and she would\nneed the whole wide world to breathe in, while they talked\ntogether--for all these reasons Hester never thought of meeting\nhim in any narrower privacy than beneath the open sky.\n\nAt last, while attending a sick chamber, whither the Rev.  Mr.\nDimmesdale had been summoned to make a prayer, she learnt that\nhe had gone, the day before, to visit the Apostle Eliot, among\nhis Indian converts.  He would probably return by a certain hour\nin the afternoon of the morrow.  Betimes, therefore, the next\nday, Hester took little Pearl--who was necessarily the companion\nof all her mother's expeditions, however inconvenient her\npresence--and set forth.\n\nThe road, after the two wayfarers had crossed from the Peninsula\nto the mainland, was no other than a foot-path.  It straggled\nonward into the mystery of the primeval forest.  This hemmed it\nin so narrowly, and stood so black and dense on either side, and\ndisclosed such imperfect glimpses of the sky above, that, to\nHester's mind, it imaged not amiss the moral wilderness in which\nshe had so long been wandering.  The day was chill and sombre.\nOverhead was a gray expanse of cloud, slightly stirred, however,\nby a breeze; so that a gleam of flickering sunshine might now\nand then be seen at its solitary play along the path.  This\nflitting cheerfulness was always at the further extremity of\nsome long vista through the forest.  The sportive\nsunlight--feebly sportive, at best, in the predominant\npensiveness of the day and scene--withdrew itself as they came\nnigh, and left the spots where it had danced the drearier,\nbecause they had hoped to find them bright.\n\n\"Mother,\" said little Pearl, \"the sunshine does not love you.\nIt runs away and hides itself, because it is afraid of something\non your bosom.  Now, see!  There it is, playing a good way off.\nStand you here, and let me run and catch it.  I am but a child.\nIt will not flee from me--for I wear nothing on my bosom yet!\"\n\n\"Nor ever will, my child, I hope,\" said Hester.\n\n\"And why not, mother?\" asked Pearl, stopping short, just at the\nbeginning of her race.  \"Will not it come of its own accord when\nI am a woman grown?\"\n\n\"Run away, child,\" answered her mother, \"and catch the sunshine.\nIt will soon be gone.\"\n\nPearl set forth at a great pace, and as Hester smiled to\nperceive, did actually catch the sunshine, and stood laughing in\nthe midst of it, all brightened by its splendour, and\nscintillating with the vivacity excited by rapid motion.  The\nlight lingered about the lonely child, as if glad of such a\nplaymate, until her mother had drawn almost nigh enough to step\ninto the magic circle too.\n\n\"It will go now,\" said Pearl, shaking her head.\n\n\"See!\" answered Hester, smiling; \"now I can stretch out my hand\nand grasp some of it.\"\n\nAs she attempted to do so, the sunshine vanished; or, to judge\nfrom the bright expression that was dancing on Pearl's features,\nher mother could have fancied that the child had absorbed it\ninto herself, and would give it forth again, with a gleam about\nher path, as they should plunge into some gloomier shade.  There\nwas no other attribute that so much impressed her with a sense\nof new and untransmitted vigour in Pearl's nature, as this never\nfailing vivacity of spirits: she had not the disease of sadness,\nwhich almost all children, in these latter days, inherit, with\nthe scrofula, from the troubles of their ancestors.  Perhaps\nthis, too, was a disease, and but the reflex of the wild energy\nwith which Hester had fought against her sorrows before Pearl's\nbirth.  It was certainly a doubtful charm, imparting a hard,\nmetallic lustre to the child's character.  She wanted--what some\npeople want throughout life--a grief that should deeply touch\nher, and thus humanise and make her capable of sympathy.  But\nthere was time enough yet for little Pearl.\n\n\"Come, my child!\" said Hester, looking about her from the spot\nwhere Pearl had stood still in the sunshine--\"we will sit down a\nlittle way within the wood, and rest ourselves.\"\n\n\"I am not aweary, mother,\" replied the little girl.  \"But you\nmay sit down, if you will tell me a story meanwhile.\"\n\n\"A story, child!\" said Hester.  \"And about what?\"\n\n\"Oh, a story about the Black Man,\" answered Pearl, taking hold\nof her mother's gown, and looking up, half earnestly, half\nmischievously, into her face.\n\n\"How he haunts this forest, and carries a book with him a big,\nheavy book, with iron clasps; and how this ugly Black Man offers\nhis book and an iron pen to everybody that meets him here among\nthe trees; and they are to write their names with their own\nblood; and then he sets his mark on their bosoms.  Didst thou\never meet the Black Man, mother?\"\n\n\"And who told you this story, Pearl,\" asked her mother,\nrecognising a common superstition of the period.\n\n\"It was the old dame in the chimney corner, at the house where\nyou watched last night,\" said the child.  \"But she fancied me\nasleep while she was talking of it.  She said that a thousand and\na thousand people had met him here, and had written in his book,\nand have his mark on them.  And that ugly tempered lady, old\nMistress Hibbins, was one.  And, mother, the old dame said that\nthis scarlet letter was the Black Man's mark on thee, and that\nit glows like a red flame when thou meetest him at midnight,\nhere in the dark wood.  Is it true, mother?  And dost thou go to\nmeet him in the nighttime?\"\n\n\"Didst thou ever awake and find thy mother gone?\" asked Hester.\n\"Not that I remember,\" said the child.  \"If thou fearest to leave\nme in our cottage, thou mightest take me along with thee.  I\nwould very gladly go!  But, mother, tell me now!  Is there such a\nBlack Man?  And didst thou ever meet him?  And is this his mark?\"\n\n\"Wilt thou let me be at peace, if I once tell thee?\" asked her\nmother.\n\n\"Yes, if thou tellest me all,\" answered Pearl.\n\n\"Once in my life I met the Black Man!\" said her mother.  \"This\nscarlet letter is his mark!\"\n\nThus conversing, they entered sufficiently deep into the wood to\nsecure themselves from the observation of any casual passenger\nalong the forest track.  Here they sat down on a luxuriant heap\nof moss; which at some epoch of the preceding century, had been\na gigantic pine, with its roots and trunk in the darksome shade,\nand its head aloft in the upper atmosphere.  It was a little dell\nwhere they had seated themselves, with a leaf-strewn bank rising\ngently on either side, and a brook flowing through the midst,\nover a bed of fallen and drowned leaves.  The trees impending\nover it had flung down great branches from time to time, which\nchoked up the current, and compelled it to form eddies and black\ndepths at some points; while, in its swifter and livelier\npassages there appeared a channel-way of pebbles, and brown,\nsparkling sand.  Letting the eyes follow along the course of the\nstream, they could catch the reflected light from its water, at\nsome short distance within the forest, but soon lost all traces\nof it amid the bewilderment of tree-trunks and underbrush, and\nhere and there a huge rock covered over with gray lichens.  All\nthese giant trees and boulders of granite seemed intent on\nmaking a mystery of the course of this small brook; fearing,\nperhaps, that, with its never-ceasing loquacity, it should\nwhisper tales out of the heart of the old forest whence it\nflowed, or mirror its revelations on the smooth surface of a\npool.  Continually, indeed, as it stole onward, the streamlet\nkept up a babble, kind, quiet, soothing, but melancholy, like\nthe voice of a young child that was spending its infancy without\nplayfulness, and knew not how to be merry among sad acquaintance\nand events of sombre hue.\n\n\"Oh, brook!  Oh, foolish and tiresome little brook!\" cried\nPearl, after listening awhile to its talk, \"Why art thou so sad?\nPluck up a spirit, and do not be all the time sighing and\nmurmuring!\"\n\nBut the brook, in the course of its little lifetime among the\nforest trees, had gone through so solemn an experience that it\ncould not help talking about it, and seemed to have nothing else\nto say.  Pearl resembled the brook, inasmuch as the current of\nher life gushed from a well-spring as mysterious, and had flowed\nthrough scenes shadowed as heavily with gloom.  But, unlike the\nlittle stream, she danced and sparkled, and prattled airily\nalong her course.\n\n\"What does this sad little brook say, mother?\" inquired she.\n\n\"If thou hadst a sorrow of thine own, the brook might tell thee\nof it,\" answered her mother, \"even as it is telling me of mine.\nBut now, Pearl, I hear a footstep along the path, and the noise\nof one putting aside the branches.  I would have thee betake\nthyself to play, and leave me to speak with him that comes\nyonder.\"\n\n\"Is it the Black Man?\" asked Pearl.\n\n\"Wilt thou go and play, child?\" repeated her mother, \"But do not\nstray far into the wood.  And take heed that thou come at my\nfirst call.\"\n\n\"Yes, mother,\" answered Pearl, \"But if it be the Black Man, wilt\nthou not let me stay a moment, and look at him, with his big\nbook under his arm?\"\n\n\"Go, silly child!\" said her mother impatiently.  \"It is no Black\nMan!  Thou canst see him now, through the trees.  It is the\nminister!\"\n\n\"And so it is!\" said the child.  \"And, mother, he has his hand\nover his heart!  Is it because, when the minister wrote his name\nin the book, the Black Man set his mark in that place?  But why\ndoes he not wear it outside his bosom, as thou dost, mother?\"\n\n\"Go now, child, and thou shalt tease me as thou wilt another\ntime,\" cried Hester Prynne.  \"But do not stray far.  Keep where\nthou canst hear the babble of the brook.\"\n\nThe child went singing away, following up the current of the\nbrook, and striving to mingle a more lightsome cadence with its\nmelancholy voice.  But the little stream would not be comforted,\nand still kept telling its unintelligible secret of some very\nmournful mystery that had happened--or making a prophetic\nlamentation about something that was yet to happen--within the\nverge of the dismal forest.  So Pearl, who had enough of shadow\nin her own little life, chose to break off all acquaintance with\nthis repining brook.  She set herself, therefore, to gathering\nviolets and wood-anemones, and some scarlet columbines that she\nfound growing in the crevice of a high rock.\n\nWhen her elf-child had departed, Hester Prynne made a step or\ntwo towards the track that led through the forest, but still\nremained under the deep shadow of the trees.  She beheld the\nminister advancing along the path entirely alone, and leaning on\na staff which he had cut by the wayside.  He looked haggard and\nfeeble, and betrayed a nerveless despondency in his air, which\nhad never so remarkably characterised him in his walks about the\nsettlement, nor in any other situation where he deemed himself\nliable to notice.  Here it was wofully visible, in this intense\nseclusion of the forest, which of itself would have been a heavy\ntrial to the spirits.  There was a listlessness in his gait, as\nif he saw no reason for taking one step further, nor felt any\ndesire to do so, but would have been glad, could he be glad of\nanything, to fling himself down at the root of the nearest tree,\nand lie there passive for evermore.  The leaves might bestrew\nhim, and the soil gradually accumulate and form a little hillock\nover his frame, no matter whether there were life in it or no.\nDeath was too definite an object to be wished for or avoided.\n\nTo Hester's eye, the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale exhibited no\nsymptom of positive and vivacious suffering, except that, as\nlittle Pearl had remarked, he kept his hand over his heart.\n\n\n\nXVII.   THE PASTOR AND HIS PARISHIONER\n\nSlowly as the minister walked, he had almost gone by before\nHester Prynne could gather voice enough to attract his\nobservation.  At length she succeeded.\n\n\"Arthur Dimmesdale!\" she said, faintly at first, then louder,\nbut hoarsely--\"Arthur Dimmesdale!\"\n\n\"Who speaks?\" answered the minister.  Gathering himself quickly\nup, he stood more erect, like a man taken by surprise in a mood\nto which he was reluctant to have witnesses.  Throwing his eyes\nanxiously in the direction of the voice, he indistinctly beheld\na form under the trees, clad in garments so sombre, and so\nlittle relieved from the gray twilight into which the clouded\nsky and the heavy foliage had darkened the noontide, that he\nknew not whether it were a woman or a shadow.  It may be that his\npathway through life was haunted thus by a spectre that had\nstolen out from among his thoughts.\n\nHe made a step nigher, and discovered the scarlet letter.\n\n\"Hester!  Hester Prynne!\", said he; \"is it thou?  Art thou in\nlife?\"\n\n\"Even so.\" she answered.  \"In such life as has been mine these\nseven years past!  And thou, Arthur Dimmesdale, dost thou yet\nlive?\"\n\nIt was no wonder that they thus questioned one another's actual\nand bodily existence, and even doubted of their own.  So\nstrangely did they meet in the dim wood that it was like the\nfirst encounter in the world beyond the grave of two spirits who\nhad been intimately connected in their former life, but now\nstood coldly shuddering in mutual dread, as not yet familiar\nwith their state, nor wonted to the companionship of disembodied\nbeings.  Each a ghost, and awe-stricken at the other ghost.  They\nwere awe-stricken likewise at themselves, because the crisis\nflung back to them their consciousness, and revealed to each\nheart its history and experience, as life never does, except at\nsuch breathless epochs.  The soul beheld its features in the\nmirror of the passing moment.  It was with fear, and tremulously,\nand, as it were, by a slow, reluctant necessity, that Arthur\nDimmesdale put forth his hand, chill as death, and touched the\nchill hand of Hester Prynne.  The grasp, cold as it was, took\naway what was dreariest in the interview.  They now felt\nthemselves, at least, inhabitants of the same sphere.\n\nWithout a word more spoken--neither he nor she assuming the\nguidance, but with an unexpressed consent--they glided back into\nthe shadow of the woods whence Hester had emerged, and sat down\non the heap of moss where she and Pearl had before been sitting.\nWhen they found voice to speak, it was at first only to utter\nremarks and inquiries such as any two acquaintances might have\nmade, about the gloomy sky, the threatening storm, and, next,\nthe health of each.  Thus they went onward, not boldly, but step\nby step, into the themes that were brooding deepest in their\nhearts.  So long estranged by fate and circumstances, they needed\nsomething slight and casual to run before and throw open the\ndoors of intercourse, so that their real thoughts might be led\nacross the threshold.\n\nAfter awhile, the minister fixed his eyes on Hester Prynne's.\n\n\"Hester,\" said he, \"hast thou found peace?\"\n\nShe smiled drearily, looking down upon her bosom.\n\n\"Hast thou?\" she asked.\n\n\"None--nothing but despair!\" he answered.  \"What else could I\nlook for, being what I am, and leading such a life as mine?  Were\nI an atheist--a man devoid of conscience--a wretch with coarse\nand brutal instincts--I might have found peace long ere now.\nNay, I never should have lost it.  But, as matters stand with my\nsoul, whatever of good capacity there originally was in me, all\nof God's gifts that were the choicest have become the ministers\nof spiritual torment.  Hester, I am most miserable!\"\n\n\"The people reverence thee,\" said Hester.  \"And surely thou\nworkest good among them!  Doth this bring thee no comfort?\"\n\n\"More misery, Hester!--Only the more misery!\" answered the\nclergyman with a bitter smile.  \"As concerns the good which I may\nappear to do, I have no faith in it.  It must needs be a\ndelusion.  What can a ruined soul like mine effect towards the\nredemption of other souls?--or a polluted soul towards their\npurification?  And as for the people's reverence, would that it\nwere turned to scorn and hatred!  Canst thou deem it, Hester, a\nconsolation that I must stand up in my pulpit, and meet so many\neyes turned upward to my face, as if the light of heaven were\nbeaming from it!--must see my flock hungry for the truth, and\nlistening to my words as if a tongue of Pentecost were\nspeaking!--and then look inward, and discern the black reality\nof what they idolise?  I have laughed, in bitterness and agony of\nheart, at the contrast between what I seem and what I am!  And\nSatan laughs at it!\"\n\n\"You wrong yourself in this,\" said Hester gently.  \"You have\ndeeply and sorely repented.  Your sin is left behind you in the\ndays long past.  Your present life is not less holy, in very\ntruth, than it seems in people's eyes.  Is there no reality in\nthe penitence thus sealed and witnessed by good works?  And\nwherefore should it not bring you peace?\"\n\n\"No, Hester--no!\" replied the clergyman.  \"There is no substance\nin it!  It is cold and dead, and can do nothing for me!  Of\npenance, I have had enough!  Of penitence, there has been none!\nElse, I should long ago have thrown off these garments of mock\nholiness, and have shown myself to mankind as they will see me\nat the judgment-seat.  Happy are you, Hester, that wear the\nscarlet letter openly upon your bosom!  Mine burns in secret!\nThou little knowest what a relief it is, after the torment of a\nseven years' cheat, to look into an eye that recognises me for\nwhat I am!  Had I one friend--or were it my worst enemy!--to\nwhom, when sickened with the praises of all other men, I could\ndaily betake myself, and be known as the vilest of all sinners,\nmethinks my soul might keep itself alive thereby.  Even thus much\nof truth would save me!  But now, it is all falsehood!--all\nemptiness!--all death!\"\n\nHester Prynne looked into his face, but hesitated to speak.\nYet, uttering his long-restrained emotions so vehemently as he\ndid, his words here offered her the very point of circumstances\nin which to interpose what she came to say.  She conquered her\nfears, and spoke:\n\n\"Such a friend as thou hast even now wished for,\" said she,\n\"with whom to weep over thy sin, thou hast in me, the partner of\nit!\"  Again she hesitated, but brought out the words with an\neffort.--\"Thou hast long had such an enemy, and dwellest with\nhim, under the same roof!\"\n\nThe minister started to his feet, gasping for breath, and\nclutching at his heart, as if he would have torn it out of his\nbosom.\n\n\"Ha!  What sayest thou?\" cried he.  \"An enemy!  And under mine\nown roof!  What mean you?\"\n\nHester Prynne was now fully sensible of the deep injury for\nwhich she was responsible to this unhappy man, in permitting him\nto lie for so many years, or, indeed, for a single moment, at\nthe mercy of one whose purposes could not be other than\nmalevolent.  