nathaniel hawthorne john stephen martin the scarle

8/9/2019 Nathaniel Hawthorne John Stephen Martin the Scarle

http://slidepdf.com/reader/full/nathaniel-hawthorne-john-stephen-martin-the-scarle 1/427

title: The Scarlet Letter : A Romance Broadview LiteTexts

author: Hawthorne, Nathaniel.; Martin, John Stephen.

publisher: Broadview Press

isbn10 | asin: 1551110466

print isbn13: 9781551110462

ebook isbn13: 9780585252575

language: English

subject

Massachusetts--History--Colonial period, ca. 16

1775--Fiction, Puritans--Massachusetts--Fiction

Massachusetts--History--Colonial period, ca.16


Historical fiction.

publication date: 1998

lcc: PS1868.A2E46 1986eb

ddc: 813/.3

subject:

Massachusetts--History--Colonial period, ca. 16


Massachusetts--History--Colonial period, ca.16


Historical fiction.



P

The Scarlet Letter

A Romance

Nathaniel Hawthorne

edited by John Stephen Martin

broadview literary texts



P

1995 broadview press

printed 1998

l rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in

rm or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise

ored in a retrieval system, without prior written consent of the publisher or in the ca

photocopying, a licence from CANCOPY (Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency)

delaide Street East, Suite 900, Toronto, Ontario M5C 1H6 is an infringement of the

pyright law.

nadian Cataloguing in Publication Data

awthorne, Nathaniel, 18041864

e scarlet letter

cludes bibliographical references.

roadview literary texts)

BN 1-55111-046-6

Martin, John Stephen. II. Title. III. Series.

1868.A2M37 1994 813'.3 C94-932142-7

oadview Press Ltd., is an independent, international publishing house,

corporated in 1985.

orth America:st Office Box 1243, Peterborough, Ontario, Canada K9J 7H5

76 California Road, Orchard Park, NY 14127

EL: (705) 743-8990; FAX: (705) 743-8353;

MAIL: 75322.44 @compuserve.com

nited Kingdom:

urpin Distribution Services Ltd., Blackhorse Rd., Letchworth,

ertfordshire SG6 IHN

EL: (1462) 672555; FAX: (1462) 480947; E-MAIL: [email protected]:

Clair Press, P.O. Box 287, Rozelle, NSW 2039

EL: (02) 818-1942; FAX: (02) 418-1923

ww.broadviewpress.com

oadview Press gratefully acknowledges the support of the Ontario Arts Council, an

e Ministry of Canadian Heritage. We acknowledge the financial support of the

overnment of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program



r publishing activities.



P

Nathaniel Hawthorne in 1852, oil painting by George P. A. Healy (reproduced

with the permission of the New Hampshire Historical Society).



P

CKNOWLEDGEMENTS

aterial from The Centenary Edition of the Works of Nathaniel HawthorneThe Ameri

otebooks, volume VIII, copyright 1972; Twice-told Tales, volume IX, copyright 197

osses from an Old Manse, volume X, copyright 1974; The Snow Image and ncollected Tales, volume XI, copyright 1974; The Letters, 1813-1843, volume XV,

pyright 1984; The Letters, 18431853, volume XVI, copyright 1985is reprinted by

rmission of the Ohio State University Press. All rights reserved.

aterial from Emerson in His Journals, edited by Joel Porte, Cambridge, Massachuse

reprinted by permission of The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, copyrig

82 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College.

e letter by Margaret Fuller from The Letters of Margaret Fuller , volume 3, copyrig84, is reprinted by permission of the editor, Robert N. Hudspeth, Cornell University

ess, and the Henry W. and Albert A. Berg Collection, The New York Public Library

tor, Lenox and Tilden Foundations.



P

REFACE

is edition of The Scarlet Letter, A Romance is based on the text of the First Edition

arch 1850, the edition from which all recent authoritative versions derive. The goal

e edition is to make the romance accessible to the modern reader, both general and aiversity, by presenting it in its historical context. Consequently, the edition provides

notations in footnotes to clarify isolated difficulties in the text, a chronology of

awthorne's life, and a range of historical documents that Hawthorne drew upon, or

hich shed light on controversies and relationships that he experienced. The intent of

ese appendices is to establish contexts that a reader can explore as he or she finds

gaging, rediscovering Hawthorne and his responses at first hand.

hile not ignoring scholarship, this approach to contexts may also help to revealawthorne's relevance to fiction written today; he is in a real sense "modern" in his

tique of themes and in his narrative style. To this end, the Introduction and Append

vigate between providing a background for Hawthorne's text and giving some critic

inting of issues and problems.

is edition acknowledges the many inspirations received from specialists in the stud

awthorne's works, either through their books, essays, teachings, or personal contact

mong these, I must note especially Kenneth Dauber's Rediscovering Hawthorne (19

m grateful to the several librarians at Harvard University, the University of Calgary

nter-Library Loan Office), and the New York Public Library who assisted me often.

is edition is for Dirkje Clasina, Robert, and Paul.



P

ONTENTS

eface

troduction

Hawthorne's Career before the Writing of The Scarlet

tter (1850) 11

Hawthorne and the Writing of The Scarlet Letter as a

omance 27

. Hawthorne's Romance and the "Effects" of Narrative

ony 35

Hawthorne's Narrative Art of the Romance: a Reading

sponse 53

Note on the Text 63

hronology of Nathaniel Hawthorne 65

e Scarlet Letter, A Romance 69

ppendix Awthorne at Brook Farm (1841)

311

ppendix B

wthorne at Concord (18421845): Thoreau, Emerson,

ller, and Transcendentalism

313

ppendix C

e Controversy of "The Custom-House" 331

ppendix D

awthorne's Preface to the Second Edition 339

ppendix E

awthorne's Earlier Writings on Puritan History 341

ppendix F

awthorne's American Notebooks 346

ppendix G 350



wthorne's Ironic Vision

ppendix H

e Development of The Scarlet Letter into a Romance 356

ppendix I

e Imagination and "The Neutral Ground" 363

ppendix J

e Historical Sources for The Scarlet Letter 365

ppendix K

e Contemporary Reviews of The Scarlet Letter 381

ppendix L

ustrations 413

orks Cited and Recommended Readings 416



Pa

NTRODUCTION

awthorne's The Scarlet Letter will immerse a reader in the history and culture of the

nited States from the first permanent Massachusetts settlements in 1620 to the mid-

neteenth century, the American Renaissance. In 1850, Hawthorne was one of only americans who were attempting a career as a writer that is, living solely on the wages

e's literary productions. He was taking this course at a time when notions of fiction

ere undergoing major changes; while earlier writers such as James Fenimore Coope

illiam Gilmore Simms, and John Pendleton Kennedy developed versions of the

mance, Hawthorne was moving toward a version of longer fiction that included dev

irony and metafiction. Finally and most importantly, Hawthorne's Puritan heritage

ew England past fascinated him; at a time when the nineteenth century was becomin

mbarrassed by Puritanism and was seeking to harmonize it within the nineteenth-ceneology of democratic progress, Hawthorne saw the cultural significance of moving

heocentric society to a secular one, and well understood the manifestation of

anscendentalism as a faith for the new age. For Hawthorne, that heritage and history

ere not only the subject matter of his fiction, but were the substance of his concerns

out the trends in American intellectual and social beliefs evolving in his own era. O

a reader rediscovers the history that served Hawthorne and stimulated his intellectu

sponses can the full force of his fiction and of his modernity as a writer of narrative

come evident.

awthorne's Career Before the Writing of The Scarlet Letter (1850)

n June 8, 1849, Nathaniel Hawthorne was dismissed from his employment as Survey

the Custom House in his hometown of Salem, Massachusetts, some fifteen miles no

Boston. Little did he suspect at the time that this dismissal would mark a turning pohis literary career and in his personal fortunes. He would begin to write romances

stead of tales and sketches, and would



Pa

velop the features of the romance as a genre of fiction distinct from the novel. In a

riod of ten years, he would write four romances and enjoy for the first time a popu

putation that assured him a living wage as a writer.

e post that Hawthorne lost was subject to patronage under the so-called political Sp

stem, which assumed that "to the victor belongs the spoil." In this system, the two

rties, Democrat and Whig, would reshuffle wholesale the positions of public servan

cording to the results of the Presidential elections to reward their party workers. In

pril 1846, Hawthorne had been appointed under the same system, benefitting from t

litical influence of his old college friends, Horatio Bridge and Franklin Pierce, two

portant Democrats who rode to power with the Democratic Presidency of James Po

8451849). But as early as November 1848, when the Whig Party candidate, Zachary

ylor, was elected President, Hawthorne well knew that he could be replaced by

meone from the rival party any time after Inauguration Day, March 1849.en so, as much as Hawthorne might have been prepared, the dismissal, when it cam

as a shock. His dismissal compelled him to consider, once again, the conditions of b

writer in America. Despite his family's long history in the life of Salem, the Hawtho

ere part of the "genteel poor" and dependent on his mother's wealthy brothers, the

annings, ever since the death of Nathaniel's father, a sea-captain, in 1808. Although

awthorne had had some reputation since 1830 for the tales and sketches that were

blished in magazines, papers, and anthologies, he had only a marginal income and

vings after twenty years of work.

awthorne began his publishing career in 1830, and until 1837, wrote tales and sketch

ese were published as single submissions to newspapers or magazines, usually in

lem or Boston; some were included in a bound "gift book," (such as The Token and

lantic Souvenir and Youth's Keepsake), for presentation at Christmas each year.

blishers would pay Hawthorne for a story's first appearance, but since the United S

d not have responsible copyright protection until 1891, such pieces were often pirat

thout payment and republished elsewhere. Because the first-time publisher knew the of a piece was brief, payment was usually small. The consequence



Pa

as that anyone trying to earn a livelihood from writing had to churn out a vast quant

survive, as the career of Edgar Allan Poe shows. Periodically, Hawthorne had to lo

r "outside" work to sustain his career as a writer.

awthorne the writer had first turned to editing to support himself while writing, as d

e in the same years. For six months in 1836, Hawthorne edited the American Maga

r Useful and Entertaining Knowledge, a Boston journal that had earlier published s

his own stories. However, the publisher went bankrupt and Hawthorne received on

0 of his expected $500 yearly wage. In the same year, along with his sister, Elizabeth

ited the Peter Parley's Universal History, on the Basis of Geography, and this time

ceived a token salary of some $100. Clearly, journal publishing was a risk, and editi

best, was a marginal but demanding occupation for a writer.

owever, in 1837, Hawthorne grasped an essential point about publishing in the diffic

nited States market; publishers would pay more per page for a longer work than theould for short pieces of fiction. This longer work could be a novel or a collection o

es and sketches. In either case, the idea was to get a bound volume particularly one

uld be incorporated into a series which would make the venture economically feasi

us, as his career progressed, Hawthorne would regularly get "double mileage" from

ort pieces. He would collect previously published tales and sketches, and add sever

w pieces; the public, attracted to the new works, would buy a new volume includin

e old works, and thereby make the venture worthwhile both for the publisher and fawthorne. Such was the collection that appeared in 1837 under the appropriate title

wice-told Tales; in 1851, the tales and sketches of this volume, with additions, were

rice-told in the volume named The Snow-Image, and Other Twice-told Tales. In thi

t collection are the older stories "The Minister's Black Veil" (1836) and "Wakefield''

835), the sketch "Endicott and the Red Cross" (1838), and the new story of "Ethan

and: A Chapter from an Abortive Romance" and the sketch "Main-street" originally

signed to be included with The Scarlet Letter .

awthorne's other major collection was first published in 1846 as



Pa

osses from an Old Manse, implying that the tales and sketches were written during

awthorne's stay between July 1842 and October 1845 at the Concord home called by

awthorne "the old manse" (mansion). Some stories were written then, including "Th

lestial Rail-road" (1843) and ''The Birth-mark" (1843); but others were not, such as

uch earlier stories, "Young Goodman Brown" (1835) and "Roger Malvin's Burial"

832). In 1854, a second edition of Mosses would be published, and again, atawthorne's request, two additional pieces were added in an effort to make the ventu

ore worthwhile for reader, publisher, and author.

owever, in 1837 the Twice-told Tales offered only a brief respite, and in 1839,

awthorne had to turn to another "stop-gap" measure of American writers at the time

peal to those holding political office. Politicians of the day were willing to encourag

e arts. It was thought by many travelers from abroad that democracy in the world's

odern republic was an aberration of history, rather than a mark of human progress. e years leading up to the Civil War, British critics did not believe that the United Sta

uld be taken seriously; instead they saw a desolate people, groping in the wildernes

nce their separation from England. One manifestation of this view was a conviction

e USA had no national literature to bespeak a viable culture. When Sydney Smith, th

ots literary reviewer, asked rhetorically in 1820, "Who reads an American book?" h

uld expect his audience to answer, "no one, because there is nothing to write about

at land." As late as 1879, Henry James, in his critical assessment entitled Hawthorne

oke of the dearth of culture that precluded Hawthorne from fulfilling his talent.counteract this view and all that it implied about democratic republicanism, Ameri

liticians were willing, at times, to find positions for writers whose work could add

ltural luster to the nation in the courts of Europe. Washington Irving was one of the

st selected, finding a post as Consul in Madrid; Hawthorne himself would occupy a

milar post at Liverpool between 1853 and 1857, when his reputation was well

ablished. Hawthorne's first political appointment, however, was at once more mode

d more demanding on his time as a writer: he worked as a Weigher and Gauger at t

stom-house of the bustling port of Boston (18391841).



Pa

third form of employment for Hawthorne was unique, and has been a subject of so

ntroversy (see Appendix A). In 1841, as Hawthorne prepared to marry Sophia Peab

Salem, he was desperate to find steady employment. Through his older sister,

izabeth, he had met Elizabeth Peabody, the sister to Sophia, and through her, he me

argaret Fuller, the first prominent feminist in American life. Fuller had connections

lph Waldo Emerson, George Ripley, and Charles Dana, and through them all,awthorne, in 1840, learned about the project of establishing Brook Farm, some nine

les outside Boston, at West Roxbury.

awthorne and Brook Farm (1841)

e ideals of Brook Farm were not carved in stone; indeed it might be said that most

rticipants assumed that their own ideals of social reform were the goal of the Farm.

neral, however, they agreed that social inequalities (particularly between the sexes)

ose as humans gave too much importance to economic opportunism and the attainmmaterial goods and social status, and that this tyranny of social inequality oppresse

d the life of the mind in America. From a modern perspective, these goals might se

be merely a social program of "issues," but behind them, in fact, was an implicit re

aluation of the Age of Enlightenment that had made these revolutionary proposals a

st step toward a modern ideological utopia. In relieving humans of their oppression

rticipants believed that they would reverse, in secular terms, the Fall of humanity an

ereby restore humanity's original capacity to see and experience fully all that the De

d promised Adam and Eve during their state of innocence.

e immediate ideals united a broad spectrum of social reformers including George

pley, an educationist, and Margaret Fuller, an articulate feminist of great energy. Th

o appealed to Hawthorne, who had hoped that the prospect of minimal work woul

ovide him with free time to write. Consequently, in 1841, he invested in two shares

e Farm, intending to bring Sophia there when they married in the following year.

nce again, however, Hawthorne was sorely disappointed. Ar-



Pa

ing in April, Hawthorne found the daily routine of farming to be exhausting. The

operty at West Roxbury, formerly a dairy farm, was too rocky to allow for the

ltivation of crops. To be self-sufficient, the participants had to haul silt from the nea

er bed and spread it over the fields. Additionally, they had to prepare housing for

milies and for some seventy individuals. Hawthorne's letters to Sophia during the

mmer and early fall laugh at his inability to write after a full day of pitching manuret his jocularity ended in November when his living expenses depleted his meager

vings.

me commentators, noting Hawthorne's abrupt departure, like to think that he had

come "conservative" as he faced a marriage barely above the poverty level. Others

ver forgot this period of his life and continued to call him a "Transcendentalist" eve

er the publication of The Scarlet Letter in 1850 (Brownson, Appendix K.9). To be

re, Hawthorne always had a personal and intellectual interest in the makeup andrection of American society, as The Scarlet Letter and its background show. The tru

that his coming to and departure from Brook Farm simply confirm his tenuous

istence as a writer. Ironically, instead of being an opportunity to get free time to wri

e venture had compelled him to leave and do more writing to survive.

hen Hawthorne married in July 1842, he and Sophia moved to nearby Concord. Th

ey rented "The Old Manse," the Emerson ancestral home that the philosopher's fam

d sold years before to a relative. It was a happy time, and in 1844, his first daughter

na, was born, after Sophia's miscarriage the year before. The time was ripe, Hawthoought, to have full opportunity to write a longer fiction that would pay him well and

ould establish him as an author able to live on his inspirations.

awthorne at Concord (18421845): Thoreau, Emerson, and Fuller

ese years at Concord were milestones in Hawthorne's intellectual growth, as his ho

ere brought him into direct contact with the most important intellectual movement

fore the Civil War: Transcendentalism. Transcendentalism brought Americans into

ntact with the most modern ideas in the western world, at a



Pa

me when the British "homeland" had become conservative and more resistant than e

such ideas. The primary tenet of Transcendentalism was that the laws of the human

nd were sufficient for the individual to know truth and act morally, independent of

stitutional authorities. The laws of "consciousness" were exemplified in the writings

e German Romantic writers, including Ludwig Tieck, whom Hawthorne was readin

ese years at Concord (Appendix B.I.2). Moreover, the theory behind these universaws of "consciousness" had come, via Samuel Taylor Coleridge, from the German sc

philosophy, including Immanuel Kant, Georg W. F. Hegel, and Friedrich and Augu

Schlegel.

ant had distinguished between the "noumenal" world of medieval "substances" and

henomenal" world of sensory experience. "Noumenal'' knowledge could not be

perienced and therefore could not be validated; on the other hand, what could be

perienced was limited to factors of "phenomenal" time and space but could not benown" inherently. This division had separated the subjective human mind from sen

periences and from the 'objective' world. However, even as Kant noted this division

s two Critiques (of Judgement and of Pure Reason), he explained that in an aesthet

oment of art a subject could experience the objective world directly. The way of uni

as through "identity," in which the subject partakes of the object, thereby initiating a

anscendental" moment of "being in the world." In this moment the usual "ego" of t

bject was transformed into an "ego" that represented an aspect of the universal.

ntology, in effect, replaced epistemology in defining what was "knowable"; and artnscended the apparent contradiction of "knowing" through aesthetic experience of

hat cannot be known from an understanding of phenomena.

ant saw aesthetic moments as single, even sporadic experiences, but Hegel's dialecti

n The Science of Logic) presented a key to the mind's perceptions of the continuum

enomenal experience. Hegel's dialectics revolutionized western logic, which had be

sed on the proposition that "A" cannot be "non-A"; instead, Hegel assumed that wh

A" and "non-A" were distinct, "A" could yet persist in "non-A." Thus, ideas in the m

rived from



Pa

rceptions of any moment (perhaps as the Englishman Locke had said), but the idea

uld only be "experienced" (and have value or meaning) at a moment when the subj

acted to the pairing of "A" and ''non-A." In effect, one might have an idea based on

ngle moment of perception, but then one had to redefine that same moment in the li

an experience that included a subsequent moment.

terms of Hegelian logic, as the mind moves from an initial thesis at one moment to

tithesis at a subsequent moment, real time is occurring, manifest in the changes of

enomenal experience. In the mind, however, there is a dynamic process by which a

tial thesis engenders an oppositional antithesis at a later moment in time; when the

oments are "experienced" simultaneously, the mind synthesizes the thesis and antith

o a comprehensive synthesis that transcends time. In effect, despite the apparent

ysticism of the dialectic, the Hegelian synthesis united the subjective mind with the

enomenal experience into a Transcendental "consciousness" of what was notmediately visible in the flux of perceptions.

oleridge had incorporated German philosophy in his discussion of the imagination i

ographia Literaria (1817), noting that phenomena were the basis of a symbolism th

n give humans an experience of the divine. Subsequent English critics had toned do

oleridge's notion of the divine as the goal of aesthetics, and considered symbolism

marily as expression. However, the New England Transcendentalists were inspired

oleridge because his version of German thought connected with their own religious

tecedents in Puritanism. Indeed, on this point, even conservative New Englanders (George Ticknor and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow) studied Coleridge's German

urces, traveled in Germany, and studied at German universities. For the New

glanders, Kant's transcendental aesthetics and Hegel's "consciousness" were moder

st-Enlightenment explanations of the older Puritan dilemmas about the experience o

ace and conversion. The Transcendentalist version made it seem logical that to have

ep belief, one had to be impressed by a moment that "transcended" the temporal,

omentary perception of phenomenal tableau-like perception. It was the juxtapositio

bleaux, not any one tableau, which evoked the in-



Pa

vidual's "consciousness" of a connection between the separate tableaux, and this

perience seemed similar to the Puritan's experience of God's grace, according to wh

od interrupted and altered one's habitual perspectives of life to introduce a contradic

rspective of faith in the supernatural.

merson wrote that this Transcendental faith gave an individual "self-reliance," a term

at is the title of one of his major essays. "Self-reliance" was an intellectual position t

owed the individual to identify with the material universe, experienced in moments

nsciousness. Individualistic as it was, ''self-reliance" allowed that one's faith be root

what Emerson called "The Over-Soul," which was his secular version of the mind

od. As Emerson describes the experience of "consciousness" in his essay Nature, th

dividual becomes a "transparent eyeball"; he is a new creation existing between the

perception and what is perceived, transcending the limits of the individual "ego" to

come part of the objective world (Appendix B.II.2).merson's version of Transcendentalism had initiated changes within his religious fait

nominal Unitarian. Unitarianism was a major offshoot of the ancestral Puritanism of

ew England, and stood opposed to the other offshoots, Congregationalism and

esbyterianism. Unlike these two latter versions of post-Puritanical Calvinism,

ghteenth-century Unitarianism was "rationalistic"; it was the faith of many, if not mo

ellectual leaders. Even if some, like the Bostonian Franklin, paid tithes to the

esbyterian faith, they usually subscribed to the tenets of Unitarianism. Eighteenth-

ntury Unitarianism had held that the miracles reported in the Bible must have occurelse no one would have considered recording them. But this early Unitarianism, de

rationalization of miracles, implicitly accepted the notion that the miracles occurred

cause God intervened in the laws of nature. In contrast, Emerson's Transcendentali

d that there were no physical miracles, but only moments of "consciousness" which

nsformed the individual's heart, conscience, and disposition toward experience and

und a "moral lesson" in the Bible.

merson's Transcendentalism, consequently, gave the individual much authority to trus or her own individual conscience and in-



Pa

pretive insights. In granting such freedom, Unitarianism was similar to the seventee

ntury doctrine of Antinomianism, the heresy of Ann Hutchinson. The connection

tween the Antinomianism of "the sainted Ann Hutchinson," as she is called in The

arlet Letter (116), and Emerson's Unitarianism is that both sects believed that God's

esence in the individual (as the Holy Ghost or as "consciousness") freed the individ

om the "tyranny" of institutions and traditions. In this light, Hawthorne's Hester Prynay be seen as anticipating an important development in American intellectual life.

merson's Transcendentalism was also important because it offered Americans a

erating cultural philosophy. After their nation had become independent of Britain a

urope, Americans had been slow to develop their own distinctive literature. In seeki

find it, American writers could find support in Transcendentalism: after all, if the

dividual were supreme, as confirmed by the aesthetic "effect" of "consciousness," th

dividual could create a culture without slavishly imitating English models of fictionis cultural aspiration was inherent in Emerson's Transcendentalist theory of languag

cause words reflect an individual's "consciousness" of phenomenal "sensations"

bjects, events, etc. which are perceived), words cannot be inherently connected to

enomenal "sensations" as the contrary epistemology of John Locke had posited. Ra

ords betokened moments of perception and, in the play of dialectic evolution, were

ymbolic" of specific moments. Words were to be symbols creating a text able to

thenticate its own truths by having an aesthetic "effect'' upon a reader (Appendix

II.F.2). Consequently, the aesthetic experience could create a new culture and shapedience able to comprehend a symbolic art.

ese philosophical and literary aspects of Transcendentalism were in the air of the a

d Hawthorne breathed the same air. The period has been termed the American

naissance, because, finally, American authors chief among them Hawthorne, Poe,

elville, and Whitman found within the devices of Transcendental aesthetics the mea

free themselves from the prescriptions of British and European models and practice

owever, even as Hawthorne



Pa

sponded to Transcendentalism and to its sources, as will be seen in his romance of

arlet Letter , he had, to be sure, several serious objections to Transcendentalism. Li

any others, he was concerned that science, rationality, and a secular ideology of

aterialism and social progress were eroding the nature of belief. The very basis of

ritan piety that Emerson had sought to preserve had made the notion of belief

spiciously similar to what might be termed merely the excesses of self-inducedmotional conviction. Hawthorne might not have agreed fully with Orestes Brownson

out Transcendentalism, but Brownson's influential essay on "Transcendentalism"

hoed many of his reservations, particularly regarding the apparent self-validation of

eas and the misappropriation of religious terms to "new age" secularity (Appendix

II.3).

sides these intellectual objections, Hawthorne felt that the personal behavior of

anscendentalists undermined their ideas. To Hawthorne's observant and critical mineir intellectual behavior barely masked an unacknowledged core of instinctive and

xual forces. Behavior such as the seeming flirtations between Emerson and Margare

ller recorded in his notebook (Appendix B.I.7) prompted questions. Were the

anscendentalists aware of what was motivating them? If not, why should they be

usted in other matters?

turn, Emerson and Fuller had a sensitivity that distrusted Hawthorne's reclusivenes

d his critical mind. Thus, in later years, Emerson would write in his journal that

awthorne had been insensitive in using Margaret as the model for the duped Zenobie Blithedale Romance (1852). Emerson felt that Hawthorne's depiction of Zenobia

lur upon Margaret's generous character and mental abilities. Emerson failed to infer

wever, that he himself in Hawthorne's eyes might possess the egotism of the roman

ro, Hollingsworth, whose will-power thrives on gifted but susceptible females, such

nobia (Appendix B.I.6).

awthorne often found life with the Transcendentalists of Concord too "intense,"

verting him from his writing. The conversations with Transcendentalists that weremulating also required, as one can imagine, a special vocabulary that was very

manding on a writer of fiction. In his notebooks, Hawthorne pictured such persons



Pa

Emerson and Fuller as strong-minded and garrulous, with "sunbeams" on their fac

ey would scatter words about the "muses in the air" (Appendix B.I.7), while he

uggled to write and took his walks to refresh himself for further writing. For this

ason, perhaps, Hawthorne preferred the brevity and practicality of Henry David

oreau (Appendix B.I.1) though he did not exclude Thoreau from his characterizatio

e Transcendentalists (in his Introduction to The Scarlet Letter ) as ethereal creaturesorld that was quite demanding on a writer with a family to support (94).

ese were, in the main, productive years for Hawthorne. He was able to put together

46 his second full volume, Mosses from an Old Manse. More important, Hawthorn

ntinued to consider writing a longer piece of fiction, a novel, which would reward

ell. Since the late 1830s, he had begun to fill his American Notebooks, as his journa

as to be called, with line-entries of possible plots, character psychology, and situatio

edicaments. At Concord, he had hoped to use them to write that longer fiction, but,ct, he only treated a few of them in tales and sketches. He needed more time, it seem

him then, to develop this treasure. Meanwhile, he was faced with the needs of

pporting his family, especially since Sophia would have their second child, Julian, i

46.

onsequently, when his landlord, Ezra Ripley, gave notice that he wanted "the Old

anse" by October 1845 for his son to inhabit, Hawthorne was not entirely unhappy t

mply. Indeed, for several months already, Hawthorne had hopes that he could again

political position, this time one less demanding than that at the Boston Custom-Houss old friends from his years at Bowdoin College in Maine, Horatio Bridge and Fran

erce, had become important Democratic personalities, and they solicited support for

pointment from the officials of President James Polk's administration.

e Controversy of the Custom-House

hen the appointment for the Surveyorship in the Salem Custom House came throug

pril 1846, there was good reason for Hawthorne to be pleased. In contrast to the wo

e Boston



Pa

ustom-House, there supposedly was more free time for him to write. In the years sin

awthorne's sea-captain father had ventured from Salem to make the family fortune i

de, Boston had become the major New England port, and Salem had been reduced

atus to being a backwater port. As a result, there would supposedly be customs wor

lem for half a day, while the other half was to be Hawthorne's for writing.

e memoir of his days at the Salem Custom-House, introductory to the novel The

arlet Letter , tells of the narrator's squandering this three-year period, giving urgenc

s fear about being dismissed into a world that cared little for the artist. "Hawthorne"

e may so characterize the narrator) tells at great length how he became overwhelme

e Custom Inspector's repetitious tales of gourmet dinners, and obsessed with imagin

e heroic events in the life of the Collector, a General who took part in the War of 18

th sketches perhaps parody Hawthorne's own efforts to find the basis for a long sto

at would reward his stay among the unimaginative and inarticulate the two great thra writer.

deed, Hawthorne's office was just to the left of the main hallway into the Custom-

ouse, and therefore immediately next to the front hall in which his colleagues, with

airs set back against the wall, would sun themselves in warm weather and gather to

ss away their own free time. Hawthorne was virtually compelled to hear the tales of

lleagues, but to fall into such lassitude was detrimental to his career. As "Hawthorn

ds the introductory sketch, he celebrates his dismissal as a release from what encha

m, and as an awakening from a three-year period of slumber.

truth, Hawthorne was of mixed feelings, as the undertone of "The Custom-House"

etch suggests. If dismissal forced him to get on with the business of writing, he yet

ffed by the implications of his dismissal on his credibility as an artist. After all, his

pointment in 1846 had supposedly been different from that of his colleagues, the

spector and Collector-General. His appointment had been supported by the Whigs a

ell as the Democrats, for both parties were united at the time in the spirit of rising

tionalism associated with Manifest Destiny a belief that the American republic wasended by Providence to control the North American con-



Pa

ent from the Atlantic to the Pacific. However, in May 1846, the Mexican-American

oke out, and when it ended in February 1848, Texas was annexed into the Union as

ve state, and new territories were earmarked to be slave states in the future. The W

nerally Northern conservatives who feared the growth of slavery in the South thoug

at they had been tricked into the War by the Democrat Polk, and were in no mood f

nciliation. Thus, when the election of 1848 brought a Whig to the Presidency, theodwill between parties had already ended and the nation's politics had become

mbittered.

wthorne, politically astute, had cause in November 1848 to fear the worst. He was

pendent on Democratic friends who had lost political influence. Since he had not d

y writing of significance since the 1846 collection Mosses from an Old Manse, he w

ost anxious. What money he had, his wife had saved from his annual salary of abou

,800 (CE , XVI: 157), but it could not for long forestall a resurgence of financialfficulties.

, when the axe descended on Hawthorne, June 8, 1850, he was financially desperat

d, moreover, hurt that his status as a writer had not protected him. He had already

gun to write his friends to test the waters for a reversal. The old friends, Bridge and

erce, attempted to revive the old accord between the parties, but their appeals proba

erely reminded the Whigs that Hawthorne was a lifelong Democrat. As for Hawthor

itude, one letter to Long-fellow avoids noting his financial need, and instead stresse

at he had been above party politics while in office (Appendix C.1; June 5, 1849).

nfortunately, one of Hawthorne's letters was sent by a well-wisher to the Boston

vertiser, which published it June 15 to elicit public support for Hawthorne. The Wh

Salem noticed the letter, and felt challenged to a political fight that they could not

ford to lose. In response, the local Whig paper, the Salem Atlas, attacked Hawthorn

anonymous editorial on June 16, demeaning him not only as a masked Democrat b

o as an artist seeking special favor at the public purse. By June 18, Hawthorne was

ly engaged in defending his term as Surveyor (Appendix C.3).pset at Hawthorne's supposed airing of complaint about his dis-



Pa

ssal, a powerful Whig leader, Charles Wentworth Upham, at first gave signs of hav

w post set aside for Hawthorne. In fact, Upham was working to confirm the dismis

n July 6, Upham compiled a "memorial," serving as a public indictment, which char

awthorne, the chief executive officer of the Custom-House, with malfeasance of off

r dismissing employees who refused his demands for kickbacks to the Democratic

rty to hold their jobs, and, simultaneously, for favoring Democratic employees.

awthorne resented being taken for a politician when he simply wanted to be a writer

continued to confine his response to personal letters. He would note in them that th

ltry fees of a sleepy seaport eventually compelled the dismissal of these persons an

at the dismissed employees were the least efficient persons in the Custom-House,

ding that he had delayed their dismissal as long as he could out of regard for the ne

their families (CE , XVI: 29194; Horace Mann, August 8, 1849).

e controversy became so bitter that whenever Hawthorne spoke about his being anthor, living above the fray of politics, he was charged with being an elitist. When

awthorne's future publisher, James T. Fields, spoke on his behalf, he was answered:

e through it; this Hawthorne is one of these 'ere visionists, and we don't want no suc

an as him round" (Appendix H.1).

fter that, Hawthorne's letters voiced a disclaimer of his interest in the position and

opted a sense of being betrayed. A year later, some letters yet showed a deep, icy

sdain of his turncoat supporters. One in particular, to a family friend who had recenned the Whigs and worked to block the reversal of the dismissal, shows Hawthorn

ger at being betrayed by those he had trusted for support. He lashed out at Horace

onolly as "Ex Cardinal" (for having "betrayed" the ministry before his latest betrayal

d likened him to the Biblical Baalim, infamous for his ass, who damns himself in

mning others (Appendix C.7; June 17, 1850).

deed, this sense of betrayal blended with his belief in a larger betrayal by his fellow

wnspeople. Hawthorne never afterwards felt comfortable in the town of his illustrio

cestors, William and John Hathorne (as was the first spelling of the family name).ese two forefathers had governed the first generations of settlers, and the



Pa

mily name had been resuscitated during the Revolution by the exploits of a promine

a-captain, Nathaniel's grandfather, Daniel Hathorne. After The Scarlet Letter, A

mance proved a sellout, with three editions in 1850 alone, Hawthorne was more

ancially secure, and he moved from Salem, never to return; indeed, he seems to ha

ken considerable satisfaction in ignoring the townspeople who had beaten down on

r political reasons.

awthorne's Preface to the Second Edition

ere was to be one more chapter to the story of Hawthorne's tribulation. To the seco

ition of the novel, published in April 1850, one month after the first, Hawthorne ad

Preface" (Appendix D). This "Preface" noted that the sketch of "The Custom-Hous

troductory to 'The Scarlet Letter'" had given rise to attacks upon himself for alleged

ving satirized an unnamed "venerable personage.'' The Whigs had conceived that th

ire was Hawthorne's last kick at the expense of the Inspector, William Lee, an impoember of the Whig caucus in Salem. A significant piece of background information

d one not mentioned by Hawthorne in the "Preface" was the fact that his old friend,

uyckinck, publisher of the New York Literary World and an influential Democrat, h

tained an advance copy of "The Custom-House" sketch and sought to publish the

ction that depicts the Inspector. Duyckinck assured Hawthorne that the piece would

ceived as humor. Hawthorne virtually begged Duyckinck not to publish the piece, b

e publisher went ahead. The upshot was that the Whigs were waiting for the entire

etch to appear in The Scarlet Letter , and while Hawthorne attempted to avoid the

newal of the political controversy of the previous year, his romance was on the defe

fter all, it was a tale of adultery in which the adulteress does not repent. If the roman

as immoral, the sketch appeared to be the tale of a satirical author who, bitter at not

ing reappointed, was attacking, under the cloak of humor, a "venerable" person.

his "Preface," Hawthorne writes that he has reread what he wrote in "The Custom-

ouse," but did not think to change one



Pa

ord because of the political notice. If taken at his word, Hawthorne had more in min

r the Inspector than a bit of late revenge. What he envisioned is suggested in the wa

at the romance itself subsequently developed.

awthorne and the Writing of The Scarlet Letter as a Romance

awthorne's one attempt to write an extended story before The Scarlet Letter was

nshawe (1828), a work of barely one hundred pages. He had written it while at

owdoin College, published it at his own expense, and then withdrawn it from the m

cause of second doubts. Indeed, Hawthorne suppressed his own memory of it so w

at his wife, Sophia, only learned of it after his death in 1864.

nshawe had been an imitation of British eighteenth-century novels and satires. Thene of this work varies between fast-paced melodramatic heroics and satirical

mmentary, rather in the tradition of Fielding's Tom Jones. If Hawthorne had any do

out Fanshawe, it conceivably was because he could not, as Fielding did, comment

on the action and explain his hero's actions from outside the novel. Instead of focu

the action and hero, Hawthorne's narrative voice was self-conscious, trying to expl

hat was not present in the action and the motivation in the hero.

oreover, Hawthorne's Fanshawe was an oddity of the times in the United States. Ingland, the novel was socially realistic. It took as its subject the relationship of Engl

cial classes subtly in conflict. Typically, the hero of a novel either moved up sociall

ke Fielding's Tom Jones or, later, Dickens' Pip) or, having a "position" by birth,

scovered the moral values of his class (as Dickens' Oliver Twist). Hawthorne had gi

s hero Fanshawe an English moral sensibility with which to think about his place in

merican society a society that was already quite un-English in character and that was

coming more so.

r this reason, American writers of long fiction before Hawthorne had written roma

romance was ideological, not realistic. In its early stages in the 1820s and 1830s, the

mance dealt with



Pa

iversal ideas about the unique effects of the New World wilderness upon humans,

ayed against such ideas as that of the "noble savage" reinventing society. In the

mance, the individual was portrayed in isolation, because the individual was prior t

e formation of society. Between 1823 and 1841, James Fenimore Cooper's hero, Na

umppo (or "Leatherstocking" and "Deerslayer") was on a romantic quest to keep in

uch with the moral values inherent in the sublimity of Nature and had to stay one stead of advancing civilization. Other American romances, such as James Kirke

ulding's The Dutchman's Fireside (1831), John Pendleton Kennedy's Swallow Barn

832), and William Gilmore Simms' The Yemassee (1835) took place in pre-

volutionary times or the years of the Early Republic, and were, in part, attempts to

new historical view to American life and its ideals after the Revolution had cut

mericans off from British traditions.

awthorne's Fanshawe could not satisfy the requirements of either genre of the time, awthorne had not the skill to develop something new. It would be many years befor

uld find the appropriate level of complexity of narrative control to write long fictio

awthorne's Earlier Writings on Puritan History

a writer, Hawthorne had depended on his tales and the sketches. A sketch was a

lineation of a character or a situation, something that fixed an occasion and subjecte

amusement or moral analysis. It was geared to what readers might expect to find in

ily life; its traditions go back to the Spectator papers and the short caricatures of ddison and Steele in the early 1700s. In his teens, Hawthorne had imitated the style

ddison and Steele, just as Franklin had done, and called one youthful venture the "N

ectator Papers." As Hawthorne began his career, the development of the sketch in t

nited States had been greatly advanced by Washington Irving's The Sketch Book of

eoffrey Crayon, Esq. (18191820); this work included a model for sketches in "Rural

England" and the "Bracebridge Hall" series that portrayed English life.

Hawthorne's 1838 sketch of "Endicott and the Red Cross"



Pa

ppendix E. 1), for example, the "hero" is based on an actual Puritan political leader

e first generation and a specific event. John Endicott is a narrow-minded Puritan wh

sumes that sin can be driven out of the soul if the body that houses the soul is prop

nished. This sketch also presents a character similar to Hester Prynne of The Scarle

tter, who wears a scarlet letter on a public scaffold. The point of the sketch is to sho

dicott's severity on behalf of spiritual perfection. But even as Hawthorne seeminglyricatures the bigotry of the Puritans, he ends the sketch with Endicott's cutting out t

yal British ensign of the red cross from the colony's flag to protest the demands of t

yal governors, who were supposedly usurping the colony's right to remain a theocra

awthorne thereby equates Endicott's political strength and vision, seen from the

rspective of 1850 readers, with a narrowness of belief that had led him to punish

retics and others who threatened the Puritan community. In short, the sketch presen

radoxical portrait of a man both admirable and repugnant, to Hawthorne's

ntemporary readers.

n the other hand, a tale by Hawthorne could be based on a wondrous plot. In his 18

e "The Celestial Rail-road" (Appendix E.3), for example, the narrator is taking wha

nks is a day-trip by rail to the Celestial City, but actually is being brought to the sam

rors that threatened John Bunyan's hero, Christian, in The Pilgrim's Progress.

e new Christian does not recognize his peril because his companion, Mr. Smooth-I

way, gives him constant reassurances, explaining away what otherwise might be sign

at the destined city is hell. At the end of the tale the reader surmises thatanscendentalism, with its promise of progress and a higher rationality, is the new th

Hawthorne's recast Christian, since it has made the narrator comfortable with his

tions of having boarded a railway to heaven.

awthorne's American Notebooks

nce 1837, Hawthorne had filled his American Notebooks with notes about character

d themes for what might be the long nar-



Pa

ive that would fulfill his development as an artist at the same time as it relieved his

ancial need. By the time he left Concord, Hawthorne's entries show models for the

ajor characters of The Scarlet Letter Hester Prynne, Arthur Dimmesdale, Pearl, and

oger Chillingworth (Appendix F). However, Hawthorne developed few of his notes

oncord or in the time he spent as a customs officer in Salem, except the theme of the

npardonable sin" which was at the center of "an abortive romance," "Ethan Brand,"itten in 1849. Whatever would bring these separate entries into dynamic interaction

t present until the eventful summer of 1849, just after his dismissal from the Salem

ustom-House.

wthorne's Ironic Vision

uring June 1849, Hawthorne's desire to reverse the political decision and recover his

sition had consumed his attention. In July 1849 these thoughts of persisting in the

uggle for the Surveyorship were put aside as he turned to the failing health of hisdowed mother. On July 31 she died, and Hawthorne was deeply shaken. His notebo

tries of this time testify that he realized for the first time in his life the bond between

other and himself. Three days before her death, Hawthorne entered her room for a

d before he realized what had happened, he was gushing unrestrainable tears. He

ddenly realized that because his mother had become a recluse after the death of her

sband in 1808, she and he had lived in the same household as isolated persons; and

spite their mutual silence, both had shared a mutual grief, never far beneath the sur

eir silence over the years was a tragic reaction to life, and was a bitter knowledge.

owever, as Hawthorne stood in her room and looked out the window, he saw his

ughter, Una, then five years old, swinging on the yard gate, blithefully unconcerned

th her grandmother's decline, and the contrast captured a sense of life itself. Hawth

mpared Una's cheerful ignorance of life with his own knowledge of death, and fou

the contrast, as he says, a situation testing his "faith." He became aware that his tear

me from a recognition of the complexity of life typified in the contrast, but he also

te, as a latter-day



Pa

ritan, that the contrast was a test of his faith. A day later, he termed her dying the

arkest moment of my life" (Appendix G.I.1,2).

awthorne's momentary enlightenment was that humans should, as their priority, find

sdom to survive these "darkest moments." Curiously, it was an enlightenment not

like the experience of irony that Transcendentalism had made the key to

onsciousness," as two events, acting as two tableaux, signal a third event the synthe

perceptions into a consciousness in the mind that transcends either event. A notion

ality was surely dependent on a contrast of perspectives, formulating an effect of

mbiguity within the mind that signaled "life" even as the mind was confronting "deat

reality was a combination of perspectives resulting in ambiguity, the ambiguity wou

mind the mind of the polarity of all "consciousness''; consequently, ambiguity was a

rm of pragmatic wisdom.

wthorne's experience of ambiguity is a belief similar to what the ancient Puritans mve experienced in their anxiety of determining whether they had been "justified" by

th. The mind would be "conscious" when it would see the polarity of experience: th

ul would experience the faith of "justification" when it persisted in believing in life

en in moments that partook of grief or despair. In this way of belief, the trials of

eryday life were tests, which, if passed, could also be interpreted by the Puritans as

od's messages of assurance; for Hawthorne, his mother's death was a test of his "fait

pressed in Una's play.

e enlightenment resulting from this "darkest moment" is relevant to Hawthorne's

iting his longer fiction. First, instead of considering a novel with its singleness of p

etching a situation or telling the story of one character's social rise or change of hea

awthorne grasped that the kind of narrative he wished to write would emulate the

ychic and moral effect that he experienced when he contrasted his knowledge of de

th Una's play. To convey that complex effect would entail the subordination of

aracter, plot, and diction to the needs of a total composition.

nlike the fiction of the sketch and the tale, such a long narrative sought an effect thapended upon the ironies of a narrative sequence; it was an approach derived both f

eorists, including



Pa

e Schlegel brothers, and from the literary practice of German romantic writers such

dwig Tieck.

Tieck's fiction, narrative irony usually involves a narrator who experiences a dream

quence of events and then, upon waking, has to acknowledge his deception. Howev

e reader responds both to the tableau of the dream and to the narrator's realization; i

dging the two, the reader maintains a "consciousness" of the first (and its implicit

lues) despite the reality of the second. In other words, the reader persists with the

eam though the narrator disavows its reality.

hen the narrator drops or alters his prior notions, the narrator seems to lose control

er his narration and, in so doing, makes the reader conscious of what today is calle

etafictional device. In a metafiction, the reader understands that the story being read

multaneously being written, as evidenced by a narrative persona. Consequently, the

eal story" for a reader is the narrator's attempt to write the ostensible story. In contraale or sketch, fixed within a definitive text with a specific intention, the metafiction

rives on the contrast between what the narrator says and what the reader must infer.

m, much of the metafiction is based on forms of irony that developed out of the

actices and theories of the German romanticists, critics, and philosophers who

urished the Transcendental movement.

mong these devices of irony are parody (signaled by a narrator's exaggerated misrea

his text); dramatic irony (when the reader understands more of the situation than we characters of a story understand); and romantic irony (in which the reader

derstands more of the story than the author writing the story). These, alone or toget

ay signal a narrative irony, by which the initial apparent intention of a text, as given

e narrator, leads to a conclusion that contradicts that intention or which defies any

nclusion.

arrative irony is, to be sure, a central feature of Hawthorne's tales and sketches. His

tions present narrators who try but fail to understand their compulsions, obsession

d nightmare remembrances. The narrators remain on one side of the gap, leaving thader to fill the gap that in turn gives an aesthetic "effect" equivalent to what Emerso

ould call "consciousness." To be sure, Emer-



Pa

n thought that the irony of consciousness would manifest the equivalent of a religio

sight. Unlike Emerson and the Transcendentalists, however, Hawthorne, as The Sca

tter shows, believed that the irony of "consciousness" testifies less to the presence

e divine than to humanity's abnegation of God despite its need for God (43 below).

ough there was not certainty on which to base belief, irony reveals the ambiguity o

thout which no "test" of faith would be valid or worthwhile.

e Development of the Scarlet Letter

ith such ideas in mind, Hawthorne began the writing of The Scarlet Letter in early

ptember 1849. In "late winter," probably December 1849, James T. Fields, the junio

rtner in the Boston publishing house of Ticknor, Reed, and Fields, came to Salem.

d been among those hoping to get Hawthorne reinstated at the Custom House, but

ving failed, he thought the next best thing would be for him to ask about publishing

ything Hawthorne had written in the three years.

Fields tells of the event, twenty years later, the meeting was an embarrassment for

awthorne (Appendix H.1). Hawthorne first denied that he had done any writing duri

e period. He did not even mention his work on the sketch which was eventually to b

e Scarlet Letter, or on two others: a long sketch of Salem life entitled "Main-street"

ppendix E.3) and a tale, "Ethan Brand." The latter was Hawthorne's first attempt at

iting a romance, but, as the subtitle to the story says, it was rather more "A Chapter

om an Abortive Romance."stead, as an explanation for not having anything to show, Hawthorne said that he w

he most unpopular writer" in America. Even when Fields saw in an opened drawer

oved to be the manuscript of The Scarlet Letter, Hawthorne denied that he had don

y publishable work. Only when Fields was about to leave did Hawthorne, in a mom

self-reversal, call out for him to wait, and he ran back to fetch the manuscript for h

read on the way home to Boston. Two days later, declaring the piece indicative of

ccess, Fields traveled back the fifteen miles to Salem to contract for



Pa

e story.

elds, in his essay on Hawthorne, suggests that he encouraged Hawthorne to write th

ory as a novel. He might have done so, but what Fields read during the journey of a

hour to Boston was only "the germ of 'The Scarlet Letter,'" and there was no inhere

ason to conclude that the story might be expanded into a novel, in distinction from

ng tale or sketch.

e manuscript of this version (and that of the finished romance) no longer exists; bu

ven Hawthorne's tales and sketches, Fields had no reason to think that Hawthorne c

ite a novel. Indeed, as William Charvat notes, Fields may well have thought simply

nger, fuller tale (CE, I:xx-xxii). As late as January 15, 1850, Hawthorne, in writing t

elds, intended to place the "The Scarlet Letter" as a tale among a collection of sketch

d tales, to be called "OLD-TIME LEGENDS: Together with Sketches, EXPERIMEN

ND IDEAL" (Appendix H.2).

en so, Hawthorne, in the same letter of January 15 to Fields, enclosed "the manuscr

rtion of my volume," except "the last three chapters," suggesting a decidedly longer

rsion. Despite Hawthorne's implication of having decided on his own, at least

ntatively, to do a single long fiction, Fields, on January 19, advertised the work-in-

ogress in the Literary World as a "new volume of tales."

he major concern between author and publisher was whether The Scarlet Letter wo

rm a single volume or be but one of several narratives. However, the correspondend not make the matter clear to either party. The truth probably is that Hawthorne wa

eling his way into his romance and the art required to make it read well. A few days

er, January 20, Hawthorne seemingly refused Fields's suggestion of building the

lume on The Scarlet Letter, and voiced his fear of risking everything on one story.

ote Fields that a volume of several tales would turn "different sides of the same dar

ea to the reader's eye," and would "weary very many people and disgust some"; thus

ought it best to proceed much as a hunter loading "his gun with a bullet and several

ckshot" that is, the longer version of "The Scarlet Letter" and several shorter piecesat ''failing to kill the public outright with my biggest



Pa

d heaviest lump of lead, I might have other chances with the smaller bits" (Append

3,4).

illiam Charvat's view of the debate is plausible: Hawthorne himself made the decisi

focus on The Scarlet Letter (CE , I:xx-xxiii). Hawthorne cut out all the tales and

etches that might form the "buckshot" of "Legends and Tales" because he was think

terms of a volume to be read as a single unit. Portions of "The Custom-House"

troduction indicate that Hawthorne "finished'' the volume by stripping away "Main-

eet" at the last moment, leaving the Introduction alone to serve as "buckshot."

deed, in the same letter of January 15, Hawthorne mentions for the first time his ske

life at the Salem custom house, and in the letter of January 20, he defends his origi

ention of a "buckshot" volume when he speaks of using "The Custom-House" as th

e for the entire volume. Indeed, "The Custom-House" has a humorous, even satiric

ne, and the piece, as a contrast to The Scarlet Letter , seems to soften the theme of tmance. However plausible it may be, it is perhaps more important to recognize that

e addition of the Introduction and only the Introduction, the entire volume rests on

ntrast of two wholly different tableaux one of political power in 1849 and the other

eocratic power in 1649. It is, in essence, a situation of irony: the two parts are relate

ough apparently distinct, and in reading the two as one, Hawthorne hoped to create

ffect" on his reader.

onsequently, as the volume moved toward its completion, Hawthorne conceived of o parts as a total package. On February 2, the envisioned volume was advertised fo

st time as a "novel," such being the common term for a longer fiction of the day.

awthorne completed the volume on February 3, and that night, he read the last three

apters to his indulgent wife before sending them to Fields the next day.

awthorne's Romance and the "Effects" of Narrative Ironye next day, February 4, 1850, Hawthorne wrote his lifelong friend Horatio Bridge th

phia, like the publisher James T.



Pa

elds, "speaks of [the romance] in tremendous terms of approbation," but

multaneously that "it broke her heart and sent her to bed with a grievous headache

hich I look upon as triumphant success" (Appendix H.5). Hawthorne's idea of "succ

not explicit in the letter. The idea is not linked to the sensational aspects of the story

ot of the adultery of Hester, the hypocrisy of Dimmesdale, the strange childhood of

arl, or the satanic revenge of Hester's husband, Roger Chillingworth. Rather,awthorne speaks of the romance's "effect'' on Sophia and the publisher as "what

wlers call a 'ten-strike.'"

dgar Allan Poe could not have said it better. For Poe, a story's "effect" is the essentia

al of a fiction. An "effect" is a reader's feelings and associations in response to the

thor's language and narrative that gives the reader the equivalent of a sententious id

thought. The "effect" on the reader stands for the "idea" the author embeds in the te

d simultaneously the "effect" is the aesthetic experience that confirms for the readeror she has grasped what the story is about although the narrator has not been expli

d provided a pithy or sententious explanation. In short, the aesthetic experience

emingly renders an "effect" equivalent to what the author intends.

e theory of "effect" was baffling for the readers of Poe and the generation of the 18

it was based on Transcendental assumptions. However, in the same letter, Hawthor

dressed this theory in his own terms when he declared that "sections of the book" a

owerfully written." With ordinary common sense, one might expect that such powe

ould cause the desired "effect" on a reader, but Hawthorne acknowledges that hiswritings do not, nor ever will, appeal to the broadest class of sympathies" and so can

ttain a very wide popularity." To explain this contradiction in which power is power

wthorne says that "The Custom-House" may be more "attractive" to that "broadest

ass" of general reader because the "main narrative . . . lacks sunshine," thereby impl

at the "effect" of such entertainment must be agreeable if a fiction is to be read. Or,

wthorne restates his problem succinctly, the "main narrative" is "positively a h-ll-fi

ory," but "it is almost impossible to throw any cheering light" into it to entice the gen

ader.



Pa

this quandary, Hawthorne had either to limit himself to a narrow readership or

structure the audience's sensibilities to proceed with the text despite the "hell-fire." I

her words, this entrapment of the reader would lead a reader through the text despit

oom and lack of "sunshine."

awthorne's inducements to the reader were, primarily, a refiguring of the authorial v

thin his text. Instead of reading the romance as a document derived from the dead

rveyor Pue and containing an authentic view of Hester's life, the reader is be led to

mprehend that the real story is the narrator's concern to figure out the story of Heste

e reader's focus will in that case shift from an apparent text conveying a well-defin

ory in Pue's outline to a "story" in the reader's mind about what a narrator wants to

out the outline, piecing together that story in the narrator's mind from all that the

rrator adds to the outline. While heeding Hawthorne's narrator and what he says of

ester's life, the reader may also imagine what was being seen (imagined) by the narrthis way, the narrator becomes the actual subject of the narrative, as the reader gras

hat the narrator distorts or ignores.

awthorne's apparent strategy for such a narrative is to have the reader focus on the

rrator, whose voice persists from the introduction into the romance, thereby giving

tire piece coherence, even as it contrasts its "light" and "dark" themes. The initial vo

"Hawthorne" the Surveyor in "The Custom-House" sketch slowly, almost

perceptibly, blends with the voice of the narrator of The Scarlet Letter who is

harged'' by Surveyor Pue with the task of writing Hester's story. The process is begue first two paragraphs of "The Custom-House," as Hawthorne, the author of Mosses

om the Old Manse, invites the reader to enter his parlor, so to say, to hear an old frie

l his newest stories. However, having succeeded, the same voice seemingly qualifie

uation as he gives notice that even as the invited reader hears and enjoys his "voice

ere will ultimately be a "veil" behind which is "the inmost Me" of the author, never

experienced directly (73). Simply put, one can read The Scarlet Letter as a text

ntrolled by the author, whose meaning must be penetrated; but if one does, the auth

s put the reader on notice that such an endeavor will never succeed. Ultimately the



Pa

pulation of narrative devices is intended to leave the reader facing the "veil" that

eserves the unknowable; this is a key part of the aesthetic "effect" of the text.

is duplicity focuses on how "meaning" in a story is generated, and how an

nterpretation" of the events in this story can never be "authentic." Thus, in the secon

ragraph, Hawthorne questions the "authenticity" of the historical manuscript of

rveyor Pue. In noting the matter of the "authenticity of a narrative,'' hawthorne say

at he will add only "a few extra touches . . . to give a faint representation of life not

retofore described, together with some of the characters that move in it, among wh

e author happened to make one" (73). The phrasing of this endeavor of adding "a f

tra touches" sounds modest, as if the author were confining himself to a role as an

itor. However, the sentence is masterful in the way that it hides from the reader

awthorne's actual addition to the Pue manuscript of several characters who may be

tional Dimmesdale, Chillingworth and by that shows that the narrator is acting as anthor. At the same time, without proper explanation, the narrator-author announces t

will be a character in the story. A reader might easily allow for the addition of

aracters to the Pue manuscript, but when the narrator makes himself into one of the

haracters" within the story, he is claiming an "authenticity" to his version of what

ppened two centuries before. Thus, when the reader reacts to the "voice" in the role

rveyor who finds the scarlet letter and the manuscript outline, the reader is also

acting to the "voice" of a character within the text of The Scarlet Letter that seeming

present at events, and not merely imagining a fiction.is idea of "authenticity" becomes clearer some thirty pages into the Introduction, w

e Surveyor by an inexplicable instinct places the scarlet letter A on his breast. In

sponse, he receives "a sensation" akin to "burning heat . . . as if the letter were not o

d cloth, but red-hot iron" (101). Only because of this "effect" does the Surveyor kn

th certainty that he has found his long-sought subject-matter for a fiction, and he th

rns to the foolscap manuscript with new interest. This manuscript had been left in th

ic of the Custom-House by an earlier predecessor, Surveyor Pue, who died midway

rough the eighteenth century. The "effect" Pue might



Pa

ve intended was "the red-hot" branding of the Surveyor in 1849. Here, a reader will

fer that the Surveyor "feels" what is behind the "effect," and understands that the

rveyor, in turn, must edit Pue's manuscript for others to have an indirect, literary

perience of the scarlet letter. Thus, hardly without notice, Hawthorne, as the Survey

s entered his own story and guided the reader to experience what is behind the

anuscript.

emingly noting his new importance in the story, the Surveyor-narrator, one page lat

phrases his role in bringing the manuscript to the reader. He implies that since his

iting is a re-creation, giving a unique interpretation of Hester's story, it will be his o

ews, and not those of Surveyor Pue:

It had been [Hester's] habit, from an almost immemorial date, to go about the country as a kind of

voluntary nurse, and doing whatever miscellaneous good she might; taking upon herself, likewise,

give advice in all matters, especially those of the heart; by which means, as a person of suchpropensities inevitably must, she gained from many people the reverence due to an angel, but, I

should imagine, was looked upon by others as an intruder and a nuisance. (102)

e "reaction" of the Surveyor is one of nineteenth-century scepticism. He doubts Pu

mplistic interpretation of Hester's angelic nature and finds her to be "an intruder and

isance," and thus not worthy of "reverence." The ''effect" of the "red-hot" branding

ddenly ironic, since the Surveyor has a different view of Hester from what evidentl

d Surveyor Pue to record Hester's history as an instance of the angelic.

e "effect" here is an instance, the first but not the last, of a series of narrative ironie

ch an irony occurs when the text has led the reader to a possibility not initially fore

the narrator of the text. Here, the narrative "voice" has not recognized the implicati

following Pue's manuscript to a quite different conclusion, but an attentive reader

ght. Here too, such a reader will grasp that if the Surveyor of 1849 is critical of Pue

also critical of the Puritan age itself, and will not understand the term "angelic."



Pa

this play of narrative irony, Hawthorne has duplicated a primal situation of ambigu

deed, it is now a philosophical idea parallel to the ambiguity depicted in his Notebo

try of his dying mother and his daughter's joy. No one position reflects reality, but

alectic contrasts make that reality evident. In the romance, this idea takes the form o

vealing the ambiguities behind historical interpretation and the blitheful assumption

uthenticity."

ut there is more in "The Custom-House." Going on to speak of "this singular woman

d her "doings and sufferings," the Surveyor drives home his point about the ambig

"authenticity":

. . . [I]t should be borne carefully in mind, that the main facts of that story are authorized and

authenticated by the document of Mr. Surveyor Pue. The original papers, together with the scarlet

letter itself, a most curious relic, are still in my possession, and shall be freely exhibited to

whomsoever, induced by the great interest of the narrative, may desire a sight of them. I must not bunderstood as affirming, that, in the dressing up of the tale, and imagining the motives and modes o

passion that influenced the characters who figure in it, I have invariably confined myself within th

limits of the old Surveyor's half a dozen sheets of foolscap. On the contrary, I have allowed mysel

as to such points, nearly or altogether as much license as if the facts had been entirely of my own

invention. What I contend for is the authenticity of the outline. (1023)

gain, the Surveyor offers a deceptive explanation, and by that shows a good instanc

wthorne's style, using exaggeration to signal the narrative irony. Instead of arguing

confined himself, as a good editor, to Pue's outline, the Surveyor emphasizes that hs exceeded the usual limits of an editor. The effort to seem ordinary and reasonable

aggerated, in the manner of "P.P., Clerk of the Parish" by Alexander Pope and John

ay. In that work, mentioned in the first paragraph of the Introduction (723), the narr

arches for exceptional events to mark milestones in his life; since



Pa

ere are none (P.P. is actually an insignificant person), P.P. must consider such matter

e ordinary ringing of a church bell as the event marking his birth. As the Surveyor

opts the parodic posture of P.P., he shows himself as a suspect narrator, for he does

cognize that while he reputedly derives his "authority" from an outline, he, in fact, i

aiming carte blanche to create his own story. As a result, the reader becomes wary o

e narrator on several occasions in The Scarlet Letter , and is signaled to question therrator's moralizings and judgments of the fictional history of Hester and Arthur. In

ading "against the narration," the reader is reacting to the narrative irony of the text,

coming aware of an ambiguity when the narrator sees none.

nother occasion of exaggeration making for parody and signaling a narrative irony i

e end of Chapter I. There, the narrator, self-consciously, offers the reader a "rose"

hich he, within his story, "plucks" from a "rose-bush" by the "prison-door" from wh

ester exits. The narrator intends the ''rose" to be considered a promise of a "sweet mossom," able to assuage the severity of the story implied by the grim opening scene

15). Such an offering, at the onset of the narration, suggests that the narrator will sh

e story toward this "sweet moral" lesson despite the claim that he is merely followin

e "authentic" outline. In posing as an editor even as he shows himself to be an autho

e narrator signals that he, in fact, may not control the story, and that the reader shou

y on guard.

major occasion of this sort of narrative irony is in Chapter XXIV, just after the narr

ts all the ambiguities regarding whether Dimmesdale had any "scarlet letter" of his oreveal to the community. The point of the listing is that all the interpretations are

esented as perceptions from the crowd, and, as such, each is plausible. However, in

pearing to be present at the scaffold as a character, the narrator has missed the poin

at the perceptions recorded depend on whoever does the interpretation. In short,

awthorne's narrator may have begun his writing to resolve the ambiguity surroundin

e life of Hester Prynne, but because he has put himself into the story, he has failed t

asp what is evident to the reader. Consequently, the narrative is ironic because the

rrator at-



Pa

mpts to resolve his story, as would any character present at the scaffold confession,

so doing, he has put aside the ambiguity or diversity of vision that he has apparentl

tnessed. Instead, the narrator reduces the romance to one point, and limits it to the

aracter, Dimmesdale: "Be true! Be true! Be true! Show freely to the world, if not yo

orst, yet some trait whereby the worst may be inferred!" (306). In making this

nclusion, the narrator has not only undermined his authority to tell the story, but hasplayed his loss of authority both as an editor of the "outline" and as a character wit

e text.

e "voice" of the Surveyor-narrator as editor and as character within the story gives

sibility to the narrative irony that challenges a reader to compose the story despite th

rrator's version. Here the reader will understand that Dimmesdale, after all, was

volved in a religious exercise of faith or belief. Thus, he has sought to be penitent in

der to become worthy of God's forgiveness for his sin of fornicating with Hester. Toggest that he was merely a social hypocrite is to confine the story to the rationalized

rspective of 1850 and to disregard the implications of the various interpretations tha

ould be open to the Puritan witnesses of 1649 if they knew as much as the reader. H

e narrator as a character in the story has noted the reactions of the Puritans, but the

rrator as editor has ignored them or been unable to understand them. If the narrator

rodied as a failed editor and character, the failure may have suggested to those first

ading the text two centuries after the imagined action of the story, that their era of

cularism and rationalism had lost all insight into the experience of Puritan piety.a parallel way, the narrator's conclusion about Dimmesdale's hypocrisy signals that

rrator cannot adequately describe Hester's last years or the effect upon her of

mmesdale's scaffold confession. Events of her last years were told to Surveyor Pue

out the year 1750 by persons who were children when Hester was in her last years a

ho heard of Hester secondhand. If the novel takes place between 1641 and 1649,

cording to historical persons and events given in the romance, and if Hester was in

enties for most of that period, she would have been about seventy years old in 1690

rn, children ten years old in 1690 would then be almost



Pa

venty when Pue recorded their memory. Consequently, if Pue's manuscript is said t

uthentic" as an "outline," it rests on old people recalling their childhood memories o

tsider to the community, with a life more complicated than one ordinarily would

perience. In short, here it would seem that Pue is as much being parodied for his tr

''authentic" accounts as is the Surveyor who trusts Pue's manuscript outline.

be sure, the "hearsay" quality of the "outline" gave Pue a sense of "reverence" for t

ngelic" Hester a sense left over from his Puritan ancestors. But in turn it inspired the

rveyor to prejudge Hester as a meddlesome gossip. In short, no text can lay claim t

uthenticity" any greater than that of fiction. Thus, at the end of the romance, nothin

n be said of Hester's last years except that she lived in a cottage by the seashore and

ceived mysterious letters with armorial signs from abroad. When the narrator loses

ory that is, resigns himself to "facts" the events of her last years are bald and

sconcerting: the very simplicity of her life gives an "effect" in the reader of what istailed by Hester's isolation and how such isolation gave rise in her to an individuali

ophetic of the future. Whatever is imagined by the reader as the reader takes in the

scription on Hester's tombstone is of more "meaning" than the "sweet moral blossom

hich the narrator has announced for Hester.

ith such directions of narrative irony, the reader is working out the story that the

rrator has left incomplete. Being a character in the story, the narrator cannot unders

s significance within it. In telling the story he thinks that he controls it, but in reality

lure to bridge the gaps in his story serves to demonstrate that the romance is a studymbiguity, paradox, and the failure of "authenticity" in any text. Only parody and

rrative irony can suggest the fullness of what is involved. Indeed, the reader, reactin

e total composition of the romance and "The Custom-House" sketch senses how

awthorne compounds the ambiguity that typifies his notion of existence.

ch a narrative is, to borrow Roger Chillingworth's words about the role of sin (adu

d revenge), a composition of a "typical illusion" (230). A "type" is a symbol, and so

eir lives have



Pa

en symbolic of an illusion no one has grasped until then. Chillingworth alone, perh

spects how each of them has responded to the scarlet letter to see the indefinite void

hind the symbolic signifiers. In a variation of romantic irony, Chillingworth, a char

the romance, virtually steps forward to announce that all the characters are illusion

at fiction is an illusion, and that life itself may be a similar illusion. It is bitter

owledge, and stands in stark contrast to what the Surveyor has told the reader in throduction about the nature of imagination as it is awakened from its slumber by the

perience of Moonlight.

agination and the Neutral Ground of Moonlight

e Surveyor's depiction of the Moonlight presents an instance of the aesthetic experi

d its "effect" (105). The instance of Moonlight is a moment when the Actual meets

aginary in "the neutral ground" of an experience, and seems similar to Emerson's

perience of the ''transparent eyeball" in Nature (Appendix B.II.2). Both experiencesrn, seem related to Coleridge's description of the Primary and Secondary Imaginatio

s Biographia Literaria (I.4: 82-88; I.13: 304-05), in which the "secondary" phenom

this world shadow the "primary" realities known directly by God. For Coleridge, th

ning of Things Actual with Things Imaginary had a long philosophical history in

sponse to Kant's bifurcation of the Noumenal and Phenomenal. Hawthorne presents

eutral ground" as a common experience within his everyday world (see Appendix I

r all writers touched by the Transcendental tradition, the aesthetic experience

familiarizes the Actual from its commonplace moorings and gives it its Imaginary

gnificance as the Actual becomes the symbol of the Imaginary.

owever, a major difference should be noted. For Coleridge, the experience of the

agination had a high function as it supposedly revealed God's truths to humans in t

ly way possible through symbols or "types." In creating a new, unfamiliar experien

e Coleridgean artist structured a "type" in the mind of humans that mirrored an

rchetype" in the otherwise unknowable mind of God.



Pa

merson the Transcendentalist, in his theory of language, followed Coleridge on this

int (Appendix B.II.2). For Coleridge and Emerson, the Imagination can attain truth

e individual could look forward to social progress because of the assurance that wh

e thought was reflexive of what was in God's mind.

ut with Hawthorne, the "type" or symbol fashioned in "the neutral ground" was "hel

ed" in its implications. As the romance concludes, the passage on Moonlight is part

rrative irony. Either the artist's imagination of symbols has revealed that God's mind

l of ambiguities, paradoxes, and ironies, which even the narrator (playing God to th

ader) cannot control and explain adequately; or, just as ''hell-fired," symbols may no

ypes" within God's "archetypal" mind, but only human representations of ambiguou

uations, and therefore humans could express themselves, but could never compreh

e world as God does. As Chillingworth says, all is a "typical illusion."

consequence, the meeting of the Actual and the Imaginary is a grim irony. If theagination brought the two worlds together, it also showed that all existence is

radoxical and contradictory. However, the resulting irony suggested that life is more

atter of attaining wisdom by coping with ambiguity than a determination of doctrina

liefs to resolve the ambiguities. The relation of belief to wisdom is best illustrated i

awthorne's words on Herman Melville in 1857. At the time, Melville was on his way

e Holy Land to test his faith. Melville's romance Moby-Dick (1851), one recalls, pre

e white whale as a material fact that may or may not shadow God, Nature, or some

her ultimate significance:

Melville, as he always does, began to reason of Providence and futurity, and of everything that lie

beyond human ken, and informed me that he had "pretty much made up his mind to be annihilated"

but still he does not seem to rest in that anticipation; and, I think, will never rest until he gets hold

a definite belief. It is strange how he persists and has persisted ever since I knew him, and probab

long before in wandering to-and-fro over these deserts, as dismal and monotonous as the sand hill

amid which we were sitting. He can neither believe,



Pa

nor be comfortable in his unbelief; and he is too honest and courageous not to try to do one or the

other. (Stewart, ed., English Notebooks 32-33)

elville wanted a God to tell him what was truth, but could not believe in God himse

erefore, he sees symbols (like the whale), but cannot believe in what they might

mbolize. However, for Hawthorne, the willingness to believe in the face of what see

believable is a matter of wisdom. Do not go "beyond human ken": this wasawthorne's implied insight into that wisdom. In this, Hawthorne was a latter-day Pur

periencing piety.

rthermore, in taking his reader of the romance back to the Puritan generation of 16

awthorne, in effect, was tracing his own view of the decline of belief to his own day

e Historical Sources for The Scarlet Letter

understand Hawthorne's implicit history of belief and its decline, one needs to retuearly New England, when the Puritans were demystifing the Calvinist doctrine of

ection. The mystery was this: Before time began, God had chosen some persons to

s Elect and some to be Damned. God intended this mystery to glorify His existence,

mans were merely pawns in His story. The Calvinist God was a Biblical Yahweh,

ajestic and unknowable by man. One only could know Him indirectly, by conjectur

w He viewed one's role in His story: if one were Damned, the Damned person simp

owed that God had the capacity and whim to show what eternal existence would be

He did not exist.

ch a doctrine, however, seemed increasingly illogical to those who followed after th

st generation of New Englanders. For the first generation of Puritans, the experienc

ace had remained undefined, and was recognized simply by a new sense of life.

homas Shepard, for one, "knew" he had had his conversion by grace when he was

wakened from a drunken stupor by church bells on a Sunday morning and had a de

nse of remorse; the moment was marked, he said, by the fact that thereafter he could

ad the Bi-



Pa

e easily, seeing its relevance to his Calvinist creed of God's majesty (J. S. Martin). B

e later generations of New Englanders were different: pressured by their isolation to

aintain their faith in the wilderness of the New World, they were not sure of what w

e defining characteristics of a conversion, and they turned to moral behavior, or

aintly" conduct, as an indicator (Morgan).

response, during the first decades of New England life, a Covenant Theology

veloped under the leadership of John Cotton, John Wilson, and Thomas Shepard to

ionalize the Calvinist position for those who were subject to doubts. "The New

gland Way" to salvation depended upon the ritual of public confession and the doc

"justification." The doctrine said that after the Fall all humans were inherently sinn

d could never fulfil the demands of "the laws" of Moses, yet the recognition of God

cellence might "justify" one's receiving grace. This was a ''covenant" between God

s chosen people. To fulfil the covenant a sinner had to have faith that Christ thenocent had died to pay God the excellent Father for the sinner's sin and to understa

d follow the doctrines of the church, just as Shepard was said to have done.

the ritual of "the New England Way" to salvation, a person would tell a minister of

her remorse. After an examination to test whether the candidate could read the Bib

d understand church doctrine, the candidate would be taken before the entire

ngregation to confess, or demonstrate, his or her unworthiness, remorse, and

perience of a regenerated willingness to do God's will. Such a display of remorse an

nitence, in short, was to be a reduplication of the moment of grace. For this reasone Scarlet Letter , Dimmesdale's public confession of sin on the scaffold can be read

thin "the New England Way" to salvation, occurring spontaneously in response to h

rlier Election Sermon.

e Covenant Theology was logical and it supposedly reassured the arising generatio

at they could have the same experience of grace that their ancestors had had, especi

the minister was a good tutor. Neatly defined as it was, however, this Covenant

heology opened new problems.n the one hand, a person could not believe (have faith) unless the Holy Spirit first

scended and gave the individual the "grace" to



Pa

lieve. This logic envisioned the Elect's passive reception of grace. On the other han

person had remorse for a sin that had caused Christ's death, that person was said to

orthy of God's forgiveness, and thereby could actively compel God to grant grace b

e's acts of penance.

rthermore, there was a problem about the effect of grace itself. Supposedly, accord

the leaders of the theocracy, "justification" granted to church members the right to v

own property, and even to marry; after all, the "justified" had a stake in preserving

od's Providence and the society of His chosen people. The problem was then that if

ere "justified" through grace, one necessarily had to be possessed by the Holy Spirit

d if one was, one was a part of the Divine and no longer needed to look to the

agistrates of the New England theocracy for guidance. This last view was the positio

nn Hutchinson, the Antinomian (literally, "against the law"). She was exiled as a her

t is ironically called ''sainted" in Chapter I of The Scarlet Letter . Her beliefs derivedom the theology and preaching of John Cotton, her pastor in Lincolnshire, England,

hose removal to the colony in 1636 led her to follow (Battis 18-36). When she arrive

e organized weekly meetings of women to critique the sermons of the several minis

e strongly believed that women, if "justified" and possessed by the Holy Spirit, cou

rve as "ministers," thus adding a special element of feminism to her heresy of

ntinomianism (Appendix J.III.2; Battis 37-45).

nn's heresy of individualism suggests one reason for Hawthorne's reference to her in

nnection with Hester Prynne, the outcast and prophet. But there was another: Ann isociated, through her weekly critique of ministers, with a particular minister, John

otton.

ne of Hawthorne's most important historical sources for all of his fiction is Caleb

ow's History of Boston (1825). Snow's History devotes more space to Cotton than

y other preacher, including John Wilson, yet Hawthorne never mentions Cotton in

arlet Letter . John Cotton's sermons were virtual model demonstrations of true

ustification." They reportedly moved the audience to repent at the same moment thaoquence seemingly marked the de-



Pa

ent of the Holy Ghost, empowering his words with "tongues of fire," able to speak t

ch person directly. For this reason, Cotton in England and New England was Ann

utchinson's model of a good preacher, and although Snow's History does not name

the poorer preachers, one might suppose that she found fault with the Reverend Jo

ilson, who is given prominence in Hawthorne's novel. Wilson's sermons were well

ckaged and "zealous" in their lamenting the decline of faith since the early generatioppendix J.III.2). However, Wilson's sermons did not evidence the immediacy of

ustification" as did Cotton's.

e point is that Snow's record of Cotton shows a striking similarity to the figure of

awthorne's Dimmesdale. Snow describes Cotton's "clear, neat and audible voice" tha

eded not to be "nosy and thundering," and the "plain" style of his preaching, "desig

be understood by the meaning capacity, while his more discerning hearers could

rceive from it that he was a man of more than ordinary abilities and learning"ppendix J.III.4). Cotton Mather, in his Magnalia Christi Americana (1702), anothe

ajor source for Hawthorne, is even stronger in his praise of Cotton's ability to touch

art and mind of the ordinary person, and he gives details of Cotton's devotion to

eology a devotion that seems to resemble that of Dimmesdale (Appendix J.II).

his preaching, too, Cotton seems to have been a model for Arthur Dimmesdale wh

rmons are said to be inspired by the "tongues of flame." At the same time, Cotton

spired Ann Hutchinson's faith and loyalty, bringing her to New England and leading

a doctrine deduced from Cotton's own sermons (Battis 18-36). Having led her far inresy, Cotton, under pressure of the orthodox John Winthrop and John Wilson,

stanced himself from her, and virtually abandoned her to her fate at a crucial time o

al.

oth Mather and Snow give differing accounts of Cotton's action. Snow's is damning

esents a parishioner rebuking Cotton into a shameful "silence." Mather's version

ritten in a more "reverent" era, about 1702) makes the parishioner's rebuke into a

mpliment, showing Cotton's flying "from an injury [done to him] by silence"ppendix J.III.5; J.II).