The very contiguity of his enemy, beneath whatever\nmask the latter might conceal himself, was enough to disturb the\nmagnetic sphere of a being so sensitive as Arthur Dimmesdale.\nThere had been a period when Hester was less alive to this\nconsideration; or, perhaps, in the misanthropy of her own\ntrouble, she left the minister to bear what she might picture to\nherself as a more tolerable doom.  But of late, since the night\nof his vigil, all her sympathies towards him had been both\nsoftened and invigorated.  She now read his heart more\naccurately.  She doubted not that the continual presence of Roger\nChillingworth--the secret poison of his malignity, infecting all\nthe air about him--and his authorised interference, as a\nphysician, with the minister's physical and spiritual\ninfirmities--that these bad opportunities had been turned to a\ncruel purpose.  By means of them, the sufferer's conscience had\nbeen kept in an irritated state, the tendency of which was, not\nto cure by wholesome pain, but to disorganize and corrupt his\nspiritual being.  Its result, on earth, could hardly fail to be\ninsanity, and hereafter, that eternal alienation from the Good\nand True, of which madness is perhaps the earthly type.\n\nSuch was the ruin to which she had brought the man, once--nay,\nwhy should we not speak it?--still so passionately loved!  Hester\nfelt that the sacrifice of the clergyman's good name, and death\nitself, as she had already told Roger Chillingworth, would have\nbeen infinitely preferable to the alternative which she had\ntaken upon herself to choose.  And now, rather than have had this\ngrievous wrong to confess, she would gladly have laid down on\nthe forest leaves, and died there, at Arthur Dimmesdale's feet.\n\n\"Oh, Arthur!\" cried she, \"forgive me!  In all things else, I\nhave striven to be true!  Truth was the one virtue which I might\nhave held fast, and did hold fast, through all extremity; save\nwhen thy good--thy life--thy fame--were put in question!  Then I\nconsented to a deception.  But a lie is never good, even though\ndeath threaten on the other side!  Dost thou not see what I would\nsay?  That old man!--the physician!--he whom they call Roger\nChillingworth!--he was my husband!\"\n\nThe minister looked at her for an instant, with all that\nviolence of passion, which--intermixed in more shapes than one\nwith his higher, purer, softer qualities--was, in fact, the\nportion of him which the devil claimed, and through which he\nsought to win the rest.  Never was there a blacker or a fiercer\nfrown than Hester now encountered.  For the brief space that it\nlasted, it was a dark transfiguration.  But his character had\nbeen so much enfeebled by suffering, that even its lower\nenergies were incapable of more than a temporary struggle.  He\nsank down on the ground, and buried his face in his hands.\n\n\"I might have known it,\" murmured he--\"I did know it!  Was not\nthe secret told me, in the natural recoil of my heart at the\nfirst sight of him, and as often as I have seen him since?  Why\ndid I not understand?  Oh, Hester Prynne, thou little, little\nknowest all the horror of this thing!  And the shame!--the\nindelicacy!--the horrible ugliness of this exposure of a sick\nand guilty heart to the very eye that would gloat over it!\nWoman, woman, thou art accountable for this!--I cannot forgive\nthee!\"\n\n\"Thou shalt forgive me!\" cried Hester, flinging herself on the\nfallen leaves beside him.  \"Let God punish!  Thou shalt forgive!\"\n\nWith sudden and desperate tenderness she threw her arms around\nhim, and pressed his head against her bosom, little caring\nthough his cheek rested on the scarlet letter.  He would have\nreleased himself, but strove in vain to do so.  Hester would not\nset him free, lest he should look her sternly in the face.  All\nthe world had frowned on her--for seven long years had it\nfrowned upon this lonely woman--and still she bore it all, nor\never once turned away her firm, sad eyes.  Heaven, likewise, had\nfrowned upon her, and she had not died.  But the frown of this\npale, weak, sinful, and sorrow-stricken man was what Hester\ncould not bear, and live!\n\n\"Wilt thou yet forgive me?\" she repeated, over and over again.\n\"Wilt thou not frown?  Wilt thou forgive?\"\n\n\"I do forgive you, Hester,\" replied the minister at length, with\na deep utterance, out of an abyss of sadness, but no anger.  \"I\nfreely forgive you now.  May God forgive us both.  We are not,\nHester, the worst sinners in the world.  There is one worse than\neven the polluted priest!  That old man's revenge has been\nblacker than my sin.  He has violated, in cold blood, the\nsanctity of a human heart.  Thou and I, Hester, never did so!\"\n\n\"Never, never!\" whispered she.  \"What we did had a consecration\nof its own.  We felt it so!  We said so to each other.  Hast thou\nforgotten it?\"\n\n\"Hush, Hester!\" said Arthur Dimmesdale, rising from the ground.\n\"No; I have not forgotten!\"\n\nThey sat down again, side by side, and hand clasped in hand, on\nthe mossy trunk of the fallen tree.  Life had never brought them\na gloomier hour; it was the point whither their pathway had so\nlong been tending, and darkening ever, as it stole along--and\nyet it unclosed a charm that made them linger upon it, and claim\nanother, and another, and, after all, another moment.  The forest\nwas obscure around them, and creaked with a blast that was\npassing through it.  The boughs were tossing heavily above their\nheads; while one solemn old tree groaned dolefully to another,\nas if telling the sad story of the pair that sat beneath, or\nconstrained to forbode evil to come.\n\nAnd yet they lingered.  How dreary looked the forest-track that\nled backward to the settlement, where Hester Prynne must take up\nagain the burden of her ignominy and the minister the hollow\nmockery of his good name!  So they lingered an instant longer.  No\ngolden light had ever been so precious as the gloom of this dark\nforest.  Here seen only by his eyes, the scarlet letter need not\nburn into the bosom of the fallen woman!  Here seen only by her\neyes, Arthur Dimmesdale, false to God and man, might be, for one\nmoment true!\n\nHe started at a thought that suddenly occurred to him.\n\n\"Hester!\" cried he, \"here is a new horror!  Roger Chillingworth\nknows your purpose to reveal his true character.  Will he\ncontinue, then, to keep our secret?  What will now be the course\nof his revenge?\"\n\n\"There is a strange secrecy in his nature,\" replied Hester,\nthoughtfully; \"and it has grown upon him by the hidden practices\nof his revenge.  I deem it not likely that he will betray the\nsecret.  He will doubtless seek other means of satiating his dark\npassion.\"\n\n\"And I!--how am I to live longer, breathing the same air with\nthis deadly enemy?\" exclaimed Arthur Dimmesdale, shrinking\nwithin himself, and pressing his hand nervously against his\nheart--a gesture that had grown involuntary with him.  \"Think for\nme, Hester!  Thou art strong.  Resolve for me!\"\n\n\"Thou must dwell no longer with this man,\" said Hester, slowly\nand firmly.  \"Thy heart must be no longer under his evil eye!\"\n\n\"It were far worse than death!\" replied the minister.  \"But how\nto avoid it?  What choice remains to me?  Shall I lie down again\non these withered leaves, where I cast myself when thou didst\ntell me what he was?  Must I sink down there, and die at once?\"\n\n\"Alas!  what a ruin has befallen thee!\" said Hester, with the\ntears gushing into her eyes.  \"Wilt thou die for very weakness?\nThere is no other cause!\"\n\n\"The judgment of God is on me,\" answered the conscience-stricken\npriest.  \"It is too mighty for me to struggle with!\"\n\n\"Heaven would show mercy,\" rejoined Hester, \"hadst thou but the\nstrength to take advantage of it.\"\n\n\"Be thou strong for me!\" answered he.  \"Advise me what to do.\"\n\n\"Is the world, then, so narrow?\" exclaimed Hester Prynne, fixing\nher deep eyes on the minister's, and instinctively exercising a\nmagnetic power over a spirit so shattered and subdued that it\ncould hardly hold itself erect.  \"Doth the universe lie within\nthe compass of yonder town, which only a little time ago was but\na leaf-strewn desert, as lonely as this around us?  Whither leads\nyonder forest-track?  Backward to the settlement, thou sayest!\nYes; but, onward, too!  Deeper it goes, and deeper into the\nwilderness, less plainly to be seen at every step; until some\nfew miles hence the yellow leaves will show no vestige of the\nwhite man's tread.  There thou art free!  So brief a journey would\nbring thee from a world where thou hast been most wretched, to\none where thou mayest still be happy!  Is there not shade enough\nin all this boundless forest to hide thy heart from the gaze of\nRoger Chillingworth?\"\n\n\"Yes, Hester; but only under the fallen leaves!\" replied the\nminister, with a sad smile.\n\n\"Then there is the broad pathway of the sea!\" continued Hester.\n\"It brought thee hither.  If thou so choose, it will bear thee\nback again.  In our native land, whether in some remote rural\nvillage, or in vast London--or, surely, in Germany, in France,\nin pleasant Italy--thou wouldst be beyond his power and\nknowledge!  And what hast thou to do with all these iron men, and\ntheir opinions?  They have kept thy better part in bondage too\nlong already!\"\n\n\"It cannot be!\" answered the minister, listening as if he were\ncalled upon to realise a dream.  \"I am powerless to go.  Wretched\nand sinful as I am, I have had no other thought than to drag on\nmy earthly existence in the sphere where Providence hath placed\nme.  Lost as my own soul is, I would still do what I may for\nother human souls!  I dare not quit my post, though an unfaithful\nsentinel, whose sure reward is death and dishonour, when his\ndreary watch shall come to an end!\"\n\n\"Thou art crushed under this seven years' weight of misery,\"\nreplied Hester, fervently resolved to buoy him up with her own\nenergy.  \"But thou shalt leave it all behind thee!  It shall not\ncumber thy steps, as thou treadest along the forest-path:\nneither shalt thou freight the ship with it, if thou prefer to\ncross the sea.  Leave this wreck and ruin here where it hath\nhappened.  Meddle no more with it!  Begin all anew!  Hast thou\nexhausted possibility in the failure of this one trial?  Not so!\nThe future is yet full of trial and success.  There is happiness\nto be enjoyed!  There is good to be done!  Exchange this false\nlife of thine for a true one.  Be, if thy spirit summon thee to\nsuch a mission, the teacher and apostle of the red men.  Or, as\nis more thy nature, be a scholar and a sage among the wisest and\nthe most renowned of the cultivated world.  Preach!  Write!  Act!\nDo anything, save to lie down and die!  Give up this name of\nArthur Dimmesdale, and make thyself another, and a high one,\nsuch as thou canst wear without fear or shame.  Why shouldst thou\ntarry so much as one other day in the torments that have so\ngnawed into thy life? that have made thee feeble to will and to\ndo? that will leave thee powerless even to repent?  Up, and\naway!\"\n\n\"Oh, Hester!\" cried Arthur Dimmesdale, in whose eyes a fitful\nlight, kindled by her enthusiasm, flashed up and died away,\n\"thou tellest of running a race to a man whose knees are\ntottering beneath him!  I must die here!  There is not the\nstrength or courage left me to venture into the wide, strange,\ndifficult world alone!\"\n\nIt was the last expression of the despondency of a broken\nspirit.  He lacked energy to grasp the better fortune that seemed\nwithin his reach.\n\nHe repeated the word--\"Alone, Hester!\"\n\n\"Thou shall not go alone!\" answered she, in a deep whisper.\nThen, all was spoken!\n\n\n\nXVIII.  A FLOOD OF SUNSHINE\n\nArthur Dimmesdale gazed into Hester's face with a look in which\nhope and joy shone out, indeed, but with fear betwixt them, and\na kind of horror at her boldness, who had spoken what he vaguely\nhinted at, but dared not speak.\n\nBut Hester Prynne, with a mind of native courage and activity,\nand for so long a period not merely estranged, but outlawed from\nsociety, had habituated herself to such latitude of speculation\nas was altogether foreign to the clergyman.  She had wandered,\nwithout rule or guidance, in a moral wilderness, as vast, as\nintricate, and shadowy as the untamed forest, amid the gloom of\nwhich they were now holding a colloquy that was to decide their\nfate.  Her intellect and heart had their home, as it were, in\ndesert places, where she roamed as freely as the wild Indian in\nhis woods.  For years past she had looked from this estranged\npoint of view at human institutions, and whatever priests or\nlegislators had established; criticising all with hardly more\nreverence than the Indian would feel for the clerical band, the\njudicial robe, the pillory, the gallows, the fireside, or the\nchurch.  The tendency of her fate and fortunes had been to set\nher free.  The scarlet letter was her passport into regions where\nother women dared not tread.  Shame, Despair, Solitude!  These had\nbeen her teachers--stern and wild ones--and they had made her\nstrong, but taught her much amiss.\n\nThe minister, on the other hand, had never gone through an\nexperience calculated to lead him beyond the scope of generally\nreceived laws; although, in a single instance, he had so\nfearfully transgressed one of the most sacred of them.  But this\nhad been a sin of passion, not of principle, nor even purpose.\nSince that wretched epoch, he had watched with morbid zeal and\nminuteness, not his acts--for those it was easy to arrange--but\neach breath of emotion, and his every thought.  At the head of\nthe social system, as the clergymen of that day stood, he was\nonly the more trammelled by its regulations, its principles, and\neven its prejudices.  As a priest, the framework of his order\ninevitably hemmed him in.  As a man who had once sinned, but who\nkept his conscience all alive and painfully sensitive by the\nfretting of an unhealed wound, he might have been supposed safer\nwithin the line of virtue than if he had never sinned at all.\n\nThus we seem to see that, as regarded Hester Prynne, the whole\nseven years of outlaw and ignominy had been little other than a\npreparation for this very hour.  But Arthur Dimmesdale!  Were such\na man once more to fall, what plea could be urged in extenuation\nof his crime?  None; unless it avail him somewhat that he was\nbroken down by long and exquisite suffering; that his mind was\ndarkened and confused by the very remorse which harrowed it;\nthat, between fleeing as an avowed criminal, and remaining as a\nhypocrite, conscience might find it hard to strike the balance;\nthat it was human to avoid the peril of death and infamy, and\nthe inscrutable machinations of an enemy; that, finally, to this\npoor pilgrim, on his dreary and desert path, faint, sick,\nmiserable, there appeared a glimpse of human affection and\nsympathy, a new life, and a true one, in exchange for the heavy\ndoom which he was now expiating.  And be the stern and sad truth\nspoken, that the breach which guilt has once made into the human\nsoul is never, in this mortal state, repaired.  It may be watched\nand guarded, so that the enemy shall not force his way again\ninto the citadel, and might even in his subsequent assaults,\nselect some other avenue, in preference to that where he had\nformerly succeeded.  But there is still the ruined wall, and near\nit the stealthy tread of the foe that would win over again his\nunforgotten triumph.\n\nThe struggle, if there were one, need not be described.  Let it\nsuffice that the clergyman resolved to flee, and not alone.\n\n\"If in all these past seven years,\" thought he, \"I could recall\none instant of peace or hope, I would yet endure, for the sake\nof that earnest of Heaven's mercy.  But now--since I am\nirrevocably doomed--wherefore should I not snatch the solace\nallowed to the condemned culprit before his execution?  Or, if\nthis be the path to a better life, as Hester would persuade me,\nI surely give up no fairer prospect by pursuing it!  Neither can\nI any longer live without her companionship; so powerful is she\nto sustain--so tender to soothe!  O Thou to whom I dare not lift\nmine eyes, wilt Thou yet pardon me?\"\n\n\"Thou wilt go!\" said Hester calmly, as he met her glance.\n\nThe decision once made, a glow of strange enjoyment threw its\nflickering brightness over the trouble of his breast.  It was the\nexhilarating effect--upon a prisoner just escaped from the\ndungeon of his own heart--of breathing the wild, free atmosphere\nof an unredeemed, unchristianised, lawless region.  His spirit\nrose, as it were, with a bound, and attained a nearer prospect\nof the sky, than throughout all the misery which had kept him\ngrovelling on the earth.  Of a deeply religious temperament,\nthere was inevitably a tinge of the devotional in his mood.\n\n\"Do I feel joy again?\" cried he, wondering at himself.\n\"Methought the germ of it was dead in me!  Oh, Hester, thou art\nmy better angel!  I seem to have flung myself--sick, sin-stained,\nand sorrow-blackened--down upon these forest leaves, and to have\nrisen up all made anew, and with new powers to glorify Him that\nhath been merciful!  This is already the better life!  Why did we\nnot find it sooner?\"\n\n\"Let us not look back,\" answered Hester Prynne.  \"The past is\ngone!  Wherefore should we linger upon it now?  See!  With this\nsymbol I undo it all, and make it as if it had never been!\"\n\nSo speaking, she undid the clasp that fastened the scarlet\nletter, and, taking it from her bosom, threw it to a distance\namong the withered leaves.  The mystic token alighted on the\nhither verge of the stream.  With a hand's-breadth further\nflight, it would have fallen into the water, and have given the\nlittle brook another woe to carry onward, besides the\nunintelligible tale which it still kept murmuring about.  But\nthere lay the embroidered letter, glittering like a lost jewel,\nwhich some ill-fated wanderer might pick up, and thenceforth be\nhaunted by strange phantoms of guilt, sinkings of the heart, and\nunaccountable misfortune.\n\nThe stigma gone, Hester heaved a long, deep sigh, in which the\nburden of shame and anguish departed from her spirit.  O\nexquisite relief!  She had not known the weight until she felt\nthe freedom!  By another impulse, she took off the formal cap\nthat confined her hair, and down it fell upon her shoulders,\ndark and rich, with at once a shadow and a light in its\nabundance, and imparting the charm of softness to her features.\nThere played around her mouth, and beamed out of her eyes, a\nradiant and tender smile, that seemed gushing from the very\nheart of womanhood.  