Pa

her penalty, Hutchinson was banished from the colony, and spent the remaining ye

her life moving between communities and among natives, until Indians slew her an

r family in 1643, taking one daughter into permanent captivity. The point is that

mmesdale's apparent seduction and abandonment of Hester to her solitary fate is a

rallel to Cotton's actions toward Ann Hutchinson. As such, Cotton's actions focus f

ader how the heavenly doctrine of "justification" is ambivalent in its "effects" on amale parishioner susceptible to love. (It is a point that has some connection to

awthorne's other notable hero, Zenobia, in The Blithedale Romance, as she too falls

ctim to the egotist, Hollingsworth.)

deed, Cotton's name figures into an actual story of Cotton's son, also named John, w

as dismissed from his Plymouth church for adultery with a parishioner. Besides the

vious tie to Dimmesdale in The Scarlet Letter , this John Cotton suggests the basis

awthorne's own complaint in "The Custom-House" sketch, that he brought disgraceon his lineage by being an author.

his reading of historical sources, Hawthorne understood enough about the ambigui

"justification" to realize that the Transcendentalism of 1850 was similar to the

ntinomianism of 1640. Simultaneously, Hawthorne recognized that the Puritan age w

embarrassment to nineteenth-century New Englanders. The theocratic state was

parently antithetical to the civil liberties for which Americans had fought the

volution against England. The best light that a person of 1850 could cast on the Pur

e was that of a sceptical rationalism: that is, the beliefs that a minister's "reverence" e sacred and a magistrate's demand for "the public peace" were merely means to

press the vulnerable and those without wealth (Loring, Appendix K.8).

fter the Second War of Independence (the War of 1812), Americans had begun to

consider how their democratic institutions had evolved from such an Age. For true

mocrats such as Jefferson, the American Revolution was a revolt against the past, it

ationalities, and its tyrannies. For him, instead of an evolution, there was no clear

nnection between the Puritans and the current "enlightened" age. This view was alse stance of the Transcendentalists; it stood behind Emerson's advice in his essay "Th

meri-



Pa

n Scholar" (1837) to live in the present moment in order to be free from the detrime

ditions and ancient institutions derived from the Puritans.

ore conservative minds, however, saw the Revolution and democracy as developing

om the same source. The self-discipline and unfathomable self-assurance of the

ritans were the same ingredients required for a Revolution against the weight of

dition and the institutions of a powerful European power. George Bancroft (an

portant Democrat who got Hawthorne appointed to the Boston Custom-house in 18

as the historian who forged this connective link; he began his History of the United

ates in 1834, completing it only in 1874, ten years after Hawthorne's death. But duri

e 1820s, just as Hawthorne graduated from Bowdoin, New England historians began

ore modestly to assemble the documents in sequential form and to critique the recor

Matthews).

e History of Massachusetts (1774), by the loyalist eighteenth-century governor Thoutchinson, was the first major study. Hutchinson's History had an inherent thesis tha

ginal Puritan "mission" to maintain their faith during the Anglican persecutions had

adually changed into a desire to build a "community" in the New World that would

milar to and the equal of "the old home." But, although Hutchinson's History marke

stinct turn of view, it was based on a universal and fixed concept of a society.

oreover, it sided with the actions of the Puritan leaders and inadvertently set up the

lture and traditions of England as a standard for the American experiment.

e new perspectives had to await the reassessment of two historians who had great

fluence on Hawthorne: the Reverend Caleb Snow, already noted, and Joseph Felt.

ow, in his History of Boston, and Felt in his Annals of Salem (1827), were the first

nsider Puritanism as a religious and cultural force. They used Cotton Mather's

agnalia Christi Americana (or, The Great Deeds of Christ in America, 1702) and

omas Hutchinson's History, the journal of John Winthrop, and town records to not

e nation's "progress." Mather's work had presented portraits of Puritan magistrates a

nisters of the 1630s that bespoke their faith and ability to rule in a wilderness. Theyere persons superior to persons who lived since, and Mather



Pa

d this superiority to their piety, or reverence for the sacred. Indeed, this element wa

ssing from an increasingly secular United States, and thus, their piety had become

mystified, in the sense of becoming a curiosity, to the enlightened descendants of th

20s.

lt usually confined his record to matters of laws, decrees, births, and deaths. But at

mes he touched on such oddities as the Salem witch trials, and was full of lessons fo

oderns, knowing that reason had triumphed in the eighteenth century.

ow, however, was consistently trying to find modern explanations for the beliefs an

verity of the Puritans. He implied that through their moral evolution Americans had

ed themselves from the illusion that cruel and unusual punishment was necessary f

ciety to survive or be cohesive. In this evolution, Snow implied that Americans we

sured of yet further moral progress, inherent in the democratic institutions of the

untry. This implication would also be at the core of Bancroft's History, which, comer the close of the Civil War (1861-1865), gave seemingly factual testimony that Go

shed to preserve His chosen political system.

awthorne was particularly impressed by the fact that portions of Snow's and Felt's

stories actually named his ancestors, William and John Hathorne, as among the mos

nighted. Hawthorne's view of the Puritans follows Snow's attempts at a balanced vi

d is best expressed in his 1849 sketch of "Main-street," written originally to be inclu

the volume of The Scarlet Letter :The sons and grandchildren of the first settlers were a race of lower and narrower souls than their

progenitors had been. The latter were stern, severe, intolerant, but not superstitious, not even

fanatical; and endowed, if any men of that age were, with a far-seeing worldly sagacity. But it wa

impossible for the succeeding race to grow up, in Heaven's freedom, beneath the discipline, whic

their gloomy energy of character had established; nor, it may be, have we even yet thrown off all th

unfavorable influences which, among many good ones, were bequeathed to us by our Puritan

forefathers. Let us thank God for having given us such ancestors; and let each successive genera-



Pa

tion thank him, not less fervently, for being one step further from them in the march of ages.

(Appendix E.2)

r Hawthorne the artist (in distinction from the historians Snow and Felt), the Purita

ere connected to his generation by their mysterious Calvinist doctrine regarding

ustification" by faith alone. It had been an ambiguous doctrine, but was an immense

portant one. Upon this doctrine, Ann Hutchinson would become an Antinomianretic, but also be the figure of inspiration for American individualism. With this

ctrine in the updated secular form of the self-sufficient individual, the

anscendentalists of 1850 would seek authority to transform American institutions.

us, in turning to the story of Hester and Arthur, and to the Puritan problem of belie

wthorne was also questioning how one era judges a prior one, and what this judgm

es to the nature of belief and "authenticity." In writing The Scarlet Letter , Hawthor

d found the subject matter for his romance.

V

esponses to The Scarlet Letter

ntil recent decades, most commentators have bifurcated the two texts within The Sca

tter . This division has had the effect of deemphasizing Hawthorne's chief narrative

vice, that of the voice of the Surveyor, and has led to considerations that the roman

as a novel in the English tradition. As a result, "The Custom-House" has been read alitical satire on Whigs or a defense of the artist, and discussion of the romance has

ten been focused on several isolated subjects such as morality in fiction and the con

individualism and society.

e first reviews of the romance in 1850 established these lines of contentions. The

ston Transcript spoke of the romance's "great moral lessons" and the "wit and hum

"The Custom-House" (Appendix K.1). This friendly review was answered by the

lem Register 's faint praise of the romance and a damning condemnation of awthorne's subterfuge in attacking the Whigs through ''The Custom-House" (K.2). T

fluential Evert Duyckinck, sensing the sensitivity of the subject matter, declared the

mance's "moral" to



Pa

"wholesome" and the introduction to be merely a humorous balance (K.3). George

pley suggested that "terror" underlay the romance, and focused on Hester as if she

atured a novelistic plot (K.4). E.P. Whipple was one of a handful of critics who gras

e principle of ''composition" central to the romance as a genre and attempted to

iculate its "effect" (K.5). Henry F. Chorley also saw Hawthorne's focus on the

antastic" in the Puritan age that Ripley had described, but questioned the suitability e romance's subject matter (K.6). George Bailey Loring not only sought to clarify

awthorne's notion of the romance, as did Whipple, but located the theme as a

mparison of the Puritans to the enlightened age of 1850; even so, he limited the them

an oppression of the individual by society, sensing it to be the American theme (K.

nne W. Abbott confessed that she was fully engaged in the "hell-fired" story, but she

estioned the subject matter, suggesting that Hawthorne did a disservice to morals (K

ore scathing were the comments of "literary" ministers; Orestes Brownson found th

eme to be "transcendental" and thus "morally unhealthy" (K.9), and Arthur Clevelanoxe questioned whether literature should discuss "adultery," since Hawthorne's

mpathy for Hester might mislead (female) readers (K.10).

ch reviews did not perceive the narrative voice of the Surveyor as a cohesive force

d not remark on any element of narrative irony. Even as critics, early and late (see

rpenter), saw Loring's point about the conflict of the Puritan theocracy and Hester's

enation, they ended with debating why Hawthorne failed to make a good case for

dividualism, pointing to the hint that while the scarlet letter taught Hester much, it aaught her much amiss" (253).

hen American literature became an academic field of study in the 1920s, different

tical readings of the romance developed into "schools of thought." By the 1950s, tw

ablished approaches were the formalist (sometimes called the "New Critical" or

ucturalist) and the psychological readings, of such commentators as Charles Feidel

d Frederick Crews. Formalist readings would typically note such things as the balan

the three scaffold scenes and their ensuing tension," the interrelations of the textual

mbols, and the



Pa

fect conveyed by the contrast of light and dark; such readings drew attention to aest

vices but often also focused on moral concerns such as the issue of Dimmesdale's

pocrisy. For the most part they accepted the final judgment of the narrator to be

curate: Dimmesdale should have been "true." In psychological readings, aspects of

mance (for example, Dimmesdale's guilt) were typically connected by interpolation

om Hawthorne's personal life, such as his sensitivity about his two infamous ancestd his alienation from the citizens of Salem.

more recent decades, feminist criticism and the school of poststructuralist-

construction (exemplified by Jacques Derrida) have been dominant academic

proaches.

minist criticism has shown how The Scarlet Letter may be read as dramatizing Hes

ynne's spiritual and physical struggle to survive as an individual in a society whose

lues authorize the privileged power of men. Nina Baym and Gabriele Schwab, amohers, have seen the text as depicting a woman's response to the power of privileged

triarchs who use a woman's "body" (including mind, language, and actions) to enco

e beliefs that authorize their power, bringing about a systemic ideology subjugating

omen. This approach suggests that an important function of literature and of criticis

ould be to reveal ways in which women are the victims of male power, and argues

erature and criticism should represent aspects of life not enclosed in the mainstream

eology.

specific example of how such an approach may be applied is found in the first scaf

ene of the romance. In this scene, it is the political magistrates and ministers all of th

ale who have condemned Hester in the name of communal values, seemingly author

God Himself. Consequently, the power and status of Governor Bellingham, the

verend John Wilson, and the Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale rest on their dutiful

actment of the penal code that condemns Hester and all other sinners to the position

ctims.

ving visual force to their authority, these three men stand on the balcony of theeeting-house (the church) to demand Hester's confession of her partner in sin, even

ester herself, standing on the scaffold of punishment, must suffer the humiliation

flicted by



Pa

ssiping women. The pictorial scene dramatizes how the sanctioned patriarchical rul

sert their right to rule by verbalizing the communal concerns, and the women confir

at right by responding to Hester's plight with scathing remarks; she becomes ostraci

om the common life of the community.

us marginalized by her humiliation, Hester develops a new individualism. Instead o

enation leading her, as intended, to remorse and doctrinal subjugation, her new

dividualism embodies a spirit that promises, at some time in the future, the overthro

the patriarchal system. Hester is susceptible to the demand of her husband,

hillingworth, to vow silence about his identity as he plots revenge against Dimmesda

t she is also enabled, in the forest scene, to break that vow and ask pardon of

mmesdale so that both lovers may renew their "consecration" to each other. At this

oment, Hester is "transfigured" sexually into a woman akin to the Goddess Venus. I

r subsequent role as nurse and advisor to the troubled individuals of Puritan societester conforms outwardly to society's expectation for a "fallen women,'' but at the sa

me, hester has sufficiently broken the mould of that role to understand how the pow

male leadership has undermined the spirit of humanity.

the poststructural-deconstructionist approach of such critics as John Dolis and Pau

hite, the metaphors and symbols that privilege the language of a text have no refere

t only hide the unfamiliar aspects of life that literature essentially attempts to conve

e defamiliarization of a text is the first step in noting the gaps and incongruities by

hich a reader engages a text. (A focus on defamiliarization may find fertile ground inawthorne's discussion of the imagination in his section on the "moonlight" in "The

ustom-House.") By defamiliarization, deconstruction inverts the meanings of the ter

that, for example, the word "consecration," which would be read as a Transcenden

use of the religious term by Orestes Brownson (Appendix B.II.3), can become a ter

hich makes sense in contradicting the usual meaning that the word had for Puritans

new reading, "consecration" may be seen to support Hester's "transfigured" human

hose values should replace the existing values.



Pa

hile deconstruction gives considerable weight both to Dimmesdale's slow recognitio

arl as his daughter and to the narrator's speculations about Dimmesdale's "revelatio

e scarlet letter" in the last chapter, it also re-centres Hester in the romance since she

rself, as a woman, is inarticulate and depends both upon Dimmesdale's eloquent

fense and upon a reader's grasp of the ambiguity of language as a concept.

day, feminist and deconstructionist criticism largely define the function and range o

erary analysis among academic specialists, and this Introduction has not been

influenced by them. However, in making the romance accessible to first-time unive

aders and to the general reader, three other approaches may be at least as amenable:

"reader-response" criticism of the sort exemplified by David Leverenz, which trace

ffect" upon the reader in response to the metafictional narrator; that of the new

storicism of Sacvan Bercovitch, which reads a text in the light of its historical conte

uch as the ambiguity and dilemmas of Transcendentalist thought and current theorieout historical "authenticity"); and that of a rhetorical approach which focuses on

rrative irony and on the thematic implications of ambiguities and paradoxes. This la

proach is especially useful in locating the difficulties of the text and making of them

portunities for readers to experience "the pleasures of the text'' for themselves.

ading the romance as a novel led many critics into a keen (and, to modern ways of

nking, an exaggerated) interest in deciding who is the main character. Novels since

pearance of Fielding's Tom Jones were "supposed" to have a focal character that

dergoes a significant change after a climactic crisis; other characters subserve thevelopment of the so-called hero. In contrast to these novelistic considerations,

awthorne's fiction has other narrative features distinctive to his notion of the romanc

rticularly the compositional values of character. The character of Dimmesdale is an

ample. Ostensibly, the plot of the romance initially seems to be the discovery of the

entity of Hester's partner in sin. But this plot is duplicitous, since the reader underst

at Arthur Dimmesdale is her lover, virtually from the first scaffold scene; this is evid

om the pictorial melodrama in which he puts his hand over his heart and



Pa

livers his cautious admonition to Hester. What is curious is that the narrator does no

ow what the reader seemingly intuits.

fter this scene, the plot (if there is one) changes focus, and seems to turn on whethe

ader can discover what is under Dimmesdale's hand, on his breast. When the possib

ems about to be revealed, in Chapter X, as Chillingworth uncovers the bosom of th

eping Dimmesdale, the narrator then turns his attention away from the naked breas

e doctor's response, and compares the minute line that is thought to separate

hillingworth from the Devil:

But with what a wild look of wonder, joy, and horror! With what a ghastly rapture, as it were, too

mighty to be expressed only by the eye and features, and therefore bursting forth through the whole

ugliness of his figure, and making itself even riotously manifest by the extravagant gestures with

which he threw up his arms towards the ceiling, and stamped his foot upon the floor! Had a man

seen old Roger Chillingworth, at that moment of his ecstasy, he would have had no need to ask ho

Satan comports himself, when a precious human soul is lost to heaven, and won into his kingdom.

But what distinguished the physician's ecstasy from Satan's was the trait of wonder in it! (197-8)

e words of the narrator here relate his response, but not its cause; in effect, the pas

ks the reader to envision directly the cause of Chillingworth's "wonder." If there is a

ark, how wonderful that God has made it! If there is a mark from Dimmesdale's

ourge, how wonderful that the minister believes so deeply in his need for "justificat

at he would self-flagellate himself! If there is nothing, how wonderful that the man

uld feel such a need for the same "justification" that he suffers an invisible but real

in! In each case, "wonder" is ambiguous the cause is visible to the characters, but

udes the interpretation of the narrator.

e various plots surrounding Dimmesdale, in effect, are devices to assure the reader

or she can know more than either the



Pa

rrator or the Puritan community. In the same scene of the inspecting doctor, the rea

tes that the narrator must introduce the name of Satan to "typify" the intensity of

hillingworth's "wonder," though he stops short of saying say that Chillingworth is S

a devil. Here, the reader can pick up the notion of the supernatural being coinciden

the physical, although the narrative voice restrains, with some precision, his own

ference. In effect, the reader is left to navigate the contradictions between the scepti50 and the pious but uncritical Puritan of 1641. In so doing, the reader judges the

screpancies that constantly arise in the plot itself, and formulates the story evolving

e narrator's mind.

en if we consider the plot to center on whether Dimmesdale will repent, the reader

ust be similarly engaged. Dimmesdale's presence on the scaffold structures the three

rts of the romance, apparently to move the plot toward its conclusion. In the openin

ene, as Hester stands above the crowd to be humiliated, Dimmesdale stands on a higlcony to be observed associating with and protected from a confession by mingling

th the ruling powers of the community, Governor Bellingham and the Reverend Joh

ilson. In Chapter XII, midway through the romance, Dimmesdale stands at midnigh

e scaffold. Because he is unaware that in the previous chapter Roger Chillingworth

posed his bosom and discovered an unnamed truth about his soul, he can pretend a

nfession, though one without remorse. Finally, as Dimmesdale completes his Electi

rmon for the new Governor (in effect, conferring with God about a public official)

s attained status with the new Governor, the officers of the militia, and the chief nisters. At this time of power, however, he experiences what might seem at first gla

be a moment of grace, as he flings aside all the glory that he has just achieved. His

nfession on the scaffold, moments before his death, seems to suggest that the minis

on his struggle for faith. Yet the rapture of the crowd has also led him into an

hilarating sense of assurance that God too would be captivated by his eloquence; hi

nfession may seem tainted by an abiding egotism.

ues from the narrator to the reader in this "scaffold" structure are, as elsewhere, ofte

her ambiguous or entirely absent. Thus, in Chapter XXIV, the narrator as a charactemself within the story



Pa

s watched Dimmesdale bare his breast on the scaffold, but cannot say what he has s

s role here is to convey the terms of the final ambiguities. That is, after a few days h

ssed to calm the senses, the reader is told that if anything was seen on Dimmesdale

east, it could have had a physical cause (such as self-flagellation or the toxicity of

hillingworth's potions) as well as God's supernatural marking of a sinner. Secondly,

at were not sufficiently ambiguous, the narrator says that some persons then presente light of several days' consideration, could not swear to seeing anything at all on th

nister's lamb-white bosom.

r some spectators then, the reader may take it that there was a mania or delusion sim

that which held sway during the Salem witch trials of 1692. The narrator is attempt

speak factually for his more enlightened audience of 1850 an audience that we may

esume would want to discount the Puritan belief of God's intervention as superstiti

d that would be unlikely to accept self-flagellation as anything more than a superstit, unfit for the nineteenth-century world. Or, if there were a mark on Dimmesdale's

east caused by one of Chillingworth's potions, then the reader of 1850 would have t

plain it as a grotesque act of revenge something quite beyond the Transcendentalist

lief in humanity's "natural" love of the good. In all, this very silence of the narrator

irting the theological and the profoundly psychological, serves to compel the reader

nsider a wide range of possibilities.

her characters and situations similarly lead the reader to a consideration of multiple

ssibilities. And, in particular, Pearl, the reader is told, is not only the product of thearlet sin of illicit passion, but is the scarlet letter itself. Pearl shows her symbolic rol

rough her function in the scene by the forest brook. In that scene, Hester and Arthu

ve met alone for the first time in seven years. After forgiving one another for the pa

ch has caused the other Hester by her vow of silence to Chillingworth, and Arthur b

s absence as a husband and father Arthur and Hester contrast their love with

hillingworth's revenge. Arthur mentions "the sanctity of the human heart," and Hest

ds that what they did had a "consecration of its own" (198). The terms "sanctity" an

onsecration" are religious, but are applied here to the passions that led to sin. Fur-



Pa

er in the same scene, the lovers devise a plan to flee the Puritan experiment and retu

England where, as one remembers from Hester's "fancy picture" in the first scaffold

ene, her true "home" is. As their plans are settled, Hester takes off her constraining c

let down her hair, betokening her sexuality that has brought her humiliation; she th

moves the scarlet letter from the bosom of her dress, flinging it into the brook to be

ashed away. In this act, the narrator has displayed Hester's "transfiguration," and notokens the presence of the divine goddess of love within the human (256). Again, t

rrator is unaware of the misappropriation of a "reverent" term in application to the

man, but the attentive reader is not. When Pearl the symbol of the symbolic scarlet

ter appears, Hester's attractive ''transfiguration" is rudely jarred. The reader, despite

rrator's dialogue for the lovers, is led to consider how the misappropriation of the

vine has dimmed their recognition of their sin. It is Pearl's symbolic function to

xtapose and signal a different reading of their words.

e scene is melodramatic, but still effective. The scarlet letter, having been flung to t

ook, falls short and rests on Hester's side. Pearl, from across the brook, points to th

oth letter by which she, Pearl, has existence (262), and gives a pictorial demonstratio

at Hester and Arthur are losing their "identity" because they are self-deluded by thei

tion of human love.

oreover, this reversal is parodied repeated with a slightly different importance. As P

ints to the fallen scarlet letter, the brook mirrors her action, and by that demonstrat

at the narrator suspects what his story is, but has limited himself to a self-consciouslight in his scene a purely aesthetic touch. At such a moment, the narrator's double-

aging diverts him from the moral point entirely. Thus, for a brief moment, Pearl

ntrols the story, outstripping the narrator (as did Chillingworth earlier in his words

out the "typical illusion"). In so doing, Pearl makes the reader privy to what the "vo

ould tell, but has failed to tell. In sum, at this point, the reader is composing the sto

ong with a character, Pearl, within the story.

e "effect" of characterization and of the romance's several narrative devices of parony, symbolism, and misappropriate



Pa

nguage all contribute to expose the reader to the same ambiguity about the "authenti

history experienced by the narrator of "The Custom-House." As the narrative art le

e reader to compose a "meaningful" story from the bare "outline'' of Surveyor Pue's

anuscript, first seen by the Surveyor, so does The Scarlet Letter show that the story

ell-fired" because its theme is contrariness, paradox, and ambiguity, compelling a re

consider what essentially cannot be resolved. In conclusion, a reading response to mance touches on most major themes firsthand: the unresolvable conflict of belief

tween two eras, that of 1650 and of 1850; the hierarchy of romantic love and comm

ores; the nature of individualism in a patriarchical society; and, not least, the need fo

sdom in a tragic, imperfect, unperfectable world.

fter The Scarlet Letter, Hawthorne wrote three more romances in the space of ten ye

e House of the Seven Gables (1851), The Blithedale Romance (1852), and The Ma

un (1860). They all employ the same narrative art, and were quite popular, thoughne has ever aroused a response comparable to that which The Scarlet Letter contin

elicit among readers.



Pa

NOTE ON THE TEXT

awthorne sent Fields the last three chapters of The Scarlet Letter on February 3, 184

d Fields began to have the sheets type-set. Since there was no effective copyright la

e United States protecting a publisher's interests until 1891, most publishers wouldrange with a British publisher for a simultaneous printing, thereby getting rights at l

England, the major market. To ensure financial success, Fields attempted to get a

itish publisher to issue the volume simultaneously. Unfortunately, Fields failed to g

e final sheets to the British publisher, and when the first American edition appeared

arch 16, 1850, British agents had already pirated the work for their publishing house

e first edition of 2,500 copies was sold out within days, a big success. Fields then

dered another edition of 2,500 copies to meet the demand, and hoped to beat the Brho would enter the American market by mid-April. Fields's problem was compound

the fact that he had broken up some of the type-settings of the first edition for othe

orks. He recovered some "gatherings," but not all, and had to re-order what was

cking. Since time was of the essence in such a competitive market, the proofs this ti

ere not read by Hawthorne, unlike for the first edition. When this edition appeared o

pril 22, Hawthorne's only input was his "Preface to the Second Edition."

is "Preface" noted the political controversy and surely made the second edition also

lout. Fields had to order an additional 1,000 copies, published on September 9, 185s time in fixed plates. Again, Hawthorne was not consulted to proofread the sheets,

e copy editor and typesetters made corrections on their own. It is this third edition t

til recent years, starting about 1960, has remained the standard edition of the novel,

ceiving its imprimatur when the house of Houghton Mifflin published the fifteen-

lume Riverside edition in 1883.

full discussion of the errors and alterations in the three basic editions, in the light o

cent textual scholarship, can be found in Fredson Bower's "Textual Introduction: Tharlet Letter " which introduces the 1962 Centenary Edition of the romance. In fact,

w-



Pa

er, it was not necessary to make substantial corrections to Hawthorne's punctuation

awthorne's heavy use of comma and dash follows nineteenth-century practice that

ught to imitate oratorical emphasis and is helpful when reading the text aloud.

inor changes, however, were the dropping of the nineteenth-century practice of put

riods in titles and the adoption of modern capitalization of titles, unless hyphenated

g., "Brook-side" and "Main-street"). Otherwise, most changes to the first edition are

dgements about the hyphenation of words at the end-of-lines in the first edition. He

idance was found in Hawthorne's practice elsewhere in the romance, in his other w

the period, and New England usage at the time.

awthorne's spelling, to be sure, is at times unique, but was left unchanged; for exam

hillest" and "concentred" remain and the usage of "stedfast" and "stedfastly" is foun

roughout the text. However, what were apparently three errors of spelling and one

oblem of punctuation in the first edition were changed. These changes are listed berespective order of the two editions:

he Custom-House"

page 41 printed "characterss" for "characters," page 104

page 46 printed "convulsives" for "convulsive," page 108

hapter V: Hester at Her Needle"

page 102 printed "tobelieve" for "to believe," page 145

hapter XVI: A Forest Walk"

page 228 printed "time __" for "time!" on page 243. Bower attributes the space to

oosened type" in later impressions of the first edition (CE I:lii).



Pa

An Old Woman's Tale"and three biographical sketches, including "Mrs. Hutchinson."

30

e Token and Atlantic Souvenir (a "gift book" for 1831) includes "Sights from a

eeple."

35e Token (for 1836) contains "The Minister's Black Veil" and "The May-Pole of Merr

ount." New England Magazine publishes "Young Goodman Brown."

36

ppointed editor of The American Magazine of Useful and Entertaining Knowledge,

st steady job, but in June the magazine fails. With assistance of his sister, Elizabeth,

awthorne becomes editor of Peter Parley's Universal History, on the Basis of

eography.

37

March, Twice-told Tales published with a financial guarantee from Horatio Bridge.

38

Salem neighborhood, through Elizabeth Peabody, Hawthorne meets Sophia Peabod

ven years his junior and a partial invalid. Begins contributing to the Democratic Re

awthorne's major publisher for the next seven years. Publishes "Endicott and the Re

oss," containing a portrait of an adulteress on public scaffold.39

comes engaged to Sophia Peabody. Through political influence, employed as a salt

al Measurer in the Boston Custom House; serves until 1841.

41

ins Transcendental community at Brook Farm, West Roxbury, Massachusetts, from

nuary to November.

42July, marries Sophia Peabody. Until 1845, they rent "The Old Manse" (named by the

awthornes), in Concord, originally Emerson's family home; neighbors include Emer

oreau, Margaret Fuller, Ellery Channing, and



Pa

mos Brownson Alcott. Second edition of Twice-told Tales.

44

daughter, Una, born.

46

April, appointed Surveyor in the Salem Custom House. In June, Mosses from an Olanse published, includes introductory essay, "The Old Manse." A son, Julian, born.

47

ves separate lodgings to reclusive mother and two sisters in his rented home in Sale

49

smissed 8 June, from the Salem Custom-House; begins two intense months of

fending his reputation, seeking to be restored to his position. End of July, attends

other at her death: "the darkest hour I ever lived." In early September, 1849, Hawthgins "The Scarlet Letter," planned as part of a collection to be entitled "OLD TIME

EGENDS; Together with Sketches, EXPERIMENTAL AND IDEAL" Visited by Jame

elds, Boston publisher, who seeks publishable material supposedly assembled from

ys as a custom-house surveyor; short sketch of "The Scarlet Letter" expanded.

50

e Scarlet Letter published on 16 March; second edition follows on 22 April, third o

ptember. Exhausted from intense writing of the romance, moves to Lenox, westernassachusetts, for summer relaxation and begins friendship with Herman Melville, al

ing in the area.

51

e House of the Seven Gables (written in Lenox) published; in addition, publishes th

lumes: The Snow Image, and Other Twice-Told Talescontaining seventeen uncollec

ories, including "Ethan Brand" "The Wives of the Dead," and "My Kinsman, Major

olineux"A Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys, and a new edition of Twice-told Tales

oves to West Newton, a suburb of Boston and begins The Blithedale Romance. Acond daughter, Rose, born.



Pa

52

e Blithedale Romance published; buys "The Wayside," in Concord, the former hom

Bronson Alcott. Writes a campaign biography for Franklin Pierce (Democratic

esident 185256).

53

e Tanglewood Tales for children published. Appointed United States Consul at

verpool by Pierce; resigns in February 1857, but serves until August that year. Lioni

London.

57

gins travels on the continent with France and then to Italy

58

nuary to June in Rome, where he begins an uncompleted romance. Settles for first

mmer in a country home near Florence, where he becomes friends with the Browni

59

orks on The Marble Faun. Returns to England.

60

e Marble Faun is completed and published in February as The Transformation, on

onth before American edition appears. In June, returns to the United States and "Th

ayside."63

ur Old Home published, dedicated to Franklin Pierce.

64

spring, health begins to fail; Dr. O.W. Holmes suspects a brain tumor. Dies in his sl

ay 19, at Plymouth, New Hampshire, while travelling with Pierce to recover his hea

ried in the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery at Concord, Massachusetts. Leaves uncomplete

ur "romances," entitled The Ancestral Footstep, Dr. Grimshawe's Secret, Septimuslton, and The Dolliver Romance.



Pa

HE SCARLET LETTER, A ROMANCE

athaniel Hawthorne

OSTON:

CKNOR, REED, AND FIELDS.

DCCC L.



Pa

ontents

e Custom-House Introductory 72

The Prison-Door 115

The Market-Place 117

. The Recognition 127

The Interview 136

Hester at Her Needle 143

. Pearl 152

I. The Governor's Hall 162

II. The Elf-Child and the Minister 170

. The Leech 179

The Leech and His Patient 189

. The Interior of a Heart 199

I. The Minister's Vigil 206

II. Another View of Hester 217

V. Hester and the Physician 225

V. Hester and Pearl 231

VI. A Forest Walk 238

VII. The Pastor and His Parishioner 244

VIII. A Flood of Sunshine 253

X. The Child at the Brook-Side 259

X. The Minister in a Maze 266

XI. The New England Holiday 277

XII. The Procession 286



XIII. The Revelation of the Scarlet Letter 297

XIV. Conclusion 305



Pa

he Custom-House Introductory to "The Scarlet Letter"

is a little remarkable, that though disinclined to talk overmuch of myself and my aff

the fireside, and to my personal friends an autobiographical impulse should twice i

y life have taken possession of me, in addressing the public. The first time was threur years since, when I favored the reader inexcusably, and for no earthly reason, th

her the indulgent reader or the intrusive author could imagine with a description of

ay of life in the deep quietude of an Old Manse.1 And now because, beyond my des

was happy enough to find a listener or two on the former occasion I again seize the

blic by the button, and talk of my three years' experience in a Custom-House. The

ample of the famous "P. P., Clerk of this Parish," was never more faithfully followe

he truth seems to be, however, that, when he casts his leaves forth upon the wind, th

thor addresses, not the many who will fling aside his volume, or never take it up, be few who will understand him, better than most of his schoolmates and lifemates.

me authors, indeed, do far more than this, and indulge themselves in such confiden

pths of revelation as could fittingly be addressed, only and exclusively, to the one h

d mind of perfect sympathy; as if the printed book, thrown at large on the wide wo

ere certain to find out the divided segment of the writer's own nature, and complete

cle of existence by bringing him into communion with it. It is scarcely decorous,

1 Hawthorne lived from July 1842 to October 1845 in Emerson's ancestral home, the Old Manse;there he completed his Mosses from an Old Manse (1846) which has the autobiographical essay

"The Author Makes the Reader Acquainted with His Abode" and the sketch "The Old Manse."

2 The anonymous Memoirs of P.P., Clerk of this Parish was a mock autobiography, written in 17

members of the Scriblerus Club (probably Pope and John Gay), and was intended to parody the

tedious and self-important Secret Memoirs (published as The History of My Own Time, 1723) of

Gilbert Burnet (1643-1715), Bishop of Salisbury, and father to an unpopular royal Governor of

Massachusetts (1729).



Pa

wever, to speak all, even where we speak impersonally. But as thoughts are frozen

erance benumbed, unless the speaker stand in some true relation with his audience

ay be pardonable to imagine that a friend, a kind and apprehensive, though not the

osest friend, is listening to our talk; and then, a native reserve being thawed by this

nial consciousness, we may prate of the circumstances that lie around us, and even

rself, but still keep the inmost Me behind its veil. To this extent and within these limauthor, methinks, may be autobiographical, without violating either the reader's rig

his own.

will be seen, likewise, that this Custom-House sketch has a certain propriety, of a ki

ways recognized in literature, as explaining how a large portion of the following pag

me into my possession, and as offering proofs of the authenticity of a narrative ther

ntained. This, in fact, a desire to put myself in my true position as editor, or very lit

ore, of the most prolix among the tales that make up my volume,1 this, and no othey true reason for assuming a personal relation with the public. In accomplishing the

ain purpose, it has appeared allowable, by a few extra touches, to give a faint

presentation of a mode of life not heretofore described, together with some of the

aracters that move in it, among whom the author happened to make one.

my native town of Salem, at the head of what, half a century ago, in the days of old

ng Derby,2 was a bustling wharf, but which is now burdened with decayed wooden

arehouses, and exhibits few or no symptoms of commercial life; except, perhaps, a

brig, half-way down its melancholy length, discharging hides; or, nearer at hand, aova Scotia schooner, pitching out her

1 Hawthorne originally intended to include additional stories in a volume entitled ''Old-Time

Legends: Together With Sketches, Experimental and Ideal." See Appendix H.2, the Introduction an

p. 100.

2 Elias Hasket Derby (1739-1799); shipowner, Salem merchant trading with the Orient, and

privateersman during the Revolution, he earned the title of "Old King Derby" because of his weal

His name here invokes Salem's prominence as a seaport in the prior two centuries in contrast to th

time Hawthorne worked in the Custom-House.



Pa

rgo of firewood, at the head, I say, of this dilapidated wharf, which the tide often

erflows, and along which, at the base and in the rear of the row of buildings, the tr

many languid years is seen in a border of unthrifty grass, here, with a view from it

ont windows adown this not very enlivening prospect, and thence across the harbou

nds a spacious edifice of brick. From the loftiest point of its roof, during precisely

ree and a half hours of each forenoon, floats or droops, in breeze or calm, the banne republic; but with the thirteen stripes turned vertically, instead of horizontally, and

us indicating that a civil, and not a military post of Uncle Sam's government, is here

ablished. Its front is ornamented with a portico of half a dozen wooden pillars,

pporting a balcony, beneath which a flight of wide granite steps descends towards t

eet. Over the entrance hovers an enormous specimen of the American eagle, with

tspread wings, a shield before her breast, and, if I recollect aright, a bunch of

ermingled thunderbolts and barbed arrows in each claw. With the customary infirm

temper that characterizes this unhappy fowl, she appears, by the fierceness of her bd eye and the general truculency of her attitude, to threaten mischief to the inoffens

mmunity; and especially to warn all citizens, careful of their safety, against intrudin

e premises which she overshadows with her wings. Nevertheless, vixenly as she loo

any people are seeking, at this very moment, to shelter themselves under the wing o

deral eagle; imagining, I presume, that her bosom has all the softness and snugness

eider-down pillow. But she has no great tenderness, even in her best of moods, an

oner or later, oftener soon than late, is apt to fling off her nestlings with a scratch o

aw, a dab of her beak, or a rankling wound from her barbed arrows.

e pavement round about the above-described edifice which we may as well name a

ce as the Custom-House of the port has grass enough growing in its chinks to show

at it has not, of late days, been worn by any multitudinous resort of business. In som

onths of the year, however, there often chances a forenoon when affairs move onw

th a livelier tread. Such occasions



Pa

ght remind the elderly citizen of that period, before the last war with England,1 wh

lem was a port by itself; not scorned, as she is now, by her own merchants and ship

wners, who permit her wharves to crumble to ruin, while their ventures go to swell,

edlessly and imperceptibly, the mighty flood of commerce at New York or Boston.

me such morning, when three or four vessels happen to have arrived at once, usua

om Africa or South America, or to be on the verge of their departure thitherward, tha sound of frequent feet, passing briskly up and down the granite steps. Here, befor

s own wife has greeted him, you may greet the sea-flushed ship-master, just in port

th his vessel's papers under his arm in a tarnished tin box. Here, too, comes his own

eerful or sombre, gracious or in the sulks, accordingly as his scheme of the now

complished voyage has been realized in merchandise that will readily be turned to g

has buried him under a bulk of incommodities, such as nobody will care to rid him

ere, likewise, the germ of the wrinkle-browed, grizzly-bearded, careworn merchant,

ve the smart young clerk, who gets the taste of traffic as a wolf-cub does of blood, eady sends adventures in his master's ships, when he had better be sailing mimic bo

on a mill-pond. Another figure in the scene is the outward-bound sailor, in quest o

otection;2 or the recently arrived one, pale and feeble, seeking a passport to the

spital. Nor must we forget the captains of the rusty little schooners that bring firew

om the British provinces; a rough-looking set of tarpaulins, without the alertness of

ankee aspect, but contributing an item of no slight importance to our decaying trade

uster all these individuals together, as they sometimes were, with other miscellaneoes to diversify the group, and, for the time being, it made the Custom-House a stirr

ene. More frequently, however, on ascending the steps, you would discern in the en

it were summer time, or in their appropriate rooms, if

1 The War of 1812 ("the Second War of Independence").

2 A passport or certificate of citizenship; a pun on the returning sailor "seeking a passport to the

hospital."



Pa

ntry or inclement weather a row of venerable figures, sitting in old-fashioned chair

hich were tipped on their hind legs back against the wall. Oftentimes they were asle

t occasionally might be heard talking together, in voices between speech and a snor

d with that lack of energy that distinguishes the occupants of almshouses, and all ot

man beings who depend for subsistence on charity, on monopolized labor, or any t

e but their own independent exertions. These old gentlemen seated, like Matthew,1e receipt of custom, but not very liable to be summoned thence, like him, for aposto

rands were Custom-House officers.

rthermore, on the left hand as you enter the front door, is a certain room or office,

out fifteen feet square, and of a lofty height; with two of its arched windows

mmanding a view of the aforesaid dilapidated wharf, and the third looking across a

rrow lane, and along a portion of Derby Street.2 All three give glimpses of the shop

ocers, block-makers, slop-sellers, and ship-chandlers;3 around the doors of which anerally to be seen, laughing and gossiping, clusters of old salts, and such other wha

s as haunt the Wapping4 of a seaport. The room itself is cobwebbed, and dingy wit

d paint; its floor is strewn with gray sand, in a fashion that has elsewhere fallen into

ng disuse; and it is easy to conclude, from the general slovenliness of the place, that

a sanctuary into which womankind, with her tools of magic, the broom and mop, h

ry infrequent access. In the way of furniture, there is a stove with a voluminous fun

old pine desk, with a three-legged stool beside it; two or three wooden-bottom cha

ceedingly decrepit and infirm; and, not to forget the library, on some shelves, a scoo of volumes of the Acts of Congress, and a bulky Digest of the Revenue Laws. A

pe ascends through the ceiling, and forms a

1 Jesus saw Matthew, a customs officer "sitting at the receipt of customs," and chose him for one

his apostles (Matthew 9.9).

2 A major Salem street on which Derby's mansion was built in 1761, it goes by the Custom-House

which looks onto Derby Wharf.

3 Blockmakers make pulleys for ship-rigging; slop-sellers sell sailors' clothing; ship chandlers su

ship groceries and provisions.

4 A London slum area adjacent to docks; thus, invoking a "backwater" aspect to Salem.



Pa

edium of vocal communication with other parts of the edifice. And here, some six

onths ago, pacing from corner to corner, or lounging on the long-legged stool, with

bow on the desk, and his eyes wandering up and down the columns of the morning

wspaper, you might have recognized, honored reader, the same individual who

elcomed you into his cheery little study, where the sunshine glimmered so pleasantl

rough the willow branches, on the western side of the Old Manse. But now, should thither to seek him, you would inquire in vain for the Loco-foco1 Surveyor. The

som2 of reform has swept him out of office; and a worthier successor wears his dig

d pockets his emoluments.

is old town of Salem my native place, though I have dwelt much away from it, bot

yhood and maturer years possesses, or did possess, a hold on my affections, the fo

which I have never realized during my seasons of actual residence here. Indeed, so

its physical aspect is concerned, with its flat, unvaried surface, covered chiefly withooden houses, few or none of which pretend to architectural beauty, its irregularity,

hich is neither picturesque nor quaint, but only tame, its long and lazy street, loungi

earisomely through the whole extent of the peninsula, with Gallows Hill and New

uinea at one end, and a view of the alms-house at the other,3 such being the feature

y native town, it would be quite as reasonable to form a sentimental attachment to a

sarranged checkerboard. And yet, though invariably happiest elsewhere, there is wit

e a feeling for old Salem, which, in lack of a better phrase, I must be content to call

fection. The sentiment is1 A radical Democrat, whose name derives from the 1835 Democratic convention, when

conservatives attempted to stop proceedings by extinguishing all lamps, and the radicals relit them

and additional candles by use of "lucifers" or "locofocos" newly invented friction matches.

Hawthorne was a conservative Democrat, but the name was eventually applied to all Democrats,

sign of political animosity that led to Hawthorne's dismissal from the Custom-House.

2 An antiquated, but somewhat elegant name for a broom; thus, a mock metaphor for the political

Spoils System of the day which sweeps out opponents on a platform of "reform," and a preparatio

a notice of a "worthier successor" who ''pockets emoluments."3 Salem is located on a peninsula; Gallows Hill was where the Salem "witches" of 1692 were

reputedly hanged; New Guinea was a derogatory name for a district in which non-English immigr

were beginning to settle in Hawthorne's day.



Pa

d the persecuting spirit, and made himself so conspicuous in the martyrdom of the

tches, that their blood may fairly be said to have left a stain upon him.1 So deep a s

deed, that his old dry bones, in the Charter Street burial-ground, must still retain it,

ey have not crumbled utterly to dust! I know not whether these ancestors of mine

thought themselves to repent, and ask pardon of Heaven for their cruelties; or whet

ey are now groaning under the heavy consequences of them, in another state of beiall events, I, the present writer, as their representative, hereby take shame upon my

r their sakes, and pray that any curse incurred by them as I have heard, and as the

eary and unprosperous condition of the race, for many a long year back, would arg

exist may be now and henceforth removed.

oubtless, however, either of these stern and black-browed Puritans would have thou

quite a sufficient retribution for his sins, that, after so long a lapse of years, the old

unk of the family tree, with so much venerable moss upon it, should have borne, aspmost bough, an idler like myself. No aim, that I have ever cherished, would they

cognize as laudable; no success of mine if my life, beyond its domestic scope, had e

en brightened by success would they deem otherwise then worthless, if not positive

sgraceful. "What is he?" murmurs one gray shadow of my forefathers to the other. "

iter of story-books! What kind of a business in life, what mode of glorifying God,

ing serviceable to mankind in his day and generation, may that be? Why, the degen

low might as well have been a fiddler!" Such are the compliments

otnote continued from previous page)

Dedham, evidently as a lesson to the sect which believed in "the inner light" and defied

institutionalized Puritanism. Hawthorne's sketch of Salem, "Main Street," depicts the whipping an

immortalizes "Major Hawthorne"; by anachronistically putting the "w" in the Major's name, the

writer seemingly places himself into the earlier age (CE .XI: 70; Appendix E.2). Initially,

Hawthorne intended to include ''Main Street" with The Scarlet Letter , as well as other sketches a

tales (see 100).

1 William Hathorne's son, John (16411717), was a representative for Salem at the Massachusetts

General Court and a soldier in expeditions against the Indians. He was also one of three judges atSalem witchcraft trials of June-September, 1692, which condemned at least eighteen persons to b

hanged or pressed to death; although the other two judges later repented their quickness to condem

and made public confessions, John never did.



Pa

ndied between my great-grandsires and myself, across the gulf of time! And yet, le

em scorn me as they will, strong traits of their nature have intertwined themselves w

ne.

anted deep, in the town's earliest infancy and childhood, by these two earnest and

ergetic men, the race has ever since subsisted here; always, too, in respectability; ne

far as I have known, disgraced by a single unworthy member; but seldom or never

e other hand, after the first two generations, performing any memorable deed, or so

uch as putting forward a claim to public notice. Gradually, they have sunk almost ou

ght; as old houses, here and there about the streets, get covered half-way to the eave

e accumulation of new soil. From father to son, for above a hundred years, they

lowed the sea; a gray-headed shipmaster, in each generation, retiring from the quar

ck to the homestead, while a boy of fourteen took the hereditary place before the m

nfronting the salt spray and the gale, which had blustered against his sire andandsire.1 The boy, also, in due time, passed from the forecastle to the cabin,2 spent

mpestuous manhood, and returned from his world-wanderings, to grow old, and di

d mingle his dust with the natal earth. This long connection of a family with one sp

its place of birth and burial, creates a kindred between the human being and the

cality, quite independent of any charm in the scenery or moral circumstances that

rround him. It is not love, but instinct. The new inhabitant who came himself from

reign land, or whose father or grandfather came has little claim to be called a Salem

has no conception of the oyster-like tenacity with which an old settler, over whomrd century is creeping, clings to the spot where his successive generations have bee

bedded. It is no matter that the place is joyless for him; that he is weary of the old

ooden houses, the mud and dust, the dead level of site and sen-

1 True for only the two previous generations, and thus a bit of romanticizing. John Hathorne's son

Joseph (16921762) was a ship's captain for a brief time before becoming a farmer; however his s

Daniel (17311796) was a privateer (independent raider on British shipping) during the Revolutio

and his son, Nathaniel (17751808), the father of the author, was a captain of a merchant ship.

2 A move from the crew's quarters to the captain's.



Pa

ment, the chill east wind, and the chillest of social atmospheres; all these, and whatev

ults besides he may see or imagine, are nothing to the purpose. The spell survives, a

st as powerfully as if the natal spot were an earthly paradise. So has it been in my ca

elt it almost as a destiny to make Salem my home; so that the mould of features and

character which had all along been familiar here ever, as one representative of the r

y down in his grave, another assuming, as it were, his sentry-march along the Mainreet might still in my little day be seen and recognized in the old town. Nevertheless

s very sentiment is an evidence that the connection, which has become an unhealth

e, should at last be severed. Human nature will not flourish, any more than a potato

be planted and replanted, for too long a series of generations, in the same worn-out

y children have had other birthplaces, and, so far as their fortunes may be within m

ntrol, shall strike their roots into unaccustomed earth.

n emerging from the Old Manse, it was chiefly this strange, indolent, unjoyousachment for my native town, that brought me to fill a place in Uncle Sam's brick

ifice,1 when I might as well, or better, have gone somewhere else. My doom was on

e. It was not the first time, nor the second, that I had gone away, as it seemed,

rmanently, but yet returned, like the bad half-penny; or as if Salem were for me the

evitable centre of the universe. So, one fine morning, I ascended the flight of granit

ps, with the President's commission2 in my pocket, and was introduced to the corp

ntlemen who were to aid me in my weighty responsibility, as chief executive office

e Custom-House.3oubt greatly or rather, I do not doubt at all whether any public functionary of the

nited States, either in the civil or military

1 The Salem Custom-House.

2 James K. Polk, Democratic President from 1845 to 1849, on the advice of Hawthorne's influent

Democratic friends, Horatio Bridges and Franklin Pierce, as well as other Democrats and some

Whigs, appointed Hawthorne in April, 1846, to a four-year term as Surveyor. Hawthorne was

dismissed in June, 1849, almost one year short of the stipulated term.

3 Hawthorne's position as Surveyor entailed the weighing of goods, if any came to the dilapidated

wharves; hence a "weighty responsibility" in theory, not in fact.



Pa

e, has ever had such a patriarchal body of veterans under his orders as myself. The

hereabouts of the Oldest Inhabitant was at once settled, when I looked at them. For

wards of twenty years before this epoch, the independent position of the Collector

pt the Salem Custom-House out of the whirlpool of political vicissitude, which mak

e tenure of office generally so fragile. A soldier, New England's most distinguished

ldier he stood firmly on the pedestal of his gallant services; and, himself secure in thse liberality of the successive administrations through which he had held office, he

en the safety of his subordinates in many an hour of danger and heart-quake. Gene

iller 1 was radically conservative; a man over whose kindly nature habit had no sligh

fluence; attaching himself strongly to familiar faces, and with difficulty moved to

ange, even when change might have brought unquestionable improvement. Thus, o

king charge of my department, I found few but aged men. They were ancient sea-

ptains, for the most part, who, after being tost on every sea, and standing up sturdil

ainst life's tempestuous blast, had finally drifted into this quiet nook; where, with litdisturb them, except the periodical terrors of a Presidential election, they one and a

quired a new lease of existence. Though by no means less liable than their fellow-m

age and infirmity, they had evidently some talisman or other that kept death at bay.

three of their number, as I was assured, being gouty and rheumatic, or perhaps bed

dden, never dreamed of making their appearance at the Custom-House, during a larg

rt of the year; but, after a torpid winter, would creep out into the warm sunshine of

June, go lazily about what they termed duty, and, at their own leisure and convenie

take themselves to bed again. I must plead guilty to the charge of abbreviating theficial breath of more than one of these venerable servants of the republic. They wer

owed, on my representation, to rest from their arduous labors, and soon afterwards

their sole principle of life had been

1 General James Miller (17761851) was Collector (head administrator) for twenty-four years unt

1849, retiring shortly after Hawthorne's own dismissal. Miller was a hero of the Battle of Lundy's

Lane in 1814 (during the War of 1812); as a national hero, he was untouched by the Spoils System

of political patronage from which Hawthorne was to suffer.



Pa

al for their country's service; as I verily believe it was withdrew to a better world. It

ous consolation to me, that, through my interference, a sufficient space was allowed

em for repentance of the evil and corrupt practices, into which, as a matter of cours

ery Custom-House officer must be supposed to fall. Neither the front not the back

trance of the Custom-House opens on the road to Paradise.

e greater part of my officers were Whigs.1 It was well for their venerable brotherho

at the new Surveyor was not a politician, and, though a faithful Democrat in princip

ither received nor held his office with any reference to political services.2 Had it be

herwise, had an active politician been put into this influential post, to assume the ea

k of making head against a Whig Collector, whose infirmities withheld him from th

rsonal administration of his office, hardly a man of the old corps would have draw

e breath of official life, within a month after the exterminating angel had come up th

ustom-House steps. According to the received code in such matters, it would have bthing short of duty, in a politician, to bring every one of those white heads under th

e of the guillotine. It was plain enough to discern, that the old fellows dreaded som

ch discourtesy at my hands. It pained, and at the same time amused me, to behold t

rors that attended my advent; to see a furrowed cheek, weather-beaten by half a cen

storm, turn ashy pale at the glance of so harmless an individual as myself; to detect

e or another addressed me, the tremor of a voice, which, in long-past days, had bee

ont to bellow through a speaking-trumpet, hoarsely enough to frighten Boreas3 him

silence.1 The conservative political party (18341852), centered in New England, which opposed the

Democrats and caused Hawthorne's dismissal.

2 Hawthorne was a life-long Democrat, and although appointed by a Democratic President (Polk)

appointment as Surveyor had the support of some Whigs because of his financial need as an autho

able to give stature to life in the United States. However, the Whigs, to justify his removal from th

position in 1849, protested Hawthorne's dismissal of two elderly Inspectors and his apparent

favoritism towards Democratic custom officers. See below where Hawthorne begins usage of the

metaphor of "the axe of the guillotine" to depict the Spoils System and his fate as the hapless auththe "real" world.

3 Boreas was the Greek god of the north wind; hence, noisy.



Pa

ey knew, these excellent old persons, that, by all established rule, and, as regarded

me of them, weighed by their own lack of efficiency for business, they ought to ha

ven place to younger men, more orthodox in politics, and altogether fitter than

emselves to serve our common Uncle. I knew it too, but could never quite find in m

art to act upon the knowledge. Much and deservedly to my own discredit, therefore

d considerably to the detriment of my official conscience, they continued, during mcumbency, to creep about the wharves, and loiter up and down the Custom-House

ps. They spent a good deal of time, also, asleep in their accustomed corners, with th

airs titled back against the wall; awaking, however, once or twice in a forenoon, to

e another with the several thousandth repetition of old sea-stories, and mouldy jok

at had grown to be pass-words and countersigns among them.

e discovery was soon made, I imagine, that the new Surveyor had no great harm in

m. So, with lightsome hearts, and the happy consciousness of being usefully emplotheir own behalf, at least, if not for our beloved country, these good old gentlemen

ent through the various formalities of office. Sagaciously, under their spectacles, did

ey peep into the holds of vessels! Mighty was their fuss about little matters, and

arvellous, sometimes, the obtuseness that allowed greater ones to slip between their

ngers! Whenever such a mischance occurred, when a wagon-load of valuable

erchandise had been smuggled ashore, at noonday, perhaps, and directly beneath th

suspicious noses, nothing could exceed the vigilance and alacrity with which they

oceeded to lock, and double-lock, and secure with tape and sealing-wax, all theenues of the delinquent vessel. Instead of a reprimand for their previous negligence

e case seemed rather to require an eulogium on their praiseworthy caution, after the

schief had happened; a grateful recognition of the promptitude of their zeal, the

oment that there was no longer any remedy!

nless people are more than commonly disagreeable, it is my foolish habit to contract

ndness for them. The better part of my companion's character, if it have a better par

at which usually comes uppermost in my regard, and forms the type whereby I reco



Pa

ze the man. As most of these old Custom-House officers had good traits, and as my

sition in reference to them, being paternal and protective, was favorable to the grow

friendly sentiments, I soon grew to like them all. It was pleasant, in the summer

renoons, when the fervent heat, that almost liquefied the rest of the human family,

erely communicated a genial warmth to their half-torpid systems, it was pleasant to

em chatting in the back entry, a row of them all tipped against the wall, as usual; whe frozen witticisms of past generations were thawed out, and came bubbling with

ughter from their lips. Externally, the jollity of aged men has much in common with

rth of children; the intellect, any more than a deep sense of humor, has little to do w

e matter; it is, with both, a gleam that plays upon the surface, and imparts a sunny a

eery aspect alike to the green branch, and gray, mouldering trunk. In one case,

wever, it is real sunshine; in the other, it more resembles the phosphorescent glow

caying wood.

would be sad injustice, the reader must understand, to represent all my excellent old

ends as in their dotage. In the first place, my coadjutors were not invariably old; the

ere men among them in their strength and prime, of marked ability and energy, and

ogether superior to the sluggish and dependent mode of life on which their evil star

d cast them. Then, moreover, the white locks of age were sometimes found to be th

atch of an intellectual tenement in good repair. But, as respects the majority of my c

veterans, there will be no wrong done, if I characterize them generally as a set of

earisome old souls, who had gathered nothing worth preservation from their variedperience of life. They seemed to have flung away all the golden grain of practical

sdom, which they had enjoyed so many opportunities of harvesting, and most care

have stored their memories with the husks. They spoke with far more interest and

ction of their morning's breakfast, or yesterday's, to-day's, or to-morrow's dinner, t

the shipwreck of forty or fifty years ago, and all the world's wonders which they h

tnessed with their youthful eyes.

e father of the Custom-House the patriarch, not only of this little squad of officials

t, I am bold to say, of the respectable



Pa

dy of tide-waiters1 all over the United States was a certain permanent Inspector.2 H

ght truly be termed a legitimate son of the revenue system, dyed in the wool, or rath

rn in the purple; since his sire, a Revolutionary colonel, and formerly collector of t

rt, had created an office for him, and appointed him to fill it, at a period of the earl

es which few living men can now remember. This Inspector, when I first knew him

as a man of fourscore years, or thereabouts, and certainly one of the most wonderfuecimens of winter-green that you would be likely to discover in a lifetime's search. W

s florid cheek, his compact figure, smartly arrayed in a bright-buttoned blue coat, h

sk and vigorous step, and his hale and hearty aspect, altogether, he seemed not you

deed but a kind of new contrivance of Mother Nature in the shape of man, whom a

d infirmity had no business to touch. His voice and laugh, which perpetually reëcho

rough the Custom-House, had nothing of the tremulous quaver and cackle of an old

an's utterance; they came strutting out of his lungs, like the crow of a cock, or the bl

a clarion. Looking at him merely as an animal, and there was very little else to lookwas a most satisfactory object, from the thorough healthfulness and wholesomene

s system, and his capacity, at that extreme age, to enjoy all, or nearly all, the delights

hich he had ever aimed at, or conceived of. The careless security of his life in the

ustom-House, on a regular income, and with but slight and infrequent apprehension

moval, had no doubt contributed to make time pass lightly over him. The original a

ore potent causes, however, lay in the rare perfection of his animal nature, the mode

oportion of intellect, and the very trifling admixture of moral and spiritual ingredien

ese latter quali-

1 Customs officers, so-called because they board incoming ships to check on cargoes and observe

("inspect") the transfer of goods to shore; conjoined with the context of the backwater wharves w

no trade, the phrase satirically suggests "time-servers."

2 William Lee (17711851). The sketch that follows was the source of much contemporary

condemnation of "The Custom-House" as a whole, especially by Whigs, who thought it showed

Hawthorne's chagrin and temperamental crassness for losing his office while the "patriarch"

continued. This sketch, featuring "animal" characteristics, contrasts with those of General Miller,

man of unarticulated heroics, and the unnamed "man of business" who alone has the ability to run t

Custom-House, such as it is.



Pa

s, indeed, being in barely enough measure to keep the old gentleman from walking

-fours. He possessed no power of thought, no depth of feeling, no troublesome

nsibilities; nothing, in short, but a few commonplace instincts, which, aided by the

eerful temper that grew inevitably out of his physical well-being, did duty very

spectably, and to general acceptance, in lieu of a heart. He had been the husband of

ree wives, all long since dead; the father of twenty children, most of whom, at everychildhood or maturity, had likewise returned to dust. Here, one would suppose, mi

ve been sorrow enough to imbue the sunniest disposition, through and through, wi

ble tinge. Not so with our old Inspector! One brief sigh sufficed to carry off the ent

rden of these dismal reminiscences. The next moment, he was as ready for sport as

breeched infant; far readier than the Collector's junior clerk, who, at nineteen years

as much the elder and graver man of the two.

sed to watch and study this patriarchal personage with, I think, livelier curiosity thay other form of humanity there presented to my notice. He was, in truth, a rare

enomenon; so perfect in one point of view; so shallow, so delusive, so impalpable,

ch an absolute nonentity, in every other. My conclusion was that he had no soul, no

art, no mind; nothing, as I have already said, but instincts; and yet, withal, so cunni

d the few materials of his character been put together, that there was no painful

rception of deficiency, but, on my part, an entire contentment with what I found in

m. It might be difficult and it was so to conceive how he should exist hereafter, so

rthy and sensuous did he seem; but surely his existence here, admitting that it was tominate with his last breath, had been not unkindly given; with no higher moral

sponsibilities than the beasts of the field, but with a larger scope of enjoyment than

eirs, and with all their blessed immunity from the dreariness and duskiness of age.

ne point, in which he had vastly the advantage over his four-footed brethren, was h

ility to recollect the good dinners which it had made no small portion of the happin

his life to eat. His gourmandism was a highly agreeable trait; and to hear him talk o

ast-meat was as appetizing as a pickle or an oyster. As he possessed no higher attrib

d neither sacrificed nor vitiated any spiritual



Pa

dowment by devoting all his energies and ingenuities to subserve the delight and pr

his maw,1 it always pleased and satisfied me to hear him expatiate on fish, poultry,

tcher's meat, and the most eligible methods of preparing them for the table. His

miniscences of good cheer, however ancient the date of the actual banquet, seemed

ng the savor of pig or turkey under one's very nostrils. There were flavors on his

late, that had lingered there not less than sixty or seventy years, and were stillparently as fresh as that of the mutton-chop which he had just devoured for his

eakfast. I have heard him smack his lips over dinners, every guest at which, except

mself, had long been food for worms. It was marvellous to observe how the ghosts

gone meals were continually rising up before him; not in anger or retribution, but a

ateful for his former appreciation, and seeking to reduplicate an endless series of

joyment, at once shadowy and sensual. A tenderloin of beef, a hind-quarter of veal

are-rib of pork, a particular chicken, or a remarkably praiseworthy turkey, which h

rhaps adorned his board in the days of the elder Adams,2 would be remembered; wthe subsequent experience of our race, and all the events that brightened or darken

s individual career, had gone over him with as little permanent effect as the passing

eeze. The chief tragic event of the old man's life, so far as I could judge, was his mi

th a certain goose, which lived and died some twenty or forty years ago; a goose of

ost promising figure, but which, at table, proved so inveterately tough that the carvi

ife would make no impression on its carcass; and it could only be divided with an a

d handsaw.

ut it is time to quit this sketch; on which, however, I should be glad to dwell at

nsiderably more length, because, of all men whom I have ever known, this individ

as fittest to be a Custom-House officer. Most persons, owing to causes which I may

ve space to hint at, suffer moral detriment from this peculiar mode of life. The

1 Stomach.

2 John Adams (17351826), 2nd President (17971801); father to John Quincy Adams (17671848),

President (18251829).



Pa

d Inspector was incapable of it, and, were he to continue in office to the end of time

ould be just as good as he was then, and sit down to dinner with just as good an

petite.

ere is one likeness, without which my gallery of Custom-House portraits would be

angely incomplete; but which my comparatively few opportunities for observation

able me to sketch only in the merest outline. It is that of the Collector, our gallant o

eneral, who, after his brilliant military service, subsequently to which he had ruled o

wild Western territory,1 had come hither, twenty years before, to spend the decline o

s varied and honourable life. The brave soldier had already numbered, nearly or qu

s threescore years and ten, and was pursuing the remainder of his earthly march,

rdened with infirmities which even the martial music of his own spirit-stirring

collections could do little towards lightening. The step was palsied now, that had be

remost in the charge. It was only with the assistance of a servant, and by leaning hisnd heavily on the iron balustrade, that he could slowly and painfully ascend the

ustom-House steps, and, with a toilsome progress across the floor, attain his custom

air beside the fireplace. There he used to sit, gazing with a somewhat dim serenity o

pect at the figures that came and went; amid the rustle of papers, the administering o

ths, the discussion of business, and the casual talk of the office; all which sounds a

cumstances seemed but indistinctly to impress his senses, and hardly to make their

o his inner sphere of contemplation. His countenance, in this repose, was mild and

ndly. If his notice was sought, an expression of courtesy and interest gleamed out us features; proving that there was light within him, and that it was only the outward

edium of the intellectual lamp that obstructed the rays in their passage. The closer y

netrated to the substance of his mind, the sounder it appeared. When no longer call

on to speak, or listen, either of which operations cost him an evident effort, his fac

ould briefly subside into its former not uncheerful quietude. It was not painful to

hold this look;

1 General Miller, after his exploits in the War of 1812, was Governor of Arkansas (18191825)

before settling in Salem in 1825.



Pa

r, though dim, it had not the imbecility of decaying age. The framework of his natur

ginally strong and massive, was not yet crumbled into ruin.

observe and define his character, however, under such disadvantages, was as diffi

ask as to trace out and build up anew, in imagination, an old fortress, like

conderoga,1 from a view of its gray and broken ruins. Here and there, perchance, th

alls may remain almost complete; but elsewhere may be only a shapeless mound,

mbrous with its very strength, and overgrown, through long years of peace and neg

th grass and alien weeds.

evertheless, looking at the old warrior with affection, for, slight as was the

mmunication between us, my feeling towards him, like that of all bipeds and

adrupeds who knew him, might not improperly be termed so, I could discern the m

ints of his portrait. It was marked with the noble and heroic qualities which showe

be not by a mere accident, but of good right, that he had won a distinguished nameirit could never, I conceive, have been characterized by an uneasy activity; it must,

y period of his life, have required an impulse to set him in motion; but, once stirred

th obstacles to overcome, and an adequate object to be attained, it was not in the m

give out or fail. The heat that had formerly pervaded his nature, and which was not

tinct, was never of the kind that flashes and flickers in a blaze, but, rather, a deep, r

ow, as of iron in a furnace. Weight, solidity, firmness; this was the expression of his

pose, even in such decay as had crept untimely over him, at the period of which I

eak. But I could imagine, even then, that, under some excitement which should goeply into his consciousness, roused by a trumpet-peal, loud enough to awaken all o

ergies that were not dead, but only slumbering, he was yet capable of flinging off h

firmities like a sick man's gown, dropping the staff of age to seize a battle-sword, an

arting up once more a warrior. And, in so intense of moment, his demeanour would

ve still been calm. Such an exhibition, however, was

1 A fortress on Lake Champlain, built by the French; taken by the British in 1759, it was the site o

a stunning American capture in 1775 by Vermont irregulars under Ethan Allen.



Pa

t to be pictured in fancy; not to be anticipated, nor desired. What I saw in him as

idently as the indestructible ramparts of Old Ticonderoga, already cited as the most

propriate simile were the features of stubborn and ponderous endurance, which mi

ell have amounted to obstinacy in his earlier days; of integrity, that, like most of his

her endowments, lay in a somewhat heavy mass, and was just as unmalleable and

manageable as a ton of iron ore; and of benevolence, which, fiercely as he led theyonets on at Chippewa or Fort Erie,1 I take to be of quite as genuine a stamp as wh

tuates any or all the polemical philanthropists of the age. He had slain men with his

nd, for aught I know; certainly, they had fallen, like blades of grass at the sweep of

ythe, before the charge to which his spirit imparted its triumphant energy; but, be th

might, there was never in his heart so much cruelty as would have brushed the dow

f a butterfly's wing. I have not known the man, to whose innate kindliness I would

ore confidently make an appeal.

any characteristics and those, too, which contribute not the least forcibly to impart

semblance in a sketch must have vanished, or been obscured, before I met the Gene

l merely graceful attributes are usually the most evanescent; nor does Nature adorn

man ruin with blossoms of new beauty, that have their roots and proper nutriment

the chinks and crevices of decay, as she sows wall-flowers over the ruined fortress

conderoga. Still, even in respect of grace and beauty, there were points well worth

ting. A ray of humor, now and then, would make its way through the veil of dim

struction, and glimmer pleasantly upon our faces. A trait of native elegance, seldomen in the masculine character after childhood or early youth, was shown in the

eneral's fondness for the sight and fragrance of flowers. An old soldier might be

pposed to prize only the bloody laurel on his brow; but here was one, who seemed

ve a young girl's appreciation of the floral tribe.

1 In 1814, the Americans crossed into Canada by Buffalo and defeated the British at Chippewa;

they then withdrew to Fort Erie, thus preventing an incursion into New York before winter that ye



Pa

ere, beside the fireplace, the brave Old General used to sit; while the Surveyor thou

dom, when it could be avoided, taking upon himself the difficult task of engaging h

conversation was fond of standing at a distance, and watching his quiet and almost

umberous countenance.1 He seemed away from us, although we saw him but a few

rds off; remote, though we passed close beside his chair; unattainable, though we m

ve stretched forth our hands and touched his own. It might be, that he lived a moree within his thoughts, than amid the unappropriate environment of the Collector's

fice. The evolutions of the parade; the tumult of the battle; the flourish of old, heroi

usic, heard thirty years before; such scenes and sounds, perhaps, were all alive befo

s intellectual sense. Meanwhile, the merchants and shipmasters, the spruce clerks, a

couth sailors, entered and departed; the bustle of this commercial and Custom-Hou

e kept up its little murmur round about him; and neither with the men nor their affa

d the General appear to sustain the most distant relation. He was as much out of pla

old sword now rusty, but which had flashed once in the battle's front, and showedbright gleam along its blade would have been, among the inkstands, paper-folders,

ahogany rulers, on the Deputy Collector's desk.

ere was one thing that much aided me in renewing and recreating the stalwart soldi

the Niagara frontier, the man of true and simple energy. It was the recollection of t

emorable words of his, ''I'll try, Sir!"2 spoken on the very verge of a desperate and

roic enterprise, and breathing the soul and spirit of New England hardihood,

mprehending all perils, and encountering all. If, in our country, valor were rewarderaldic honor, this phrase which it seems so easy to speak, but which only he, with s

ask of danger and glory before him, has ever spoken

1 Despite his silence, the General, strongly associated with the glow of the fireplace here and in

previous paragraphs, elicits the Surveyor's fancy; the scene prepares, in the last section of this

Introduction, for the Surveyor's "moonlight" experience that frees his fancy (see 104).

2 General Miller's reputed response to the question by General Winfield Scott as to whether Mill

could capture the battery of British artillery at the battle of Lundy's Lane on the Niagara front.



Pa

ould be the best and fittest of all mottoes for the General's shield of arms.

contributes greatly towards a man's moral and intellectual health, to be brought into

bits of companionship with individuals unlike himself, who care little for his pursu

d whose sphere and abilities he must go out of himself to appreciate. The accidents

y life have often afforded me this advantage, but never with more fulness and varie

an during my continuance in office. There was one man, especially, the observation

hose character gave me a new idea of talent. His gifts were emphatically those of a m

business;1 prompt, acute, clear-minded; with an eye that saw through all perplexitie

d a faculty of arrangement that made them vanish, as by the waving of an enchante

and. Bred up from boyhood in the Custom-House, it was his proper field of activity

d the many intricacies of business, so harassing to the interloper, presented themsel

fore him with the regularity of a perfectly comprehended system. In my contemplat

stood as the ideal of his class. He was, indeed, the Custom-House in himself; or, atents, the main-spring that kept its variously revolving wheels in motion; for, in an

stitution like this, where its officers are appointed to subserve their own profit and

nvenience, and seldom with a leading reference to their fitness for the duty to be

rformed, they must perforce seek elsewhere the dexterity which is not in them. Thu

an inevitable necessity, as a magnet attracts steel-filings, so did our man of busines

aw to himself the difficulties which everybody met with. With an easy condescensio

d kind forbearance towards our stupidity, which, to his order of mind, must have

emed little short of crime, would he forthwith, by the merest touch of his finger, mae incomprehensible as clear as daylight. The merchants valued him not less than we

oteric friends. His integrity was perfect; it was a law of nature with him, rather than

oice or a prin-

1 Zachariah Burchmore, Jr. (18091884), the son of a sea-captain (Stephen Burchmore), and thus

"bred up from boyhood in the Custom-House" (Woodson CE .XV: 66). In being a person who cann

tolerate "a stain on his conscience," Burchmore serves as a contrast to the narrator who is mindfu

of the sins of his ancestors; he may also exemplify the best features of the Puritan ideal in contrast

with the narrator who delves into the Imaginary.



Pa

ple; nor can it be otherwise than the main condition of an intellect so remarkably cle

d accurate as his, to be honest and regular in the administration of affairs. A stain o

s conscience, as to any thing that came within the range of his vocation, would trou

ch a man very much in the same way, though to a far greater degree, than an error i

e balance of an account, or an ink-blot on the fair page of a book of record. Here, i

ord, and it is a rare instance in my life, I had met with a person thoroughly adapted e situation which he held.

ch were some of the people with whom I now found myself connected. I took it in

od part at the hands of Providence, that I was thrown into a position so little akin to

st habits; and set myself seriously to gather from it whatever profit was to be had. A

y fellowship of toil and impracticable schemes, with the dreamy brethren of Brook

rm;1 after living for three years within the subtile influence of an intellect like

merson's; after those wild, free days on the Assabeth, indulging fantastic speculationside our fire of fallen boughs, with Ellery Channing; after talking with Thoreau abo

ne-trees and Indian relics, in his hermitage at Walden;2 after growing fastidious by

mpathy with the classic refinement of Hillard'3 culture; after becoming imbued with

etic sentiment at Longfellow's4 hearth-stone; it was time, at length, that I should

ercise other faculties of my nature, and nourish myself with food

1 An agrarian utopian community founded eight miles west of Boston at West Roxbury in 1841 by

George Ripley and other members of the Transcendentalist movement to reform humanity's social

and moral relationships (See Appendix A). Hawthorne lived there from April to November 1841but withdrew with a complex scepticism described in his 1852 novel The Blithedale Romance.

2 Leaving Brook Farm, Hawthorne married in July, 1842, and immediately settled in Concord, ne

Assabeth River, until October, 1845. He lived in Emerson's ancestral home, named by him "The O

Manse," and had as neighbors the philosophical-essayist Emerson (18031882), the radical-thinkin

Ellery Channing (18181901), and the naturalist Henry David Thoreau (18171862), author of Wald

See Appendices B.I,II; E.3.

3 George Stillman Hilliard (18081879), a Boston lawyer, editor, and philanthropist who befriend

Hawthorne in practical matters and favorably reviewed his fiction.4 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (18071882), perhaps the most celebrated American poet before W

Whitman, was a close friend of Hawthorne since the years at Bowdoin College; in 1835 he had

become Professor of Modern Languages at Harvard College.



Pa

r which I had hitherto had little appetite. Even the old Inspector was desirable, as a

ange of diet, to a man who had known Alcott.1 I looked upon it as an evidence, in

me measure, of a system naturally well balanced, and lacking no essential part of a

orough organization, that, with such associates to remember, I could mingle at once

th men of altogether different qualities, and never murmur at the change.

terature, its exertions and objects, were now of little moment in my regard. I cared n

this period, for books; they were apart from me. Nature, except it were human natu

e nature that is developed in earth and sky, was, in one sense, hidden from me; and

e imaginative delight, wherewith it had been spiritualized, passed away out of my m

gift, a faculty, if it had not departed, was suspended and inanimate within me. Ther

ould have been something sad, unutterably dreary, in all this, had I not been conscio

at it lay at my own option to recall whatever was valuable in the past. It might be tru

deed, that this was a life which could not, with impunity, be lived too long; else, itght make me permanently other than I had been, without transforming me into any

ape which it would be worth my while to take. But I never considered it as other th

nsitory life. There was always a prophetic instinct, a low whisper in my ear, that, w

long period, and whenever a new change of custom should be essential to my goo

ange would come.

eanwhile, there I was, a Surveyor of the Revenue, and, so far as I have been able to

derstand, as good a Surveyor as need be. A man of thought, fancy, and sensibility,

ten times the Surveyor's proportion of those qualities,) may, at any time, be a man

1 Amos Bronson Alcott (17991888) was an arch-Transcendentalist mystic who was renowned (a

feared) for his didactic thinking and authoritative manner of speaking. After the demise of Brook

Farm in 1846, Alcott founded the vegetarian community of Fruitlands to "re-educate" humanity; on

of his prescriptions for moral enlightenment at the community was that persons should not eat any

vegetable that grew down (such as potato), only those which grew upwards to "the light"; thus

Hawthorne uses Alcott to contrast with the meat-eating Inspector who had no such abstruse

theories, but whose tales were, as noted earlier, ''pickles and oysters" and thus, more delightful to

hear.



Pa

fairs, if he will only choose to give himself the trouble. My fellow-officers, and the

erchants and sea-captains with whom my official duties brought me into any manne

nnection, viewed me in no other light, and probably knew me in no other character

one of them, I presume, had ever read a page of my inditing, or would have cared a

e more for me, if they had read them all; nor would it have mended the matter, in th

ast, had those same unprofitable pages been written with a pen like that of Burns orhaucer, each of whom was a Custom-House officer in his day, as well as I.1 It is a g

son though it may often be a hard one for a man who has dreamed of literary fame

d of making for himself a rank among the world's dignitaries by such means, to ste

de out of the narrow circle in which his claims are recognized, and to find how utte

void of significance, beyond that circle, is all that he achieves, and all he aims at. I

ow not that I especially needed the lesson, either in the way of warning or rebuke;

any rate, I learned it thoroughly; nor, it gives me pleasure to reflect, did the truth, as

me home to my perception, ever cost me a pang, or require to be thrown off in a sithe way of literary talk, it is true, the Naval Officer an excellent fellow, who came i

fice with me, and went out only a little later would often engage me in a discussion

out one or the other of his favorite topics, Napoleon or Shakespeare. The Collector

nior clerk, too, a young gentleman who, it was whispered, occasionally covered a s

Uncle Sam's letter-paper with what, (at the distance of a few yards,) looked very m

e poetry, used now and then to speak to me of books, as matters with which I migh

ssibly be conversant. This was my all of lettered intercourse; and it was quite suffic

r my necessities.

o longer seeking nor caring that my name should be blazoned abroad on title-pages

miled to think that it had now another kind of vogue. The Custom-House marker

printed it, with a stencil and black paint, on pepper-bags, and baskets of anatto,2 an

gar-

1 Geoffrey Chaucer was a controller of customs from 1374 to 1386, and Robert Burns was a

collector of excise taxes from 1789 to 1791.

2 Anatto is a red dye made from a plant of the same name.



Pa

xes, and bales of all kinds of dutiable merchandise, in testimony that these

mmodities had paid the impost, and gone regularly through the office. Borne on su

eer vehicle of fame, a knowledge of my existence, so far as a name conveys it, was

rried where it had never been before, and, I hope, will never go again.

ut the past was not dead. Once in a great while, the thoughts, that had seemed so vit

d so active, yet had been put to rest so quietly, revived again. One of the most

markable occasions, when the habit of bygone days awoke in me, was that which

ngs it within the law of literary propriety to offer the public the sketch which I am

iting.

the second story of the Custom-House, there is a large room, in which the brick-w

d naked rafters have never been covered with panelling and plaster. The edifice

ginally projected on a scale adapted to the old commercial enterprise of the port, an

th an idea of subsequent prosperity destined never to be realized contains far moreace than its occupants know what to do with. This airy hall, therefore, over the

ollector's apartments, remains unfinished to this day, and, in spite of the aged cobwe

at festoon its dusky beams, appears still to await the labor of the carpenter and maso

one end of the room, in a recess, were a number of barrels, piled one upon anothe

ntaining bundles of official documents. Large quantities of similar rubbish lay

mbering1 the floor. It was sorrowful to think how many days, and weeks, and mon

d years of toil, had been wasted on these musty papers, which were now only an

cumbrance on earth, and were hidden away in this forgotten corner, never more to anced at by human eyes. But, then, what reams of other manuscripts filled, not with

lness of official formalities, but with the thought of inventive brains and the rich

fusion of deep hearts had gone equally to oblivion; and that, moreover, without serv

purpose in their day, as these heaped up papers had, and saddest of all without

rchasing for their writers the comfortable livelihood which the clerks of the Custom

ouse had gained by these worthless scratchings of the pen!

1 Cluttering.



Pa

et not altogether worthless, perhaps, as materials of local history. Here, no doubt,

tistics of the former commerce of Salem might be discovered, and memorials of he

ncely merchants, old King Derby, old Billy Gray, old Simon Forrester,1 and many

other magnate in his day; whose powdered head, however, was scarcely in the tomb

fore his mountain-pile of wealth began to dwindle. The founders of the greater par

e families which now compose the aristocracy of Salem might here be traced, from tty and obscure beginnings of their traffic, at periods generally much posterior to th

volution, upward to what their children look upon as long-established rank.

ior to the Revolution, there is a dearth of records; the earlier documents and archive

e Custom-House having, probably, been carried off to Halifax, when all the King's

ficials accompanied the British army in its flight from Boston.2 It has often been a

atter of regret with me; for, going back, perhaps to the days of the Protectorate,3 tho

pers must have contained many references to forgotten or remembered men, and totique customs, which would have affected me with the same pleasure as when I use

ck up Indian arrow-heads in the field near the Old Manse.

ut, one idle and rainy day, it was my fortune to make a discovery of some little inter

king and burrowing into the heaped-up rubbish in the corner; unfolding one and

other document, and reading the names of vessels that had long ago foundered at s

tted at the wharves, and those of merchants, never heard of now

1 William Gray (17501825) made a fortune as a ship owner, trading with India and China, andbecame lieutenant governor of Massachusetts; Simon Forrester (17761851), a hero of the

Revolution and another wealthy Salem shipowner and merchant, married a daughter of Daniel

Hawthorne (the author's grandfather).