A crimson flush was glowing on her cheek,\nthat had been long so pale.  Her sex, her youth, and the whole\nrichness of her beauty, came back from what men call the\nirrevocable past, and clustered themselves with her maiden hope,\nand a happiness before unknown, within the magic circle of this\nhour.  And, as if the gloom of the earth and sky had been but the\neffluence of these two mortal hearts, it vanished with their\nsorrow.  All at once, as with a sudden smile of heaven, forth\nburst the sunshine, pouring a very flood into the obscure\nforest, gladdening each green leaf, transmuting the yellow\nfallen ones to gold, and gleaming adown the gray trunks of the\nsolemn trees.  The objects that had made a shadow hitherto,\nembodied the brightness now.  The course of the little brook\nmight be traced by its merry gleam afar into the wood's heart of\nmystery, which had become a mystery of joy.\n\nSuch was the sympathy of Nature--that wild, heathen Nature of\nthe forest, never subjugated by human law, nor illumined by\nhigher truth--with the bliss of these two spirits!  Love, whether\nnewly-born, or aroused from a death-like slumber, must always\ncreate a sunshine, filling the heart so full of radiance, that\nit overflows upon the outward world.  Had the forest still kept\nits gloom, it would have been bright in Hester's eyes, and\nbright in Arthur Dimmesdale's!\n\nHester looked at him with a thrill of another joy.\n\n\"Thou must know Pearl!\" said she.  \"Our little Pearl!  Thou hast\nseen her--yes, I know it!--but thou wilt see her now with other\neyes.  She is a strange child!  I hardly comprehend her!  But thou\nwilt love her dearly, as I do, and wilt advise me how to deal\nwith her!\"\n\n\"Dost thou think the child will be glad to know me?\" asked the\nminister, somewhat uneasily.  \"I have long shrunk from children,\nbecause they often show a distrust--a backwardness to be\nfamiliar with me.  I have even been afraid of little Pearl!\"\n\n\"Ah, that was sad!\" answered the mother.  \"But she will love\nthee dearly, and thou her.  She is not far off.  I will call her.\nPearl!  Pearl!\"\n\n\"I see the child,\" observed the minister.  \"Yonder she is,\nstanding in a streak of sunshine, a good way off, on the other\nside of the brook.  So thou thinkest the child will love me?\"\n\nHester smiled, and again called to Pearl, who was visible at\nsome distance, as the minister had described her, like a\nbright-apparelled vision in a sunbeam, which fell down upon her\nthrough an arch of boughs.  The ray quivered to and fro, making\nher figure dim or distinct--now like a real child, now like a\nchild's spirit--as the splendour went and came again.  She heard\nher mother's voice, and approached slowly through the forest.\n\nPearl had not found the hour pass wearisomely while her mother\nsat talking with the clergyman.  The great black forest--stern as\nit showed itself to those who brought the guilt and troubles of\nthe world into its bosom--became the playmate of the lonely\ninfant, as well as it knew how.  Sombre as it was, it put on the\nkindest of its moods to welcome her.  It offered her the\npartridge-berries, the growth of the preceding autumn, but\nripening only in the spring, and now red as drops of blood upon\nthe withered leaves.  These Pearl gathered, and was pleased with\ntheir wild flavour.  The small denizens of the wilderness hardly\ntook pains to move out of her path.  A partridge, indeed, with a\nbrood of ten behind her, ran forward threateningly, but soon\nrepented of her fierceness, and clucked to her young ones not to\nbe afraid.  A pigeon, alone on a low branch, allowed Pearl to\ncome beneath, and uttered a sound as much of greeting as alarm.\nA squirrel, from the lofty depths of his domestic tree,\nchattered either in anger or merriment--for the squirrel is such\na choleric and humorous little personage, that it is hard to\ndistinguish between his moods--so he chattered at the child, and\nflung down a nut upon her head.  It was a last year's nut, and\nalready gnawed by his sharp tooth.  A fox, startled from his\nsleep by her light footstep on the leaves, looked inquisitively\nat Pearl, as doubting whether it were better to steal off, or\nrenew his nap on the same spot.  A wolf, it is said--but here the\ntale has surely lapsed into the improbable--came up and smelt of\nPearl's robe, and offered his savage head to be patted by her\nhand.  The truth seems to be, however, that the mother-forest,\nand these wild things which it nourished, all recognised a\nkindred wilderness in the human child.\n\nAnd she was gentler here than in the grassy-margined streets of\nthe settlement, or in her mother's cottage.  The Bowers appeared\nto know it, and one and another whispered as she passed, \"Adorn\nthyself with me, thou beautiful child, adorn thyself with\nme!\"--and, to please them, Pearl gathered the violets, and\nanemones, and columbines, and some twigs of the freshest green,\nwhich the old trees held down before her eyes.  With these she\ndecorated her hair and her young waist, and became a nymph\nchild, or an infant dryad, or whatever else was in closest\nsympathy with the antique wood.  In such guise had Pearl adorned\nherself, when she heard her mother's voice, and came slowly\nback.\n\nSlowly--for she saw the clergyman!\n\n\n\nXIX.  THE CHILD AT THE BROOKSIDE\n\n\"Thou wilt love her dearly,\" repeated Hester Prynne, as she and\nthe minister sat watching little Pearl.  \"Dost thou not think her\nbeautiful?  And see with what natural skill she has made those\nsimple flowers adorn her!  Had she gathered pearls, and diamonds,\nand rubies in the wood, they could not have become her better!\nShe is a splendid child!  But I know whose brow she has!\"\n\n\"Dost thou know, Hester,\" said Arthur Dimmesdale, with an\nunquiet smile, \"that this dear child, tripping about always at\nthy side, hath caused me many an alarm?  Methought--oh, Hester,\nwhat a thought is that, and how terrible to dread it!--that my\nown features were partly repeated in her face, and so strikingly\nthat the world might see them!  But she is mostly thine!\"\n\n\"No, no!  Not mostly!\" answered the mother, with a tender smile.\n\"A little longer, and thou needest not to be afraid to trace\nwhose child she is.  But how strangely beautiful she looks with\nthose wild flowers in her hair!  It is as if one of the fairies,\nwhom we left in dear old England, had decked her out to meet\nus.\"\n\nIt was with a feeling which neither of them had ever before\nexperienced, that they sat and watched Pearl's slow advance.  In\nher was visible the tie that united them.  She had been offered\nto the world, these seven past years, as the living\nhieroglyphic, in which was revealed the secret they so darkly\nsought to hide--all written in this symbol--all plainly\nmanifest--had there been a prophet or magician skilled to read\nthe character of flame!  And Pearl was the oneness of their\nbeing.  Be the foregone evil what it might, how could they doubt\nthat their earthly lives and future destinies were conjoined\nwhen they beheld at once the material union, and the spiritual\nidea, in whom they met, and were to dwell immortally together;\nthoughts like these--and perhaps other thoughts, which they did\nnot acknowledge or define--threw an awe about the child as she\ncame onward.\n\n\"Let her see nothing strange--no passion or eagerness--in thy\nway of accosting her,\" whispered Hester.  \"Our Pearl is a fitful\nand fantastic little elf sometimes.  Especially she is generally\nintolerant of emotion, when she does not fully comprehend the\nwhy and wherefore.  But the child hath strong affections!  She\nloves me, and will love thee!\"\n\n\"Thou canst not think,\" said the minister, glancing aside at\nHester Prynne, \"how my heart dreads this interview, and yearns\nfor it!  But, in truth, as I already told thee, children are not\nreadily won to be familiar with me.  They will not climb my knee,\nnor prattle in my ear, nor answer to my smile, but stand apart,\nand eye me strangely.  Even little babes, when I take them in my\narms, weep bitterly.  Yet Pearl, twice in her little lifetime,\nhath been kind to me!  The first time--thou knowest it well!  The\nlast was when thou ledst her with thee to the house of yonder\nstern old Governor.\"\n\n\"And thou didst plead so bravely in her behalf and mine!\"\nanswered the mother.  \"I remember it; and so shall little Pearl.\nFear nothing.  She may be strange and shy at first, but will soon\nlearn to love thee!\"\n\nBy this time Pearl had reached the margin of the brook, and\nstood on the further side, gazing silently at Hester and the\nclergyman, who still sat together on the mossy tree-trunk\nwaiting to receive her.  Just where she had paused, the brook\nchanced to form a pool so smooth and quiet that it reflected a\nperfect image of her little figure, with all the brilliant\npicturesqueness of her beauty, in its adornment of flowers and\nwreathed foliage, but more refined and spiritualized than the\nreality.  This image, so nearly identical with the living Pearl,\nseemed to communicate somewhat of its own shadowy and intangible\nquality to the child herself.  It was strange, the way in which\nPearl stood, looking so steadfastly at them through the dim\nmedium of the forest gloom, herself, meanwhile, all glorified\nwith a ray of sunshine, that was attracted thitherward as by a\ncertain sympathy.  In the brook beneath stood another\nchild--another and the same--with likewise its ray of golden\nlight.  Hester felt herself, in some indistinct and tantalizing\nmanner, estranged from Pearl, as if the child, in her lonely\nramble through the forest, had strayed out of the sphere in\nwhich she and her mother dwelt together, and was now vainly\nseeking to return to it.\n\nThere were both truth and error in the impression; the child and\nmother were estranged, but through Hester's fault, not Pearl's.\nSince the latter rambled from her side, another inmate had been\nadmitted within the circle of the mother's feelings, and so\nmodified the aspect of them all, that Pearl, the returning\nwanderer, could not find her wonted place, and hardly knew where\nshe was.\n\n\"I have a strange fancy,\" observed the sensitive minister, \"that\nthis brook is the boundary between two worlds, and that thou\ncanst never meet thy Pearl again.  Or is she an elfish spirit,\nwho, as the legends of our childhood taught us, is forbidden to\ncross a running stream?  Pray hasten her, for this delay has\nalready imparted a tremor to my nerves.\"\n\n\"Come, dearest child!\" said Hester encouragingly, and stretching\nout both her arms.  \"How slow thou art!  When hast thou been so\nsluggish before now?  Here is a friend of mine, who must be thy\nfriend also.  Thou wilt have twice as much love henceforward as\nthy mother alone could give thee!  Leap across the brook and come\nto us.  Thou canst leap like a young deer!\"\n\nPearl, without responding in any manner to these honey-sweet\nexpressions, remained on the other side of the brook.  Now she\nfixed her bright wild eyes on her mother, now on the minister,\nand now included them both in the same glance, as if to detect\nand explain to herself the relation which they bore to one\nanother.  For some unaccountable reason, as Arthur Dimmesdale\nfelt the child's eyes upon himself, his hand--with that gesture\nso habitual as to have become involuntary--stole over his heart.\nAt length, assuming a singular air of authority, Pearl stretched\nout her hand, with the small forefinger extended, and pointing\nevidently towards her mother's breast.  And beneath, in the\nmirror of the brook, there was the flower-girdled and sunny\nimage of little Pearl, pointing her small forefinger too.\n\n\"Thou strange child!  why dost thou not come to me?\" exclaimed\nHester.\n\nPearl still pointed with her forefinger, and a frown gathered on\nher brow--the more impressive from the childish, the almost\nbaby-like aspect of the features that conveyed it.  As her mother\nstill kept beckoning to her, and arraying her face in a holiday\nsuit of unaccustomed smiles, the child stamped her foot with a\nyet more imperious look and gesture.  In the brook, again, was\nthe fantastic beauty of the image, with its reflected frown, its\npointed finger, and imperious gesture, giving emphasis to the\naspect of little Pearl.\n\n\"Hasten, Pearl, or I shall be angry with thee!\" cried Hester\nPrynne, who, however, inured to such behaviour on the\nelf-child's part at other seasons, was naturally anxious for a\nmore seemly deportment now.  \"Leap across the brook, naughty\nchild, and run hither!  Else I must come to thee!\"\n\nBut Pearl, not a whit startled at her mother's threats any more\nthan mollified by her entreaties, now suddenly burst into a fit\nof passion, gesticulating violently, and throwing her small\nfigure into the most extravagant contortions.  She accompanied\nthis wild outbreak with piercing shrieks, which the woods\nreverberated on all sides, so that, alone as she was in her\nchildish and unreasonable wrath, it seemed as if a hidden\nmultitude were lending her their sympathy and encouragement.\nSeen in the brook once more was the shadowy wrath of Pearl's\nimage, crowned and girdled with flowers, but stamping its foot,\nwildly gesticulating, and, in the midst of all, still pointing\nits small forefinger at Hester's bosom.\n\n\"I see what ails the child,\" whispered Hester to the clergyman,\nand turning pale in spite of a strong effort to conceal her\ntrouble and annoyance, \"Children will not abide any, the\nslightest, change in the accustomed aspect of things that are\ndaily before their eyes.  Pearl misses something that she has\nalways seen me wear!\"\n\n\"I pray you,\" answered the minister, \"if thou hast any means of\npacifying the child, do it forthwith!  Save it were the cankered\nwrath of an old witch like Mistress Hibbins,\" added he,\nattempting to smile, \"I know nothing that I would not sooner\nencounter than this passion in a child.  In Pearl's young beauty,\nas in the wrinkled witch, it has a preternatural effect.  Pacify\nher if thou lovest me!\"\n\nHester turned again towards Pearl with a crimson blush upon her\ncheek, a conscious glance aside clergyman, and then a heavy\nsigh, while, even before she had time to speak, the blush\nyielded to a deadly pallor.\n\n\"Pearl,\" said she sadly, \"look down at thy feet!  There!--before\nthee!--on the hither side of the brook!\"\n\nThe child turned her eyes to the point indicated, and there lay\nthe scarlet letter so close upon the margin of the stream that\nthe gold embroidery was reflected in it.\n\n\"Bring it hither!\" said Hester.\n\n\"Come thou and take it up!\" answered Pearl.\n\n\"Was ever such a child!\" observed Hester aside to the minister.\n\"Oh, I have much to tell thee about her!  But, in very truth, she\nis right as regards this hateful token.  I must bear its torture\nyet a little longer--only a few days longer--until we shall have\nleft this region, and look back hither as to a land which we\nhave dreamed of.  The forest cannot hide it!  The mid-ocean shall\ntake it from my hand, and swallow it up for ever!\"\n\nWith these words she advanced to the margin of the brook, took\nup the scarlet letter, and fastened it again into her bosom.\nHopefully, but a moment ago, as Hester had spoken of drowning it\nin the deep sea, there was a sense of inevitable doom upon her\nas she thus received back this deadly symbol from the hand of\nfate.  She had flung it into infinite space! she had drawn an\nhour's free breath! and here again was the scarlet misery\nglittering on the old spot!  So it ever is, whether thus typified\nor no, that an evil deed invests itself with the character of\ndoom.  Hester next gathered up the heavy tresses of her hair and\nconfined them beneath her cap.  As if there were a withering\nspell in the sad letter, her beauty, the warmth and richness of\nher womanhood, departed like fading sunshine, and a gray shadow\nseemed to fall across her.\n\nWhen the dreary change was wrought, she extended her hand to\nPearl.\n\n\"Dost thou know thy mother now, child?\", asked she,\nreproachfully, but with a subdued tone.  \"Wilt thou come across\nthe brook, and own thy mother, now that she has her shame upon\nher--now that she is sad?\"\n\n\"Yes; now I will!\" answered the child, bounding across the\nbrook, and clasping Hester in her arms \"Now thou art my mother\nindeed! and I am thy little Pearl!\"\n\nIn a mood of tenderness that was not usual with her, she drew\ndown her mother's head, and kissed her brow and both her cheeks.\nBut then--by a kind of necessity that always impelled this child\nto alloy whatever comfort she might chance to give with a throb\nof anguish--Pearl put up her mouth and kissed the scarlet\nletter, too.\n\n\"That was not kind!\" said Hester.  \"When thou hast shown me a\nlittle love, thou mockest me!\"\n\n\"Why doth the minister sit yonder?\" asked Pearl.\n\n\"He waits to welcome thee,\" replied her mother.  \"Come thou, and\nentreat his blessing!  He loves thee, my little Pearl, and loves\nthy mother, too.  Wilt thou not love him?  Come he longs to greet\nthee!\"\n\n\"Doth he love us?\" said Pearl, looking up with acute\nintelligence into her mother's face.  \"Will he go back with us,\nhand in hand, we three together, into the town?\"\n\n\"Not now, my child,\" answered Hester.  \"But in days to come he\nwill walk hand in hand with us.  We will have a home and fireside\nof our own; and thou shalt sit upon his knee; and he will teach\nthee many things, and love thee dearly.  Thou wilt love him--wilt\nthou not?\"\n\n\"And will he always keep his hand over his heart?\" inquired\nPearl.\n\n\"Foolish child, what a question is that!\" exclaimed her mother.\n\"Come, and ask his blessing!\"\n\nBut, whether influenced by the jealousy that seems instinctive\nwith every petted child towards a dangerous rival, or from\nwhatever caprice of her freakish nature, Pearl would show no\nfavour to the clergyman.  It was only by an exertion of force\nthat her mother brought her up to him, hanging back, and\nmanifesting her reluctance by odd grimaces; of which, ever since\nher babyhood, she had possessed a singular variety, and could\ntransform her mobile physiognomy into a series of different\naspects, with a new mischief in them, each and all.  The\nminister--painfully embarrassed, but hoping that a kiss might\nprove a talisman to admit him into the child's kindlier\nregards--bent forward, and impressed one on her brow.  Hereupon,\nPearl broke away from her mother, and, running to the brook,\nstooped over it, and bathed her forehead, until the unwelcome\nkiss was quite washed off and diffused through a long lapse of\nthe gliding water.  She then remained apart, silently watching\nHester and the clergyman; while they talked together and made\nsuch arrangements as were suggested by their new position and\nthe purposes soon to be fulfilled.