2 In March 1776, the American General Washington besieged Boston, and General Howe evacuat

British forces to Halifax. However, no records of Salem were shipped; Hawthorne is being

"fictional," perhaps for a purpose.

3 Between 1653 and 1658, Oliver Cromwell was "Lord Protector" of the Puritan Commonwealth

(16481660); the "Protectorate" is considered the high-point of the Puritan ideal in England, after

which, according to early American historians, the New-England Puritans must begin a struggle foindependence from royalist rule, culminating in the Revolution.



Pa

'Change,1 nor very readily decipherable on their mossy tombstones; glancing at su

atters with the saddened, weary, half-reluctant interest which we bestow on the corp

dead activity, and exerting my fancy, sluggish with little use, to raise up from these

nes an image of the old town's brighter aspect, when India was a new region, and o

lem knew the way thither, I chanced to lay my hand on a small package, carefully d

in a piece of ancient yellow parchment. This envelope had the air of an official recsome period long past, when clerks engrossed their stiff and formal chirography o

ore substantial materials than at present. There was something about it that quickene

instinctive curiosity, and made me undo the faded red tape, that tied up the packag

th the sense that a treasure would here be brought to light. Unbending the rigid fold

e parchment cover, I found it to be a commission, under the hand and seal of Gove

irley,2 in favor of one Jonathan Pue, as Surveyor of his Majesty's Customs for the

Salem, in the Province of Massachusetts Bay. I remembered to have read (probably

lt's Annals) a notice of the decease of Mr. Surveyor Pue, about fourscore years agod likewise, in a newspaper of recent times, an account of the digging up of his rema

the little grave-yard of St. Peter's Church,4 during the renewal of that edifice. Noth

I rightly call to mind, was left of my respected predecessor, save an imperfect skele

d some fragments of apparel, and a wig of majestic frizzle; which, unlike the head t

once adorned, was in very satisfactory preservation. But, on examining the papers

hich the parchment commission served to envelop, I found more traces of Mr. Pue'

ental part, and the internal operations of his head, than the frizzled wig had containe

e venerable skull itself.

1 The Merchant's Exchange of Boston (commodity trading).

2 William Shirley was governor for two terms, 17411749 and 17531756.

3 The death of Jonathan Pue is indeed noted on March 24th, 1760, in Joseph B. Felt, Annals of Sa

from its First Settlement , p. 455. Pue came from Boston in 1752 to be the Searcher and Surveyor

the Salem Custom-House. Felt's Annals was one of Hawthorne's primary sources (Appendix J.4).

4 The first Anglican church established in Salem (1633).



Pag

ey were documents, in short, not official, but of a private nature, or, at least, written

s private capacity, and apparently with his own hand. I could account for their being

cluded in the heap of Custom-House lumber only by the fact, that Mr. Pue's death h

ppened suddenly; and that these papers, which he probably kept in his official desk

d never come to the knowledge of his heirs, or were supposed to relate to the busin

the revenue. On the transfer of the archives to Halifax, this package, proving to be public concern, was left behind, and had remained ever since unopened.

e ancient Surveyor being little molested, I suppose, at that early day, with business

rtaining to his office seems to have devoted some of his many leisure hours to

searches as a local antiquarian, and other inquisitions of a similar nature. These

pplied material for petty activity to a mind that would otherwise have been eaten up

th rust. A portion of his facts, by the by, did me good service in the preparation of

icle entitled "Main street," included in the present volume.1 The remainder mayrhaps be applied to purposes equally valuable, hereafter; or not impossibly may be

orked up, so far as they go, into a regular history of Salem, should my veneration fo

e natal soil ever impel me to so pious a task. Meanwhile, they shall be at the comma

any gentleman, inclined, and competent, to take the unprofitable labor off my hand

a final disposition, I contemplate depositing them with the Essex Historical Society

ut the object that most drew my attention, in the mysterious package, was a certain a

fine red cloth, much worn and faded. There were traces about it of gold embroider

hich, however, was greatly frayed and defaced; so that none, or very little, of the glias left. It had been wrought, as was easy to perceive, with wonder-

1 "Main-street" was written at the time Hawthorne prepared this introduction, but was excluded

from the volume of The Scarlet Letter . The story was published separately in December, 1849, in

Aesthetic Papers, edited by his sister-in-law, Elizabeth Peabody, and later reprinted in The Snow

Image, and Other Twice-told Tales (1852).

2 Since the Pue manuscripts and the scarlet A (described below) are fictions, they were never to b

deposited with the Historical Society of Essex County, in Salem; even so, people made inquiries

Appendix C.7).



Pag

skill of needlework; and the stitch (as I am assured by ladies conversant with such

ysteries) gives evidence of a now forgotten art, not to be recovered even by the proc

picking out the threads. This rag of scarlet cloth, for time, and wear, and a sacrilegi

oth, had reduced it to little other than a rag, on careful examination, assumed the sh

a letter. It was the capital letter A. By an accurate measurement, each limb proved t

ecisely three inches and a quarter in length. It had been intended, there could be noubt, as an ornamental article of dress; but how it was to be worn, or what rank, hon

d dignity, in by-past times, were signified by it, was a riddle which (so evanescent a

e fashions of the world in these particulars) I saw little hope of solving. And yet it

angely interested me. My eyes fastened themselves upon the old scarlet letter, and

ould not be turned aside. Certainly, there was some deep meaning in it, most worthy

erpretation, and which, as it were, streamed forth from the mystic symbol, subtly

mmunicating itself to my sensibilities, but evading the analysis of my mind.

hile thus perplexed, and cogitating, among other hypotheses, whether the letter mig

t have been one of those decorations which the white men used to contrive, in orde

ke the eyes of Indians, I happened to place it on my breast. It seemed to me, the read

ay smile, but must not doubt my word, it seemed to me, then, that I experienced a

nsation not altogether physical, yet almost so, as of burning heat; and as if the letter

ere not of red cloth, but red-hot iron. I shuddered, and involuntarily let it fall upon

or.

the absorbing contemplation of the scarlet letter, I had hitherto neglected to examinmall roll of dingy paper, around which it had been twisted. This I now opened, and

e satisfaction to find, recorded by the old Surveyor's pen, a reasonably complete

planation of the whole affair. There were several foolscap sheets,1

1 Paper sheets, watermarked with a fool's cap and bells; measuring 13 by 16 inches, they could

otnote continued on next page)



Pag

ntaining many particulars respecting the life and conversation of one Hester Prynne

ho appeared to have been rather a noteworthy personage in the view of our ancesto

e had flourished during a period between the early days of Massachusetts and the c

the seventeenth century. Aged persons, alive in the time of Mr. Surveyor Pue, and

om whose oral testimony he had made up his narrative, remembered her, in their yo

a very old, but not decrepit woman, of a stately and solemn aspect. It has been her bit, from an almost immemorial date, to go about the country as a kind of voluntary

rse, and doing whatever miscellaneous good she might; taking upon herself, likewi

give advice in all matters, especially those of the heart; by which means, as a person

ch propensities inevitably must, she gained from many people the reverence due to

gel, but, I should imagine, was looked upon by others as an intruder and a nuisanc

ying farther into the manuscript, I found the record of other doings and sufferings

s singular woman, for most of which the reader is referred to the story1 entitled "T

CARLET LETTER"; and it should be borne carefully in mind, that the main facts of ory are authorized and authenticated by the document of Mr. Surveyor Pue. The orig

pers, together with the scarlet letter itself, a most curious relic, are still in my

ssession, and shall be freely exhibited to whomsoever, induced by the great interes

e narrative, may desire a sight of them. I must not be understood as affirming, that,

e dressing up of the tale, and imagining the motives and modes of passion that

fluenced the characters who figure in it, I have invariably confined myself within th

mits of the old Surveyor's half a dozen sheets of foolscap. On the contrary, I have

owed myself, as to such points, nearly or altogether as much license as if the facts hen entirely of my own invention. What I contend for is the authenticity of the outlin

is incident recalled my mind, in some degree, to its old track.

otnote continued from previous page)

be folded into bundles to make four pages of 13 by 8 inches.

1 The Scarlet Letter was originally intended as a sketch or short story, not as a novel or romance

evidently Hawthorne was writing "The Custom-House" during the time that he was working on the"story," before he was aware of its length.



Pag

ere seemed to be here the groundwork of a tale. It impressed me as if the ancient

rveyor, in his garb of a hundred years gone by, and wearing his immortal wig, whi

as buried with him, but did not perish in the grave, had met me in the deserted cham

the Custom-House. In his port1 was the dignity of one who had borne his Majesty'

mmission, and who was therefore illuminated by a ray of the splendor that shone s

zzlingly about the throne. How unlike, alas! the hang-dog look of a republican officho, as the servant of the people, feels himself less than the least, and below the lowe

his masters. With his own ghostly hand, the obscurely seen, but majestic, figure ha

parted to me the scarlet symbol, and the little roll of explanatory manuscript. With h

wn ghostly voice, he had exhorted me, on the sacred consideration of my filial duty

verence towards him, who might reasonably regard himself as my official ancestor,

ng his mouldy and moth-eaten lucubrations2 before the public. "Do this," said the

ost of Mr. Surveyor Pue, emphatically nodding the head that looked so imposing

thin its memorable wig, "do this, and the profit shall be all your own! You will shoed it; for it is not in your days as it was in mine, when a man's office was a life-leas

d oftentimes an heirloom. But, I charge you, in this matter of old Mistress Prynne, g

your predecessor's memory the credit which will be rightfully its due!" And I said t

e ghost of Mr. Surveyor Pue, "I will!"

n Hester Prynne's story, therefore, I bestowed much thought. It was the subject of m

editations for many an hour, while pacing to and fro across my room, or traversing

th a hundredfold repetition, the long extent from the front-door of the Custom-Houthe side-entrance, and back again. Great were the weariness and annoyance of the o

spector and the Weighers and Gaugers, whose slumbers were disturbed by the

mercifully lengthened tramp of my passing and returning footsteps. Remembering

wn former habits, they used to say that the Surveyor was walking the quarter-

1 Deportment.

2 Laborious, studious; hence, with the preceding modifiers, meaning tedious, pretentious or self-

conscious (perhaps in accord with the earlier self-parodic comparison to "P. P., Clerk of this Pari



Pag

ck. They probably fancied that my sole object and, indeed, the sole object for whic

ne man could ever put himself into voluntary motion was, to get an appetite for din

nd to say the truth, an appetite, sharpened by the east-wind that generally blew along

ssage, was the only valuable result of so much indefatigable exercise. So little adap

the atmosphere of a Custom-House to the delicate harvest of fancy and sensibility, t

d I remained there through ten Presidencies yet to come, I doubt whether the tale ohe Scarlet Letter" would ever have been brought before the public eye. My imagina

as a tarnished mirror. It would not reflect, or only with miserable dimness, the figur

th which I did my best to people it. The characters of the narrative would not be

armed and rendered malleable, by any heat that I could kindle at my intellectual forg

ey would take neither the glow of passion nor the tenderness of sentiment, but reta

the rigidity of dead corpses, and stared me in the face with a fixed and ghastly grin

ntemptuous defiance. "What have you to do with us?" that expression seemed to sa

he little power you might once have possessed over the tribe of unrealities is gone! ve bartered it for a pittance of the public gold. Go, then, and earn your wages!" In

ort, the almost torpid creatures of my own fancy twitted me with imbecility, and no

thout fair occasion.

was not merely during the three hours and a half which Uncle Sam claimed as his s

my daily life, that this wretched numbness held possession of me. It went with me

y sea-shore walks and rambles into the country, whenever which was seldom and

uctantly I bestirred myself to seek that invigorating charm of Nature, which used tove me such freshness and activity of thought, the moment that I stepped across the

reshold of the Old Manse. The same torpor, as regarded the capacity for intellectual

fort, accompanied me home, and weighed upon me in the chamber which I most

surdly termed my study. Nor did it quit me, when, late at night, I sat in the deserted

rlour, lighted only by the glimmering coal-fire and the moon, striving to picture for

aginary scenes, which, the next day, might flow out on the brightening page in man

ed description.

the imaginative faculty refused to act at such an hour, it might



Pag

ell be deemed a hopeless case. Moonlight, in a familiar room, falling so white upon

rpet, and showing all its figures so distinctly, making every object so minutely visib

t so unlike a morning or noontide visibility, is a medium the most suitable for a

mance-writer to get acquainted with his illusive guests. There is the little domestic

enery of the well-known apartment; the chairs, with each its separate individuality; t

ntre-table, sustaining a work-basket, a volume or two, and an extinguished lamp; thfa; the book-case; the picture on the wall; all these details, so completely seen, are s

iritualized by the unusual light, that they seem to lose their actual substance, and

come things of intellect. Nothing is too small or too trifling to undergo this change,

quire dignity thereby. A child's shoe; the doll, seated in her little wicker carriage; the

bby-horse; whatever, in a word, has been used or played with, during the day, is no

vested with a quality of strangeness and remoteness, though still almost as vividly

esent as by daylight. Thus, therefore, the floor of our familiar room has become a

utral territory, somewhere between the real world and fairy-land, where the Actual e Imaginary may meet, and each imbue itself with the nature of the other. Ghosts mi

ter here, without affrighting us. It would be too much in keeping with the scene to

cite surprise, were we to look about us and discover a form, beloved, but gone hen

w sitting quietly in a streak of this magic moonshine, with an aspect that would ma

doubt whether it had returned from afar, or had never once stirred from our firesid

e somewhat dim coal-fire has an essential influence in producing the effect which

ould describe. It throws its unobtrusive tinge throughout the room, with a faintddiness upon the walls and ceiling, and a reflected gleam from the polish of the

rniture. This warmer light mingles itself with the cold spirituality of the moonbeam

d communicates, as it were, a heart and sensibilities of human tenderness to the for

hich fancy summons up. It converts them from snow-images into men and women.

ancing at the looking-glass, we behold deep within its haunted verge the smoulderi

ow of the half-extinguished anthracite, the white moonbeams on the floor, and a

petition of all the gleam and shadow of the picture, with one remove farther from th

tual, and



Pag

arer to the imaginative. Then, at such an hour, and with this scene before him, if a m

ting all alone, cannot dream strange things, and make them look like truth, he need

ver try to write romances.

ut, for myself, during the whole of my Custom-House experience, moonlight and

nshine, and the glow of fire-light, were just alike in my regard; and neither of them

one whit more avail than the twinkle of a tallow-candle. An entire class of

sceptibilities, and a gift connected with them, of no great richness or value, but the

ad, was gone from me.

is my belief, however, that, had I attempted a different order of composition, my

culties would not have been found so pointless and inefficacious. I might, for instan

ve contented myself with writing out the narratives of a veteran shipmaster, one of

spectors, whom I should be most ungrateful not to mention; since scarcely a day pa

at he did not stir me to laughter and admiration by his marvellous gifts as a story-telould I have preserved the picturesque force of his style, and the humorous coloring

hich nature taught him how to throw over his descriptions, the result, I honestly bel

ould have been something new in literature. Or I might readily have found a more

rious task. It was a folly, with the materiality of this daily life pressing so intrusively

on me, to attempt to fling myself back into another age; or to insist on creating the

mblance of a world out of airy matter, when, at every moment, the impalpable beau

my soap-bubble was broken by the rude contact of some actual circumstance. The

ser effort would have been, to diffuse thought and imagination through the opaquebstance of to-day, and thus to make it a bright transparency; to spiritualize the burd

at began to weigh so heavily; to seek, resolutely, the true and indestructible value th

y hidden in the petty and wearisome incidents, and ordinary characters, with which

as now conversant. The fault was mine. The page of life that was spread out before

emed dull and commonplace, only because I had not fathomed its deeper import. A

tter book that I shall ever write was there; leaf after leaf presenting itself to me, just

as written out by the reality of the flitting hour, and vanishing as fast as written, onl

cause my brain wanted the insight and my hand the cunning to transcribe it. At somture day, it may be, I shall remember a



Pag

w scattered fragments and broken paragraphs, and write them down, and find the le

rn to gold upon the page.

ese perceptions have come too late. At the instant, I was only conscious that what

ould have been a pleasure once was now a hopeless toil. There was no occasion to

ake much moan about this state of affairs. I had ceased to be a writer of tolerably po

es and essays, and had become a tolerably good Surveyor of the Customs. That wa

ut, nevertheless, it is any thing but agreeable to be haunted by a suspicion that one's

ellect is dwindling away; or exhaling, without your consciousness, like ether out of

ial; so that, at every glance, you find a smaller and less volatile residuum. Of the fa

ere could be no doubt; and, examining myself and others, I was led to conclusions i

ference to the effect of public office on the character, not very favorable to the mod

e in question. In some other form, perhaps, I may hereafter develop these effects.

ffice it here to say, that a Custom-House officer, of long continuance, can hardly bery praiseworthy or respectable personage, for many reasons; one of them, the tenur

hich he holds his situation, and another, the very nature of his business, which thou

ust, an honest one is of such a sort that he does not share in the united effort of

ankind.

n effect which I believe to be observable, more or less, in every individual who has

cupied the position is, that, while he leans on the mighty arm of the Republic, his o

oper strength departs from him. He loses, in an extent proportioned to the weaknes

rce of his original nature, the capability of self-support. If he possess an unusual shnative energy, or the enervating magic of place do not operate too long upon him,

rfeited powers may be redeemable. The ejected officer fortunate in the unkindly sh

at sends him forth betimes, to struggle amid a struggling world may return to himse

d become all that he has ever been. But this seldom happens. He usually keeps his

ound just long enough for his own ruin, and is then thrust out, with sinews all

strung, to totter along the difficult footpath of life as he best may. Conscious of his

wn infirmity, that his tempered steel and elasticity are lost, he for ever afterwards loo

stfully about him in quest of support external to himself. His pervading and continu



Pag

pe a hallucination, which, in the face of all discouragement, and making light of

possibilities, haunts him while he lives, and, I fancy, like the convulsive throes of t

olera, torments him for a brief space after death is, that, finally, and in no long time

me happy coincidence of circumstances, he shall be restored to office. This faith, m

an any thing else, steals the pitch and availability out of whatever enterprise he may

eam of undertaking. Why should he toil and moil, and be at so much trouble to picmself up out of the mud, when, in a little while hence, the strong arm of his Uncle w

se and support him? Why should he work for his living here, or go to dig gold in

lifornia,1 when he is so soon to be made happy, at monthly intervals, with a little p

glittering coin out of his Uncle's pocket? It is sadly curious to observe how slight a

te of office suffices to infect a poor fellow with this singular disease. Uncle Sam's g

eaning no disrespect to the worthy old gentleman has, in this respect, a quality of

chantment like that of the Devil's wages. Whoever touches it should look well to

mself, or he may find the bargain to go hard against him, involving, if not his soul, any of its better attributes; its sturdy force, its courage and constancy, its truth, its se

iance, and all that gives the emphasis to manly character.

ere was a fine prospect in the distance! Not that the Surveyor brought the lesson hom

himself, or admitted that he could be so utterly undone, either by continuance in of

ejectment. Yet my reflections were not the most comfortable. I began to grow

elancholy and restless; continually prying into my mind, to discover which of its po

operties were gone, and what degree of detriment had already accrued to the remainndeavoured to calculate how much longer I could stay in the Custom-House, and y

forth a man. To confess the truth, it was my greatest apprehension, as it would nev

a measure of policy to turn out so quiet an individual as myself, and it being hardl

e nature of a public officer to resign, it was my chief trouble, therefore, that I was li

grow gray and decrepit in the Surveyorship, and become much

1 The California gold rush began in 1849, the year before this novel was published.



Pag

ch another animal as the old Inspector. Might it not, in the tedious lapse of official l

at lay before me, finally be with me as it was with this venerable friend, to make the

nner-hour the nucleus of the day, and to spend the rest of it, as an old dog spends it

eep in the sunshine or the shade? A dreary look-forward this, for a man who felt it

the best definition of happiness to live throughout the whole range of his faculties

nsibilities! But, all this while, I was giving myself very unnecessary alarm. Providend meditated better things for me than I could possibly imagine for myself.

remarkable event of the third year of my Surveyorship to adopt the tone of ''P.P." w

e election of General Taylor to the Presidency.1 It is essential, in order to a complete

imate of the advantages of official life, to view the incumbent at the in-coming of a

stile administration. His position is then one of the most singularly irksome, and, in

ery contingency, disagreeable, that a wretched mortal can possibly occupy; with sel

alternative of good, on either hand, although what presents itself to him as the worent may very probably be the best. But it is a strange experience, to a man of pride

nsibility, to know that his interests are within the control of individuals who neither

ve nor understand him, and by whom, since one or the other must needs happen, h

ould rather be injured than obliged. Strange, too, for one who has kept his calmnes

roughout the contest, to observe the blood-thirstiness that is developed in the hour

umph, and to be conscious that he is himself among its objects! There are few uglie

its of human nature than this tendency which I now witnessed in men no worse tha

eir neighbours to grow cruel, merely because they possessed the power of inflictingrm. If the guillotine, as applied to office-holders, were a literal fact, instead of one o

e most apt of metaphors, it is my sincere belief, that the active members of the

ctorious party were sufficiently excited to have chopped off all our heads, and have

anked Heaven for the opportunity! It appears to me who have been a calm and curi

server, as well

1 The Whig candidate, General Zachary Taylor (17841850), was elected in November 1848 and

took office in March 1849; he died July 9, 1850.



Pag

victory as defeat that this fierce and bitter spirit of malice and revenge has never

stinguished the many triumphs of my own party as it now did that of the Whigs. Th

emocrats take the offices, as a general rule, because they need them, and because th

actice of many years has made it the law of political warfare, which, unless a differ

stem be proclaimed, it were weakness and cowardice to murmur at. But the long ha

victory has made them generous. They know how to spare, when they see occasiond when they strike, the axe may be sharp, indeed, but its edge is seldom poisoned w

-will; nor is it their custom ignominiously to kick the head which they have just stru

f.1

short, unpleasant as was my predicament, at best, I saw much reason to congratula

yself that I was on the losing side, rather than the triumphant one. If, heretofore, I h

en none of the warmest of partisans, I began now, at this season of peril and adver

be pretty acutely sensible with which party my predilections lay; nor was it withoutmething like regret and shame, that, according to a reasonable calculation of chance

w my own prospect of retaining office to be better than those of my Democratic

ethren. But who can see an inch into futurity, beyond his nose? My own head was t

st that fell!

he moment when a man's head drops off is seldom or never, I am inclined to think,

ecisely the most agreeable of his life. Nevertheless, like the greater part of our

sfortunes, even so serious a contingency brings its remedy and consolation with it,

e sufferer will but make the best, rather than the worst, of the accident which hasfallen him. In my particular case, the consolatory topics were close at hand, and,

deed, had suggested themselves to my meditations a considerable time before it was

quisite to use them. In view of my previous weariness of office, and vague thought

signation, my fortune somewhat resembled that of a person who should entertain an

ea of committing suicide, and, altogether beyond his

1 Hawthorne's apparent polemic of Democratic generosity, in this paragraph and the next, should

read against his posture of innocence as an artist rising above the fray; it sets up his metaphor of being unexpectedly "decapitated" through the Spoils System and thus sent out into the cruel world

earn his living as a writer, such as he was.



Pag

pes, meet with the good hap to be murdered. In the Custom-House, as before in the

d Manse, I had spent three years; a term long enough to rest a weary brain; long eno

break off old intellectual habits, and make room for new ones; long enough, and to

ng, to have lived in an unnatural state, doing what was really of no advantage nor

light to any human being, and withholding myself from toil that would, at least, hav

lled an unquiet impulse in me. Then, moreover, as regarded his unceremoniousectment, the late Surveyor was not altogether ill-pleased to be recognized by the Wh

an enemy; since his inactivity in political affairs, his tendency to roam, at will, in th

oad and quiet field where all mankind may meet, rather than confine himself to tho

rrow paths where brethren of the same household must diverge from one another,

metimes made it questionable with his brother Democrats whether he was a friend.

ow, after he had won the crown of martyrdom, (though with no longer a head to we

,) the point might be looked upon as settled. Finally, little heroic as he was, it seem

ore decorous to be overthrown in the downfall of the party with which he had beenntent to stand, than to remain a forlorn survivor, when so many worthier men were

ling; and, at last, after subsisting for four years on the mercy of a hostile administra

be compelled then to define his position anew, and claim the yet more humiliating

ercy of a friendly one.

eanwhile, the press had taken up my affair, and kept me, for a week or two, careeri

rough the public prints, in my decapitated state, like Irving's Headless Horseman;1

astly and grim, and longing to be buried, as a politically dead man ought. So much y figurative self. The real human being, all this time, with his head safely on his

oulders, had brought himself to the comfortable conclusion, that every thing was fo

e best; and, making an investment in ink, paper, and steel-pens, had opened his long

sused writing-desk, and was again a literary man.

1 Refers to Washington Irving's celebrated story "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," published in Th

Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon (18191820). This reference in the preceding three paragraphs a

in the next several ones, parodies Hawthorne as the luckless Ichabod Crane, being driven off by a

comfortable insider of the Dutch community, Brom Bones.



Pag

ow it was, that the lucubrations of my ancient predecessor, Mr. Surveyor Pue, came

ay. Rusty through long idleness, some little space was requisite before my intellectu

achinery could be brought to work upon the tale, with an effect in any degree

isfactory. Even yet, though my thoughts were ultimately much absorbed in the task

ears, to my eye, a stern and sombre aspect; too much ungladdened by genial sunshin

o little relieved by the tender and familiar influences which soften almost every scenture and real life, and, undoubtedly, should soften every picture of them. This

captivating effect is perhaps due to the period of hardly accomplished revolution, a

ll seething turmoil, in which the story shaped itself. It is no indication, however, of

ck of cheerfulness in the writer's mind; for he was happier, while straying through t

oom of these sunless fantasies, than at any time since he had quitted the Old Manse

me of the briefer articles, which contribute to make up the volume, have likewise b

itten since my involuntary withdrawal from the toils and honors of public life, and

mainder are gleaned from annuals and magazines, of such antique date that they havne round the circle, and come back to novelty again.1 Keeping up the metaphor of

litical guillotine, the whole may be considered as the POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF

ECAPITATED SURVEYOR; and the sketch which I am now bringing to a close, if t

tobiographical for a modest person to publish in his lifetime, will readily be excuse

gentleman who writes from beyond the grave. Peace be with all the world! My bless

my friends! My forgiveness to my enemies! For I am in the realm of quiet!

e life of the Custom-House lies like a dream behind me. The old Inspector, who, b, I regret to say, was overthrown and killed by a horse, some time ago; else he wou

rtainly have lived for ever, he, and all those other venerable personages who sat wit

m at the receipt of custom, are but shadows in my view;

1 "At the time of writing this article, the author intended to publish along with 'The Scarlet Letter,

several shorter tales and sketches. These it has been thought advisable to defer." [Hawthorne's

note.]



Pag

hite-headed and wrinkled images, which my fancy used to sport with, and has now

ung aside for ever. The merchants, Pingree, Phillips, Shepard, Upton, Kimball, Bertr

unt, these, and many other names, which had such a classic familiarity for my ear si

onths ago, these men of traffic, who seemed to occupy so important a position in th

orld, how little time has it required to disconnect me from them all, not merely in ac

t recollection! It is with an effort that I recall the figures and appellations of these fon, likewise, my old native town will loom upon me through the haze of memory,

st brooding over and around it; as if it were no portion of the real earth, but an

ergrown village in cloud-land, with only imaginary inhabitants to people its woode

uses, and walk its homely lanes, and the unpicturesque prolixity of its main street.

nceforth, it ceases to be a reality of my life. I am a citizen of somewhere else. My g

wnspeople will not much regret me; for though it has been as dear an object as any,

y literary efforts, to be of some importance in their eyes, and to win myself a pleasa

emory in this abode and burial-place of so many of my forefathers there has never en, for me, the genial atmosphere which a literary man requires, in order to ripen th

st harvest of his mind. I shall do better amongst other faces; and these familiar ones

ed hardly be said, will do just as well without me.

may be, however, O, transporting and triumphant thought! that the great-grandchild

the present race may sometimes think kindly of the scribbler of bygone days, when

tiquary of days to come, among the sites memorable in the town's history, shall poin

t the locality of THE TOWN-PUMP!1

1 Refers to the sketch "A Rill from the Town Pump" in Hawthorne's Twice-told Tales (1837),

describing a typical day of Salem; here, in the manner of "P.P., Clerk of the Parish," Hawthorne

claims the pump as a monument to himself.



Pag

he Prison-Door

throng of bearded men, in sad-colored garments and gray, steeple-crowned hats,

ermixed with women, some wearing hoods, and others bareheaded, was assembledont of a wooden edifice, the door of which was heavily timbered with oak, and stud

th iron spikes.

he founders of a new colony, whatever Utopia of human virtue and happiness they

ght originally project, have invariably recognized it among their earliest practical

cessities to allot a portion of the virgin soil as a cemetery, and another portion as th

e of a prison. In accordance with this rule, it may safely be assumed that the forefat

Boston had built the first prison-house, somewhere in the vicinity of Cornhill, almseasonably as they marked out the first burial-ground, on Isaac Johnson's lot,1 and

und about his grave, which subsequently became the nucleus of all the congregated

pulchres in the old church-yard of King's Chapel.2 Certain it is, that, some fifteen o

enty years after the settlement of the town, the wooden jail was already marked wit

eather-stains and other indications of age, which gave a yet darker aspect to its beetl

owed and gloomy front. The rust on the ponderous iron-work of its oaken door loo

ore antique than any thing else in the new world. Like all that pertains to crime, it

emed never to have known a youthful era. Before this ugly edifice, and between it ae wheel-track of the street, was a grass-plot, much overgrown with burdock, pig-w

ple-peru, and such unsightly vegetation, which evidently found something congeni

e soil that had so early borne the black flower of civilized society, a prison. But, on

de of the portal, and rooted almost at the threshold, was a wild

1 Johnson (16011630) came on the Great Migration of 1630 and was the first settler to die; his "lo

was put to immediate communal use.

2 The first Anglican church in Boston, erected in 1688, the year of the Glorious Revolution, and, t

another milestone separating the "old times" of provincial Boston from "modern times" which are

characterized by toleration.



Pag

se-bush, covered, in this month of June, with its delicate gems, which might be

agined to offer their fragrance and fragile beauty to the prisoner as he went in, and

e condemned criminal as he came forth to his doom, in token that the deep heart of

ature could pity and be kind to him.

is rose-bush, by a strange chance, has been kept alive in history; but whether it had

erely survived out of the stern old wilderness, so long after the fall of the gigantic p

d oaks that originally overshadowed it, or whether, as there is fair authority for

lieving, it had sprung up under the footsteps of the sainted Ann Hutchinson,1 as sh

tered the prison-door, we shall not take upon us to determine. Finding it so directly

e threshold of our narrative, which is now about to issue from the inauspicious por

e2 could hardly do otherwise than pluck one of its flowers and present it to the read

may serve, let us hope, to symbolize some sweet moral blossom, that may be found

ong the track, or relieve the darkening close of a tale of human frailty and sorrow.1 Hutchinson (15911643) was certainly not considered a "saint" by the Puritans. She held the beli

that salvation came solely through God's mysterious gift of grace, rather than through good works,

and that the Holy Ghost thereafter dwelled in the "justified" person. Thus, she did not need the

institutionalized Puritan theocracy led by John Winthrop, Richard Bellingham, and John Wilson

(Appendix J.III.2,5).

2 The use of "we" and "us" here and throughout the text is apparently a usage by the Surveyor as th

modest "editor" of the Pue manuscript, set up early in the Introduction of "The Custom-House'';

however, this "we" also masks the Surveyor as "author" who, in going beyond "the outline" of the manuscript, is creating a new text, reflecting a larger point-of-view than Pue's but not that of

Hawthorne himself.



Pag

he Market-Place

e grass-plot before the jail, in Prison Lane, on a certain summer morning, not less t

o centuries ago, was occupied by a pretty large number of the inhabitants of Bostonth their eyes intently fastened on the iron-clamped oaken door. Amongst any other

pulation, or at a later period in the history of New England, the grim rigidity that

trified the bearded physiognomies of these good people would have augured some

wful business in hand. It could have betokened nothing short of the anticipated

ecution of some noted culprit, on whom the sentence of a legal tribunal had but

nfirmed the verdict of public sentiment. But, in that early severity of the Puritan

aracter, an inference of this kind could not so indubitably be drawn. It might be tha

uggish bond-servant, or an undutiful child, whom his parent had given over to the c

thority, was to be corrected at the whipping-post. It might be, that an Antinomian, a

uaker, or other heterodox religionist, was to be scourged our of the town, or an idle

grant Indian, whom the white man's fire-water had made riotous about the streets, w

be driven with stripes into the shadow of the forest. It might be, too, that a witch, l

d Mistress Hibbins, the bitter-tempered widow of the magistrate, was to die upon th

llows.1 In either case, there was very much the same solemnity of demeanour on th

rt of the spectators; as befitted a people amongst whom religion and law were almo

entical, and in whose character both were so thoroughly interfused, that the mildest

e severest acts of public discipline were alike made venerable and awful. Meagre,

deed, and cold, was the sympathy that a transgressor might look for, from such

standers at the scaffold. On the other hand, a penalty which, in our days, would inf

gree of mocking infamy and ridicule, might then be invested with

1 Ann Hibbins was executed for witchcraft in 1656; she was the widow of a merchant, not a

magistrate (see Appendix J.III.8).



Pag

most as stern a dignity as the punishment of death itself.

was a circumstance to be noted, on the summer morning when our story begins its

urse, that the women, of whom there were several in the crowd, appeared to take a

culiar interest in whatever penal infliction might be expected to ensue. The age had

much refinement, that any sense of impropriety restrained the wearers of petticoat

rthingale from stepping forth into the public ways, and wedging their not unsubstan

rsons, if occasion were, into the throng nearest to the scaffold at an execution. Mor

well as materially, there was a coarser fibre in those wives and maidens of Old Eng

rth and breeding, than in their fair descendants, separated from them by a series of

seven generations; for, throughout that chain of ancestry, every successive mother

nsmitted to her child a fainter bloom, a more delicate and briefer beauty, and a sligh

ysical frame, if not a character of less force and solidity, than her own. The women

ho were now standing about the prison-door, stood within less than half a century oe period when the man-like Elizabeth had been the not altogether unsuitable

presentative of the sex. They were her countrywomen; and the beef and ale of their

tive land, with a moral diet not a whit more refined, entered largely into their

mposition. The bright morning sun, therefore, shone on broad shoulders and well-

veloped busts, and on round and ruddy cheeks, that had ripened in the far-off islan

d had hardly yet grown paler or thinner in the atmosphere of New England. There w

oreover, a boldness and rotundity of speech among these matrons, as most of them

emed to be, that would startle us at the present day, whether in respect to its purportvolume of tone.

Goodwives," said a hard-featured dame of fifty, "I'll tell ye a piece of my mind. It wo

greatly for the public behoof,1 if we women, being of mature age and church-

embers in good repute, should have the handling of such malefactresses as this Hest

ynne. What think ye, gossips?2 If the hussy stood up for judgment

1 Good.

2 Friends, family, neighbors.



Pag

fore us five, that are now here in a knot together, would she come off with such a

ntence as the worshipful magistrates have awarded? Marry,1 I trow2 not!"

eople say," said another, "that the Reverend Master Dimmesdale, her godly pastor, t

very grievously to heart that such a scandal should have come upon his congregatio

he magistrates are God-fearing gentlemen, but merciful overmuch, that is a truth,"ded a third autumnal matron. "At the very least, they should have put the brand of a

n on Hester Prynne's forehead. Madam Hester would have winced at that, I warran

e. But she, the naughty baggage, little will she care what they put upon the bodice o

wn! Why, look you, she may cover it with a brooch, or such like heathenish

ornment, and so walk the streets as brave as ever!"

Ah, but," interposed, more softly, a young wife, holding a child by the hand, "let her

ver the mark as she will, the pang of it will be always in her heart."

What do we talk of marks and brands, whether on the bodice of her gown, or the fle

her forehead?" cried another female, the ugliest as well as the most pitiless of these

f-constituted judges. "This woman has brought shame upon us all, and ought to di

ere not law for it? Truly there is, both in the Scripture3 and the statute-book.4 Then

e magistrates, who have made it of no effect, thank themselves if their own wives a

ughters go astray!"

Mercy on us, goodwife," exclaimed a man in the crowd, "is there no virtue in womanve what springs from a wholesome fear of the gallows? That is the hardest word ye

ush, now, gossips; for the lock is turning in the prison-door, and here comes Mistre

ynne herself."

e door of the jail being flung open from within, there appeared, in the first place, li

ack shadow emerging into the sun-

1 A mild oath, "by Mary."

2 Think, believe, suppose.3 Leviticus 20.10 would punish adultery by death.

4 The laws of Boston, Salem, and Plymouth (a Separatist, not Puritan, colony) varied for the

punishment of adultery (see Appendix H.I.1,2,3,4).



Pag

ine, the grim and grisly presence of the town-beadle, with a sword by his side and h

aff of office in his hand. This personage prefigured and represented in his aspect th

hole dismal severity of the Puritanic code of law, which it was his business to

minister in its final and closest application to the offender. Stretching forth the offic

aff in his left hand, he laid his right upon the shoulder of a young woman, whom he

us drew forward; until, on the threshold of the prison-door, she repelled him, by antion marked with natural dignity and force of character, and stepped into the open a

if by her own free-will. She bore in her arms a child, a baby of some three months

ho winked and turned aside its little face from the too vivid light of day; because its

istence, heretofore, had brought it acquainted only with the gray twilight of a dunge

other darksome apartment of the prison.

hen the young woman the mother of this child stood fully revealed before the crow

emed to be her first impulse to clasp the infant closely to her bosom; not so much bpulse of motherly affection, as that she might thereby conceal a certain token, whic

as wrought or fastened into her dress. In a moment, however, wisely judging that on

ken of her shame would but poorly serve to hide another, she took the baby on her

m, and, with a burning blush, and yet a haughty smile, and a glance that would not

ashed, looked around at her townspeople and neighbours. On the breast of her gow

fine red cloth, surrounded with an elaborate embroidery and fantastic flourishes of

ld thread, appeared the letter A. It was so artistically done, and with so much fertilit

d gorgeous luxuriance of fancy, that it had all the effect of a last and fitting decoratithe apparel which she wore; and which was of a splendor in accordance with the ta

the age, but greatly beyond what was allowed by the sumptuary regulations of the

lony.

e young woman was tall, with a figure of perfect elegance, on a large scale. She ha

rk and abundant hair, so glossy that it threw off the sunshine with a gleam, and a fa

hich, besides being beautiful from regularity of feature and richness of complexion,

e impressiveness belonging to a marked brow and deep black eyes. She was lady-lik

o, after the manner of the feminine gentility of those days; characterized by a certainte and dignity, rather than by the



Pag

licate, evanescent, and indescribable grace, which is now recognized as its indicatio

nd never had Hester Prynne appeared more lady-like, in the antique interpretation o

m than as she issued from the prison. Those who had before known her, and had

pected to behold her dimmed and obscured by a disastrous cloud, were astonished,

en startled, to perceive how her beauty shone out, and made a halo of the misfortun

d ignominy in which she was enveloped. It may be true, that, to a sensitive observeere was something exquisitely painful in it. Her attire, which, indeed, she had wroug

r the occasion, in prison, and had modelled much after her own fancy, seemed to

press the attitude of her spirit, the desperate recklessness of her mood, by its wild a

cturesque peculiarity. But the point which drew all eyes, and, as it were, transfigure

e wearer, so that both men and women, who had been familiarly acquainted with H

ynne, were now impressed as if they beheld her for the first time, was that SCARLE

ETTER, so fantastically embroidered and illuminated upon her bosom. It had the eff

a spell, taking her out of the ordinary relations with humanity, and inclosing her inhere by herself.

he hath good skill at her needle, that's certain," remarked one of the female spectato

ut did ever a woman, before this brazen hussy, contrive such a way of showing it!

hy, gossips, what is it but to laugh in the faces of our godly magistrates, and make a

de out of what they, worthy gentlemen, meant for a punishment?"

were well," muttered the most iron-visaged of the old dames, "if we stripped Mada

ester's rich gown off her dainty shoulders; and as for the red letter, which she hathtched so curiously, I'll bestow a rag of mine own rheumatic flannel, to make a fitter

e!"