\n\nAnd now this fateful interview had come to a close.  The dell\nwas to be left in solitude among its dark, old trees, which,\nwith their multitudinous tongues, would whisper long of what had\npassed there, and no mortal be the wiser.  And the melancholy\nbrook would add this other tale to the mystery with which its\nlittle heart was already overburdened, and whereof it still kept\nup a murmuring babble, with not a whit more cheerfulness of tone\nthan for ages heretofore.\n\n\n\nXX.  THE MINISTER IN A MAZE\n\nAs the minister departed, in advance of Hester Prynne and little\nPearl, he threw a backward glance, half expecting that he should\ndiscover only some faintly traced features or outline of the\nmother and the child, slowly fading into the twilight of the\nwoods.  So great a vicissitude in his life could not at once be\nreceived as real.  But there was Hester, clad in her gray robe,\nstill standing beside the tree-trunk, which some blast had\noverthrown a long antiquity ago, and which time had ever since\nbeen covering with moss, so that these two fated ones, with\nearth's heaviest burden on them, might there sit down together,\nand find a single hour's rest and solace.  And there was Pearl,\ntoo, lightly dancing from the margin of the brook--now that the\nintrusive third person was gone--and taking her old place by her\nmother's side.  So the minister had not fallen asleep and\ndreamed!\n\nIn order to free his mind from this indistinctness and duplicity\nof impression, which vexed it with a strange disquietude, he\nrecalled and more thoroughly defined the plans which Hester and\nhimself had sketched for their departure.  It had been determined\nbetween them that the Old World, with its crowds and cities,\noffered them a more eligible shelter and concealment than the\nwilds of New England or all America, with its alternatives of an\nIndian wigwam, or the few settlements of Europeans scattered\nthinly along the sea-board.  Not to speak of the clergyman's\nhealth, so inadequate to sustain the hardships of a forest life,\nhis native gifts, his culture, and his entire development would\nsecure him a home only in the midst of civilization and\nrefinement; the higher the state the more delicately adapted to\nit the man.  In furtherance of this choice, it so happened that a\nship lay in the harbour; one of those unquestionable cruisers,\nfrequent at that day, which, without being absolutely outlaws of\nthe deep, yet roamed over its surface with a remarkable\nirresponsibility of character.  This vessel had recently arrived\nfrom the Spanish Main, and within three days' time would sail\nfor Bristol.  Hester Prynne--whose vocation, as a self-enlisted\nSister of Charity, had brought her acquainted with the captain\nand crew--could take upon herself to secure the passage of two\nindividuals and a child with all the secrecy which circumstances\nrendered more than desirable.\n\nThe minister had inquired of Hester, with no little interest,\nthe precise time at which the vessel might be expected to\ndepart.  It would probably be on the fourth day from the present.\n\"This is most fortunate!\" he had then said to himself.  Now, why\nthe Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale considered it so very fortunate we\nhesitate to reveal.  Nevertheless--to hold nothing back from the\nreader--it was because, on the third day from the present, he\nwas to preach the Election Sermon; and, as such an occasion\nformed an honourable epoch in the life of a New England\nClergyman, he could not have chanced upon a more suitable mode\nand time of terminating his professional career.  \"At least, they\nshall say of me,\" thought this exemplary man, \"that I leave no\npublic duty unperformed or ill-performed!\"  Sad, indeed, that an\nintrospection so profound and acute as this poor minister's\nshould be so miserably deceived!  We have had, and may still\nhave, worse things to tell of him; but none, we apprehend, so\npitiably weak; no evidence, at once so slight and irrefragable,\nof a subtle disease that had long since begun to eat into the\nreal substance of his character.  No man, for any considerable\nperiod, can wear one face to himself and another to the\nmultitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be\nthe true.\n\nThe excitement of Mr. Dimmesdale's feelings as he returned from\nhis interview with Hester, lent him unaccustomed physical\nenergy, and hurried him townward at a rapid pace.  The pathway\namong the woods seemed wilder, more uncouth with its rude\nnatural obstacles, and less trodden by the foot of man, than he\nremembered it on his outward journey.  But he leaped across the\nplashy places, thrust himself through the clinging underbrush,\nclimbed the ascent, plunged into the hollow, and overcame, in\nshort, all the difficulties of the track, with an unweariable\nactivity that astonished him.  He could not but recall how\nfeebly, and with what frequent pauses for breath he had toiled\nover the same ground, only two days before.  As he drew near the\ntown, he took an impression of change from the series of\nfamiliar objects that presented themselves.  It seemed not\nyesterday, not one, not two, but many days, or even years ago,\nsince he had quitted them.  There, indeed, was each former trace\nof the street, as he remembered it, and all the peculiarities of\nthe houses, with the due multitude of gable-peaks, and a\nweather-cock at every point where his memory suggested one.  Not\nthe less, however, came this importunately obtrusive sense of\nchange.  The same was true as regarded the acquaintances whom he\nmet, and all the well-known shapes of human life, about the\nlittle town.  They looked neither older nor younger now; the\nbeards of the aged were no whiter, nor could the creeping babe\nof yesterday walk on his feet to-day; it was impossible to\ndescribe in what respect they differed from the individuals on\nwhom he had so recently bestowed a parting glance; and yet the\nminister's deepest sense seemed to inform him of their\nmutability.  A similar impression struck him most remarkably as\nhe passed under the walls of his own church.  The edifice had so\nvery strange, and yet so familiar an aspect, that Mr.\nDimmesdale's mind vibrated between two ideas; either that he had\nseen it only in a dream hitherto, or that he was merely dreaming\nabout it now.\n\nThis phenomenon, in the various shapes which it assumed,\nindicated no external change, but so sudden and important a\nchange in the spectator of the familiar scene, that the\nintervening space of a single day had operated on his\nconsciousness like the lapse of years.  The minister's own will,\nand Hester's will, and the fate that grew between them, had\nwrought this transformation.  It was the same town as heretofore,\nbut the same minister returned not from the forest.  He might\nhave said to the friends who greeted him--\"I am not the man for\nwhom you take me!  I left him yonder in the forest, withdrawn\ninto a secret dell, by a mossy tree trunk, and near a melancholy\nbrook!  Go, seek your minister, and see if his emaciated figure,\nhis thin cheek, his white, heavy, pain-wrinkled brow, be not\nflung down there, like a cast-off garment!\"  His friends, no\ndoubt, would still have insisted with him--\"Thou art thyself the\nman!\" but the error would have been their own, not his.\n\nBefore Mr. Dimmesdale reached home, his inner man gave him other\nevidences of a revolution in the sphere of thought and feeling.\nIn truth, nothing short of a total change of dynasty and moral\ncode, in that interior kingdom, was adequate to account for the\nimpulses now communicated to the unfortunate and startled\nminister.  At every step he was incited to do some strange, wild,\nwicked thing or other, with a sense that it would be at once\ninvoluntary and intentional, in spite of himself, yet growing\nout of a profounder self than that which opposed the impulse.\nFor instance, he met one of his own deacons.  The good old man\naddressed him with the paternal affection and patriarchal\nprivilege which his venerable age, his upright and holy\ncharacter, and his station in the church, entitled him to use\nand, conjoined with this, the deep, almost worshipping respect,\nwhich the minister's professional and private claims alike\ndemanded.  Never was there a more beautiful example of how the\nmajesty of age and wisdom may comport with the obeisance and\nrespect enjoined upon it, as from a lower social rank, and\ninferior order of endowment, towards a higher.  Now, during a\nconversation of some two or three moments between the Reverend\nMr. Dimmesdale and this excellent and hoary-bearded deacon, it\nwas only by the most careful self-control that the former could\nrefrain from uttering certain blasphemous suggestions that rose\ninto his mind, respecting the communion-supper.  He absolutely\ntrembled and turned pale as ashes, lest his tongue should wag\nitself in utterance of these horrible matters, and plead his own\nconsent for so doing, without his having fairly given it.  And,\neven with this terror in his heart, he could hardly avoid\nlaughing, to imagine how the sanctified old patriarchal deacon\nwould have been petrified by his minister's impiety.\n\nAgain, another incident of the same nature.  Hurrying along the\nstreet, the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale encountered the eldest\nfemale member of his church, a most pious and exemplary old\ndame, poor, widowed, lonely, and with a heart as full of\nreminiscences about her dead husband and children, and her dead\nfriends of long ago, as a burial-ground is full of storied\ngravestones.  Yet all this, which would else have been such heavy\nsorrow, was made almost a solemn joy to her devout old soul, by\nreligious consolations and the truths of Scripture, wherewith\nshe had fed herself continually for more than thirty years.  And\nsince Mr. Dimmesdale had taken her in charge, the good grandam's\nchief earthly comfort--which, unless it had been likewise a\nheavenly comfort, could have been none at all--was to meet her\npastor, whether casually, or of set purpose, and be refreshed\nwith a word of warm, fragrant, heaven-breathing Gospel truth,\nfrom his beloved lips, into her dulled, but rapturously\nattentive ear.  But, on this occasion, up to the moment of\nputting his lips to the old woman's ear, Mr. Dimmesdale, as the\ngreat enemy of souls would have it, could recall no text of\nScripture, nor aught else, except a brief, pithy, and, as it\nthen appeared to him, unanswerable argument against the\nimmortality of the human soul.  The instilment thereof into her\nmind would probably have caused this aged sister to drop down\ndead, at once, as by the effect of an intensely poisonous\ninfusion.  What he really did whisper, the minister could never\nafterwards recollect.  There was, perhaps, a fortunate disorder\nin his utterance, which failed to impart any distinct idea to\nthe good widows comprehension, or which Providence interpreted\nafter a method of its own.  Assuredly, as the minister looked\nback, he beheld an expression of divine gratitude and ecstasy\nthat seemed like the shine of the celestial city on her face, so\nwrinkled and ashy pale.\n\nAgain, a third instance.  After parting from the old church\nmember, he met the youngest sister of them all.  It was a maiden\nnewly-won--and won by the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale's own sermon,\non the Sabbath after his vigil--to barter the transitory\npleasures of the world for the heavenly hope that was to assume\nbrighter substance as life grew dark around her, and which would\ngild the utter gloom with final glory.  She was fair and pure as\na lily that had bloomed in Paradise.  The minister knew well that\nhe was himself enshrined within the stainless sanctity of her\nheart, which hung its snowy curtains about his image, imparting\nto religion the warmth of love, and to love a religious purity.\nSatan, that afternoon, had surely led the poor young girl away\nfrom her mother's side, and thrown her into the pathway of this\nsorely tempted, or--shall we not rather say?--this lost and\ndesperate man.  As she drew nigh, the arch-fiend whispered him to\ncondense into small compass, and drop into her tender bosom a\ngerm of evil that would be sure to blossom darkly soon, and bear\nblack fruit betimes.  Such was his sense of power over this\nvirgin soul, trusting him as she did, that the minister felt\npotent to blight all the field of innocence with but one wicked\nlook, and develop all its opposite with but a word.  So--with a\nmightier struggle than he had yet sustained--he held his Geneva\ncloak before his face, and hurried onward, making no sign of\nrecognition, and leaving the young sister to digest his rudeness\nas she might.  She ransacked her conscience--which was full of\nharmless little matters, like her pocket or her work-bag--and\ntook herself to task, poor thing! for a thousand imaginary\nfaults, and went about her household duties with swollen eyelids\nthe next morning.\n\n\nBefore the minister had time to celebrate his victory over this\nlast temptation, he was conscious of another impulse, more\nludicrous, and almost as horrible.  It was--we blush to tell\nit--it was to stop short in the road, and teach some very wicked\nwords to a knot of little Puritan children who were playing\nthere, and had but just begun to talk.  Denying himself this\nfreak, as unworthy of his cloth, he met a drunken seaman, one of\nthe ship's crew from the Spanish Main.  And here, since he had so\nvaliantly forborne all other wickedness, poor Mr. Dimmesdale\nlonged at least to shake hands with the tarry black-guard, and\nrecreate himself with a few improper jests, such as dissolute\nsailors so abound with, and a volley of good, round, solid,\nsatisfactory, and heaven-defying oaths!  It was not so much a\nbetter principle, as partly his natural good taste, and still\nmore his buckramed habit of clerical decorum, that carried him\nsafely through the latter crisis.\n\n\"What is it that haunts and tempts me thus?\" cried the minister\nto himself, at length, pausing in the street, and striking his\nhand against his forehead.\n\n\"Am I mad?  or am I given over utterly to the fiend?  Did I make\na contract with him in the forest, and sign it with my blood?\nAnd does he now summon me to its fulfilment, by suggesting the\nperformance of every wickedness which his most foul imagination\ncan conceive?\"\n\nAt the moment when the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale thus communed\nwith himself, and struck his forehead with his hand, old\nMistress Hibbins, the reputed witch-lady, is said to have been\npassing by.  She made a very grand appearance, having on a high\nhead-dress, a rich gown of velvet, and a ruff done up with the\nfamous yellow starch, of which Anne Turner, her especial friend,\nhad taught her the secret, before this last good lady had been\nhanged for Sir Thomas Overbury's murder.  Whether the witch had\nread the minister's thoughts or no, she came to a full stop,\nlooked shrewdly into his face, smiled craftily, and--though\nlittle given to converse with clergymen--began a conversation.\n\n\"So, reverend sir, you have made a visit into the forest,\"\nobserved the witch-lady, nodding her high head-dress at him.\n\"The next time I pray you to allow me only a fair warning, and I\nshall be proud to bear you company.  Without taking overmuch upon\nmyself my good word will go far towards gaining any strange\ngentleman a fair reception from yonder potentate you wot of.\"\n\n\"I profess, madam,\" answered the clergyman, with a grave\nobeisance, such as the lady's rank demanded, and his own good\nbreeding made imperative--\"I profess, on my conscience and\ncharacter, that I am utterly bewildered as touching the purport\nof your words!  I went not into the forest to seek a potentate,\nneither do I, at any future time, design a visit thither, with a\nview to gaining the favour of such personage.  My one sufficient\nobject was to greet that pious friend of mine, the Apostle\nEliot, and rejoice with him over the many precious souls he hath\nwon from heathendom!\"\n\n\"Ha, ha, ha!\" cackled the old witch-lady, still nodding her high\nhead-dress at the minister.  \"Well, well! we must needs talk thus\nin the daytime!  You carry it off like an old hand!  But at\nmidnight, and in the forest, we shall have other talk together!\"\n\nShe passed on with her aged stateliness, but often turning back\nher head and smiling at him, like one willing to recognise a\nsecret intimacy of connexion.\n\n\"Have I then sold myself,\" thought the minister, \"to the fiend\nwhom, if men say true, this yellow-starched and velveted old hag\nhas chosen for her prince and master?\"\n\nThe wretched minister!  He had made a bargain very like it!\nTempted by a dream of happiness, he had yielded himself with\ndeliberate choice, as he had never done before, to what he knew\nwas deadly sin.  And the infectious poison of that sin had been\nthus rapidly diffused throughout his moral system.  It had\nstupefied all blessed impulses, and awakened into vivid life the\nwhole brotherhood of bad ones.  Scorn, bitterness, unprovoked\nmalignity, gratuitous desire of ill, ridicule of whatever was\ngood and holy, all awoke to tempt, even while they frightened\nhim.  And his encounter with old Mistress Hibbins, if it were a\nreal incident, did but show its sympathy and fellowship with\nwicked mortals, and the world of perverted spirits.\n\nHe had by this time reached his dwelling on the edge of the\nburial ground, and, hastening up the stairs, took refuge in his\nstudy.  The minister was glad to have reached this shelter,\nwithout first betraying himself to the world by any of those\nstrange and wicked eccentricities to which he had been\ncontinually impelled while passing through the streets.  He\nentered the accustomed room, and looked around him on its books,\nits windows, its fireplace, and the tapestried comfort of the\nwalls, with the same perception of strangeness that had haunted\nhim throughout his walk from the forest dell into the town and\nthitherward.  Here he had studied and written; here gone through\nfast and vigil, and come forth half alive; here striven to pray;\nhere borne a hundred thousand agonies!  There was the Bible, in\nits rich old Hebrew, with Moses and the Prophets speaking to\nhim, and God's voice through all.\n\nThere on the table, with the inky pen beside it, was an\nunfinished sermon, with a sentence broken in the midst, where\nhis thoughts had ceased to gush out upon the page two days\nbefore.  He knew that it was himself, the thin and white-cheeked\nminister, who had done and suffered these things, and written\nthus far into the Election Sermon!  But he seemed to stand apart,\nand eye this former self with scornful pitying, but half-envious\ncuriosity.  That self was gone.  Another man had returned out of\nthe forest--a wiser one--with a knowledge of hidden mysteries\nwhich the simplicity of the former never could have reached.  A\nbitter kind of knowledge that!\n\nWhile occupied with these reflections, a knock came at the door\nof the study, and the minister said, \"Come in!\"--not wholly\ndevoid of an idea that he might behold an evil spirit.  And so he\ndid!  It was old Roger Chillingworth that entered.  The minister\nstood white and speechless, with one hand on the Hebrew\nScriptures, and the other spread upon his breast.\n\n\"Welcome home, reverend sir,\" said the physician \"And how found\nyou that godly man, the Apostle Eliot?  But methinks, dear sir,\nyou look pale, as if the travel through the wilderness had been\ntoo sore for you.  Will not my aid be requisite to put you in\nheart and strength to preach your Election Sermon?\"\n\n\"Nay, I think not so,\" rejoined the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale.  \"My\njourney, and the sight of the holy Apostle yonder, and the free\nair which I have breathed have done me good, after so long\nconfinement in my study.  I think to need no more of your drugs,\nmy kind physician, good though they be, and administered by a\nfriendly hand.\"\n\nAll this time Roger Chillingworth was looking at the minister\nwith the grave and intent regard of a physician towards his\npatient.  But, in spite of this outward show, the latter was\nalmost convinced of the old man's knowledge, or, at least, his\nconfident suspicion, with respect to his own interview with\nHester Prynne.  The physician knew then that in the minister's\nregard he was no longer a trusted friend, but his bitterest\nenemy.  So much being known, it would appear natural that a part\nof it should be expressed.  It is singular, however, how long a\ntime often passes before words embody things; and with what\nsecurity two persons, who choose to avoid a certain subject, may\napproach its very verge, and retire without disturbing it.  Thus\nthe minister felt no apprehension that Roger Chillingworth would\ntouch, in express words, upon the real position which they\nsustained towards one another.  Yet did the physician, in his\ndark way, creep frightfully near the secret.\n\n\"Were it not better,\" said he, \"that you use my poor skill\ntonight?  Verily, dear sir, we must take pains to make you strong\nand vigorous for this occasion of the Election discourse.  The\npeople look for great things from you, apprehending that another\nyear may come about and find their pastor gone.\"\n\n\"Yes, to another world,\" replied the minister with pious\nresignation.  \"Heaven grant it be a better one; for, in good\nsooth, I hardly think to tarry with my flock through the\nflitting seasons of another year!  But touching your medicine,\nkind sir, in my present frame of body I need it not.\"\n\n\"I joy to hear it,\" answered the physician.  \"It may be that my\nremedies, so long administered in vain, begin now to take due\neffect.  Happy man were I, and well deserving of New England's\ngratitude, could I achieve this cure!\"\n\n\"I thank you from my heart, most watchful friend,\" said the\nReverend Mr. Dimmesdale with a solemn smile.  \"I thank you, and\ncan but requite your good deeds with my prayers.\"\n\n\"A good man's prayers are golden recompense!\" rejoined old Roger\nChillingworth, as he took his leave.  \"Yea, they are the current\ngold coin of the New Jerusalem, with the King's own mint mark on\nthem!\"\n\nLeft alone, the minister summoned a servant of the house, and\nrequested food, which, being set before him, he ate with\nravenous appetite.  Then flinging the already written pages of\nthe Election Sermon into the fire, he forthwith began another,\nwhich he wrote with such an impulsive flow of thought and\nemotion, that he fancied himself inspired; and only wondered\nthat Heaven should see fit to transmit the grand and solemn\nmusic of its oracles through so foul an organ pipe as he.\nHowever, leaving that mystery to solve itself, or go unsolved\nfor ever, he drove his task onward with earnest haste and\necstasy.\n\nThus the night fled away, as if it were a winged steed, and he\ncareering on it; morning came, and peeped, blushing, through the\ncurtains; and at last sunrise threw a golden beam into the\nstudy, and laid it right across the minister's bedazzled eyes.\nThere he was, with the pen still between his fingers, and a\nvast, immeasurable tract of written space behind him!\n\n\n\nXXI.  THE NEW ENGLAND HOLIDAY\n\nBetimes in the morning of the day on which the new Governor was\nto receive his office at the hands of the people, Hester Prynne\nand little Pearl came into the market-place.  It was already\nthronged with the craftsmen and other plebeian inhabitants of\nthe town, in considerable numbers, among whom, likewise, were\nmany rough figures, whose attire of deer-skins marked them as\nbelonging to some of the forest settlements, which surrounded\nthe little metropolis of the colony.\n\nOn this public holiday, as on all other occasions for seven\nyears past, Hester was clad in a garment of coarse gray cloth.\nNot more by its hue than by some indescribable peculiarity in\nits fashion, it had the effect of making her fade personally out\nof sight and outline; while again the scarlet letter brought her\nback from this twilight indistinctness, and revealed her under\nthe moral aspect of its own illumination.  Her face, so long\nfamiliar to the townspeople, showed the marble quietude which\nthey were accustomed to behold there.  It was like a mask; or,\nrather like the frozen calmness of a dead woman's features;\nowing this dreary resemblance to the fact that Hester was\nactually dead, in respect to any claim of sympathy, and had\ndeparted out of the world with which she still seemed to mingle.\n\nIt might be, on this one day, that there was an expression\nunseen before, nor, indeed, vivid enough to be detected now;\nunless some preternaturally gifted observer should have first\nread the heart, and have afterwards sought a corresponding\ndevelopment in the countenance and mien.  Such a spiritual seer\nmight have conceived, that, after sustaining the gaze of the\nmultitude through several miserable years as a necessity, a\npenance, and something which it was a stern religion to endure,\nshe now, for one last time more, encountered it freely and\nvoluntarily, in order to convert what had so long been agony\ninto a kind of triumph.  \"Look your last on the scarlet letter\nand its wearer!\"--the people's victim and lifelong bond-slave,\nas they fancied her, might say to them.  \"Yet a little while, and\nshe will be beyond your reach!  A few hours longer and the deep,\nmysterious ocean will quench and hide for ever the symbol which\nye have caused to burn on her bosom!\"  Nor were it an\ninconsistency too improbable to be assigned to human nature,\nshould we suppose a feeling of regret in Hester's mind, at the\nmoment when she was about to win her freedom from the pain which\nhad been thus deeply incorporated with her being.  Might there\nnot be an irresistible desire to quaff a last, long, breathless\ndraught of the cup of wormwood and aloes, with which nearly all\nher years of womanhood had been perpetually flavoured.  The wine\nof life, henceforth to be presented to her lips, must be indeed\nrich, delicious, and exhilarating, in its chased and golden\nbeaker, or else leave an inevitable and weary languor, after the\nlees of bitterness wherewith she had been drugged, as with a\ncordial of intensest potency.\n\nPearl was decked out with airy gaiety.  It would have been\nimpossible to guess that this bright and sunny apparition owed\nits existence to the shape of gloomy gray; or that a fancy, at\nonce so gorgeous and so delicate as must have been requisite to\ncontrive the child's apparel, was the same that had achieved a\ntask perhaps more difficult, in imparting so distinct a\npeculiarity to Hester's simple robe.  The dress, so proper was it\nto little Pearl, seemed an effluence, or inevitable development\nand outward manifestation of her character, no more to be\nseparated from her than the many-hued brilliancy from a\nbutterfly's wing, or the painted glory from the leaf of a bright\nflower.  As with these, so with the child; her garb was all of\none idea with her nature.  On this eventful day, moreover, there\nwas a certain singular inquietude and excitement in her mood,\nresembling nothing so much as the shimmer of a diamond, that\nsparkles and flashes with the varied throbbings of the breast on\nwhich it is displayed.  Children have always a sympathy in the\nagitations of those connected with them: always, especially, a\nsense of any trouble or impending revolution, of whatever kind,\nin domestic circumstances; and therefore Pearl, who was the gem\non her mother's unquiet bosom, betrayed, by the very dance of\nher spirits, the emotions which none could detect in the marble\npassiveness of Hester's brow.\n\nThis effervescence made her flit with a bird-like movement,\nrather than walk by her mother's side.\n\nShe broke continually into shouts of a wild, inarticulate, and\nsometimes piercing music.  When they reached the market-place,\nshe became still more restless, on perceiving the stir and\nbustle that enlivened the spot; for it was usually more like the\nbroad and lonesome green before a village meeting-house, than\nthe centre of a town's business.\n\n\"Why, what is this, mother?\" cried she.  \"Wherefore have all the\npeople left their work to-day?  Is it a play-day for the whole\nworld?  See, there is the blacksmith!  He has washed his sooty\nface, and put on his Sabbath-day clothes, and looks as if he\nwould gladly be merry, if any kind body would only teach him\nhow!  And there is Master Brackett, the old jailer, nodding and\nsmiling at me.  Why does he do so, mother?\"\n\n\"He remembers thee a little babe, my child,\" answered Hester.\n\n\"He should not nod and smile at me, for all that--the black,\ngrim, ugly-eyed old man!\" said Pearl.  \"He may nod at thee, if he\nwill; for thou art clad in gray, and wearest the scarlet letter.\nBut see, mother, how many faces of strange people, and Indians\namong them, and sailors!  What have they all come to do, here in\nthe market-place?\"\n\n\"They wait to see the procession pass,\" said Hester.  \"For the\nGovernor and the magistrates are to go by, and the ministers,\nand all the great people and good people, with the music and the\nsoldiers marching before them.\"\n\n\"And will the minister be there?\" asked Pearl.  \"And will he\nhold out both his hands to me, as when thou ledst me to him\nfrom the brook-side?\"\n\n\"He will be there, child,\" answered her mother, \"but he will not\ngreet thee to-day, nor must thou greet him.\"\n\n\"What a strange, sad man is he!\" said the child, as if speaking\npartly to herself.  \"In the dark nighttime he calls us to him,\nand holds thy hand and mine, as when we stood with him on the\nscaffold yonder!  And in the deep forest, where only the old\ntrees can hear, and the strip of sky see it, he talks with thee,\nsitting on a heap of moss!  And he kisses my forehead, too, so\nthat the little brook would hardly wash it off!  But, here, in\nthe sunny day, and among all the people, he knows us not; nor\nmust we know him!  A strange, sad man is he, with his hand always\nover his heart!\"\n\n\"Be quiet, Pearl--thou understandest not these things,\" said her\nmother.  \"Think not now of the minister, but look about thee, and\nsee how cheery is everybody's face to-day.  The children have\ncome from their schools, and the grown people from their\nworkshops and their fields, on purpose to be happy, for, to-day,\na new man is beginning to rule over them; and so--as has been\nthe custom of mankind ever since a nation was first\ngathered--they make merry and rejoice: as if a good and golden\nyear were at length to pass over the poor old world!\"\n\nIt was as Hester said, in regard to the unwonted jollity that\nbrightened the faces of the people.  Into this festal season of\nthe year--as it already was, and continued to be during the\ngreater part of two centuries--the Puritans compressed whatever\nmirth and public joy they deemed allowable to human infirmity;\nthereby so far dispelling the customary cloud, that, for the\nspace of a single holiday, they appeared scarcely more grave\nthan most other communities at a period of general affliction.\n\nBut we perhaps exaggerate the gray or sable tinge, which\nundoubtedly characterized the mood and manners of the age.  The\npersons now in the market-place of Boston had not been born to\nan inheritance of Puritanic gloom.  They were native Englishmen,\nwhose fathers had lived in the sunny richness of the Elizabethan\nepoch; a time when the life of England, viewed as one great\nmass, would appear to have been as stately, magnificent, and\njoyous, as the world has ever witnessed.  Had they followed their\nhereditary taste, the New England settlers would have\nillustrated all events of public importance by bonfires,\nbanquets, pageantries, and processions.  Nor would it have been\nimpracticable, in the observance of majestic ceremonies, to\ncombine mirthful recreation with solemnity, and give, as it\nwere, a grotesque and brilliant embroidery to the great robe of\nstate, which a nation, at such festivals, puts on.  There was\nsome shadow of an attempt of this kind in the mode of\ncelebrating the day on which the political year of the colony\ncommenced.  The dim reflection of a remembered splendour, a\ncolourless and manifold diluted repetition of what they had\nbeheld in proud old London--we will not say at a royal\ncoronation, but at a Lord Mayor's show--might be traced in the\ncustoms which our forefathers instituted, with reference to the\nannual installation of magistrates.  The fathers and founders of\nthe commonwealth--the statesman, the priest, and the\nsoldier--seemed it a duty then to assume the outward state and\nmajesty, which, in accordance with antique style, was looked\nupon as the proper garb of public and social eminence.  All came\nforth to move in procession before the people's eye, and thus\nimpart a needed dignity to the simple framework of a government\nso newly constructed.\n\nThen, too, the people were countenanced, if not encouraged, in\nrelaxing the severe and close application to their various modes\nof rugged industry, which at all other times, seemed of the same\npiece and material with their religion.  Here, it is true, were\nnone of the appliances which popular merriment would so readily\nhave found in the England of Elizabeth's time, or that of\nJames--no rude shows of a theatrical kind; no minstrel, with his\nharp and legendary ballad, nor gleeman with an ape dancing to\nhis music; no juggler, with his tricks of mimic witchcraft; no\nMerry Andrew, to stir up the multitude with jests, perhaps a\nhundred years old, but still effective, by their appeals to the\nvery broadest sources of mirthful sympathy.  All such professors\nof the several branches of jocularity would have been sternly\nrepressed, not only by the rigid discipline of law, but by the\ngeneral sentiment which give law its vitality.  Not the less,\nhowever, the great, honest face of the people smiled--grimly,\nperhaps, but widely too.  Nor were sports wanting, such as the\ncolonists had witnessed, and shared in, long ago, at the country\nfairs and on the village-greens of England; and which it was\nthought well to keep alive on this new soil, for the sake of the\ncourage and manliness that were essential in them.  Wrestling\nmatches, in the different fashions of Cornwall and Devonshire,\nwere seen here and there about the market-place; in one corner,\nthere was a friendly bout at quarterstaff; and--what attracted\nmost interest of all--on the platform of the pillory, already so\nnoted in our pages, two masters of defence were commencing an\nexhibition with the buckler and broadsword.  But, much to the\ndisappointment of the crowd, this latter business was broken off\nby the interposition of the town beadle, who had no idea of\npermitting the majesty of the law to be violated by such an\nabuse of one of its consecrated places.\n\nIt may not be too much to affirm, on the whole, (the people\nbeing then in the first stages of joyless deportment, and the\noffspring of sires who had known how to be merry, in their day),\nthat they would compare favourably, in point of holiday keeping,\nwith their descendants, even at so long an interval as\nourselves.  Their immediate posterity, the generation next to the\nearly emigrants, wore the blackest shade of Puritanism, and so\ndarkened the national visage with it, that all the subsequent\nyears have not sufficed to clear it up.  We have yet to learn\nagain the forgotten art of gaiety.\n\nThe picture of human life in the market-place, though its\ngeneral tint was the sad gray, brown, or black of the English\nemigrants, was yet enlivened by some diversity of hue.  A party\nof Indians--in their savage finery of curiously embroidered\ndeerskin robes, wampum-belts, red and yellow ochre, and\nfeathers, and armed with the bow and arrow and stone-headed\nspear--stood apart with countenances of inflexible gravity,\nbeyond what even the Puritan aspect could attain.  Nor, wild as\nwere these painted barbarians, were they the wildest feature of\nthe scene.  This distinction could more justly be claimed by some\nmariners--a part of the crew of the vessel from the Spanish\nMain--who had come ashore to see the humours of Election Day.\nThey were rough-looking desperadoes, with sun-blackened faces,\nand an immensity of beard; their wide short trousers were\nconfined about the waist by belts, often clasped with a rough\nplate of gold, and sustaining always a long knife, and in some\ninstances, a sword.  From beneath their broad-brimmed hats of\npalm-leaf, gleamed eyes which, even in good-nature and\nmerriment, had a kind of animal ferocity.  They transgressed\nwithout fear or scruple, the rules of behaviour that were\nbinding on all others: smoking tobacco under the beadle's very\nnose, although each whiff would have cost a townsman a shilling;\nand quaffing at their pleasure, draughts of wine or aqua-vitae\nfrom pocket flasks, which they freely tendered to the gaping\ncrowd around them.  It remarkably characterised the incomplete\nmorality of the age, rigid as we call it, that a licence was\nallowed the seafaring class, not merely for their freaks on\nshore, but for far more desperate deeds on their proper element.\nThe sailor of that day would go near to be arraigned as a pirate\nin our own.  There could be little doubt, for instance, that this\nvery ship's crew, though no unfavourable specimens of the\nnautical brotherhood, had been guilty, as we should phrase it,\nof depredations on the Spanish commerce, such as would have\nperilled all their necks in a modern court of justice.