, peace, neighbours, peace!" whispered their youngest companion. "Do not let her

u! Not a stitch in that embroidered letter, but she has felt it in her heart."

e grim beadle now made a gesture with his staff.

1 This verb suggests the Transfiguration of Jesus before Peter, James, and John on the mountain, ahe reveals his divine nature behind his human form (Mark 9.212; Matthew 17.113, and Luke

9.2836). Here it refers to an ironic revelation of Hester's sexuality through her sin.



Pag

Make way, good people, make way, in the King's name," cried he. "Open a passage;

romise ye, Mistress Prynne shall be set where man, woman, and child may have a f

ght of her brave apparel, from this time till an hour past meridian. A blessing on the

hteous Colony of the Massachusetts, where iniquity is dragged out into the sunshin

ome along, Madam Hester, and show your scarlet letter in the market-place!"

lane was forthwith opened through the crowd of spectators. Preceded by the beadle

d attended by an irregular procession of stern-browed men and unkindly-visaged

omen, Hester Prynne set forth towards the place appointed for her punishment. A

owd of eager and curious schoolboys, understanding little of the matter in hand, ex

at it gave them a half-holiday, ran before her progress, turning their heads continual

re into her face, and at the winking baby in her arms, and at the ignominious letter

r breast. It was no great distance, in those days, from the prison-door to the market

ace. Measured by the prisoner's experience, however, it might be reckoned a journeme length; for, haughty as her demeanour was, she perchance underwent an agony

om every footstep of those that thronged to see her, as if her heart had been flung in

e street for them all to spurn and trample upon. In our nature, however, there is a

ovision, alike marvellous and merciful, that the sufferer should never know the

ensity of what he endures by its present torture, but chiefly by the pang that rankles

er it. With almost a serene deportment, therefore, Hester Prynne passed through thi

rtion of her ordeal, and came to a sort of scaffold, at the western extremity of the

arket-place. It stood nearly beneath the eaves of Boston's earliest church, and appeabe a fixture there.

fact, this scaffold constituted a portion of a penal machine, which now, for two or

ree generations past, has been merely historical and traditionary among us, but was

ld, in the old time, to be as effectual an agent in the promotion of good citizenship,

er



Pag

as the guillotine among the terrorists of France.1 It was, in short, the platform of the

lory; and above it rose the framework of that instrument of discipline, so fashioned

confine the human head in its tight grasp, and thus hold it up to the public gaze. Th

ry ideal of ignominy was embodied and made manifest in this contrivance of wood

n. There can be no outrage, methinks, against our common nature, whatever be the

linquencies of the individual, no outrage more flagrant than to forbid the culprit to s face for shame; as it was the essence of this punishment to do. In Hester Prynne's

stance, however, as not unfrequently in other cases, her sentence bore, that she shou

nd a certain time upon the platform but without undergoing that gripe2 about the n

d confinement of the head, the proneness to which was the most devilish characteri

this ugly engine. Knowing well her part, she ascended a flight of wooden steps, an

as thus displayed to the surrounding multitude, at about the height of a man's should

ove the street.

ad there been a Papist among the crowd of Puritans, he might have seen in this beau

oman, so picturesque in her attire and mien, and with the infant at her bosom, an ob

remind him of the image of Divine Maternity, which so many illustrious painters ha

ed with one another to represent; something which should remind him, indeed, but

contrast, of that sacred image of sinless motherhood, whose infant was to redeem

orld.3 Here, there was the taint of deepest sin in the most sacred quality of human li

orking such effect, that the world was only the darker for this woman's beauty, and

ore lost for the infant that she had borne.e scene was not without a mixture of awe, such as must always invest the spectacle

ilt and shame in a fellow-creature, before

1 The device used in the Reign of Terror under Robespierre (17931794) and, in part, a pun on the

"decapitated Surveyor" whose voice is telling this story.

2 Grip; here, the neck hole of a pillory.

3 The term "Papist" is a derogatory term used by Puritans to refer to Catholics who observed the

supremacy of the Pope among all bishops; its usage conflicts with the notice of "Divine Maternitywhich is a very un-Puritan doctrine and which evidences the presence of the Surveyor who is telli

the story while trying to bridge two distinct eras.



Pag

ciety shall have grown corrupt enough to smile, instead of shuddering, at it. The

tnesses of Hester Prynne's disgrace had not yet passed beyond their simplicity. They

ere stern enough to look upon her death, had that been the sentence, without a murm

its severity, but had none of the heartlessness of another social state, which would f

ly a theme for jest in an exhibition like the present. Even had there been a dispositi

turn the matter in ridicule, it must have been repressed and overpowered by the solesence of men no less dignified than the Governor, and several of his counsellors, a

dge, a general, and the ministers of the town; all of whom sat or stood in a balcony

e meeting-house, looking down upon the platform. When such personages could

nstitute a part of the spectacle, without risking the majesty or reverence of rank and

fice, it was safely to be inferred that the infliction of a legal sentence would have an

rnest and effectual meaning. Accordingly, the crowd was sombre and grave. The

happy culprit sustained herself as best a woman might, under the heavy weight of a

ousand unrelenting eyes, all fastened upon her, and concentred at her bosom. It wamost intolerable to be borne. Of an impulsive and passionate nature, she had fortifie

rself to encounter the stings and venomous stabs of public contumely, wreaking itse

every variety of insult; but there was a quality so much more terrible in the solemn

ood of the popular mind, that she longed rather to behold all those rigid countenanc

ntorted with scornful merriment, and herself the object. Had a roar of laughter burs

om the multitude, each man, each woman, each little shrill-voiced child, contributin

eir individual parts, Hester Prynne might have repaid them all with a bitter and

sdainful smile. But, under the leaden infliction which it was her doom to endure, sht, at moments, as if she must needs shriek out with the full power of her lungs, and

rself from the scaffold down upon the ground, or else go mad at once.

et there were intervals when the whole scene, in which she was the most conspicuou

ject, seemed to vanish from her eyes, or, at least, glimmered indistinctly before them

e a mass of imperfectly shaped and spectral images. Her mind, and especially her

emory, was preternaturally active, and kept bringing up other scenes than this rough

wn street of a little town, on the edge of the Western



Pag

lderness; other faces than were lowering upon her from beneath the brims of those

eple-crowned hats. Reminiscences, the most trifling and immaterial, passages of

fancy and school-days, sports, childish quarrels, and the little domestic traits of her

aiden years, came swarming back upon her, intermingled with recollections of what

as gravest in her subsequent life; one picture precisely as vivid as another; as if all w

similar importance, or all alike a play. Possibly, it was an instinctive device of her irit, to relieve itself, by the exhibition of these phantasmagoric forms, from the crue

eight and hardness of the reality.

that as it might, the scaffold of the pillory was a point of view that revealed to Hes

ynne the entire track along which she had been treading, since her happy infancy.

anding on that miserable eminence, she saw again her native village, in Old England

d her paternal home; a decayed house of gray stone, with a poverty-stricken aspect,

aining a half-obliterated shield of arms over the portal, in token of antique gentilitye saw her father's face, with its bald brow, and reverend white beard, that flowed o

e old-fashioned Elizabethan ruff;1 her mother's too, with the look of heedful and

xious love which it always wore in her remembrance, and which, even since her de

d so often laid the impediment of a gentle remonstrance in her daughter's pathway.

w her own face, glowing with girlish beauty, and illuminating all the interior of the

sky mirror in which she had been wont to gaze at it. There she beheld another

untenance, of a man well stricken in years, a pale, thin, scholar-like visage, with ey

m and bleared by the lamp-light that had served them to pore over many ponderousoks. Yet those same bleared optics had a strange, penetrating power, when it was th

wner's purpose to read the human soul. This figure of the study and the cloister, as

ester Prynne's womanly fancy failed not to recall, was slightly deformed, with the le

oulder a trifle higher than the right. Next rose before her, in memory's picture-galler

1 A stiffly starched rippled collar worn by the privileged classes during the Renaissance and

sanctioned by sumptuary laws; thus, a contrast for Hester between her origins and her new dress

with the embroidered scarlet letter.



Pag

e intricate and narrow thoroughfares, the tall, gray houses, the huge cathedrals, and

blic edifices, ancient in date and quaint in architecture, of a Continental city;1 wher

w life had awaited her, still in connection with the misshapen scholar; a new life, bu

eding itself on time-worn materials, like a tuft of green moss on a crumbling wall.

stly, in lieu of these shifting scenes, came back the rude market-place of the Puritan

tlement, with all the townspeople assembled and levelling their stern regards at Hesynne, yes, at herself, who stood on the scaffold of the pillory, an infant on her arm

e letter A, in scarlet, fantastically embroidered with gold thread, upon her bosom!

ould it be true? She clutched the child so fiercely to her breast, that it sent forth a cry

e turned her eyes downward at the scarlet letter, and even touched it with her finger

sure herself that the infant and the shame were real. Yes! these were her realities, al

d vanished!

1 Perhaps Amsterdam where English Separatists (who settled Plymouth in 1620) lived for abouttwenty years and where Puritans assembled until the King sanctioned the Massachusetts Bay Colo

(of Boston and Salem) as a joint-stock company for Puritan migration.



Pag

he Recognition

om this intense consciousness of being the object of severe and universal observati

e wearer of the scarlet letter was at length relieved by discerning, on the outskirts ofowd, a figure which irresistibly took possession of her thoughts. An Indian, in his

tive garb, was standing there; but the red men were not so infrequent visitors of the

glish settlements, that one of them would have attracted any notice from Hester Pry

such a time; much less would he have excluded all other objects and ideas from her

nd. By the Indian's side, and evidently sustaining a companionship with him, stood

hite man, clad in a strange disarray of civilized and savage costume.

e was small in stature, with a furrowed visage, which, as yet, could hardly be termeded. There was a remarkable intelligence in his features, as of a person who had so

ltivated his mental part that it could not fail to mould the physical to itself, and beco

anifest by unmistakable tokens. Although, by a seemingly careless arrangement of h

terogeneous garb, he had endeavoured to conceal or abate the peculiarity, it was

fficiently evident to Hester Prynne, that one of this man's shoulders rose higher than

her. Again, at the first instant of perceiving that thin visage, and the slight deformity

e figure, she pressed her infant to her bosom, with so convulsive a force that the po

be uttered another cry of pain. But the mother did not seem to hear it.

his arrival in the market-place, and some time before she saw him, the stranger had

nt his eyes on Hester Prynne. It was carelessly, at first, like a man chiefly accustom

ok inward, and to whom external matters are of little value and import, unless they

ation to something within his mind. Very soon, however, his look became keen and

netrative. A writhing horror twisted itself across his features, like a snake gliding

iftly over them, and making one little pause, with all its wreathed intervolutions in

en sight. His face darkened with some powerful emotion, which, nevertheless, he sstantaneously controlled by an effort of his will, that, save at a



Pag

ngle moment, its expression might have passed for calmness. After a brief space, the

nvulsion grew almost imperceptible, and finally subsided into the depths of his nat

hen he found the eyes of Hester Prynne fastened on his own, and saw that she appe

recognize him, he slowly and calmly raised his finger, made a gesture with it in the

d laid it on his lips.

hen, touching the shoulder of a townsman who stood next to him, he addressed him

rmal and courteous manner.

pray you, good Sir," said he, "who is this woman? and wherefore is she here set up

blic shame?"

You must needs be a stranger in this region, friend," answered the townsman, lookin

riously at the questioner and his savage companion; "else you would surely have he

Mistress Hester Prynne, and her evil doings. She hath raised a great scandal, I prom

u, in godly Master Dimmesdale's church."

You say truly," replied the other. "I am a stranger, and have been a wanderer, sorely

ainst my will. I have met with grievous mishaps by sea and land, and have been lon

ld in bonds among the heathen-folk, to the southward; and am now brought hither

s Indian, to be redeemed out of my captivity. Will it please you, therefore, to tell m

ester Prynne's, have I her name rightly? of this woman's offences, and what has bro

r to yonder scaffold?"

ruly, friend, and methinks it must gladden your heart, after your troubles and sojou

the wilderness," said the townsman, "to find yourself, at length, in a land where

quity is searched out, and punished in the sight of rulers and people; as here in our

dly New England. Yonder woman, Sir, you must know, was the wife of a certain

arned man, English by birth, but who had long dwelt in Amsterdam, whence, some

od time agone, he was minded to cross over and cast in his lot with us of the

assachusetts. To this purpose, he sent his wife before him, remaining himself to loo

er some necessary affairs. Marry, good Sir, in some two years, or less, that the woms been a dweller here in Boston, no tidings have come of this learned gentleman,

aster Prynne; and his young wife, look you, being left to her own misguidance"

Ah! aha! I conceive you," said the stranger, with a bitter



Pag

mile. "So learned a man as you speak of should have learned this too in his books. A

ho, by your favor, Sir, may be the father of yonder babe it is some three or four mo

d, I should judge which Mistress Prynne is holding in her arms?"

f a truth, friend, that matter remaineth a riddle; and the Daniel who shall expound i

t a-wanting,"1 answered the townsman. "Madam Hester absolutely refuseth to speak

d the magistrates have laid their heads together in vain. Peradventure the guilty one

nds looking on at this sad spectacle, unknown of man, and forgetting that God see

m."

he learned man," observed the stranger, with another smile, "should come himself t

ok into the mystery."

behooves him well, if he be still in life," responded the townsman. "Now, good Sir

r Massachusetts magistracy, bethinking themselves that this woman is youthful and

d doubtless was strongly tempted to her fall; and that, moreover, as is most likely, h

sband may be at the bottom of the sea; they have not been bold to put in force the

tremity of our righteous law against her. The penalty thereof is death. But, in their g

ercy and tenderness of heart, they have doomed Mistress Prynne to stand only a spa

three hours on the platform of the pillory, and then and thereafter, for the remainde

r natural life, to wear a mark of shame upon her bosom."

A wise sentence!" remarked the stranger, gravely bowing his head. "Thus she will be

ing sermon against sin, until the ignominious letter be engraved upon her tombstonks me, nevertheless, that the partner of her iniquity should not, at least, stand on the

affold by her side. But he will be known! he will be known! he will be known!"

e bowed courteously to the communicative townsman, and, whispering a few words

s Indian attendant, they both made their way through the crowd.

hile this passed, Hester Prynne had been standing on her pedestal, still with a fixed

wards the stranger; so fixed a gaze, that,

1 In Daniel 5, the prophet interprets the handwriting on the wall during Belshassar's feast.



Pag

moments of intense absorption, all other objects in the visible world seemed to van

aving only him and her. Such an interview, perhaps, would have been more terrible

an even to meet him as she now did, with the hot, midday sun burning down upon

ce, and lighting up its shame; with the scarlet token of infamy on her breast; with th

n-born infant in her arms; with a whole people, drawn forth as to a festival, staring

e features that should have been seen only in the quiet gleam of the fireside, in theppy shadow of a home, or beneath a matronly veil, at church. Dreadful as it was, sh

as conscious of a shelter in the presence of these thousand witnesses. It was better to

nd thus, with so many betwixt him and her, than to greet him, face to face, they tw

one. She fled for refuge, as it were, to the public exposure, and dreaded the momen

hen its protection should be withdrawn from her. Involved in these thoughts, she

arcely heard a voice behind her, until it had repeated her name more than once, in a

ud and solemn tone, audible to the whole multitude.

Hearken unto me, Hester Prynne!" said the voice.

has already been noticed, that directly over the platform on which Hester Prynne sto

as a kind of balcony, or open gallery, appended to the meeting-house. It was the pla

hence proclamations were wont to be made, amidst an assemblage of the magistracy

th all the ceremonial that attended such public observances in those days. Here, to

tness the scene which we are describing, sat Governor Bellingham himself,1 with f

rgeants about his chair, bearing halberds,2 as a guard of honor. He wore a dark feat

his hat, a border of embroidery on his cloak, and a black velvet tunic beneath; antleman advanced in years, and with a hard experience written in his wrinkles. He w

t ill fitted to be the head and representative of a community, which owed its origin

ogress, and its present state of development, not to the impulses of youth, but to

1 Richard Bellingham (15921672) was Governor in three periods: 1641, 1654, and 16651672.

From these terms of office, most commentators date the year in which the action of the romance

starts as 1641, eleven years after the Great Migration of 1630 and the death of Isaac Johnson.

2 Long-handled weapons which ended with an axe and a steel spike.



Pag

e stern and tempered energies of manhood, and the sombre sagacity of age;

complishing so much, precisely because it imagined and hoped so little. The other

minent characters, by whom the chief ruler was surrounded, were distinguished by a

gnity of mien, belonging to a period when the forms of authority were felt to posses

e sacredness of divine institutions. They were, doubtless, good men, just, and sage.

t of the whole human family, it would not have been easy to select the same numbese and virtuous persons, who should be less capable of sitting in judgment on an er

oman's heart, and disentangling its mesh of good and evil, than the sages of rigid as

wards whom Hester Prynne now turned her face. She seemed conscious, indeed, th

hatever sympathy she might expect lay in the larger and warmer heart of the multitu

r, as she lifted her eyes towards the balcony, the unhappy woman grew pale and

mbled.

he voice which had called her attention was that of the reverend and famous Johnilson,1 the eldest clergyman of Boston, a great scholar, like most of his contemporar

the profession, and withal a man of kind and genial spirit. This last attribute, howe

d been less carefully developed than his intellectual gifts, and was, in truth, rather a

atter of shame than self-congratulation with him. There he stood, with a border of

zzled locks beneath his skull-cap; while his gray eyes, accustomed to the shaded lig

his study, were winking, like those of Hester's infant, in the unadulterated sunshine

oked like the darkly engraved portraits which we see prefixed to old volumes of

rmons; and had no more right than one of those portraits would have, to step forth,now did, and meddle with a question of human guilt, passion, and anguish.

Hester Prynne," said the clergyman, "I have striven with my young brother here, und

hose preaching of the word you have been privileged to sit," here Mr. Wilson laid h

nd on the shoulder of a pale young man beside him, "I have sought, I say,

1 Wilson (15911667) was an influential minister who came to Massachusetts with John Winthrop

1630, and stood alongside him in the trial of Ann Hutchinson (Appendix J.III.3,5).



Pag

persuade this godly youth, that he should deal with you, here in the face of Heaven

d before these wise and upright rulers, and in hearing of all the people, as touching

eness and blackness of your sin. Knowing your natural temper better than I, he cou

e better judge what arguments to use, whether of tenderness or terror, such as might

evail over your hardness and obstinacy; insomuch that you should no longer hide th

me of him who tempted you to this grievous fall. But he opposes to me, (with a yoan's oversoftness, albeit wise beyond his years,) that it were wronging the very natu

woman to force her to lay open her heart's secrets in such broad daylight, and in

esence of so great a multitude. Truly, as I sought to convince him, the shame lay in

mmission of the sin, and not in the showing of it forth. What say you to it, once ag

other Dimmesdale? Must it be thou or I that shall deal with this poor sinner's soul?"

ere was a murmur among the dignified and reverend occupants of the balcony; and

overnor Bellingham gave expression to its purport, speaking in an authoritative voichough tempered with respect towards the youthful clergyman whom he addressed.

Good Master Dimmesdale," said he, "the responsibility of this woman's soul lies grea

th you. It behooves you, therefore, to exhort her to repentance, and to confession,

oof and consequence thereof."

e directness of this appeal drew the eyes of the whole crowd upon the Reverend M

mmesdale; a young clergyman, who had come from one of the great English

iversities, bringing all the learning of the age into our wild forest-land.1 His eloqued religious fervor had already given the earnest of high eminence in his profession.

as a person of very striking aspect, with a white, lofty, and impending brow, large,

own, melancholy eyes, and a

1 Hawthorne's historical source for Dimmesdale is probably John Cotton (15841652), a leading

theologian and preacher of the colony, celebrated for his ability to inculcate the experience of gra

in his congregation, and Ann Hutchinson's pastor in England; when she was prosecuted for

Antinomianism, he distanced himself from her, and some persons thought he was being hypocritic

(see Appendix J.II; H.III.4,5,6). His son, also a John Cotton, was dismissed from his Plymouthparish in 1697 because of adultery.



Pag

outh which, unless when he forcibly compressed it, was apt to be tremulous, expres

th nervous sensibility and a vast power of self-restraint. Notwithstanding his high

tive gifts and scholar-like attainments, there was an air about this young minister, an

prehensive, a startled, a half-frightened look, as of a being who felt himself quite a

d at a loss in the pathway of human existence, and could only be at ease in some

clusion of his own. Therefore, so far as his duties would permit, he trode in theadowy by-paths, and thus kept himself simple and childlike; coming forth, when

casion was, with a freshness, and fragrance, and dewy purity of thought, which, as

any people said, affected them like the speech of an angel.

ch was the young man whom the Reverend Mr. Wilson and the Governor had

roduced so openly to the public notice, bidding him speak, in the hearing of all me

at mystery of a woman's soul, so sacred even in its pollution. The trying nature of h

sition drove the blood from his cheek, and made his lips tremulous.peak to the woman, my brother," said Mr. Wilson. "It is of moment to her soul, and

erefore, as the worshipful Governor says, momentous to thine own, in whose charg

rs is. Exhort her to confess the truth!"

e Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale bent his head, in silent prayer, as it seemed, and then

me forward.

Hester Prynne," said he, leaning over the balcony, and looking down steadfastly into

es, "thou hearest what this good man says, and seest the accountability under whichbor. If thou feelest it to be for thy soul's peace, and that thy earthly punishment will

ereby be made more effectual to salvation, I charge thee to speak out the name of th

low-sinner and fellow sufferer! Be not silent from any mistaken pity and tendernes

m; for, believe me, Hester, though he were to step down from a high place, and stan

ere beside thee, on thy pedestal of shame, yet better were it so, than to hide a guilty

art through life. What can thy silence do for him, except it tempt him yea, compel h

it were to add hypocrisy to sin? Heaven hath granted thee an open ignominy, that

ereby thou mayest work out an open triumph over the evil within thee, and the sorrthout. Take heed how thou deniest to him



Pag

lt of his appeal. He now drew back, with a long respiration. "Wondrous strength an

nerosity of a woman's heart! She will not speak!"

scerning the impracticable state of the poor culprit's mind, the elder clergyman, who

d carefully prepared himself for the occasion, addressed to the multitude a discours

n, in all its branches, but with continual reference to the ignominious letter. So forci

d he dwell upon this symbol, for the hour or more during which his periods were

ling over the people's heads, that it assumed new terrors in their imagination, and

emed to derive its scarlet hue from the flames of the infernal pit. Hester Prynne,

eanwhile, kept her place upon the pedestal of shame, with glazed eyes, and an air of

eary indifference. She had borne, that morning, all that nature could endure; and as

mperament was not of the order that escapes from too intense suffering by a swoon

irit could only shelter itself beneath a stony crust of insensibility, while the faculties

imal life remained entire. In this state, the voice of the preacher thunderedmorselessly, but unavailingly, upon her ears. The infant, during the latter portion of

deal, pierced the air with its wailings and screams; she strove to hush it, mechanical

t seemed scarcely to sympathize with its trouble. With the same hard demeanour, sh

as led back to prison, and vanished from the public gaze within its iron-clamped po

was whispered, by those who peered after her, that the scarlet letter threw a lurid gl

ong the dark passage-way of the interior.



Pag

V

he Interview

fter her return to the prison, Hester Prynne was found to be in a state of nervous

citement that demanded constant watchfulness, lest she should perpetrate violence orself, or do some half-frenzied mischief to the poor babe. As night approached, it

oving impossible to quell her insubordination by rebuke or threats of punishment,

aster Brackett, the jailer, thought fit to introduce a physician. He described him as a

skill in all Christian modes of physical science, and likewise familiar with whateve

vage people could teach, in respect to medicinal herbs and roots that grew in the for

say the truth, there was much need of professional assistance, not merely for Heste

rself, but still more urgently for the child; who, drawing its sustenance from the

aternal bosom, seemed to have drank in with it all the turmoil, the anguish, and desp

hich pervaded the mother's system. It now writhed in convulsions of pain, and was

rcible type,1 in its little frame, of the moral agony which Hester Prynne had borne

roughout the day.

osely following the jailer into the dismal apartment, appeared that individual, of

ngular aspect, whose presence in the crowd had been of such deep interest to the we

the scarlet letter. He was lodged in the prison, not as suspected of any offence, but

e most convenient and suitable mode of disposing of him, until the magistrates shouve conferred with the Indian sagamores2 respecting his ransom. His name was

nounced as Roger Chillingworth. The jailer, after ushering him into the room, rema

moment, marvelling at the comparative quiet that followed his entrance; for Hester

ynne had immediately become as still as death, although

1 An effective or persuasive symbol. In Renaissance rhetoric, a "type" is a manifestation of the

eternal, invisible "archetypes," inherent in God's mind; thus, it is related both to allegory and to

symbolism. Other terms that Hawthorne uses in The Scarlet Letter for "type" and ''symbol" are

"emblem," "token," and "sign."

2 Chiefs or Indian nobles.



Pag

e child continued to moan.

rithee, friend, leave me alone with my patient," said the practitioner. "Trust me, goo

ler, you shall briefly have peace in your house; and, I promise you, Mistress Prynne

all hereafter be more amenable to just authority than you may have found her

retofore."

Nay, if your worship can accomplish that," answered Master Brackett, "I shall own y

r a man of skill indeed! Verily, the woman hath been like a possessed one; and there

cks little, that I should take in hand to drive Satan out of her with stripes."

e stranger had entered the room with the characteristic quietude of the profession t

hich he announced himself as belonging. Nor did his demeanour change, when the

thdrawal of the prison-keeper left him face to face with the woman, whose absorbe

tice of him, in the crowd, had intimated so close a relation between himself and her

s first care was given to the child; whose cries, indeed, as she lay writhing on the

undle-bed, made it of peremptory necessity to postpone all other business to the task

othing her. He examined the infant carefully, and then proceeded to unclasp a leathe

se, which he took from beneath his dress. It appeared to contain certain medical

eparations, one of which he mingled with a cup of water.

My old studies in alchemy," observed he, "and my sojourn, for above a year past, am

people well versed in the kindly properties of simples,1 have made a better physicia

e than many that claim the medical degree. Here, woman! The child is yours, she isne of mine, neither will she recognize my voice or aspect as a father's. Administer t

aught, therefore, with thine own hand."

ster repelled the offered medicine, at the same time gazing with strongly marked

prehension into his face.

Wouldst thou avenge thyself on the innocent babe?" whispered she.

oolish woman!" responded the physician, half coldly, half soothingly. "What shoule to harm this misbegotten and miserable babe? The medicine is potent for good; an

ere it my child,

1 Drugs concocted from plants or herbs, and thus elemental or "simple."



Pag

a, mine own, as well as thine! I could do no better for it."

she still hesitated, being, in fact, in no reasonable state of mind, he took the infant

s arms, and himself administered the draught. It soon proved its efficacy, and redee

e leech's1 pledge. The moans of the little patient subsided; its convulsive tossings

adually ceased; and in a few moments, as is the custom of young children after relie

om pain, it sank into a profound and dewy slumber. The physician, as he had a fair

ht to be termed, next bestowed his attention on the mother. With calm and intent

rutiny, he felt her pulse, looked into her eyes, a gaze that made her heart shrink and

udder, because so familiar, and yet so strange and cold, and, finally, satisfied with h

vestigation, proceeded to mingle another draught.

know not Lethe nor Nepenthe,"2 remarked he; "but I have learned many new secre

e wilderness, and here is one of them, a recipe that an Indian taught me, in requital

me lessons of my own, that were as old as Paracelsus.3 Drink it! It may be lessothing than a sinless conscience. That I cannot give thee. But it will calm the swell a

aving of thy passion, like oil thrown on the waves of a tempestuous sea."

e presented the cup to Hester, who received it with a slow, earnest look into his face

ecisely a look of fear, yet full of doubt and questioning, as to what his purposes mi

. She looked also at her slumbering child.

have thought of death," said she, "have wished for it, would even have prayed for

ere it fit that such as I should pray for any thing. Yet, if death be in this cup, I bid thnk again, ere thou beholdest me quaff it. See! It is even now at my lips."

1 Doctor; in the Renaissance, it was believed that bodily fluids (or "humours") which were out of

balance were the cause of some illness, and doctors often drew blood through leeches to restore t

balance and health.

2 In Greek mythology, Lethe was the river in the Underworld that rid the soul of its earthly memor

nepenthe was a drug akin to opium that induced sleep and thus forgetfulness. Chillingworth here

disavows any ability to alter Hester's consciousness of her present state, only to calm the nerves

momentarily; at this moment, he claims that his medical skill is confined to the physical aspects of

not the spiritual.

3 Swiss alchemist (14931541), connected with the Renaissance legends of a Dr. Faustus.



Pag

rink, then," replied he, still with the same cold composure. "Dost thou know me so

tle, Hester Prynne? Are my purposes wont to be so shallow? Even if I imagine a sch

vengeance, what could I do better for my object than to let thee live, than to give th

edicines against all harm and peril of life, so that this burning shame may still blaze

on thy bosom?" As he spoke, he laid his long forefinger on the scarlet letter, which

rthwith seemed to scorch into Hester's breast, as if it had been red-hot. He noticed hvoluntary gesture, and smiled. "Live, therefore, and bear about thy doom with thee,

e eyes of men and women, in the eyes of him whom thou didst call thy husband, in

es of yonder child! And, that thou mayest live, take off this draught."

ithout further expostulation or delay, Hester Prynne drained the cup, and, at the mo

the man of skill, seated herself on the bed where the child was sleeping; while he d

e only chair which the room afforded, and took his own seat beside her. She could

t tremble at these preparations; for she felt that having now done all that humanity, nciple, or, if so it were, a refined cruelty, impelled him to do, for the relief of phys

ffering he was next to treat with her as the man whom she had most deeply and

eparably injured.

Hester," said he, "I ask not wherefore, nor how, thou hast fallen into the pit, or say

her, thou hast ascended to the pedestal of infamy, on which I found thee. The reaso

t far to seek. It was my folly, and thy weakness. I, a man of thought, the book-wor

eat libraries, a man already in decay, having given my best years to feed the hungry

eam of knowledge, what had I to do with youth and beauty like thine own! Misshapom my birth-hour, how could I delude myself with the idea that intellectual gifts mi

il physical deformity in a young girl's fantasy! Men call me wise. If sages were ever

se in their own behoof, I might have foreseen all this. I might have known that, as

me out of the vast and dismal forest, and entered this settlement of Christian men, t

ry first object to meet my eyes would be thyself, Hester Prynne, standing up, a statu

nominy, before the people. Nay, from the moment when we came down the old chu

ps together, a married



Pag

ir, I might have beheld the bale-fire1 of that scarlet letter blazing at the end of our

th!"

hou knowest," said Hester, for, depressed as she was, she could not endure this last

iet stab at the token of her shame, "thou knowest that I was frank with thee. I felt n

ve, nor feigned any."

rue!" replied he. "It was my folly! I have said it. But, up to that epoch of my life, I h

ed in vain. The world had been so cheerless! My heart was a habitation large enoug

r many guests, but lonely and chill, and without a household fire. I longed to kindle

e! It seemed not so wild a dream, old as I was, and sombre as I was, and misshape

was, that the simple bliss, which is scattered far and wide, for all mankind to gather

ght yet be mine. And so, Hester, I drew thee into my heart, into its innermost chamb

d sought to warm thee by the warmth which thy presence made there!"

have greatly wronged thee," murmured Hester.

We have wronged each other," answered he. "Mine was the first wrong, when I betra

y budding youth into a false and unnatural relation with my decay. Therefore, as a m

ho has not thought and philosophized in vain, I seek no vengeance, plot no evil aga

ee. Between thee and me, the scale hangs fairly balanced. But, Hester, the man lives

s wronged us both! Who is he?"

Ask me not!" replied Hester Prynne, looking firmly into his face. "That thou shalt neow!"

Never, sayest thou?" rejoined he, with a smile of dark and self-relying intelligence.

Never know him! Believe me, Hester, there are few things, whether in the outward

orld, or, to a certain depth, in the invisible sphere of thought, few things hidden fro

e man, who devotes himself earnestly and unreservedly to the solution of a mystery

ou mayest cover up thy secret from the prying multitude. Thou mayest conceal it, t

om the ministers and magistrates, even as thou didst this day, when they sought to

ench the name out of thy heart, and give thee a partner on thy pedestal.

1 A fire that consumes corpses; thus, a fire that destroys life itself.



Pag

ut, as for me, I come to the inquest with other senses than they possess. I shall seek

an, as I have sought truth in books; as I have sought gold in alchemy. There is a

mpathy that will make me conscious of him. I shall see him tremble. I shall feel my

udder, suddenly and unawares. Sooner or later, he must needs be mine!"

e eyes of the wrinkled scholar glowed so intensely upon her, that Hester Prynne

asped her hands over her heart, dreading lest he should read the secret there at once

hou wilt not reveal his name? Not the less he is mine," resumed he, with a look of

nfidence, as if destiny were at one with him. "He bears no letter of infamy wrought

s garment, as thou dost; but I shall read it on his heart. Yet fear not for him! Think n

at I shall interfere with Heaven's own method of retribution, or, to my own loss, bet

m to the gripe1 of human law. Neither do thou imagine that I shall contrive aught

ainst his life, no, nor against his fame; if, as I judge, he be a man of fair repute. Let

e! Let him hide himself in outward honor, if he may! Not the less he shall be mine!

hy acts are like mercy," said Hester, bewildered and appalled. "But thy words interp

ee as a terror!"

ne thing, thou that wast my wife, I would enjoin upon thee," continued the scholar

hou hast kept the secret of thy paramour. Keep, likewise, mine! There are none in t

nd that know me. Breathe not, to any human soul, that thou didst ever call me husba

ere, on this wild outskirt of the earth, I shall pitch my tent; for, elsewhere a wandere

d isolated from human interests, I find here a woman, a man, a child, amongst whod myself there exist the closest ligaments. No matter whether of love or hate; no ma

hether of right or wrong! Thou and thine, Hester Prynne, belong to me. My home is

here thou art, and where he is. But betray me not!"

Wherefore dost thou desire it?" inquired Hester, shrinking, she hardly knew why, fro

s secret bond. "Why not announce thyself openly, and cast me off at once?"

1 Grip; as the grip of a neckhole in the punishment pillory.



Pag

may be," he replied, "because I will not encounter the dishonor that besmirches th

sband of a faithless woman. It may be for other reasons. Enough, it is my purpose

e and die unknown. Let, therefore, thy husband be to the world as one already dea

d of whom no tidings shall ever come. Recognize me not, by word, by sign, by loo

eathe not the secret, above all, to the man thou wot-test1 of. Shouldst thou fail me i

s, beware! His fame, his position, his life, will be in my hands. Beware!"

will keep thy secret, as I have his," said Hester.

wear it!" rejoined he.

nd she took the oath.

And now, Mistress Prynne," said old Roger Chillingworth, as he was hereafter to be

med, "I leave thee alone; alone with thy infant, and the scarlet letter! How is it, Hest

oth thy sentence bind thee to wear the token in thy sleep? Art thou not afraid of ghtmares and hideous dreams?"

Why dost thou smile so at me?" inquired Hester, troubled at the expression of his eye

t thou like the Black Man2 that haunts the forest round about us? Hast thou enticed

o a bond that will prove the ruin of my soul?"

Not thy soul," he answered, with another smile. "No, not thine!"

1 Knowest.

2 The Devil; in a Puritan belief of the day, the Devil inhabited the Massachusetts forests, beyond t

pale of the settlement; Chillingworth, as first seen in the romance, has just returned from a sojourn

the natives to learn their medicinal arts.



Pag

ester at Her Needle

ster Prynne's term of confinement was now at an end. Her prison-door was thrown

en, and she came forth into the sunshine, which, falling on all alike, seemed, to herk and morbid heart, as if meant for no other purpose than to reveal the scarlet letter

r breast. Perhaps there was a more real torture in her first unattended footsteps from

reshold of the prison, than even in the procession and spectacle that have been

scribed, where she was made the common infamy, at which all mankind was

mmoned to point its finger. Then, she was supported by an unnatural tension of the

rves, and by all the combative energy of her character, which enabled her to conver

ene into a kind of lurid triumph. It was, moreover, a separate and insulated event, to

cur but once in her lifetime, and to meet which, therefore, reckless of economy, she

ght call up the vital strength that would have sufficed for many quiet years. The ver

w that condemned her a giant of stern features, but with vigor to support, as well as

nihilate, in his iron arm had held her up, through the terrible ordeal of her ignominy

ut now, with this unattended walk from her prison-door, began the daily custom, an

e must either sustain and carry it forward by the ordinary resources of her nature, o

nk beneath it. She could no longer borrow from the future, to help her through the

esent grief. To-morrow would bring its own trial with it; so would the next day, and

ould the next; each its own trial, and yet the very same that was now so unutterably

evous to be borne. The days of the far-off future would toil onward, still with the

rden for her to take up, and bear along with her, but never to fling down; for the

cumulating days, and added years, would pile up their misery upon the heap of sha

roughout them all, giving up her individuality, she would become the general symb

which the preacher and moralist might point, and in which they might vivify and

mbody their images of woman's frailty and sinful passion. Thus the young and pure

ould be taught to look at her, with the scarlet letter flaming



Pag

her breast, at her, the child of honorable parents, at her, the mother of a babe, that

ould hereafter be a woman, at her, who had once been innocent, as the figure, the b

e reality of sin. And over her grave, the infamy that she must carry thither would be

ly monument.

may seem marvellous, that, with the world before her, kept by no restrictive clause

r condemnation within the limits of the Puritan settlement, so remote and so obscur

e to return to her birthplace, or to any other European land, and there hide her

aracter and identity under a new exterior, as completely as if emerging into another

being, and having also the passes of the dark, inscrutable forest open to her, where

ldness of her nature might assimilate itself with a people whose customs and life w

en from the law that had condemned her, it may seem marvellous, that this woman

ould still call that place her home, where, and where only, she must needs be the typ

shame. But there is a fatality, a feeling so irresistible and inevitable that it has the fodoom, which almost invariably compels human beings to linger around and haunt,

ost-like, the spot where some great and marked event has given the color to their

etime; and still the more irresistibly, the darker the tinge that saddens it. Her sin, her

nominy, were the roots which she had struck into the soil. It was as if a new birth, w

onger assimilations than the first, had converted the forest-land, still so uncongenia

ery other pilgrim and wanderer, into Hester Prynne's wild and dreary, but life-long

me. All other scenes of earth even that village of rural England, where happy infan

d stainless maidenhood seemed yet to be in her mother's keeping, like garments putng ago were foreign to her, in comparison. The chain that bound her here was of ir

ks, and galling to her inmost soul, but never could be broken.

might be, too, doubtless it was so, although she hid the secret from herself, and gre

le whenever it struggled out of her heart, like a serpent from its hole, it might be th

other feeling kept her within the scene and pathway that had been so fatal. There dw

ere trode the feet of one with whom she deemed herself connected in a union, that,

recognized on earth, would bring them together before the bar of final judgment, a

ake that their



Pag

arriage-altar, for a joint futurity of endless retribution. Over and over again, the tem

souls had thrust this idea upon Hester's contemplation, and laughed at the passiona

d desperate joy with which she seized, and then strove to cast it from her. She barel

oked the idea in the face, and hastened to bar it in its dungeon. What she compelled

rself to believe, what, finally, she reasoned upon, as her motive for continuing a

sident of New England, was half a truth, and half a self-delusion. Here, she said torself, had been the scene of her guilt, and here should be the scene of her earthly

nishment; and so, perchance, the torture of her daily shame would at length purge

ul, and work out another purity than that which she had lost; more saint-like, becau

e result of martyrdom.

ester Prynne, therefore, did not flee. On the outskirts of the town, within the verge o

e peninsula, but not in close vicinity to any other habitation, there was a small thatc

ttage. It had been built by an earlier settler, and abandoned, because the soil about ias too sterile for cultivation, while its comparative remoteness put it out of the sphe

at social activity which already marked the habits of the emigrants. It stood on the

ore, looking across a basin of the sea at the forest-covered hills, towards the west. A

ump of scrubby trees, such as alone grew on the peninsula, did not so much concea

ttage from view, as seem to denote that here was some object which would fain hav

en, or at least ought to be, concealed. In this little, lonesome dwelling, with some

nder means that she possessed, and by the license of the magistrates, who still kept

quisitorial watch over her, Hester established herself, with her infant child. A mysticadow of suspicion immediately attached itself to the spot. Children, too young to

mprehend wherefore this woman should be shut out from the sphere of human

arities, would creep nigh enough to behold her plying her needle at the cottage-

ndow, or standing in the door-way, or laboring in her little garden, or coming forth

ong the pathway that led townward; and, discerning the scarlet letter on her breast,

ould scamper off, with a strange, contagious fear.

nely as was Hester's situation, and without a friend on earth who dared to show

mself, she, however, incurred no risk of want.



Pag

e possessed an art that sufficed, even in a land that afforded comparatively little sc

r its exercise, to supply food for her thriving infant and herself. It was the art then,

w, almost the only one within a woman's grasp of needle-work. She bore on her br

the curiously embroidered letter, a specimen of her delicate and imaginative skill, o

hich the dames of a court might gladly have availed themselves, to add the richer an

ore spiritual adorment of human ingenuity to their fabrics of silk and gold. Here,deed, in the sable simplicity that generally characterized the Puritanic modes of dres

ere might be an infrequent call for the finer productions of her handiwork. Yet the t

the age, demanding whatever was elaborate in compositions of this kind, did not fa

tend its influence over our stern progenitors, who had cast behind them so many

shions which it might seem harder to dispense with. Public ceremonies, such as

dinations, the installation of magistrates, and all that could give majesty to the form

hich a new government manifested itself to the people, were, as a matter of policy,

arked by a stately and well-conducted ceremonial, and a sombre, but yet a studiedagnificence. Deep ruffs, painfully wrought bands, and gorgeously embroidered glov

ere all deemed necessary to the official state of men assuming the reins of power; an

ere readily allowed to individuals dignified by rank or wealth, even while sumptuar

ws1 forbade these and similar extravagances to the plebeian order. In the array of

nerals, too, whether for the apparel of the dead body, or to typify, by manifold

mblematic devices of sable cloth and snowy lawn,2 the sorrow of the survivors, ther

as a frequent and characteristic demand for such labor as Hester Prynne could suppl

by-linen for babies then wore robes of state afforded still another possibility of toilmolument.

y degrees, nor very slowly, her handiwork became what would now be termed the

shion. Whether from commiseration for a woman of so miserable a destiny; or from

orbid curiosity that

1 Laws governing the dress of each social class; as in chapter II, Hawthorne contrasts the

Elizabethan ruff of Hester's parents with her own rude dress ironically made elegant by the scarle

letter with its golden thread.

2 Sable is black (cloth); snowy lawn is white cotton or linen.



Pag

ves a fictitious value even to common or worthless things; or by whatever other

angible circumstance was then, as now, sufficient to bestow, on some persons, wha

hers might seek in vain; or because Hester really filled a gap which must otherwise h

mained vacant; it is certain that she had ready and fairly requited employment for as

any hours as she saw fit to occupy with her needle. Vanity, it may be, chose to mort

elf, by putting on, for ceremonials of pomp and state, the garments that had beenought by her sinful hands. Her needle-work was seen on the ruff of the Governor;

litary men wore it on their scarfs, and the minister on his band; it decked the baby's

tle cap; it was shut up, to be mildewed and moulder away, in the coffins of the dead

ut it is not recorded that, in a single instance, her skill was called in aid to embroider

hite veil which was to cover the pure blushes of a bride. The exception indicated the

er relentless vigor with which society frowned upon her sin.

ester sought not to acquire any thing beyond a subsistence, of the plainest and mostcetic description, for herself, and a simple abundance for her child. Her own dress w

the coarsest materials and the most sombre hue; with only that one ornament, the

arlet letter, which it was her doom to wear. The child's attire, on the other hand was

stinguished by a fanciful, or, we might rather say, a fantastic ingenuity, which serve

deed, to heighten the airy charm that early began to develop itself in the little girl, bu

hich appeared to have also a deeper meaning. We may speak further of it hereafter.

cept for that small expenditure in the decoration of her infant, Hester bestowed all h

perfluous means in charity, on wretches less miserable than herself, and who notfrequently insulted the hand that fed them. Much of the time, which she might read

ve applied to the better efforts of her art, she employed in making coarse garments

e poor. It is probable that there was an idea of penance in this mode of occupation,

at she offered up a real sacrifice of enjoyment, in devoting so many hours to such r

ndiwork. She had in her nature a rich, voluptuous, Oriental characteristic, a taste fo

e gorgeously beautiful, which, save in the exquisite productions of her needle, foun

thing else, in all the possibilities of her life, to exercise itself upon. Women derive a



Pag

easure, incomprehensible to the other sex, from the delicate toil of the needle. To H

ynne it might have been a mode of expressing, and therefore soothing, the passion

r life. Like all other joys, she rejected it as sin. This morbid meddling of conscience

th an immaterial matter betokened, it is to be feared, no genuine and stedfast1nitence, but something doubtful, something that might be deeply wrong, beneath.

this manner, Hester Prynne came to have a part to perform in the world. With her

tive energy of character, and rare capacity, it could not entirely cast her off, althoug

d set a mark upon her,2 more intolerable to a woman's heart than that which brande

e brow of Cain. In all her intercourse with society, however, there was nothing that

ade her feel as if she belonged to it. Every gesture, every word, and even the silence

ose with whom she came in contact, implied, and often expressed, that she was

nished, and as much alone as if she inhabited another sphere, or communicated wit

e common nature by other organs and senses than the rest of human kind. She stooart from mortal interests, yet close beside them, like a ghost that revisits the familia

eside, and can no longer make itself seen or felt; no more smile with the household

r mourn with the kindred sorrow; or, should it succeed in manifesting its forbidden

mpathy, awakening only terror and horrible repugnance. These emotions, in fact, an

bitterest scorn besides, seemed to be the sole portion that she retained in the univer

art. It was not an age of delicacy; and her position, although she understood it well

as in little danger of forgetting it, was often brought before her vivid self-perception

e a new anguish, by the rudest touch upon the tenderest spot. The poor, as we haveeady said, whom she sought out to be the objects of her bounty, often reviled the h

at was stretched forth to succor them. Dames of elevated rank, likewise, whose doo

e entered in the way of her occupation, were accustomed to distil drops of bitternes

o her

1 Hawthorne's alternate spelling for ''steadfast."

2 Genesis 4.15: "And the Lord set a mark upon Cain, lest any finding him should kill him"; thus, a

"life-sentence" of visible guilt is considered fitter punishment than death.



Pag

art; sometimes through that alchemy of quiet malice, by which women can concoct

btile poison from ordinary trifles; and sometimes, also, by a coarser expression, tha

on the sufferer's defenceless breast like a rough blow upon an ulcerated wound. He

d schooled herself long and well; she never responded to these attacks, save by a fl

crimson that rose irrepressibly over her pale cheek, and again subsided into the dep

her bosom. She was patient, a martyr, indeed, but she forbore to pray for her enemt, in spite of her forgiving aspirations, the words of the blessing should stubbornly

ist themselves into a curse.

ontinually, and in a thousand other ways, did she feel the innumerable throbs of ang

at had been so cunningly contrived for her by the undying, the ever-active sentence

e Puritan tribunal. Clergymen paused in the street to address words of exhortation, t

ought a crowd, with its mingled grin and frown, around the poor, sinful woman. If

tered a church, trusting to share the Sabbath smile of the Universal Father, it was ofr mishap to find herself the text of the discourse. She grew to have a dread of child

r they had imbibed from their parents a vague idea of something horrible in this dre

oman, gliding silently through the town, with never any companion but one only ch

erefore, first allowing her to pass, they pursued her at a distance with shrill cries, a

e utterance of a word that had no distinct purport to their own minds, but was none

s terrible to her, as proceeding from lips that babbled it unconsciously. It seemed to

gue so wide a diffusion of her shame, that all nature knew of it; it could have cause

r no deeper pang, had the leaves of the trees whispered the dark story amongemselves, had the summer breeze murmured about it, had the wintry blast shrieked

oud! Another peculiar torture was felt in the gaze of a new eye. When strangers look

riously at the scarlet letter, and none ever failed to do so, they branded it afresh into

ester's soul; so that, oftentimes, she could scarcely refrain, yet always did refrain, fro

vering the symbol with her hand. But then, again, an accustomed eye had likewise i

wn anguish to inflict. Its cool stare of familiarity was intolerable. From first to last, i

ort, Hester Prynne had always this dreadful agony in feeling a human eye upon the

ken; the spot never grew callous; it



Pag

emed, on the contrary, to grow more sensitive with daily torture.

ut sometimes, once in many days, or perchance in many months, she felt an eye a

man eye upon the ignominious brand, that seemed to give a momentary relief, as if

her agony were shared. The next instant, back it all rushed again, with still a deepe

rob of pain; for, in that brief interval, she had sinned anew. Had Hester sinned alone

er imagination was somewhat affected, and, had she been of a softer moral and

ellectual fibre, would have been still more so, by the strange and solitary anguish o

e. Walking to and fro, with those lonely footsteps, in the little world with which she

as outwardly connected, it now and then appeared to Hester, if altogether fancy, it w

vertheless too potent to be resisted, she felt or fancied, then, that the scarlet letter ha

dowed her with a new sense. She shuddered to believe, yet could not help believin

at it gave her a sympathetic knowledge of the hidden sin in other hearts. She was te

icken by the revelations that were thus made. What were they? Could they be otheran the insidious whispers of the bad angel,1 who would fain have persuaded the

uggling woman, as yet only half his victim, that the outward guise of purity was bu

, and that, if truth were everywhere to be shown, a scarlet letter would blaze forth o

any a bosom besides Hester Prynne's? Or, must she receive those intimations so

scure, yet so distinct as truth? In all her miserable experience, there was nothing els

wful and so loathsome as this sense. It perplexed, as well as shocked her, by the

everent inopportuneness of the occasions that brought it into vivid action. Sometim

e red infamy upon her breast would give a sympathetic throb, as she passed near anerable minister or magistrate, the model of piety and justice, to whom that age of

tique reverence looked up, as to a mortal man in fellowship with angels. "What evi

ng is at hand?" would Hester say to herself. Lifting her reluctant eyes, there would

thing human within the scope of view, save the form of this earthly saint! Again, a

ystic sisterhood would contumaciously assert itself, as she

1 Satan.



Pag

et the sanctified frown of some matron, who, according to the rumor of all tongues

pt cold snow within her bosom throughout life. That unsunned snow in the matron

som, and the burning shame on Hester Prynne's, what had the two in common? Or

ce more, the electric thrill would give her warning, "Behold, Hester, here is a

mpanion!" and, looking up, she would detect the eyes of a young maiden glancing

e scarlet letter, shyly and aside, and quickly averted, with a faint, chill crimson in heeeks; as if her purity were somewhat sullied by that momentary glance. O Fiend, w

isman was that fatal symbol, wouldst thou leave nothing, whether in youth or age,

s poor sinner to revere? Such loss of faith is ever one of the saddest results of sin. B

cepted as a proof that all was not corrupt in this poor victim of her own frailty, and

an's hard law, that Hester Prynne yet struggled to believe that no fellow-mortal was

ilty like herself.

e vulgar, who, in those dreary old times, were always contributing a grotesque horrwhat interested their imaginations, had a story about the scarlet letter which we mig

adily work up into a terrific legend. They averred, that the symbol was not mere sca

oth, tinged in an earthly dye-pot, but was red-hot with infernal fire, and could be se

owing all alight, whenever Hester Prynne walked abroad in the night-time. And we

ust needs say, it seared Hester's bosom so deeply, that perhaps there was more truth

e rumor than our modern incredulity may be inclined to admit.



Pag

I

earl

e have as yet hardly spoken of the infant; that little creature, whose innocent life ha

rung, by the inscrutable decree of Providence, a lovely and immortal flower, out ofnk luxuriance of a guilty passion. How strange it seemed to the sad woman, as she

atched the growth, and the beauty that became every day more brilliant, and the

elligence that threw its quivering sunshine over the tiny features of this child! Her

arl! For so had Hester called her; not as a name expressive of her aspect, which had

thing of the calm, white, unimpassioned lustre that would be indicated by the

mparison. But she named the infant "Pearl," as being of great price,1 purchased wit

e had, her mother's only treasure! How strange, indeed! Man had marked this wom

n by a scarlet letter, which had such potent and disastrous efficacy that no human

mpathy could reach her, save it were sinful like herself. God, as a direct consequenc

e sin which man thus punished, had given her a lovely child, whose place was on th

me dishonored bosom, to connect her parent for ever with the race and descent of

ortals, and to be finally a blessed soul in heaven! Yet these thoughts affected Hester

ynne less with hope than apprehension. She knew that her deed had been evil; she

uld have no faith, therefore, that its result would be for good. Day after day, she loo

arfully into the child's expanding nature; ever dreading to detect some dark and wild

culiarity, that should correspond with the guiltiness to which she owed her being.

rtainly, there was no physical defect. By its perfect shape, its vigor, and its natural

xterity in the use of all its untried limbs, the infant was worthy to have been brough

rth in Eden; worthy to have been left there, to be the plaything of the angels, after th

1 Matthew 13.45-46: "Again, the kingdom of heaven is like unto a merchant man, seeking goodly

pearls: Who, when he had found one pearl of great price, went and sold all that he had, and bough

it." See Appendix F.4.



Pag

orld's first parents were driven out. The child had a native grace which does not

variably coexist with faultless beauty; its attire, however simple, always impressed t

holder as if it were the very garb that precisely became it best. But little Pearl was n

ad in rustic weeds. Her mother, with a morbid purpose that may be better understoo

reafter, had bought the richest tissues that could be procured, and allowed her

aginative faculty its full play in the arrangement and decoration of the dresses whice child wore, before the public eye. So magnificent was the small figure, when thus

rayed, and such was the splendor of Pearl's own proper beauty, shining through the

rgeous robes which might have extinguished a paler loveliness, that there was an

solute circle of radiance around her, on the darksome cottage-floor. And yet a russe

wn, torn and soiled with the child's rude play, made a picture of her just as perfect.

arl's aspect was imbued with a spell of infinite variety; in this one child there were

any children, comprehending the full scope between the wild-flower prettiness of a

asant-baby, and the pomp, in little, of an infant princess. Throughout all, however,ere was a trait of passion, a certain depth of hue, which she never lost; and if, in any

r changes, she had grown fainter or paler, she would have ceased to be herself; it w

ve been no longer Pearl!

is outward mutability indicated, and did not more than fairly express, the various

operties of her inner life. Her nature appeared to possess depth, too, as well as varie

t or else Hester's fears deceived her it lacked reference and adaptation to the world

hich she was born. The child could not be made amenable to rules. In giving her istence, a great law had been broken; and the result was a being, whose elements w

rhaps beautiful and brilliant, but all in disorder; or with an order peculiar to themse

midst which the point of variety and arrangement was difficult or impossible to be

scovered. Hester could only account for the child's character and even then, most

guely and imperfectly by recalling what she herself had been, during that momento

riod while Pearl was imbibing her soul from the spiritual world, and her bodily fra

om its material of earth. The mother's impassioned state had been the medium throu

hich were transmitted to the unborn infant the rays of its moral life; and, however wd clear originally,



Pag

ey had taken the deep stains of crimson and gold, the fiery lustre, the black shadow

e untempered light, of the intervening substance. Above all, the warfare of Hester's

irit, at that epoch, was perpetuated in Pearl. She could recognize her wild, desperate

fiant mood, the flightiness of her temper, and even some of the very cloud-shapes

oom and despondency that had brooded in her heart. They were now illuminated by

orning radiance of a young child's disposition, but, later in the day of earthly existenght be prolific of the storm and whirlwind.

e discipline of the family, in those days, was of a far more rigid kind than now. Th

own, the harsh rebuke, the frequent application of the rod, enjoined by Scriptural

thority,1 were used, not merely in the way of punishment for actual offences, but as

holesome regimen for the growth and promotion of all childish virtues. Hester Pryn

vertheless, the lonely mother of this one child, ran little risk of erring on the side of

due severity. Mindful, however, of her own errors and misfortunes, she early sougpose a tender, but strict, control over the infant immortality that was committed to h

arge. But the task was beyond her skill. After testing both smiles and frowns, and

oving that neither mode of treatment possessed any calculable influence, Hester wa

imately compelled to stand aside, and permit the child to be swayed by her own

pulses. Physical compulsion or restraint was effectual, of course, while it lasted. As

y other kind of discipline, whether addressed to her mind or heart, little Pearl migh

ght not be within its reach, in accordance with the caprice that ruled the moment. H

other, while Pearl was yet an infant, grew acquainted with a certain peculiar look tharned her when it would be labor thrown away to insist, persuade, or plead. It was

ok so intelligent, yet inexplicable, so perverse, sometimes so malicious, but generall

companied by a wild flow of spirits, that Hester could not help questioning, at such

oments, whether Pearl was a human child. She

1 Proverbs 13.24: "He that spareth his rod hateth his son: but he that loveth him chasteneth him

betimes"; in not punishing Pearl for her unruliness, Hester's new ethic is non-traditional and akin

the notions of educational reform advanced by the Transcendentalists of Hawthorne's day, includi

his sister-in-law, Elizabeth Peabody.



Pag

emed rather an airy sprite, which, after playing its fantastic sports for a little while u

e cottage-floor, would flit away with a mocking smile. Whenever that look appeared

r wild, bright, deeply black eyes, it invested her with a strange remoteness and

angibility; it was as if she were hovering in the air and might vanish, like a glimme

ht that comes we know not whence, and goes we know not whither. Beholding it,

ester was constrained to rush towards the child, to pursue the little elf in the flight we invariably began, to snatch her to her bosom, with a close pressure and earnest ki

t so much from overflowing love, as to assure herself that Pearl was flesh and bloo

d not utterly delusive. But Pearl's laugh, when she was caught, though full of

erriment and music, made her mother more doubtful than before.

eart-smitten at this bewildering and baffling spell, that so often came between hersel

d her sole treasure, whom she had bought so dear, and who was all her world, Hes

metimes burst into passionate tears. Then, perhaps, for there was no foreseeing howght affect her, Pearl would frown, and clench her little fist, and harden her small

atures into a stern, unsympathizing look of discontent. Not seldom, she would laugh

ew, and louder than before, like a thing incapable and unintelligent of human sorro

but this more rarely happened she would be convulsed with a rage of grief, and so

t her love for her mother, in broken words, and seem intent on proving that she ha

art, by breaking it. Yet Hester was hardly safe in confiding herself to that gusty

nderness; it passed, as suddenly as it came. Brooding over all these matters, the moth

t like one who has evoked a spirit, but, by some irregularity in the process of njuration, has failed to win the master-word that should control this new and

comprehensible intelligence. Her only real comfort was when the child lay in the

acidity of sleep. Then she was sure of her, and tasted hours of quiet, sad, delicious

ppiness; until perhaps with that perverse expression glimmering from beneath her

ening lids little Pearl awoke!

ow soon with what strange rapidity, indeed! did Pearl arrive at an age that was capab

social intercourse, beyond the mother's ever-ready smile and nonsense-words! An

en what a happiness would it have been, could Hester Prynne have heard her



Pag

ear, bird-like voice mingling with the uproar of other childish voices, and have

stinguished and unravelled her own darling's tones, amid all the entangled outcry of

oup of sportive children! But this could never be. Pearl was a born outcast of the

fantile world. An imp of evil, emblem and product of sin, she had no right among

ristened infants. Nothing was more remarkable than the instinct, as it seemed, with

hich the child comprehended her loneliness; the destiny that had drawn an inviolablcle round about her; the whole peculiarity, in short, of her position in respect to oth

ildren. Never, since her release from prison, had Hester met the public gaze without

all her walks about the town, Pearl, too, was there; first as the babe in arms, and

erwards as the little girl, small companion of her mother, holding a forefinger with

hole grasp, and tripping along at the rate of three or four footsteps to one of Hester'

e saw the children of the settlement, on the grassy margin of the street, or at the

mestic thresholds, disporting themselves in such grim fashion as the Puritanic nurtu

ould permit; playing at going to church, perchance; or at scourging Quakers; or takialps in a sham-fight with the Indians; or scaring one another with freaks of imitative

tchcraft. Pearl saw, and gazed intently, but never sought to make acquaintance. If

oken to, she would not speak again. If the children gathered about her, as they

metimes did, Pearl would grow positively terrible in her puny wrath, snatching up

ones to fling at them, with shrill, incoherent exclamations that made her mother trem

cause they had so much the sound of a witch's anathemas in some unknown tongu

e truth was, that the little Puritans, being of the most intolerant brood that ever lived got a vague idea of something outlandish, unearthly, or at variance with ordinary

shions, in the mother and child; and therefore scorned them in their hearts, and not

frequently reviled them with their tongues. Pearl felt the sentiment, and requited it

e bitterest hatred that can be supposed to rankle in a childish bosom. These outbrea

a fierce temper had a kind of value, and even comfort, for her mother; because the

as at least an intelligible earnestness in the mood, instead of the fitful caprice that so

ten thwarted her in the child's manifestations. It appalled her, nevertheless, to discer

re, again, a shadowy reflection



Pag

the evil that had existed in herself. All this enmity and passion had Pearl inherited,

alienable right, out of Hester's heart. Mother and daughter stood together in the sam

cle of seclusion from human society; and in the nature of the child seemed to be

rpetuated those unquiet elements that had distracted Hester Prynne before Pearl's bi

t had since begun to be soothed away by the softening influences of maternity.

home, within and around her mother's cottage, Pearl wanted not a wide and variou

cle of acquaintance. The spell of life went forth from her ever creative spirit, and

mmunicated itself to a thousand objects, as a torch kindles a flame wherever it may

plied. The unlikeliest materials, a stick, a bunch of rags, a flower, were the puppets

arl's witchcraft, and, without undergoing any outward change, became spiritually

apted to whatever drama occupied the stage of her inner world. Her one baby-voice

rved a multitude of imaginary personages, old and young, to talk withal. The pine-t

ed, black, and solemn, and flinging groans and other melancholy utterances on theeeze, needed little transformation to figure as Puritan elders; the ugliest weeds of th

rden were their children, whom Pearl smote down and uprooted, most unmercifull

as wonderful, the vast variety of forms into which she threw her intellect, with no

ntinuity, indeed, but darting up and dancing, always in a state of preternatural activi

on sinking down, as if exhausted by so rapid and feverish a tide of life, and succee

other shapes of a similar wild energy. It was like nothing so much as the

antasmagoric play of the northern lights. In the mere exercise of the fancy, howeve

d the sportiveness of a growing mind, there might be little more than was observabher children of bright faculties; except as Pearl, in the dearth of human playmates, w

rown more upon the visionary throng which she created. The singularity lay in the

stile feelings with which the child regarded all these offspring of her own heart and

nd. She never created a friend, but seemed always to be sowing broadcast the drag

eth, whence sprung a harvest of armed enemies, against



Pag

hom she rushed to battle.1 It was inexpressibly sad then what depth of sorrow to a

other, who felt in her own heart the cause! to observe, in one so young, this constan

cognition of an adverse world, and so fierce a training of the energies that were to m

od her cause, in the contest that must ensue.

azing at Pearl, Hester Prynne often dropped her work upon her knees, and cried out

th an agony which she would fain have hidden, but which made utterance for itself

twixt speech and a groan, ''O Father in Heaven, if Thou art still my Father, what is t

ing which I have brought into the world!" And Pearl, overhearing the ejaculation, o

ware, through some more subtle channel, of those throbs of anguish, would turn her

vid and beautiful little face upon her mother, smile with sprite-like intelligence, and

sume her play.

ne peculiarity of the child's deportment remains yet to be told. The very first thing

hich she had noticed, in her life, was what? not the mother's smile, responding to it,her babies do, by the faint, embryo smile of the little mouth, remembered so doubtf

erwards, and with such fond discussion whether it were indeed a smile. By no mea

ut that first object of which Pearl seemed to become aware was shall we say it? the

arlet letter on Hester's bosom! One day, as her mother stooped over the cradle, the

fant's eyes had been caught by the glimmering of the gold embroidery about the lett

d, putting her little hand, she grasped at it, smiling, not doubtfully, but with a decid

eam that gave her face the look of a much older child. Then, gasping for breath, did

ster Prynne clutch the fatal token, instinctively endeavouring to tear it away; so infias the torture inflicted by the intelligent touch of Pearl's baby-hand. Again, as if her

other's agonized gesture were meant only to make sport for her, did little Pearl look

r eyes, and smile! From that epoch, except when the child was asleep, Hester had n

t a moment's safety; not a moment's calm enjoyment of her. Weeks, it is true, would

metimes elapse, during

1 In Greek mythology, Cadmus sows the teeth of a dragon he has slain, and they grow into armed

warriors who fight among themselves.



Pag

hich Pearl's gaze might never once be fixed upon the scarlet letter; but then, again, it

ould come to unawares, like the stroke of sudden death, and always with that peculi

mile, and odd expression of the eyes.

nce, this freakish, elvish cast came into the child's eyes, while Hester was looking at

wn image in them, as mothers are fond of doing; and, suddenly, for women in solitu

d with troubled hearts, are pestered with unaccountable delusions, she fancied that

held, not her own miniature portrait, but another face in the small black mirror of

arl's eye. It was a face, fiend-like, full of smiling malice, yet bearing the semblance

atures that she had known full well, though seldom with a smile, and never with ma

them. It was as if an evil spirit possessed the child, and had just then peeped forth i

ockery. Many a time afterwards had Hester been tortured, though less vividly, by th

me illusion.

the afternoon of a certain summer's day, after Pearl grew big enough to run about, mused herself with gathering handfuls of wild-flowers, and flinging them, one by on

r mother's bosom; dancing up and down, like a little elf, whenever she hit the scarle

ter. Hester's first motion had been to cover her bosom with her clasped hands. But,

hether from pride or resignation, or a feeling that her penance might best be wrough

t by this unutterable pain, she resisted the impulse, and sat erect, pale as death, look

dly into little Pearl's wild eyes. Still came the battery of flowers, almost invariably

ting the mark, and covering the mother's breast with hurts for which she could find

lm in this world, nor knew how to seek it in another. At last, her shot being allpended, the child stood still and gazed at Hester, with that little, laughing image of a

nd peeping out or, whether it peeped or no, her mother so imagined it from the

searchable abyss of her black eyes.

hild, what art thou?" cried the mother.

, I am your little Pearl!" answered the child.

ut, while she said it, Pearl laughed and began to dance up and



Pag

wn, with the humorsome gesticulation of a little imp, whose next freak 1 might be t

the chimney.

Art thou my child, in very truth?" asked Hester.

or did she put the question altogether idly, but, for the moment, with a portion of

nuine earnestness; for, such was Pearl's wonderful intelligence, that her mother halfubted whether she were not acquainted with the secret spell of her existence, and m

t now reveal herself.

es; I am little Pearl!" repeated the child, continuing her antics.

hou art not my child! Thou art no Pearl of mine!" said the mother, half playfully; fo

as often the case that a sportive impulse came over her, in the midst of her deepest

ffering. "Tell me, then, what thou art, and who sent thee hither?"

ell me, mother!" said the child, seriously, coming up to Hester, and pressing herself

ose to her knees. "Do thou tell me!"

hy Heavenly Father sent thee!" answered Hester Prynne.

ut she said it with a hesitation that did not escape the acuteness of the child. Whether

oved only by her ordinary freakishness, or because an evil spirit prompted her, she

her small forefinger, and touched the scarlet letter.

He did not send me!" cried she, positively. "I have no Heavenly Father!"

Hush, Pearl, hush! Thou must not talk so!" answered the mother, suppressing a groa

He sent us all into this world. He sent even me, thy mother. Then, much more, thee!

not, thou strange and elfish child, whence didst thou come?"

ell me! Tell me!" repeated Pearl, no longer seriously, but laughing, and capering ab

e floor. "It is thou that must tell me!"

ut Hester could not resolve the query, being herself in a dismal labyrinth of doubt. Smembered betwixt a smile and a shudder the talk of the neighbouring townspeople;

ho, seeking vainly elsewhere for the child's paternity, and observing some of her

1 Impulsive action.



Pag

d attributes, had given out that poor little Pearl was a demon offspring; such as, eve

nce old Catholic times,1 had occasionally been seen on earth, through the agency of

eir mothers' sin, and to promote some foul and wicked purpose. Luther,2 according

e scandal of his monkish enemies, was a brat of that hellish breed; nor was Pearl th

ly child to whom this inauspicious origin was assigned, among the New England

ritans.

1 The time before the Protestant Reformation (1517), when Christianity in Western Europe meant

simply Catholicism.

2 Martin Luther (14831546) begun the Reformation in Germany with his posting of 95 Theses for

Debating Catholic doctrine in 1517; chief among his beliefs was the doctrine of salvation through

resulting from grace alone; thus, his name suggests the individualistic doctrine of grace held by An

Hutchinson as well as the "self-reliance" of the Transcendentalist thinkers associated with Emerso

Hawthorne's day. In this light, Pearl, for a conservative of 1850 looking back to the Puritan times

1650, could be considered "a demon offspring."



Pag

II

he Governor's Hall

ester Prynne went, one day, to the mansion of Governor Bellingham,1 with a pair of

oves, which she had fringed and embroidered to his order, and which were to be wsome great occasion of state; for, though the chances of a popular election had cau

s former ruler to descend a step or two from the highest rank, he still held an

norable and influential place among the colonial magistracy.

nother and far more important reason than the delivery of a pair of embroidered glo

pelled Hester, at this time, to seek an interview with a personage of so much power

tivity in the affairs of the settlement. It had reached her ears, that there was a design

e part of some of the leading inhabitants, cherishing the more rigid order of principlreligion and government, to deprive her of her child. On the supposition that Pearl

eady hinted, was of demon origin, these good people not unreasonably argued that

hristian interest in the mother's soul required them to remove such a stumbling-bloc

om her path. If the child, on the other hand, were really capable of moral and religio

owth, and possessed the elements of ultimate salvation, then, surely, it would enjoy

e fairer prospect of these advantages by being transferred to wiser and better

ardianship than Hester Prynne's. Among those who promoted the design, Governor

llingham was said to be one of the most busy. It may appear singular, and, indeed, ittle ludicrous, that an affair of this kind, which, in later days, would have been refe

no higher jurisdiction than that of the selectmen of the town, should then have bee

estion publicly discussed, and on which statesmen of eminence took sides. At that

och of pristine simplicity, however, matters of even slighter public interest, and of f

s intrinsic weight than the welfare of Hester and her child, were

1 Since Pearl is now three years old, Bellingham could not be Governor because he ended his fir

term as Governor in 1642 and was not to be re-elected until 1654.



Pag

angely mixed up with the deliberations of legislators and acts of state. The period w

rdly, if at all, earlier than that of our story, when a dispute concerning the right of

operty in a pig, not only caused a fierce and bitter contest in the legislative body of

lony, but resulted in an important modification of the framework itself of the

gislature.1

ll of concern, therefore, but so conscious of her own right, that it seemed scarcely a

equal match between the public, on the one side, and a lonely woman, backed by t

mpathies of nature, on the other, Hester Prynne set forth from her solitary cottage. L

arl, of course, was her companion. She was now of an age to run lightly along by h

other's side, and, constantly in motion from morn till sunset, could have accomplish

uch longer journey than that before her. Often, nevertheless, more from caprice tha

cessity, she demanded to be taken up in arms, but was soon as imperious to be set

wn again, and frisked onward before Hester on the grassy pathway, with many armless trip and tumble. We have spoken of Pearl's rich and luxuriant beauty; a beau

at shone with deep and vivid tints; a bright complexion, eyes possessing intensity bo

depth and glow, and hair already of a deep, glossy brown, and which, in after year

ould be nearly akin to black. There was fire in her and throughout her; she seemed

premeditated offshoot of a passionate moment. Her mother, in contriving the child'

rb, had allowed the gorgeous tendencies of her imagination their full play; arraying

a crimson velvet tunic, of a peculiar cut, abundantly embroidered with fantasies an

urishes of gold thread. So much strength of coloring, which must have given a wad pallid aspect to cheeks of a fainter bloom, was admirably adapted to Pearl's beaut

d made her the very brightest little jet of flame that ever danced upon the earth.

ut it was a remarkable attribute of this garb, and, indeed, of the child's whole

pearance, that it irresistibly and inevitably reminded

1 The so-called "Sow Case" of 16421643, in which possession and subsequent killing of a pig le

to an open conflict between the classes, resolved only when the legislature in 1644 divided into

two houses, an upper and lower chamber.



Pag

e beholder of the token which Hester Prynne was doomed to wear upon her bosom

as the scarlet letter in another form; the scarlet letter endowed with life! The mother

rself as if the red ignominy were so deeply scorched into her brain, that all her

nceptions assumed its form had carefully wrought out the similitude; lavishing man

urs of morbid ingenuity, to create an analogy between the object of her affection, a

e emblem of her guilt and torture. But, in truth, Pearl was the one, as well as the othd only in consequence of that identity had Hester contrived so perfectly to represen

arlet letter in her appearance.

the two wayfarers came within the precincts of the town, the children of the Purita

oked up from their play, or what passed for play with those sombre little urchins, an

ake gravely one to another:

ehold, verily, there is the woman of the scarlet letter; and, of a truth, moreover, ther

e likeness of the scarlet letter running along by her side! Come, therefore, and let usng mud at them!"

ut Pearl, who was a dauntless child, after frowning, stamping her foot, and shaking

tle hand with a variety of threatening gestures, suddenly made a rush at the knot of

emies, and put them all to flight. She resembled, in her fierce pursuit of them, an in

stilence,the scarlet fever, or some such half-fledged angel of judgment, whose miss

as to punish the sins of the rising generation. She screamed and shouted, too, with a

rific volume of sound, which doubtless caused the hearts of the fugitives to quakethin them. The victory accomplished, Pearl returned quietly to her mother, and look

smiling into her face.

ithout further adventure, they reached the dwelling of Governor Bellingham. This w

ge wooden house, built in a fashion of which there are specimens still extant in the

eets of our elder towns; now moss-grown, crumbling to decay, and melancholy at h

th the many sorrowful or joyful occurrences remembered or forgotten, that have

ppened, and passed away, within their dusky chambers. Then, however, there was

shness of the passing year on its exterior, and the cheerfulness, gleaming forth fromnny windows, of a human habitation into which death had never entered. It had ind

very cheery aspect; the walls being overspread



Pag

th a kind of stucco, in which fragments of broken glass were plentifully intermixed

at, when the sunshine fell aslant-wise over the front of the edifice, it glittered and

arkled as if diamonds had been flung against it by the double handful. The brillianc

ght have befitted Aladdin's palace,1 rather than the mansion of a grave old Puritan

er. It was further decorated with strange and seemingly cabalistic2 figures and

agrams, suitable to the quaint taste of the age, which had been drawn in the stuccohen newly laid on, and had now grown hard and durable, for the admiration of afte

mes.

arl, looking at this bright wonder of a house, began to caper and dance, and

peratively required that the whole breadth of sunshine should be stripped off its fro

d given her to play with.

No, my little Pearl!" said her mother. "Thou must gather thine own sunshine. I have

ne to give thee!"

hey approached the door; which was of an arched form, and flanked on each side b

rrow tower or projection of the edifice, in both of which were lattice-windows, wit

ooden shutters to close over them at need. Lifting the iron hammer that hung at the

rtal, Hester Prynne gave a summons, which was answered by one of the Governor'

nd-servants; a free-born Englishman, but now a seven years' slave. During that term

as to be the property of his master, and as much a commodity of bargain and sale as

, or a joint-stool. The serf wore the blue coat, which was the customary garb of rving-men at that period, and long before, in the old hereditary halls of England.

the worshipful Governor Bellingham within?" inquired Hester.

Yea, forsooth," replied the bond-servant, staring with wide-open eyes at the scarlet le

hich, being a new-comer in the country, he had never before seen. "Yea, his honora

orship is within. But he hath a godly minister or two with him, and likewise

1 In the Arabian Nights, Aladdin finds a magic ring and lamp, and thereby gains a splendid palac

2 Occult; applied to the Governor's "Aladdin's palace," a suggestion that the Governor's sister,

Mistress Hibbins, also lives within and that the Establishment is duplicitous.



Pag

eech. Ye may not see his worship now."

Nevertheless, I will enter," answered Hester Prynne; and the bond-servant, perhaps

dging from the decision of her air and the glittering symbol in her bosom, that she w

great lady in the land, offered no opposition.

the mother and little Pearl were admitted into the hall of entrance. With manyriations, suggested by the nature of his building-materials, diversity of climate, and

fferent mode of social life, Governor Bellingham had planned his new habitation af

e residences of gentlemen of fair estate in his native land. Here, then, was a wide an

asonably lofty hall, extending through the whole depth of the house, and forming a

edium of general communication, more or less directly, with all the other apartment

e extremity, this spacious room was lighted by the windows of the two towers, whi

rmed a small recess on either side of the portal. At the other end, though partly muf

a curtain, it was more powerfully illuminated by one of those embowed hall-windhich we read of in old books, and which was provided with a deep and cushioned s

ere, on the cushion, lay a folio tome, probably of the Chronicles of England, or othe

ch substantial literature; even as, in our own days, we scatter gilded volumes on the

ntre-table, to be turned over by the casual guest.1 The furniture of the hall consisted

me ponderous chairs, the backs of which were elaborately carved with wreaths of

ken flowers; and likewise a table in the same taste; the whole being of the Elizabeth

e, or perhaps earlier, and heirlooms, transferred hither from the Governor's paterna

me. On the table in token that the sentiment of old English hospitality had not beenhind stood a large pewter tankard, at the bottom of which, had Hester or Pearl peep

o it, they might have seen the frothy remnant of a recent draught of ale.

n the wall hung a row of portraits, representing the forefathers

1 Raphael Holinshed's Chronicles of England, Scotland, and Ireland (1577) was a source for

popular history in the Renaissance, used by Shakespeare; while suggesting the "old times" of

Bellingham's earlier life in England, Hawthorne's notice of the custom of coffee-table books in "o

own days" suggests the ''gift books" (collection of short stories, published annually, usually aboutChristmas-time) in which he published many of his first stories.