\n\nBut the sea in those old times heaved, swelled, and foamed very\nmuch at its own will, or subject only to the tempestuous wind,\nwith hardly any attempts at regulation by human law.  The\nbuccaneer on the wave might relinquish his calling and become at\nonce if he chose, a man of probity and piety on land; nor, even\nin the full career of his reckless life, was he regarded as a\npersonage with whom it was disreputable to traffic or casually\nassociate.  Thus the Puritan elders in their black cloaks,\nstarched bands, and steeple-crowned hats, smiled not\nunbenignantly at the clamour and rude deportment of these jolly\nseafaring men; and it excited neither surprise nor animadversion\nwhen so reputable a citizen as old Roger Chillingworth, the\nphysician, was seen to enter the market-place in close and\nfamiliar talk with the commander of the questionable vessel.\n\nThe latter was by far the most showy and gallant figure, so far\nas apparel went, anywhere to be seen among the multitude.  He\nwore a profusion of ribbons on his garment, and gold lace on his\nhat, which was also encircled by a gold chain, and surmounted\nwith a feather.  There was a sword at his side and a sword-cut on\nhis forehead, which, by the arrangement of his hair, he seemed\nanxious rather to display than hide.  A landsman could hardly\nhave worn this garb and shown this face, and worn and shown them\nboth with such a galliard air, without undergoing stern question\nbefore a magistrate, and probably incurring a fine or\nimprisonment, or perhaps an exhibition in the stocks.  As\nregarded the shipmaster, however, all was looked upon as\npertaining to the character, as to a fish his glistening scales.\n\nAfter parting from the physician, the commander of the Bristol\nship strolled idly through the market-place; until happening to\napproach the spot where Hester Prynne was standing, he appeared\nto recognise, and did not hesitate to address her.  As was\nusually the case wherever Hester stood, a small vacant area--a\nsort of magic circle--had formed itself about her, into which,\nthough the people were elbowing one another at a little\ndistance, none ventured or felt disposed to intrude.  It was a\nforcible type of the moral solitude in which the scarlet letter\nenveloped its fated wearer; partly by her own reserve, and\npartly by the instinctive, though no longer so unkindly,\nwithdrawal of her fellow-creatures.  Now, if never before, it\nanswered a good purpose by enabling Hester and the seaman to\nspeak together without risk of being overheard; and so changed\nwas Hester Prynne's repute before the public, that the matron in\ntown, most eminent for rigid morality, could not have held such\nintercourse with less result of scandal than herself.\n\n\"So, mistress,\" said the mariner, \"I must bid the steward make\nready one more berth than you bargained for!  No fear of scurvy\nor ship fever this voyage.  What with the ship's surgeon and this\nother doctor, our only danger will be from drug or pill; more by\ntoken, as there is a lot of apothecary's stuff aboard, which I\ntraded for with a Spanish vessel.\"\n\n\"What mean you?\" inquired Hester, startled more than she\npermitted to appear.  \"Have you another passenger?\"\n\n\"Why, know you not,\" cried the shipmaster, \"that this physician\nhere--Chillingworth he calls himself--is minded to try my\ncabin-fare with you?  Ay, ay, you must have known it; for he\ntells me he is of your party, and a close friend to the\ngentleman you spoke of--he that is in peril from these sour old\nPuritan rulers.\"\n\n\"They know each other well, indeed,\" replied Hester, with a mien\nof calmness, though in the utmost consternation.  \"They have long\ndwelt together.\"\n\nNothing further passed between the mariner and Hester Prynne.\nBut at that instant she beheld old Roger Chillingworth himself,\nstanding in the remotest corner of the market-place and smiling\non her; a smile which--across the wide and bustling square, and\nthrough all the talk and laughter, and various thoughts, moods,\nand interests of the crowd--conveyed secret and fearful meaning.\n\n\n\nXXII.  THE PROCESSION\n\nBefore Hester Prynne could call together her thoughts, and\nconsider what was practicable to be done in this new and\nstartling aspect of affairs, the sound of military music was\nheard approaching along a contiguous street.  It denoted the\nadvance of the procession of magistrates and citizens on its way\ntowards the meeting-house: where, in compliance with a custom\nthus early established, and ever since observed, the Reverend\nMr. Dimmesdale was to deliver an Election Sermon.\n\nSoon the head of the procession showed itself, with a slow and\nstately march, turning a corner, and making its way across the\nmarket-place.  First came the music.  It comprised a variety of\ninstruments, perhaps imperfectly adapted to one another, and\nplayed with no great skill; but yet attaining the great object\nfor which the harmony of drum and clarion addresses itself to\nthe multitude--that of imparting a higher and more heroic air to\nthe scene of life that passes before the eye.  Little Pearl at\nfirst clapped her hands, but then lost for an instant the\nrestless agitation that had kept her in a continual\neffervescence throughout the morning; she gazed silently, and\nseemed to be borne upward like a floating sea-bird on the long\nheaves and swells of sound.  But she was brought back to her\nformer mood by the shimmer of the sunshine on the weapons and\nbright armour of the military company, which followed after the\nmusic, and formed the honorary escort of the procession.  This\nbody of soldiery--which still sustains a corporate existence,\nand marches down from past ages with an ancient and honourable\nfame--was composed of no mercenary materials.  Its ranks were\nfilled with gentlemen who felt the stirrings of martial impulse,\nand sought to establish a kind of College of Arms, where, as in\nan association of Knights Templars, they might learn the\nscience, and, so far as peaceful exercise would teach them, the\npractices of war.  The high estimation then placed upon the\nmilitary character might be seen in the lofty port of each\nindividual member of the company.  Some of them, indeed, by their\nservices in the Low Countries and on other fields of European\nwarfare, had fairly won their title to assume the name and pomp\nof soldiership.  The entire array, moreover, clad in burnished\nsteel, and with plumage nodding over their bright morions, had a\nbrilliancy of effect which no modern display can aspire to\nequal.\n\nAnd yet the men of civil eminence, who came immediately behind\nthe military escort, were better worth a thoughtful observer's\neye.  Even in outward demeanour they showed a stamp of majesty\nthat made the warrior's haughty stride look vulgar, if not\nabsurd.  It was an age when what we call talent had far less\nconsideration than now, but the massive materials which produce\nstability and dignity of character a great deal more.  The people\npossessed by hereditary right the quality of reverence, which,\nin their descendants, if it survive at all, exists in smaller\nproportion, and with a vastly diminished force in the selection\nand estimate of public men.  The change may be for good or ill,\nand is partly, perhaps, for both.  In that old day the English\nsettler on these rude shores--having left king, nobles, and all\ndegrees of awful rank behind, while still the faculty and\nnecessity of reverence was strong in him--bestowed it on the\nwhite hair and venerable brow of age--on long-tried\nintegrity--on solid wisdom and sad-coloured experience--on\nendowments of that grave and weighty order which gave the idea\nof permanence, and comes under the general definition of\nrespectability.  These primitive statesmen,\ntherefore--Bradstreet, Endicott, Dudley, Bellingham, and their\ncompeers--who were elevated to power by the early choice of the\npeople, seem to have been not often brilliant, but distinguished\nby a ponderous sobriety, rather than activity of intellect.  They\nhad fortitude and self-reliance, and in time of difficulty or\nperil stood up for the welfare of the state like a line of\ncliffs against a tempestuous tide.  The traits of character here\nindicated were well represented in the square cast of\ncountenance and large physical development of the new colonial\nmagistrates.  So far as a demeanour of natural authority was\nconcerned, the mother country need not have been ashamed to see\nthese foremost men of an actual democracy adopted into the House\nof Peers, or make the Privy Council of the Sovereign.\n\nNext in order to the magistrates came the young and eminently\ndistinguished divine, from whose lips the religious discourse of\nthe anniversary was expected.  His was the profession at that era\nin which intellectual ability displayed itself far more than in\npolitical life; for--leaving a higher motive out of the question\nit offered inducements powerful enough in the almost worshipping\nrespect of the community, to win the most aspiring ambition into\nits service.  Even political power--as in the case of Increase\nMather--was within the grasp of a successful priest.\n\nIt was the observation of those who beheld him now, that never,\nsince Mr. Dimmesdale first set his foot on the New England\nshore, had he exhibited such energy as was seen in the gait and\nair with which he kept his pace in the procession.  There was no\nfeebleness of step as at other times; his frame was not bent,\nnor did his hand rest ominously upon his heart.  Yet, if the\nclergyman were rightly viewed, his strength seemed not of the\nbody.  It might be spiritual and imparted to him by angelical\nministrations.  It might be the exhilaration of that potent\ncordial which is distilled only in the furnace-glow of earnest\nand long-continued thought.  Or perchance his sensitive\ntemperament was invigorated by the loud and piercing music that\nswelled heaven-ward, and uplifted him on its ascending wave.\nNevertheless, so abstracted was his look, it might be questioned\nwhether Mr. Dimmesdale even heard the music.  There was his body,\nmoving onward, and with an unaccustomed force.  But where was his\nmind?  Far and deep in its own region, busying itself, with\npreternatural activity, to marshal a procession of stately\nthoughts that were soon to issue thence; and so he saw nothing,\nheard nothing, knew nothing of what was around him; but the\nspiritual element took up the feeble frame and carried it along,\nunconscious of the burden, and converting it to spirit like\nitself.  Men of uncommon intellect, who have grown morbid,\npossess this occasional power of mighty effort, into which they\nthrow the life of many days and then are lifeless for as many\nmore.\n\nHester Prynne, gazing steadfastly at the clergyman, felt a\ndreary influence come over her, but wherefore or whence she knew\nnot, unless that he seemed so remote from her own sphere, and\nutterly beyond her reach.  One glance of recognition she had\nimagined must needs pass between them.  She thought of the dim\nforest, with its little dell of solitude, and love, and anguish,\nand the mossy tree-trunk, where, sitting hand-in-hand, they had\nmingled their sad and passionate talk with the melancholy murmur\nof the brook.  How deeply had they known each other then!  And was\nthis the man?  She hardly knew him now!  He, moving proudly past,\nenveloped as it were, in the rich music, with the procession of\nmajestic and venerable fathers; he, so unattainable in his\nworldly position, and still more so in that far vista of his\nunsympathizing thoughts, through which she now beheld him!  Her\nspirit sank with the idea that all must have been a delusion,\nand that, vividly as she had dreamed it, there could be no real\nbond betwixt the clergyman and herself.  And thus much of woman\nwas there in Hester, that she could scarcely forgive him--least\nof all now, when the heavy footstep of their approaching Fate\nmight be heard, nearer, nearer, nearer!--for being able so\ncompletely to withdraw himself from their mutual world--while\nshe groped darkly, and stretched forth her cold hands, and found\nhim not.\n\nPearl either saw and responded to her mother's feelings, or\nherself felt the remoteness and intangibility that had fallen\naround the minister.  While the procession passed, the child was\nuneasy, fluttering up and down, like a bird on the point of\ntaking flight.  When the whole had gone by, she looked up into\nHester's face--\n\n\"Mother,\" said she, \"was that the same minister that kissed me\nby the brook?\"\n\n\"Hold thy peace, dear little Pearl!\" whispered her mother.  \"We\nmust not always talk in the marketplace of what happens to us in\nthe forest.\"\n\n\"I could not be sure that it was he--so strange he looked,\"\ncontinued the child.  \"Else I would have run to him, and bid him\nkiss me now, before all the people, even as he did yonder among\nthe dark old trees.  What would the minister have said, mother?\nWould he have clapped his hand over his heart, and scowled on\nme, and bid me begone?\"\n\n\"What should he say, Pearl,\" answered Hester, \"save that it was\nno time to kiss, and that kisses are not to be given in the\nmarket-place?  Well for thee, foolish child, that thou didst not\nspeak to him!\"\n\nAnother shade of the same sentiment, in reference to Mr.\nDimmesdale, was expressed by a person whose\neccentricities--insanity, as we should term it--led her to do\nwhat few of the townspeople would have ventured on--to begin a\nconversation with the wearer of the scarlet letter in public.  It\nwas Mistress Hibbins, who, arrayed in great magnificence, with a\ntriple ruff, a broidered stomacher, a gown of rich velvet, and a\ngold-headed cane, had come forth to see the procession.  As this\nancient lady had the renown (which subsequently cost her no less\na price than her life) of being a principal actor in all the\nworks of necromancy that were continually going forward, the\ncrowd gave way before her, and seemed to fear the touch of her\ngarment, as if it carried the plague among its gorgeous folds.\nSeen in conjunction with Hester Prynne--kindly as so many now\nfelt towards the latter--the dread inspired by Mistress Hibbins\nhad doubled, and caused a general movement from that part of the\nmarket-place in which the two women stood.\n\n\"Now, what mortal imagination could conceive it?\" whispered the\nold lady confidentially to Hester.  \"Yonder divine man!  That\nsaint on earth, as the people uphold him to be, and as--I must\nneeds say--he really looks!  Who, now, that saw him pass in the\nprocession, would think how little while it is since he went\nforth out of his study--chewing a Hebrew text of Scripture in\nhis mouth, I warrant--to take an airing in the forest!  Aha! we\nknow what that means, Hester Prynne!  But truly, forsooth, I find\nit hard to believe him the same man.  Many a church member saw I,\nwalking behind the music, that has danced in the same measure\nwith me, when Somebody was fiddler, and, it might be, an Indian\npowwow or a Lapland wizard changing hands with us!  That is but a\ntrifle, when a woman knows the world.  But this minister.  Couldst\nthou surely tell, Hester, whether he was the same man that\nencountered thee on the forest path?\"\n\n\"Madam, I know not of what you speak,\" answered Hester Prynne,\nfeeling Mistress Hibbins to be of infirm mind; yet strangely\nstartled and awe-stricken by the confidence with which she\naffirmed a personal connexion between so many persons (herself\namong them) and the Evil One.  \"It is not for me to talk lightly\nof a learned and pious minister of the Word, like the Reverend\nMr. Dimmesdale.\"\n\n\"Fie, woman--fie!\" cried the old lady, shaking her finger at\nHester.  \"Dost thou think I have been to the forest so many\ntimes, and have yet no skill to judge who else has been there?\nYea, though no leaf of the wild garlands which they wore while\nthey danced be left in their hair!  I know thee, Hester, for I\nbehold the token.  We may all see it in the sunshine! and it\nglows like a red flame in the dark.  Thou wearest it openly, so\nthere need be no question about that.  But this minister!  Let me\ntell thee in thine ear!  When the Black Man sees one of his own\nservants, signed and sealed, so shy of owning to the bond as is\nthe Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, he hath a way of ordering matters\nso that the mark shall be disclosed, in open daylight, to the\neyes of all the world!  What is that the minister seeks to hide,\nwith his hand always over his heart?  Ha, Hester Prynne?\"\n\n\"What is it, good Mistress Hibbins?\" eagerly asked little Pearl.\n\"Hast thou seen it?\"\n\n\"No matter, darling!\" responded Mistress Hibbins, making Pearl a\nprofound reverence.  \"Thou thyself wilt see it, one time or\nanother.  They say, child, thou art of the lineage of the Prince\nof Air!  Wilt thou ride with me some fine night to see thy\nfather?  Then thou shalt know wherefore the minister keeps his\nhand over his heart!\"\n\nLaughing so shrilly that all the market-place could hear her,\nthe weird old gentlewoman took her departure.\n\nBy this time the preliminary prayer had been offered in the\nmeeting-house, and the accents of the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale\nwere heard commencing his discourse.  An irresistible feeling\nkept Hester near the spot.  As the sacred edifice was too much\nthronged to admit another auditor, she took up her position\nclose beside the scaffold of the pillory.  It was in sufficient\nproximity to bring the whole sermon to her ears, in the shape of\nan indistinct but varied murmur and flow of the minister's very\npeculiar voice.\n\nThis vocal organ was in itself a rich endowment, insomuch that a\nlistener, comprehending nothing of the language in which the\npreacher spoke, might still have been swayed to and fro by the\nmere tone and cadence.  Like all other music, it breathed passion\nand pathos, and emotions high or tender, in a tongue native to\nthe human heart, wherever educated.  Muffled as the sound was by\nits passage through the church walls, Hester Prynne listened\nwith such intenseness, and sympathized so intimately, that the\nsermon had throughout a meaning for her, entirely apart from its\nindistinguishable words.  These, perhaps, if more distinctly\nheard, might have been only a grosser medium, and have clogged\nthe spiritual sense.  Now she caught the low undertone, as of the\nwind sinking down to repose itself; then ascended with it, as it\nrose through progressive gradations of sweetness and power,\nuntil its volume seemed to envelop her with an atmosphere of awe\nand solemn grandeur.  And yet, majestic as the voice sometimes\nbecame, there was for ever in it an essential character of\nplaintiveness.  A loud or low expression of anguish--the whisper,\nor the shriek, as it might be conceived, of suffering humanity,\nthat touched a sensibility in every bosom!  At times this deep\nstrain of pathos was all that could be heard, and scarcely heard\nsighing amid a desolate silence.  But even when the minister's\nvoice grew high and commanding--when it gushed irrepressibly\nupward--when it assumed its utmost breadth and power, so\noverfilling the church as to burst its way through the solid\nwalls, and diffuse itself in the open air--still, if the auditor\nlistened intently, and for the purpose, he could detect the same\ncry of pain.  What was it?  The complaint of a human heart,\nsorrow-laden, perchance guilty, telling its secret, whether of\nguilt or sorrow, to the great heart of mankind; beseeching its\nsympathy or forgiveness,--at every moment,--in each accent,--and\nnever in vain!  It was this profound and continual undertone that\ngave the clergyman his most appropriate power.\n\nDuring all this time, Hester stood, statue-like, at the foot of\nthe scaffold.  If the minister's voice had not kept her there,\nthere would, nevertheless, have been an inevitable magnetism in\nthat spot, whence she dated the first hour of her life of\nignominy.  There was a sense within her--too ill-defined to be\nmade a thought, but weighing heavily on her mind--that her whole\norb of life, both before and after, was connected with this\nspot, as with the one point that gave it unity.\n\nLittle Pearl, meanwhile, had quitted her mother's side, and was\nplaying at her own will about the market-place.  She made the\nsombre crowd cheerful by her erratic and glistening ray, even as\na bird of bright plumage illuminates a whole tree of dusky\nfoliage by darting to and fro, half seen and half concealed amid\nthe twilight of the clustering leaves.  She had an undulating,\nbut oftentimes a sharp and irregular movement.  It indicated the\nrestless vivacity of her spirit, which to-day was doubly\nindefatigable in its tip-toe dance, because it was played upon\nand vibrated with her mother's disquietude.  Whenever Pearl saw\nanything to excite her ever active and wandering curiosity, she\nflew thitherward, and, as we might say, seized upon that man or\nthing as her own property, so far as she desired it, but without\nyielding the minutest degree of control over her motions in\nrequital.  The Puritans looked on, and, if they smiled, were none\nthe less inclined to pronounce the child a demon offspring, from\nthe indescribable charm of beauty and eccentricity that shone\nthrough her little figure, and sparkled with its activity.  She\nran and looked the wild Indian in the face, and he grew\nconscious of a nature wilder than his own.  Thence, with native\naudacity, but still with a reserve as characteristic, she flew\ninto the midst of a group of mariners, the swarthy-cheeked wild\nmen of the ocean, as the Indians were of the land; and they\ngazed wonderingly and admiringly at Pearl, as if a flake of the\nsea-foam had taken the shape of a little maid, and were gifted\nwith a soul of the sea-fire, that flashes beneath the prow in\nthe night-time.\n\nOne of these seafaring men the shipmaster, indeed, who had\nspoken to Hester Prynne was so smitten with Pearl's aspect, that\nhe attempted to lay hands upon her, with purpose to snatch a\nkiss.  Finding it as impossible to touch her as to catch a\nhumming-bird in the air, he took from his hat the gold chain\nthat was twisted about it, and threw it to the child.  Pearl\nimmediately twined it around her neck and waist with such happy\nskill, that, once seen there, it became a part of her, and it\nwas difficult to imagine her without it.\n\n\"Thy mother is yonder woman with the scarlet letter,\" said the\nseaman, \"Wilt thou carry her a message from me?\"\n\n\"If the message pleases me, I will,\" answered Pearl.\n\n\"Then tell her,\" rejoined he, \"that I spake again with the\nblack-a-visaged, hump shouldered old doctor, and he engages to\nbring his friend, the gentleman she wots of, aboard with him.  So\nlet thy mother take no thought, save for herself and thee.  Wilt\nthou tell her this, thou witch-baby?\"\n\n\"Mistress Hibbins says my father is the Prince of the Air!\"\ncried Pearl, with a naughty smile.  \"If thou callest me that\nill-name, I shall tell him of thee, and he will chase thy ship\nwith a tempest!\"\n\nPursuing a zigzag course across the marketplace, the child\nreturned to her mother, and communicated what the mariner had\nsaid.  Hester's strong, calm steadfastly-enduring spirit almost\nsank, at last, on beholding this dark and grim countenance of an\ninevitable doom, which at the moment when a passage seemed to\nopen for the minister and herself out of their labyrinth of\nmisery--showed itself with an unrelenting smile, right in the\nmidst of their path.\n\nWith her mind harassed by the terrible perplexity in which the\nshipmaster's intelligence involved her, she was also subjected\nto another trial.  There were many people present from the\ncountry round about, who had often heard of the scarlet letter,\nand to whom it had been made terrific by a hundred false or\nexaggerated rumours, but who had never beheld it with their own\nbodily eyes.  These, after exhausting other modes of amusement,\nnow thronged about Hester Prynne with rude and boorish\nintrusiveness.  Unscrupulous as it was, however, it could not\nbring them nearer than a circuit of several yards.  At that\ndistance they accordingly stood, fixed there by the centrifugal\nforce of the repugnance which the mystic symbol inspired.  The\nwhole gang of sailors, likewise, observing the press of\nspectators, and learning the purport of the scarlet letter, came\nand thrust their sunburnt and desperado-looking faces into the\nring.  Even the Indians were affected by a sort of cold shadow of\nthe white man's curiosity and, gliding through the crowd,\nfastened their snake-like black eyes on Hester's bosom,\nconceiving, perhaps, that the wearer of this brilliantly\nembroidered badge must needs be a personage of high dignity\namong her people.  Lastly, the inhabitants of the town (their own\ninterest in this worn-out subject languidly reviving itself, by\nsympathy with what they saw others feel) lounged idly to the\nsame quarter, and tormented Hester Prynne, perhaps more than all\nthe rest, with their cool, well-acquainted gaze at her familiar\nshame.  Hester saw and recognized the selfsame faces of that\ngroup of matrons, who had awaited her forthcoming from the\nprison-door seven years ago; all save one, the youngest and only\ncompassionate among them, whose burial-robe she had since made.\nAt the final hour, when she was so soon to fling aside the\nburning letter, it had strangely become the centre of more\nremark and excitement, and was thus made to sear her breast more\npainfully, than at any time since the first day she put it on.\n\nWhile Hester stood in that magic circle of ignominy, where the\ncunning cruelty of her sentence seemed to have fixed her for\never, the admirable preacher was looking down from the sacred\npulpit upon an audience whose very inmost spirits had yielded to\nhis control.  The sainted minister in the church!  The woman of\nthe scarlet letter in the marketplace!  What imagination would\nhave been irreverent enough to surmise that the same scorching\nstigma was on them both!\n\n\n\nXXIII.   THE REVELATION OF THE SCARLET LETTER\n\n\nThe eloquent voice, on which the souls of the listening audience\nhad been borne aloft as on the swelling waves of the sea, at\nlength came to a pause.  There was a momentary silence, profound\nas what should follow the utterance of oracles.  Then ensued a\nmurmur and half-hushed tumult, as if the auditors, released from\nthe high spell that had transported them into the region of\nanother's mind, were returning into themselves, with all their\nawe and wonder still heavy on them.  In a moment more the crowd\nbegan to gush forth from the doors of the church.  Now that there\nwas an end, they needed more breath, more fit to support the\ngross and earthly life into which they relapsed, than that\natmosphere which the preacher had converted into words of flame,\nand had burdened with the rich fragrance of his thought.\n\nIn the open air their rapture broke into speech.  The street and\nthe market-place absolutely babbled, from side to side, with\napplauses of the minister.  His hearers could not rest until they\nhad told one another of what each knew better than he could tell\nor hear.\n\nAccording to their united testimony, never had man spoken in so\nwise, so high, and so holy a spirit, as he that spake this day;\nnor had inspiration ever breathed through mortal lips more\nevidently than it did through his.  Its influence could be seen,\nas it were, descending upon him, and possessing him, and\ncontinually lifting him out of the written discourse that lay\nbefore him, and filling him with ideas that must have been as\nmarvellous to himself as to his audience.  His subject, it\nappeared, had been the relation between the Deity and the\ncommunities of mankind, with a special reference to the New\nEngland which they were here planting in the wilderness.  And, as\nhe drew towards the close, a spirit as of prophecy had come upon\nhim, constraining him to its purpose as mightily as the old\nprophets of Israel were constrained, only with this difference,\nthat, whereas the Jewish seers had denounced judgments and ruin\non their country, it was his mission to foretell a high and\nglorious destiny for the newly gathered people of the Lord.  But,\nthroughout it all, and through the whole discourse, there had\nbeen a certain deep, sad undertone of pathos, which could not be\ninterpreted otherwise than as the natural regret of one soon to\npass away.  Yes; their minister whom they so loved--and who so\nloved them all, that he could not depart heavenward without a\nsigh--had the foreboding of untimely death upon him, and would\nsoon leave them in their tears.  This idea of his transitory stay\non earth gave the last emphasis to the effect which the preacher\nhad produced; it was as if an angel, in his passage to the skies,\nhad shaken his bright wings over the people for an instant--at\nonce a shadow and a splendour--and had shed down a shower of\ngolden truths upon them.\n\nThus, there had come to the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale--as to most\nmen, in their various spheres, though seldom recognised until\nthey see it far behind them--an epoch of life more brilliant and\nfull of triumph than any previous one, or than any which could\nhereafter be.  He stood, at this moment, on the very proudest\neminence of superiority, to which the gifts or intellect, rich\nlore, prevailing eloquence, and a reputation of whitest\nsanctity, could exalt a clergyman in New England's earliest\ndays, when the professional character was of itself a lofty\npedestal.  Such was the position which the minister occupied, as\nhe bowed his head forward on the cushions of the pulpit at the\nclose of his Election Sermon.  Meanwhile Hester Prynne was\nstanding beside the scaffold of the pillory, with the scarlet\nletter still burning on her breast!\n\nNow was heard again the clamour of the music, and the measured\ntramp of the military escort issuing from the church door.  The\nprocession was to be marshalled thence to the town hall, where a\nsolemn banquet would complete the ceremonies of the day.\n\nOnce more, therefore, the train of venerable and majestic\nfathers were seen moving through a broad pathway of the people,\nwho drew back reverently, on either side, as the Governor and\nmagistrates, the old and wise men, the holy ministers, and all\nthat were eminent and renowned, advanced into the midst of them.\nWhen they were fairly in the marketplace, their presence was\ngreeted by a shout.  This--though doubtless it might acquire\nadditional force and volume from the child-like loyalty which\nthe age awarded to its rulers--was felt to be an irrepressible\noutburst of enthusiasm kindled in the auditors by that high\nstrain of eloquence which was yet reverberating in their ears.\nEach felt the impulse in himself, and in the same breath, caught\nit from his neighbour.  Within the church, it had hardly been\nkept down; beneath the sky it pealed upward to the zenith.  There\nwere human beings enough, and enough of highly wrought and\nsymphonious feeling to produce that more impressive sound than\nthe organ tones of the blast, or the thunder, or the roar of the\nsea; even that mighty swell of many voices, blended into one\ngreat voice by the universal impulse which makes likewise one\nvast heart out of the many.  Never, from the soil of New England\nhad gone up such a shout!  Never, on New England soil had stood\nthe man so honoured by his mortal brethren as the preacher!\n\nHow fared it with him, then?  Were there not the brilliant\nparticles of a halo in the air about his head?  So etherealised\nby spirit as he was, and so apotheosised by worshipping\nadmirers, did his footsteps, in the procession, really tread\nupon the dust of earth?\n\nAs the ranks of military men and civil fathers moved onward, all\neyes were turned towards the point where the minister was seen\nto approach among them.  The shout died into a murmur, as one\nportion of the crowd after another obtained a glimpse of him.\nHow feeble and pale he looked, amid all his triumph!  The\nenergy--or say, rather, the inspiration which had held him up,\nuntil he should have delivered the sacred message that had\nbrought its own strength along with it from heaven--was\nwithdrawn, now that it had so faithfully performed its office.\nThe glow, which they had just before beheld burning on his\ncheek, was extinguished, like a flame that sinks down hopelessly\namong the late decaying embers.  It seemed hardly the face of a\nman alive, with such a death-like hue: it was hardly a man with\nlife in him, that tottered on his path so nervously, yet\ntottered, and did not fall!\n\nOne of his clerical brethren--it was the venerable John\nWilson--observing the state in which Mr. Dimmesdale was left by\nthe retiring wave of intellect and sensibility, stepped forward\nhastily to offer his support.  The minister tremulously, but\ndecidedly, repelled the old man's arm.  He still walked onward,\nif that movement could be so described, which rather resembled\nthe wavering effort of an infant, with its mother's arms in\nview, outstretched to tempt him forward.  And now, almost\nimperceptible as were the latter steps of his progress, he had\ncome opposite the well-remembered and weather-darkened scaffold,\nwhere, long since, with all that dreary lapse of time between,\nHester Prynne had encountered the world's ignominious stare.\nThere stood Hester, holding little Pearl by the hand!  And there\nwas the scarlet letter on her breast!  The minister here made a\npause; although the music still played the stately and rejoicing\nmarch to which the procession moved.  It summoned him\nonward--inward to the festival!--but here he made a pause.\n\nBellingham, for the last few moments, had kept an anxious eye\nupon him.  He now left his own place in the procession, and\nadvanced to give assistance judging, from Mr. Dimmesdale's\naspect that he must otherwise inevitably fall.  But there was\nsomething in the latter's expression that warned back the\nmagistrate, although a man not readily obeying the vague\nintimations that pass from one spirit to another.  The crowd,\nmeanwhile, looked on with awe and wonder.  This earthly\nfaintness, was, in their view, only another phase of the\nminister's celestial strength; nor would it have seemed a\nmiracle too high to be wrought for one so holy, had he ascended\nbefore their eyes, waxing dimmer and brighter, and fading at\nlast into the light of heaven!\n\nHe turned towards the scaffold, and stretched forth his arms.\n\n\"Hester,\" said he, \"come hither!  Come, my little Pearl!\"\n\nIt was a ghastly look with which he regarded them; but there was\nsomething at once tender and strangely triumphant in it.  The\nchild, with the bird-like motion, which was one of her\ncharacteristics, flew to him, and clasped her arms about his\nknees.  Hester Prynne--slowly, as if impelled by inevitable fate,\nand against her strongest will--likewise drew near, but paused\nbefore she reached him.  At this instant old Roger Chillingworth\nthrust himself through the crowd--or, perhaps, so dark,\ndisturbed, and evil was his look, he rose up out of some nether\nregion--to snatch back his victim from what he sought to do!  Be\nthat as it might, the old man rushed forward, and caught the\nminister by the arm.\n\n\"Madman, hold!  what is your purpose?\" whispered he.  \"Wave back\nthat woman!  Cast off this child!  All shall be well!  Do not\nblacken your fame, and perish in dishonour!  I can yet save you!\nWould you bring infamy on your sacred profession?\"\n\n\"Ha, tempter!  Methinks thou art too late!\" answered the\nminister, encountering his eye, fearfully, but firmly.  \"Thy\npower is not what it was!  With God's help, I shall escape thee\nnow!\"\n\nHe again extended his hand to the woman of the scarlet letter.\n\n\"Hester Prynne,\" cried he, with a piercing earnestness, \"in the\nname of Him, so terrible and so merciful, who gives me grace, at\nthis last moment, to do what--for my own heavy sin and miserable\nagony--I withheld myself from doing seven years ago, come hither\nnow, and twine thy strength about me!  Thy strength, Hester; but\nlet it be guided by the will which God hath granted me!  This\nwretched and wronged old man is opposing it with all his\nmight!--with all his own might, and the fiend's!  Come,\nHester--come!  Support me up yonder scaffold.\"\n\nThe crowd was in a tumult.  The men of rank and dignity, who\nstood more immediately around the clergyman, were so taken by\nsurprise, and so perplexed as to the purport of what they\nsaw--unable to receive the explanation which most readily\npresented itself, or to imagine any other--that they remained\nsilent and inactive spectators of the judgement which Providence\nseemed about to work.  They beheld the minister, leaning on\nHester's shoulder, and supported by her arm around him, approach\nthe scaffold, and ascend its steps; while still the little hand\nof the sin-born child was clasped in his.  Old Roger\nChillingworth followed, as one intimately connected with the\ndrama of guilt and sorrow in which they had all been actors, and\nwell entitled, therefore to be present at its closing scene.\n\n\"Hadst thou sought the whole earth over,\" said he looking darkly\nat the clergyman, \"there was no one place so secret--no high\nplace nor lowly place, where thou couldst have escaped me--save\non this very scaffold!\"\n\n\"Thanks be to Him who hath led me hither!\" answered the\nminister.\n\nYet he trembled, and turned to Hester, with an expression of\ndoubt and anxiety in his eyes, not the less evidently betrayed,\nthat there was a feeble smile upon his lips.\n\n\"Is not this better,\" murmured he, \"than what we dreamed of in\nthe forest?\"\n\n\"I know not!  I know not!\" she hurriedly replied.  \"Better?  Yea;\nso we may both die, and little Pearl die with us!\"\n\n\"For thee and Pearl, be it as God shall order,\" said the\nminister; \"and God is merciful!  Let me now do the will which He\nhath made plain before my sight.  For, Hester, I am a dying man.\nSo let me make haste to take my shame upon me!\"\n\nPartly supported by Hester Prynne, and holding one hand of\nlittle Pearl's, the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale turned to the\ndignified and venerable rulers; to the holy ministers, who were\nhis brethren; to the people, whose great heart was thoroughly\nappalled yet overflowing with tearful sympathy, as knowing that\nsome deep life-matter--which, if full of sin, was full of\nanguish and repentance likewise--was now to be laid open to\nthem.  The sun, but little past its meridian, shone down upon the\nclergyman, and gave a distinctness to his figure, as he stood\nout from all the earth, to put in his plea of guilty at the bar\nof Eternal Justice.\n\n\"People of New England!\" cried he, with a voice that rose over\nthem, high, solemn, and majestic--yet had always a tremor\nthrough it, and sometimes a shriek, struggling up out of a\nfathomless depth of remorse and woe--\"ye, that have loved\nme!--ye, that have deemed me holy!--behold me here, the one\nsinner of the world!  At last--at last!--I stand upon the spot\nwhere, seven years since, I should have stood, here, with this\nwoman, whose arm, more than the little strength wherewith I have\ncrept hitherward, sustains me at this dreadful moment, from\ngrovelling down upon my face!  Lo, the scarlet letter which\nHester wears!  Ye have all shuddered at it!  Wherever her walk\nhath been--wherever, so miserably burdened, she may have hoped\nto find repose--it hath cast a lurid gleam of awe and horrible\nrepugnance round about her.  But there stood one in the midst of\nyou, at whose brand of sin and infamy ye have not shuddered!\"\n\nIt seemed, at this point, as if the minister must leave the\nremainder of his secret undisclosed.  But he fought back the\nbodily weakness--and, still more, the faintness of heart--that\nwas striving for the mastery with him.  He threw off all\nassistance, and stepped passionately forward a pace before the\nwoman and the children.\n\n\"It was on him!\" he continued, with a kind of fierceness; so\ndetermined was he to speak out the whole.  \"God's eye beheld it!\nThe angels were for ever pointing at it! (The Devil knew it\nwell, and fretted it continually with the touch of his burning\nfinger!) But he hid it cunningly from men, and walked among you\nwith the mien of a spirit, mournful, because so pure in a sinful\nworld!--and sad, because he missed his heavenly kindred!  Now, at\nthe death-hour, he stands up before you!  He bids you look again\nat Hester's scarlet letter!  He tells you, that, with all its\nmysterious horror, it is but the shadow of what he bears on his\nown breast, and that even this, his own red stigma, is no more\nthan the type of what has seared his inmost heart!  Stand any\nhere that question God's judgment on a sinner!  Behold!  Behold,\na dreadful witness of it!\"\n\nWith a convulsive motion, he tore away the ministerial band from\nbefore his breast.  It was revealed!  But it were irreverent to\ndescribe that revelation.  For an instant, the gaze of the\nhorror-stricken multitude was concentrated on the ghastly\nmiracle; while the minister stood, with a flush of triumph in\nhis face, as one who, in the crisis of acutest pain, had won a\nvictory.  Then, down he sank upon the scaffold!  Hester partly\nraised him, and supported his head against her bosom.  Old Roger\nChillingworth knelt down beside him, with a blank, dull\ncountenance, out of which the life seemed to have departed.\n\n\"Thou hast escaped me!\" he repeated more than once.  \"Thou hast\nescaped me!\"\n\n\"May God forgive thee!\" said the minister.  \"Thou, too, hast\ndeeply sinned!\"\n\nHe withdrew his dying eyes from the old man, and fixed them on\nthe woman and the child.\n\n\"My little Pearl,\" said he, feebly and there was a sweet and\ngentle smile over his face, as of a spirit sinking into deep\nrepose; nay, now that the burden was removed, it seemed almost\nas if he would be sportive with the child--\"dear little Pearl,\nwilt thou kiss me now?  Thou wouldst not, yonder, in the forest!\nBut now thou wilt?\"\n\nPearl kissed his lips.  A spell was broken.  The great scene of\ngrief, in which the wild infant bore a part had developed all\nher sympathies; and as her tears fell upon her father's cheek,\nthey were the pledge that she would grow up amid human joy and\nsorrow, nor forever do battle with the world, but be a woman in\nit.  Towards her mother, too, Pearl's errand as a messenger of\nanguish was fulfilled.\n\n\"Hester,\" said the clergyman, \"farewell!\"\n\n\"Shall we not meet again?\" whispered she, bending her face down\nclose to his.  \"Shall we not spend our immortal life together?\nSurely, surely, we have ransomed one another, with all this woe!\nThou lookest far into eternity, with those bright dying eyes!\nThen tell me what thou seest!\"\n\n\"Hush, Hester--hush!\" said he, with tremulous solemnity.  \"The\nlaw we broke!--the sin here awfully revealed!--let these alone\nbe in thy thoughts!  I fear!  I fear!  It may be, that, when we\nforgot our God--when we violated our reverence each for the\nother's soul--it was thenceforth vain to hope that we could meet\nhereafter, in an everlasting and pure reunion.  God knows; and He\nis merciful!  He hath proved his mercy, most of all, in my\nafflictions.  By giving me this burning torture to bear upon my\nbreast!  By sending yonder dark and terrible old man, to keep the\ntorture always at red-heat!  By bringing me hither, to die this\ndeath of triumphant ignominy before the people!  Had either of\nthese agonies been wanting, I had been lost for ever!  Praised be\nHis name!  His will be done!  Farewell!\"\n\nThat final word came forth with the minister's expiring breath.\nThe multitude, silent till then, broke out in a strange, deep\nvoice of awe and wonder, which could not as yet find utterance,\nsave in this murmur that rolled so heavily after the departed\nspirit.\n\n\n\nXXIV.  CONCLUSION\n\nAfter many days, when time sufficed for the people to arrange\ntheir thoughts in reference to the foregoing scene, there was\nmore than one account of what had been witnessed on the\nscaffold.\n\n\nMost of the spectators testified to having seen, on the breast\nof the unhappy minister, a SCARLET LETTER--the very semblance of\nthat worn by Hester Prynne--imprinted in the flesh.  As regarded\nits origin there were various explanations, all of which must\nnecessarily have been conjectural.  Some affirmed that the\nReverend Mr. Dimmesdale, on the very day when Hester Prynne\nfirst wore her ignominious badge, had begun a course of\npenance--which he afterwards, in so many futile methods,\nfollowed out--by inflicting a hideous torture on himself.  Others\ncontended that the stigma had not been produced until a long\ntime subsequent, when old Roger Chillingworth, being a potent\nnecromancer, had caused it to appear, through the agency of\nmagic and poisonous drugs.  Others, again and those best able to\nappreciate the minister's peculiar sensibility, and the\nwonderful operation of his spirit upon the body--whispered their\nbelief, that the awful symbol was the effect of the ever-active\ntooth of remorse, gnawing from the inmost heart outwardly, and\nat last manifesting Heaven's dreadful judgment by the visible\npresence of the letter.  The reader may choose among these\ntheories.  We have thrown all the light we could acquire upon the\nportent, and would gladly, now that it has done its office,\nerase its deep print out of our own brain, where long meditation\nhas fixed it in very undesirable distinctness.\n\nIt is singular, nevertheless, that certain persons, who were\nspectators of the whole scene, and professed never once to have\nremoved their eyes from the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, denied that\nthere was any mark whatever on his breast, more than on a\nnew-born infant's.  Neither, by their report, had his dying words\nacknowledged, nor even remotely implied, any--the\nslightest--connexion on his part, with the guilt for which\nHester Prynne had so long worn the scarlet letter.  According to\nthese highly-respectable witnesses, the minister, conscious that\nhe was dying--conscious, also, that the reverence of the\nmultitude placed him already among saints and angels--had\ndesired, by yielding up his breath in the arms of that fallen\nwoman, to express to the world how utterly nugatory is the\nchoicest of man's own righteousness.  After exhausting life in\nhis efforts for mankind's spiritual good, he had made the manner\nof his death a parable, in order to impress on his admirers the\nmighty and mournful lesson, that, in the view of Infinite\nPurity, we are sinners all alike.  It was to teach them, that the\nholiest amongst us has but attained so far above his fellows as\nto discern more clearly the Mercy which looks down, and\nrepudiate more utterly the phantom of human merit, which would\nlook aspiringly upward.  Without disputing a truth so momentous,\nwe must be allowed to consider this version of Mr. Dimmesdale's\nstory as only an instance of that stubborn fidelity with which a\nman's friends--and especially a clergyman's--will sometimes\nuphold his character, when proofs, clear as the mid-day sunshine\non the scarlet letter, establish him a false and sin-stained\ncreature of the dust.\n\nThe authority which we have chiefly followed--a manuscript of\nold date, drawn up from the verbal testimony of individuals,\nsome of whom had known Hester Prynne, while others had heard the\ntale from contemporary witnesses fully confirms the view taken\nin the foregoing pages.  Among many morals which press upon us\nfrom the poor minister's miserable experience, we put only this\ninto a sentence:--\"Be true!  Be true!  Be true!  Show freely to the\nworld, if not your worst, yet some trait whereby the worst may\nbe inferred!\"\n\nNothing was more remarkable than the change which took place,\nalmost immediately after Mr. Dimmesdale's death, in the\nappearance and demeanour of the old man known as Roger\nChillingworth.  All his strength and energy--all his vital and\nintellectual force--seemed at once to desert him, insomuch that\nhe positively withered up, shrivelled away and almost vanished\nfrom mortal sight, like an uprooted weed that lies wilting in\nthe sun.  This unhappy man had made the very principle of his\nlife to consist in the pursuit and systematic exercise of\nrevenge; and when, by its completest triumph consummation that\nevil principle was left with no further material to support\nit--when, in short, there was no more Devil's work on earth for\nhim to do, it only remained for the unhumanised mortal to betake\nhimself whither his master would find him tasks enough, and pay\nhim his wages duly.  But, to all these shadowy beings, so long\nour near acquaintances--as well Roger Chillingworth as his\ncompanions we would fain be merciful.  It is a curious subject of\nobservation and inquiry, whether hatred and love be not the same\nthing at bottom.  Each, in its utmost development, supposes a\nhigh degree of intimacy and heart-knowledge; each renders one\nindividual dependent for the food of his affections and\nspiritual fife upon another: each leaves the passionate lover,\nor the no less passionate hater, forlorn and desolate by the\nwithdrawal of his subject.  Philosophically considered,\ntherefore, the two passions seem essentially the same, except\nthat one happens to be seen in a celestial radiance, and the\nother in a dusky and lurid glow.  In the spiritual world, the old\nphysician and the minister--mutual victims as they have\nbeen--may, unawares, have found their earthly stock of hatred\nand antipathy transmuted into golden love.\n\nLeaving this discussion apart, we have a matter of business to\ncommunicate to the reader.  At old Roger Chillingworth's decease,\n(which took place within the year), and by his last will and\ntestament, of which Governor Bellingham and the Reverend Mr.\nWilson were executors, he bequeathed a very considerable amount\nof property, both here and in England to little Pearl, the\ndaughter of Hester Prynne.\n\nSo Pearl--the elf child--the demon offspring, as some people up\nto that epoch persisted in considering her--became the richest\nheiress of her day in the New World.  Not improbably this\ncircumstance wrought a very material change in the public\nestimation; and had the mother and child remained here, little\nPearl at a marriageable period of life might have mingled her\nwild blood with the lineage of the devoutest Puritan among them\nall.  But, in no long time after the physician's death, the\nwearer of the scarlet letter disappeared, and Pearl along with\nher.  For many years, though a vague report would now and then\nfind its way across the sea--like a shapeless piece of driftwood\ntossed ashore with the initials of a name upon it--yet no\ntidings of them unquestionably authentic were received.  The\nstory of the scarlet letter grew into a legend.  Its spell,\nhowever, was still potent, and kept the scaffold awful where the\npoor minister had died, and likewise the cottage by the\nsea-shore where Hester Prynne had dwelt.  Near this latter spot,\none afternoon some children were at play, when they beheld a\ntall woman in a gray robe approach the cottage-door.  In all\nthose years it had never once been opened; but either she\nunlocked it or the decaying wood and iron yielded to her hand,\nor she glided shadow-like through these impediments--and, at all\nevents, went in.\n\nOn the threshold she paused--turned partly round--for perchance\nthe idea of entering alone and all so changed, the home of so\nintense a former life, was more dreary and desolate than even\nshe could bear.  But her hesitation was only for an instant,\nthough long enough to display a scarlet letter on her breast.\n\nAnd Hester Prynne had returned, and taken up her long-forsaken\nshame!  But where was little Pearl? If still alive she must now\nhave been in the flush and bloom of early womanhood.  None\nknew--nor ever learned with the fulness of perfect\ncertainty--whether the elf-child had gone thus untimely to a\nmaiden grave; or whether her wild, rich nature had been softened\nand subdued and made capable of a woman's gentle happiness.  But\nthrough the remainder of Hester's life there were indications\nthat the recluse of the scarlet letter was the object of love\nand interest with some inhabitant of another land.  Letters came,\nwith armorial seals upon them, though of bearings unknown to\nEnglish heraldry.  In the cottage there were articles of comfort\nand luxury such as Hester never cared to use, but which only\nwealth could have purchased and affection have imagined for her.\nThere were trifles too, little ornaments, beautiful tokens of a\ncontinual remembrance, that must have been wrought by delicate\nfingers at the impulse of a fond heart.  And once Hester was seen\nembroidering a baby-garment with such a lavish richness of\ngolden fancy as would have raised a public tumult had any infant\nthus apparelled, been shown to our sober-hued community.\n\nIn fine, the gossips of that day believed--and Mr. Surveyor Pue,\nwho made investigations a century later, believed--and one of\nhis recent successors in office, moreover, faithfully\nbelieves--that Pearl was not only alive, but married, and happy,\nand mindful of her mother; and that she would most joyfully have\nentertained that sad and lonely mother at her fireside.\n\nBut there was a more real life for Hester Prynne, here, in New\nEngland, than in that unknown region where Pearl had found a\nhome.  Here had been her sin; here, her sorrow; and here was yet\nto be her penitence.  She had returned, therefore, and resumed--of\nher own free will, for not the sternest magistrate of that iron\nperiod would have imposed it--resumed the symbol of which we\nhave related so dark a tale.  Never afterwards did it quit her\nbosom.  But, in the lapse of the toilsome, thoughtful, and\nself-devoted years that made up Hester's life, the scarlet\nletter ceased to be a stigma which attracted the world's scorn\nand bitterness, and became a type of something to be sorrowed\nover, and looked upon with awe, yet with reverence too.  And, as\nHester Prynne had no selfish ends, nor lived in any measure for\nher own profit and enjoyment, people brought all their sorrows\nand perplexities, and besought her counsel, as one who had\nherself gone through a mighty trouble.  Women, more\nespecially--in the continually recurring trials of wounded,\nwasted, wronged, misplaced, or erring and sinful passion--or\nwith the dreary burden of a heart unyielded, because unvalued\nand unsought came to Hester's cottage, demanding why they were\nso wretched, and what the remedy!  Hester comforted and\ncounselled them, as best she might.  She assured them, too, of\nher firm belief that, at some brighter period, when the world\nshould have grown ripe for it, in Heaven's own time, a new truth\nwould be revealed, in order to establish the whole relation\nbetween man and woman on a surer ground of mutual happiness.\nEarlier in life, Hester had vainly imagined that she herself\nmight be the destined prophetess, but had long since recognised\nthe impossibility that any mission of divine and mysterious\ntruth should be confided to a woman stained with sin, bowed down\nwith shame, or even burdened with a life-long sorrow.  The angel\nand apostle of the coming revelation must be a woman, indeed,\nbut lofty, pure, and beautiful, and wise; moreover, not through\ndusky grief, but the ethereal medium of joy; and showing how\nsacred love should make us happy, by the truest test of a life\nsuccessful to such an end.\n\nSo said Hester Prynne, and glanced her sad eyes downward at the\nscarlet letter.  And, after many, many years, a new grave was\ndelved, near an old and sunken one, in that burial-ground beside\nwhich King's Chapel has since been built.  It was near that old\nand sunken grave, yet with a space between, as if the dust of\nthe two sleepers had no right to mingle.  Yet one tomb-stone\nserved for both.  All around, there were monuments carved with\narmorial bearings; and on this simple slab of slate--as the\ncurious investigator may still discern, and perplex himself with\nthe purport--there appeared the semblance of an engraved\nescutcheon.  It bore a device, a herald's wording of which may\nserve for a motto and brief description of our now concluded\nlegend; so sombre is it, and relieved only by one ever-glowing\npoint of light gloomier than the shadow:--\n\n\"ON A FIELD, SABLE, THE LETTER A, GULES\""