Pag

the Bellingham lineage, some with armour on their breasts, and others with stately

ffs and robes of peace. All were characterized by the sternness and severity which o

rtraits so invariably put on; as if they were the ghosts, rather than the pictures, of

parted worthies, and were gazing with harsh and intolerant criticism at the pursuits

joyments of living men.

about the centre of the oaken panels, that lined the hall, was suspended a suit of m

t, like the pictures, an ancestral relic, but of the most modern date; for it had been

anufactured by a skilful armorer in London, the same year in which Governor

llingham came over to New England. There was a steel head-piece, a cuirass, a gor

d greaves, with a pair of gauntlets1 and a sword hanging beneath; all, and especially

lmet and breastplate, so highly burnished as to glow with white radiance, and scatte

illumination everywhere about upon the floor. This bright panoply was not meant

ere idle show, but had been worn by the Governor on many a solemn muster andining field, and had glittered, moreover, at the head of a regiment in the Pequod wa

r, though bred a lawyer, and accustomed to speak of Bacon, Coke, Noye, and Finch

his professional associates, the exigencies of this new country had transformed

overnor Bellingham into a soldier, as well as a statesman and ruler.

ttle Pearl who was as greatly pleased with the gleaming armour as she had been with

ttering frontispiece of the house spent some time looking into the polished mirror o

e breastplate.

Mother," cried she, "I see you here. Look! Look!"

ester looked, by way of humoring the child; and she saw that, owing to the peculiar

fect of this convex mirror, the scarlet letter was represented in exaggerated and giga

oportions, so as to be

1 A suit of mail, or armour, has a breastplate ("cuirass"), a collar ("gorget"), a shin protector

("greaves"), and gloves ("gauntlet").

2 A war in 1637 (the year after Bellingham arrived) against an Indian tribe in eastern Connecticutmost of the tribe was destroyed, and survivors were either sold into slavery or driven off the land

colonists desired.

3 In England, Francis Bacon (15611626) was Lord Chancellor; Sir Edward Coke (15521634), Ch

Justice; William Noye (15771634), Attorney General; and Sir John Finch (15841660), Speaker o

House of Commons and another Chief Justice.



Pag

eatly the most prominent feature of her appearance. In truth, she seemed absolutely

dden behind it. Pearl pointed upward, also, at a similar picture in the headpiece; smi

her mother, with the elfish intelligence that was so familiar an expression on her sm

ysiognomy. That look of naughty merriment was likewise reflected in the mirror, w

much breadth and intensity of effect, that it made Hester Prynne feel as if it could n

the image of her own child, but of an imp who was seeking to mould itself into Peape.

ome along, Pearl!" said she, drawing her away. "Come and look into this fair garde

ay be, we shall see flowers there; more beautiful ones than we find in the woods."

arl, accordingly, ran to the bow-window, at the farther end of the hall, and looked

ong the vista of a garden-walk, carpeted with closely shaven grass, and bordered wi

me rude and immature attempt at shrubbery. But the proprietor appeared already to

ve relinquished, as hopeless, the effort to perpetuate on this side of the Atlantic, in rd soil and amid the close struggle for subsistence, the native English taste for

namental gardening. Cabbages grew in plain sight; and a pumpkin vine, rooted at so

stance, had run across the intervening space, and deposited one of its gigantic produ

rectly beneath the hall-window; as if to warn the Governor that this great lump of

getable gold was as rich an ornament as New England earth would offer him. There

ere a few rose-bushes, however, and a number of apple-trees, probably the descend

those planted by the Reverend Mr. Blackstone, the first settler of the peninsula; tha

lf mythological personage who rides through our early annals, seated on the back oll.1

arl, seeing the rose-bushes, began to cry for a red rose, and

1 Blackstone was an Anglican minister who arrived before the Puritans, and later moved into the

Indian lands to escape the Puritans; his depiction of riding a bull "through our early annals" sugge

a connection to the Old Catholic Times of "Merry Olde England" and, through that allusion, to a

time earlier than the Fall of Mankind; hence, the Puritan mission in Massachusetts reflects a somb

reminder of a "Paradise Lost," for as it seeks salvation from sin, it overlooks the "few rose-bushewhich the Reverend Blackstone reputedly planted, and a rose from which the author-editor in

Chapter I offered to the reader.



Pag

ould not be pacified.

Hush, child, hush!" said her mother earnestly.

o not cry, dear little Pearl! I hear voices in the garden.1 The Governor is coming, a

ntlemen along with him.

fact, adown the vista of the garden-avenue, a number of persons were seen

proaching towards the house. Pearl, in utter scorn of her mother's attempt to quiet h

ve an eldritch2 scream, and then became silent; not from any notion of obedience, b

cause the quick and mobile curiosity of her disposition was excited by the appearan

these new personages.

1 A possible parody of Genesis 2.1617 and 3.68 in which is mentioned "the voice of the Lord Go

walking in the Garden"; if so, Governor Bellingham and his guests John Wilson, Arthur

Dimmesdale, and Roger Chillingworth reflect the human form of power akin to the divine.2 Uncanny or bizarre.



Pag

III

he Elf-Child and the Minister

overnor Bellingham, in a loose gown and easy cap, such as elderly gentlemen loved

due themselves with, in their domestic privacy, walked foremost, and appeared to bowing off his estate, and expatiating on his projected improvement. The wide

cumference of an elaborate ruff, beneath his gray beard, in the antiquated fashion o

ng James's reign,1 caused his head to look not a little like that of John the Baptist in

arger.2 The impression made by his aspect, so rigid and severe, and frost-bitten wit

ore than autumnal age, was hardly in keeping with the appliances of worldly enjoym

herewith he had evidently done his utmost to surround himself. But it is an error to

ppose that our grave forefathers though accustomed to speak and think of human

istence as a state merely of trial and warfare, and though unfeignedly prepared to

crifice goods and life at the behest of duty made it a matter of conscience to reject su

eans of comfort, or even luxury, as lay fairly within their grasp.3 This creed was ne

ught, for instance, by the venerable pastor, John Wilson, whose beard, white as a sn

ft, was seen over Governor Bellingham's shoulder; while its wearer suggested that

ars and peaches might yet be naturalized in the New England climate, and that purp

apes might possibly be compelled to flourish, against the sunny garden-wall. The o

ergyman, nurtured at the rich bosom of the English Church, had a long established a

gitimate taste for all good and comfortable things; and however stern he might show

mself in the pulpit, or in his public reproof of such

1 The reign of James 1 (160325) is generally considered to mark the end of the Renaissance and

Old Times and the beginning of the Puritan mission to reform religion.

2 Matthew 14.112: John the Baptist was ordered decapitated by Herod and his head served on a

charger or platter; possibly another sly allusion by Hawthorne the "decapitated" Surveyor of the

Custom House.

3 This observation of Puritan life is accurate and contrasts with the image of Puritans as a self-denpeople held by many of Hawthorne's contemporaries and succeeding generations.



Pag

nsgressions as that of Hester Prynne, still, the genial benevolence of his private life

on him warmer affection than was accorded to any of his professional contemporar

hind the Governor and Mr. Wilson came two other guests; one, the Reverend Arthu

mmesdale, whom the reader may remember, as having taken a brief and reluctant p

the scene of Hester Prynne's disgrace; and, in close companionship with him, old R

hillingworth, a person of great skill in physic, who, for two or three years past, had

en settled in the town. It was understood that this learned man was the physician as

ell as friend of the young minister, whose health had severely suffered, of late, by h

o unreserved self-sacrifice to the labors and duties of the pastoral relation.

he Governor, in advance of his visitors, ascended one or two steps, and, throwing o

e leaves of the great hall window, found himself close to little Pearl. The shadow of

rtain fell on Hester Prynne, and partially concealed her.

What have we here?" said Governor Bellingham, looking with surprise at the scarlet

ure before him. "I profess, I have never seen the like, since my days of vanity, in o

ng James's time, when I was wont to esteem it a high favor to be admitted to a cour

ask! There used to be a swarm of these small apparitions, in holiday-time; and we c

em children of the Lord of Misrule.1 But how gat such a guest into my hall?"

Ay, indeed!" cried good old Mr. Wilson. "What little bird of scarlet plumage may this

ethinks I have seen just such figures, when the sun has been shining through a rich

inted window, and tracing out the golden and crimson images across the floor. But as in the old land. Prithee, young one, who art thou, and what has ailed thy mother t

dizen2 thee in this strange fashion? Art thou a Christian child, ha? Dost know thy

techism? Or art thou one of those naughty elfs or fairies, whom we thought to have

hind us, with other relics of Papistry, in merry old England?"

am mother's child," answered the scarlet vision, "and my

1 A traditional leader of Christmas revels in Old Catholic Times.

2 To dress out, especially tawdrily or with vulgar finery.



Pag

me is Pearl!"

earl? Ruby, rather! or Coral! or Red Rose, at the very least, judging from thy hue!"

sponded the old minister, putting forth his hand in a vain attempt to pat little Pearl o

e cheek. "But where is this mother of thine? Ah! I see," he added; and, turning to

overnor Bellingham, whispered, "This is the selfsame child of whom we have held

eech together; and behold here the unhappy woman, Hester Prynne, her mother!"

ayest thou so?" cried the Governor. "Nay, we might have judged that such a child's

other must needs be a scarlet woman, and a worthy type of her of Babylon!1 But sh

mes at a good time; and we will look into this matter forthwith."

overnor Bellingham stepped through the window into the hall, followed by his three

ests.

Hester Prynne," said he, fixing his naturally stern regard on the wearer of the scarletter, "there hath been much question concerning thee, of late. The point hath been

eightily discussed, whether we, that are of authority and influence, do well discharg

r consciences by trusting an immortal soul, such as there is in yonder child, to the

idance of one who hath stumbled and fallen, amid the pitfalls of this world. Speak

ou, the child's own mother! Were it not, thinkest thou, for thy little one's temporal a

ernal welfare, that she be taken out of thy charge, and clad soberly, and disciplined

ictly, and instructed in the truths of heaven and earth? What canst thou do for the c

this kind?"

can teach my little Pearl what I have learned from this!" answered Hester Prynne,

ying her finger on the red token.

Woman, it is thy badge of shame!" replied the stern magistrate. "It is because of the s

hich that letter indicates, that we would transfer thy child to other hands."

Nevertheless," said the mother calmly, though growing more pale, "this badge hath

ught me, it daily teaches me, it is1 Revelation 17.36; the "type" or "symbol" of the so-called Whore of Babylon, the archetypal

"scarlet woman." However, also an allusion by Protestants to the alleged idolatry of Catholic rite

and rituals and to the dissipation of the Catholic priesthood.



Pag

aching me at this moment, lessons whereof my child may be the wiser and better, alb

ey can profit nothing to myself."

We will judge warily," said Bellingham, "and look well what we are about to do. Goo

aster Wilson, I pray you, examine this Pearl, since that is her name, and see whether

th had such Christian nurture as befits a child of her age."

e old minister seated himself in an arm-chair, and made an effort to draw Pearl betw

s knees. But the child, unaccustomed to the touch or familiarity of any but her moth

caped through the open window and stood on the upper step, looking like a wild,

pical bird, of rich plumage, ready to take flight into the upper air. Mr. Wilson, not a

tle astonished at this outbreak, for he was a grandfatherly sort of personage, and usu

vast favorite with children, essayed, however, to proceed with the examination.

earl," said he, with great solemnity, "thou must take heed to instruction, that so, in d

ason, thou mayest wear in thy bosom the pearl of great price.1 Canst thou tell me, m

ild, who made thee?"

ow Pearl knew well enough who made her; for Hester Prynne, the daughter of a pio

me, very soon after her talk with the child about her Heavenly Father, had begun to

form her of those truths which the human spirit, at whatever stage of immaturity,

bibes with such eager interest. Pearl, therefore, so large were the attainments of her

ree years' lifetime, could have borne a fair examination in the New England Primer,

e first column of the Westminster Catechism,3 although unacquainted with the outwrm of either of those celebrated works. But that perversity, which all children have

ore or less of, and of which little Pearl had a tenfold portion, now, at the most

opportune moment, took thorough possession of her, and closed her lips, or impell

r to speak words

1 Again, Matthew 13.46.

2 A book for teaching the alphabet through the use of moral woodcuts and verses; its famous open

with the letter A is, "In Adam's fall, we sinnéd all."3 The Calvinist catechism of doctrines in the form of questions and answers, adopted by the

Westminster Assembly (16451647) and published in 1648 at the beginning of the Puritan theocrac

England.



Pag

miss. After putting her finger in her mouth, with many ungracious refusals to answer

od Mr. Wilson's question, the child finally announced that she had not been made a

t had been plucked by her mother off the bush of wild roses, that grew by the priso

or.

is fantasy was probably suggested by the near proximity of the Governor's red rose

arl stood outside of the window; together with her recollection of the prison rose-b

hich she had passed in coming hither.

d Roger Chillingworth, with a smile on his face, whispered something in the young

ergyman's ear. Hester Prynne looked at the man of skill, and even then, with her fate

nging in the balance, was startled to perceive what a change had come over his feat

w much uglier they were, how his dark complexion seemed to have grown duskier

d his figure more misshapen, since the days when she had familiarly known him. S

et his eyes for an instant, but was immediately constrained to give all her attention tene now going forward.

his is awful!" cried the Governor, slowly recovering from the astonishment into wh

arl's response had thrown him. "Here is a child of three years old, and she cannot te

ho made her! Without question, she is equally in the dark as to her soul, its present

pravity, and future destiny! Methinks, gentlemen, we need inquire no further."

ester caught hold of Pearl, and drew her forcibly into her arms, confronting the old

ritan magistrate with almost a fierce expression. Alone in the world, cast off by it, ath this sole treasure to keep her heart alive, she felt that she possessed indefeasible

hts against the world, and was ready to defend them to the death.

God gave me the child!" cried she. "He gave her, in requital of all things else, which

d taken from me. She is my happiness! she is my torture, none the less! Pearl keeps

re in life! Pearl punishes me too! See ye not, she is the scarlet letter, only capable of

ing loved, and so endowed with a million-fold the power of retribution for my sin?

all not take her! I will die first!"My poor woman," said the not unkind old minister, "the child shall be well cared for

tter than thou canst do it."

God gave her into my keeping," repeated Hester Prynne, rais-



Pag

g her voice almost to a shriek. "I will not give her up!" And here, by a sudden impu

e turned to the young clergyman, Mr. Dimmesdale, at whom, up to this moment, sh

d seemed hardly so much as once to direct her eyes. "Speak thou for me!" cried she

hou wast my pastor, and hadst charge of my soul, and knowest me better than these

en can. I will not lose the child! Speak for me! Thou knowest, for thou hast sympat

hich these men lack! thou knowest what is in my heart, and what are a mother's righd how much the stronger they are, when that mother has but her child and the scarl

ter! Look thou to it! I will not lose the child! Look to it!"

this wild and singular appeal, which indicated that Hester Prynne's situation had

ovoked her to little less than madness, the young minister at once came forward, pa

d holding his hand over his heart, as was his custom whenever his peculiarly nervo

mperament was thrown into agitation. He looked now more careworn and emaciate

an as we described him at the scene of Hester's public ignominy; and whether it wers failing health, or whatever the cause might be, his large dark eyes had a world of p

their troubled and melancholy depth.

here is truth in what she says," began the minister, with a voice sweet, tremulous, b

werful, insomuch that the hall reëchoed, and the hollow armour rang with it, "truth

hat Hester says, and in the feeling which inspires her! God gave her the child, and g

r, too, an instinctive knowledge of its nature and requirements, both seemingly so

culiar, which no other mortal being can possess. And, moreover, is there not a qual

awful sacredness in the relation between this mother and this child?"

Ay! how is that, good Master Dimmesdale?" interrupted the Governor. "Make that pl

ray you!"

must be even so," resumed the minister. "For, if we deem it otherwise, do we not

ereby say that the Heavenly Father, the Creator of all flesh, hath lightly recognized a

ed of sin, and made of no account the distinction between unhallowed lust and hol

ve? This child of its father's guilt and its mother's shame hath come from the hand o

od, to work in many ways upon her heart, who pleads so earnestly, and with suchterness of spirit, the right to



Pag

ep her. It was meant for a blessing; for the one blessing of her life! It was meant,

ubtless, as the mother herself hath told us, for a retribution too; a torture, to be felt

any an unthought of moment; a pang, a sting, an ever-recurring agony, in the midst

ubled joy! Hath she not expressed this thought in the garb of the poor child, so forc

minding us of that red symbol which sears her bosom?''

Well said, again!" cried good Mr. Wilson. "I feared the woman had no better thought

an to make a mountebank of her child!"

, not so! not so!" continued Mr. Dimmesdale. "She recognizes, believe me, the sole

racle which God hath wrought, in the existence of that child. And may she feel, too

hat, methinks, is the very truth, that this boon was meant, above all things else, to k

e mother's soul alive, and to preserve her from blacker depths of sin into which Sat

ght else have sought to plunge her! Therefore it is good for this poor, sinful woman

at she hath an infant immortality, a being capable of eternal joy or sorrow, confidedr care, to be trained up by her to righteousness, to remind her, at every moment, of

l, but yet to teach her, as it were by the Creator's sacred pledge, that, if she bring the

ild to heaven, the child also will bring its parent thither! Herein is the sinful mother

ppier than the sinful father. For Hester Prynne's sake, then, and no less for the poor

ild's sake, let us leave them as Providence hath seen fit to place them!"

You speak, my friend, with a strange earnestness," said old Roger Chillingworth, sm

him.And there is weighty import in what my young brother hath spoken," added the

verend Mr. Wilson. "What say you, worshipful Master Bellingham? Hath he not

eaded well for the poor woman?"

ndeed hath he," answered the magistrate, "and hath adduced such arguments, that w

ll even leave the matter as it now stands; so long, at least, as there shall be no furthe

andal in the woman. Care must be had, nevertheless, to put the child to due and stat

-



Pag

mination in the catechism at thy hands or Master Dimmesdale's. Moreover, at a prop

ason, the tithing-men1 must take heed that she go both to school and to meeting."

he young minister, on ceasing to speak, had withdrawn a few steps from the group,

ood with his face partially concealed in the heavy folds of the window-curtain; whil

adow of his figure, which the sunlight cast upon the floor, was tremulous with the

hemence of his appeal. Pearl, that wild and flighty little elf, stole softly towards him

d, taking his hand in the grasp of both her own, laid her cheek against it; a caress so

nder, and withal so unobtrusive, that her mother, who was looking on, asked hersel

that my Pearl?" Yet she knew that there was love in the child's heart, although it

ostly revealed itself in passion, and hardly twice in her lifetime had been softened b

ch gentleness as now. The minister, for, save the long-sought regards of woman,

thing is sweeter than these marks of childish preference, accorded spontaneously b

iritual instinct, and therefore seeming to imply in us something truly worthy to beved, the minister looked round, laid his hand on the child's head, hesitated an instan

d then kissed her brow. Little Pearl's unwonted mood of sentiment lasted no longer

ughed, and went capering down the hall, so airily, that old Mr. Wilson raised a ques

hether even her tiptoes touched the floor.

he little baggage hath witchcraft in her, I profess," said he to Mr. Dimmesdale. "She

eds no old woman's broomstick to fly withal!"

A strange child!" remarked old Roger Chillingworth. "It is easy to see the mother's pher. Would it be beyond a philosopher's research, think ye, gentlemen, to analyze th

ild's nature, and, from its make and mould, to give a shrewd guess at the father?"

Nay; it would be sinful, in such a question, to follow the clew of profane philosophy

d Mr. Wilson. "Better to fast and pray upon it; and still better, it may be, to leave the

ystery as we find it, unless Providence reveal it of its own accord. Thereby, every g

1 Parish officials responsible for "tithing": the taking of one-tenth of a church member's income fo

church support.



Pag

hristian man hath a title to show a father's kindness towards the poor, deserted babe

e affair being so satisfactorily concluded, Hester Prynne, with Pearl, departed from

use. As they descended the steps, it is averred that the lattice of a chamber-window

rown open, and forth into the sunny day was thrust the face of Mistress Hibbins,

overnor Bellingham bitter-tempered sister, and the same who, a few years later, was

ecuted as a witch.

Hist, hist!" said she, while her ill-omened physiognomy1 seemed to cast a shadow ov

e cheerful newness of the house. "Wilt thou go with us to-night? There will be a me

mpany in the forest; and I wellnigh promised the Black Man2 that comely Hester

ynne should make one."

Make my excuse to him, so please you!" answered Hester, with a triumphant smile. "

ust tarry at home, and keep watch over my little Pearl. Had they taken her from me,

ould willingly have gone with thee into the forest, and signed my name in the Black

an's book too, and that with mine own blood!"

We shall have thee there anon!" said the witch-lady, frowning, as she drew back her

ad.

ut here if we suppose this interview betwixt Mistress Hibbins and Hester Prynne to b

thentic, and not a parable was already an illustration of the young minister's argume

ainst sundering the relation of a fallen mother to the offspring of her frailty. Even thrly had the child saved her from Satan's snare.

1 Face; an allusion to a pseudo-science in Hawthorne's day by which one supposedly could read

character through bumps on the head and facial features.

2 The Devil who leads Black Masses the inversion of Christian services, dedicated to evil.



Pag

X

he Leech

nder the appellation of Roger Chillingworth, the reader will remember, was hidden

other name, which its former wearer had resolved should never more be spoken. Iten related, how, in the crowd that witnessed Hester Prynne's ignominious exposure

ood a man, elderly, travel-worn, who, just emerging from the perilous wilderness,

held the woman, in whom he hoped to find embodied the warmth and cheerfulness

me, set up as a type of sin before the people. Her matronly fame was trodden under

en's feet. Infamy was babbling around her in the public marketplace. For her kindre

ould the tidings ever reach them, and for the companions of her unspotted life, ther

mained nothing but the contagion of her dishonor; which would not fail to be

stributed in strict accordance and proportion with the intimacy and sacredness of th

evious relationship. Then why since the choice was with himself should the individ

hose connection with the fallen woman had been the most intimate and sacred of th

, come forward to vindicate his claim to an inheritance so little desirable? He resolv

t to be pilloried beside her on her pedestal of shame. Unknown to all but Hester

ynne, and possessing the lock and key of her silence, he chose to withdraw his nam

om the roll of mankind, and, as regarded his former ties and interests, to vanish out

e as completely as if he indeed lay at the bottom of the ocean, whither rumor had lo

o consigned him. This purpose once affected, new interests would immediately spr

, and likewise a new purpose; dark, it is true, if not guilty, but of force enough to

gage the full strength of his faculties.

pursuance of this resolve, he took up his residence in the Puritan town, as Roger

hillingworth, without other introduction than the learning and intelligence of which

ssessed more than a common measure. As his studies, at a previous period of his li

d made him extensively acquainted with the medical science of the day, it was as a

ysician that he presented himself, and as such was



Pag

rdially received. Skilful men, of the medical and chirurgical1 profession, were of ra

currence in the colony. They seldom, it would appear, partook of the religious zeal

ought other emigrants across the Atlantic. In their researches into the human frame,

ay be that the higher and more subtile faculties of such men were materialized, and

ey lost the spiritual view of existence amid the intricacies of that wondrous mechan

hich seemed to involve art enough to comprise all of life within itself. At all events,alth of the good town of Boston, so far as medicine had aught to do with it, had

herto lain in the guardianship of an aged deacon and apothecary, whose piety and

dly deportment were stronger testimonials in his favor, than any that he could have

oduced in the shape of a diploma. The only surgeon was one who combined the

casional exercise of that noble art with the daily and habitual flourish of a razor. To

ch a professional body Roger Chillingworth was a brilliant acquisition. He soon

anifested his familiarity with the ponderous and imposing machinery of antique phy

which every remedy contained a multitude of far-fetched and heterogeneousgredients, as elaborately compounded as if the proposed result had been the Elixir o

fe.2 In his Indian captivity, moreover, he had gained much knowledge of the prope

native herbs and roots; nor did he conceal from his patients, that these simple

edicines, Nature's boon to the untutored savage, had quite as large a share of his ow

nfidence as the European pharmacopoeia,3 which so many learned doctors had spe

nturies in elaborating.

is learned stranger was exemplary, as regarded at least the outward forms of a relige, and, early after his arrival, had chosen for his spiritual guide the Reverend Mr.

mmesdale. The young divine, whose scholar-like renown still lived in Oxford, was

nsidered by his more fervent admirers as little less than a heaven-or-dained apostle

stined, should he live and labor for the ordinary term of life, to do as great deeds fo

e now feeble New England

1 Surgical.

2 An alchemical substance thought to be able to cure disease and prolong life.

3 A manual of drugs, and the drugs themselves, able to cure illnesses.



Pag

hurch, as the early Fathers had achieved for the infancy of the Christian faith. Abou

s period, however, the health of Mr. Dimmesdale had evidently begun to fail. By th

st acquainted with his habits, the paleness of the young minister's cheek was accoun

r by his too earnest devotion to study, his scrupulous fulfilment of parochial duty, a

ore than all, by the fasts and vigils of which he made a frequent practice, in order to

ep the grossness of this earthly state from clogging and obscuring his spiritual lampme declared, that, if Mr. Dimmesdale were really going to die, it was cause enough

e world was not worthy to be any longer trodden by his feet. He himself, on the oth

nd, with characteristic humility, avowed his belief, that, if Providence should see fi

move him, it would be because of his own unworthiness to perform its humblest

ssion here on earth. With all this difference of opinion as to the cause of his decline

ere could be no question of the fact. His form grew emaciated; his voice, though stil

h and sweet, had a certain melancholy prophecy of decay in it; he was often observ

any slight alarm or other sudden accident, to put his hand over his heart, with firstush and then a paleness, indicative of pain.

ch was the young clergyman's condition, and so imminent the prospect that his

wning light would be extinguished, all untimely, when Roger Chillingworth made h

vent to the town. His first entry on the scene, few people could tell whence, droppi

wn, as it were, out of the sky, or starting from the nether earth, had an aspect of

ystery, which was easily heightened to the miraculous. He was now known to be a m

skill; it was observed that he gathered herbs, and the blossoms of wild-flowers, ang up roots and plucked off twigs from the forest-trees, like one acquainted with hid

rtues in what was valueless to common eyes. He was heard to speak of Sir Kenelm

gby,1 and other famous men, whose scientific attainments were esteemed hardly les

an supernatural, as having been his correspondents or associates. Why, with such ra

1 Digby (1603-1665) was both a practitioner of alchemy and an empirical scientist who noted the

importance of oxygen to life.



Pag

the learned world, had he come hither? What could he, whose sphere was in great

ies, be seeking in the wilderness? In answer to this query, a rumor gained ground, a

wever absurd, was entertained by some very sensible people, that Heaven had wrou

absolute miracle, by transporting an eminent Doctor of Physic, from a German

iversity, bodily through the air, and setting him down at the door of Mr. Dimmesda

udy! Individuals of wiser faith, indeed, who knew that Heaven promotes its purposthout aiming at the stage-effect of what is called miraculous interposition, were incl

see a providential hand1 in Roger Chillingworth's so opportune arrival.

is idea was countenanced by the strong interest which the physician ever manifeste

e young clergyman; he attached himself to him as a parishioner, and sought to win a

endly regard and confidence from his naturally reserved sensibility. He expressed g

arm at his pastor's state of health, but was anxious to attempt the cure, and, if early

dertaken, seemed not despondent of a favorable result. The elders, the deacons, theotherly dames, and the young and fair maidens, of Mr. Dimmesdale's flock, were al

portunate that he should make trial of the physician's frankly offered skill. Mr.

mmesdale gently repelled their entreaties.

need no medicine," said he.

ut how could the young minister say so, when, with every successive Sabbath, his c

as paler and thinner, and his voice more tremulous than before, when it had now

come a constant habit, rather than a casual gesture, to press his hand over his heartas he weary of his labors? Did he wish to die? These questions were solemnly

opounded to Mr. Dimmesdale by the elder ministers of Boston and the deacons of h

urch, who, to use their own phrase, "dealt with him" on the sin of rejecting the aid

hich Providence so manifestly held out. He listened in silence, and finally promised

nfer with the physician.

Were it God's will," said the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale,

1 God's direct intervention into the ordinary affairs of humans to effect His will and "providing foHis people. See Appendix J.III.6,7.



Pag

hen, in fulfilment of this pledge, he requested old Roger Chillingworth's profession

vice, "I could be well content, that my labors, and my sorrows, and my sins, and m

ins, should shortly end with me, and what is earthly of them be buried in my grave

e spiritual go with me to my eternal state, rather than that you should put your skill

e proof in my behalf."

Ah," replied Roger Chillingworth, with that quietness which, whether imposed or

tural, marked all his deportment, "it is thus that a young clergyman is apt to speak.

outhful men, not having taken a deep root, give up their hold of life so easily! And

ntly men, who walk with God on earth, would fain be away, to walk with him on t

lden pavements of the New Jerusalem."1

Nay," rejoined the young minister, putting his hand to his heart, with a flush of pain

tting over his brow, "were I worthier to walk there, I could be better content to toil

re."

Good men ever interpret themselves too meanly," said the physician.

this manner, the mysterious old Roger Chillingworth became the medical adviser o

verend Mr. Dimmesdale. As not only the disease interested the physician, but he w

ongly moved to look into the character and qualities of the patient, these two men,

fferent in age, came gradually to spend much time together. For the sake of the

nister's health, and to enable the leech to gather plants with healing balm in them, th

ok long walks on the seashore, or in the forest; mingling various talk with the plashurmur of the waves, and the solemn wind-anthem among the treetops. Often, likew

e was the guest of the other, in his place of study and retirement. There was a

scination for the minister in the company of the man of science, in whom he recogn

intellectual cultivation of no moderate depth or scope; together with a range and

edom of ideas, that he would have vainly looked for among the members of his ow

ofession. In truth, he was startled, if not

1 Revelation 21.2: the city "coming down from God out of heaven, prepared as a bride adorned foher husband" that will signal the last days of earth and will become the new home for the redeeme



Pag

ocked, to find this attribute in the physician. Mr. Dimmesdale was a true priest, a tru

igionist, with the reverential sentiment largely developed, and an order of mind tha

pelled itself powerfully along the track of a creed, and wore its passage continually

eper with the lapse of time. In no state of society would he have been what is called

an of liberal views; it would always be essential to his peace to feel the pressure of a

th about him, supporting, while it confined him within its iron framework. Not the wever, though with a tremulous enjoyment, did he feel the occasional relief of look

the universe through the medium of another kind of intellect than those with which

bitually held converse. It was as if a window were thrown open, admitting a freer

mosphere into the close and stifled study, where his life was wasting itself away, am

mp-light, or obstructed day-beams, and the musty fragrance, be it sensual or moral,

hales from books. But the air was too fresh and chill to be long breathed, with com

the minister, and the physician with him, withdrew again within the limits of what

eir church defined as orthodox.

us Roger Chillingworth scrutinized his patient carefully, both as he saw him in his

dinary life, keeping an accustomed pathway in the range of thoughts familiar to him

d as he appeared when thrown amidst other moral scenery, the novelty of which m

ll out something new to the surface of his character. He deemed it essential, it would

em, to know the man, before attempting to do him good. Wherever there is a heart

intellect, the diseases of the physical frame are tinged with the peculiarities of these

thur Dimmesdale, thought and imagination were so active, and sensibility so intensat the bodily infirmity would be likely to have its groundwork there. So Roger

hillingworth the man of skill, the kind and friendly physician strove to go deep into

tient's bosom, delving among his principles, prying into his recollections, and prob

ery thing with a cautious touch, like a treasure-seeker in a dark cavern. Few secrets

cape an investigator, who has opportunity and license to undertake such a quest, an

ill to follow it up. A man burdened with a secret should especially avoid the intimac

s physician. If the latter possess native sagacity, and a nameless something more, let

ll it intuition; if he show no



Pag

rusive egotism, nor disagreeably prominent characteristics of his own; if he have th

wer, which must be born with him, to bring his mind into such affinity with his

tient's, that this last shall unawares have spoken what he imagines himself only to h

ought; if such revelations be received without tumult, and acknowledged not so ofte

an uttered sympathy, as by silence, an inarticulate breath, and here and there a wor

dicate that all is understood; if, to these qualifications of a confidant be joined thevantages afforded by his recognized character as a physician; then, at some inevitab

oment, will the soul of the sufferer be dissolved, and flow forth in a dark, but

nsparent stream, bringing all its mysteries into the daylight.

oger Chillingworth possessed all, or most, of the attributes above enumerated.

evertheless, time went on; a kind of intimacy, as we have said, grew up between the

o cultivated minds, which had as wide a field as the sole sphere of human thought

udy, to meet upon; they discussed every topic of ethics and religion, of public affaird private character; they talked much, on both sides, of matters that seemed persona

emselves; and yet no secret, such as the physician fancied must exist there, ever stol

t of the minister's consciousness into his companion's ear. The latter had his suspic

deed, that even the nature of Mr. Dimmesdale's bodily disease had never fairly been

vealed to him. It was a strange reserve!

fter a time, at a hint from Roger Chillingworth, the friends of Mr. Dimmesdale effec

arrangement by which the two were lodged in the same house; so that every ebb an

w of the minister's life-tide might pass under the eye of his anxious and attachedysician. There was much joy throughout the town, when this greatly desirable obje

as attained. It was held to be the best possible measure for the young clergyman's

elfare; unless, indeed, as often urged by such as felt authorized to do so, he had sele

me one of the many blooming damsels, spiritually devoted to him, to become his

voted wife. This latter step, however, there was no present prospect that Arthur

mmesdale would be prevailed upon to take; he rejected all suggestions of the kind,

estly celibacy were one of his articles of church-discipline. Doomed by his own ch

erefore, as Mr. Dimmesdale so evidently was, to eat his un-



Pag

vory morsel always at another's board, and endure the life-long chill which must be

who seeks to warm himself only at another's fireside, it truly seemed that this

gacious, experienced, benevolent, old physician, with his concord of paternal and

verential love for the young pastor, was the very man, of all mankind, to be constan

thin reach of his voice.

he new abode of the two friends was with a pious widow, of good social rank, who

welt in a house covering pretty nearly the side on which the venerable structure of

ng's Chapel has since been built. It had the grave-yard, originally Isaac Johnson's

mefield, on one side, and so was well adapted to call up serious reflections, suited t

eir respective employments, in both minister and man of physic. The motherly care

e good widow assigned to Mr. Dimmesdale a front apartment, with a sunny exposur

d heavy window-curtains to create a noontide shadow, when desirable. The walls w

ng round with tapestry, said to be from the Gobelin looms,1 and, at all events,presenting the Scriptural story of David and Bathsheba, and Nathan the Prophet, in

lors still unfaded, but which made the fair woman of the scene almost as grimly

cturesque as the woe-denouncing seer.2 Here, the pale clergyman piled up his librar

h with parchment-bound folios of the Fathers,3 and the lore of Rabbis, and monki

udition, of which the Protestant divines, even while they vilified and decried that cl

writers, were yet constrained often to avail themselves. On the other side of the ho

d Roger Chillingworth arranged his study and laboratory; not such as a modern ma

ence would reckon even tolerably complete, but provided with a distilling apparatud the means of compounding drugs and chemicals, which the practised alchemist k

ell how to turn to purpose. With such commodiousness of situation, these two learn

rsons sat themselves down,

1 The Gobelin family of Paris was noted for its highly-prized tapestries.

2 In II Samuel 11 and 12, the prophet Nathan accuses David of sending Uriah the Hittite to certain

death in battle in order to possess his wife, Bathsheba; thus, a daily reminder for Dimmesdale of t

passion leading to adultery.

3 Christian writers of the first four centuries A.D. (e.g., Jerome and Augustine) who established th

basic tenets of the faith.



Pag

ch in his own domain, yet familiarly passing from one apartment to the other, and

stowing a mutual and not incurious inspection into one another's business.

nd the Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale's best discerning friends, as we have intimated

ry reasonably imagined that the hand of Providence had done all this, for the purpo

sought in so many public, and domestic, and secret prayers of restoring the young

nister to health. But it must now be said another portion of the community had latte

gun to take its own view of the relation betwixt Mr. Dimmesdale and the mysteriou

ysician. When an uninstructed multitude attempts to see with its eyes, it is exceedin

t to be deceived. When, however, it forms its judgement, as it usually does, on the

uitions of its great and warm heart, the conclusions thus attained are often so profo

d so unerring, as to possess the character of truths supernaturally revealed. The peo

the case of which we speak, could justify its prejudice against Roger Chillingworth

fact or argument worthy of serious refutation. There was an aged handicraftsman, ue, who had been a citizen of London at the period of Sir Thomas Overbury's murd

w some thirty years agone; he testified to having seen the physician, under some ot

me, which the narrator of the story had now forgotten, in company with Doctor

rman, the famous old conjurer, who was implicated in the affair of Overbury. Two

ree individuals hinted, that the man of skill, during his Indian captivity, had enlarge

edical attainments by joining in the incantations of the savage priests; who were

iversally acknowledged to be powerful enchanters, often performing seemingly

raculous cures by their skill in the black art. A large number and many of these werrsons of such sober sense and practical observation, that their opinions would have

en valuable, in other matters affirmed that Roger Chillingworth's aspect had underg

emarkable change while he had dwelt in town, and especially since his abode

1 Sir Thomas Overbury (1581-1613) opposed the marriage of his patron to the promiscuous

Countess of Essex; the Countess first conspired for his death with the necromancer Dr. Simon

Forman (1552-1611), and then ordered his poisoning by Ann Turner in the Tower of London.



Pag

th Mr. Dimmesdale. At first, his expression had been calm, meditative, scholar-like

ow, there was something ugly and evil in his face, which they had not previously

ticed, and which grew still the more obvious to sight, the oftener they looked upon

m. According to the vulgar idea, the fire in his laboratory had been brought from th

wer regions, and was fed with infernal fuel; and so, as might be expected, his visage

as getting sooty with the smoke.

sum up the matter, it grew to be a widely diffused opinion, that the Reverend Arth

mmesdale, like many other personages of especial sanctity, in all ages of the Christi

orld, was haunted either by Satan himself, or Satan's emissary, in the guise of old R

hillingworth. This diabolical agent had the Divine permission, for a season, to burro

o the clergyman's intimacy, and plot against his soul. No sensible man, it was

nfessed, could doubt on which side the victory would turn. The people looked, wit

shaken hope, to see the minister come forth out of the conflict, transfigured with thory which he would unquestionably win. Meanwhile, nevertheless, it was sad to thi

the perchance mortal agony through which he must struggle towards his triumph.

as, to judge from the gloom and terror in the depths of the poor minister's eyes, the

ttle was a sore one, and the victory any thing but secure!



Pag

he Leech and His Patient

d Roger Chillingworth, throughout life, had been calm in temperament, kindly, tho

t of warm affections, but ever, and in all his relations with the world, a pure andright man. He had begun an investigation, as he imagined, with the severe and equa

egrity of a judge, desirous only of truth, even as if the question involved no more t

e air-drawn lines and figures of a geometrical problem, instead of human passions,

ongs inflicted on himself. But, as he proceeded, a terrible fascination, a kind of fier

ough still calm, necessity seized the old man within its gripe, and never set him free

ain, until he had done all its bidding. He now dug into the poor clergyman's heart, l

ner searching for gold; or, rather, like a sexton1 delving into a grave, possibly in qu

a jewel that had been buried on the dead man's bosom, but likely to find nothing s

ortality and corruption. Alas for his own soul, if these were what he sought!

metimes, a light glimmered out of the physician's eyes, burning blue and ominous,

e reflection of a furnace, or, let us say, like one of those gleams of ghastly fire that

rted from Bunyan's awful door-way in the hill-side, and quivered on the pilgrim's

ce.2 The soil where this dark miner was working had perchance shown indications

couraged him.

his man," said he, at one such moment, to himself, "pure as they deem him, all spir

he seems, hath inherited a strong animal nature from his father or his mother. Let u

g a little farther in the direction of this vein!"

en, after long search into the minister's dim interior, and turning over many preciou

aterials, in the shape of high aspirations for the welfare of his race, warm love of so

re sentiments, natural

1 Person maintaining church premises and in charge of churchyards and burials.

2 In John Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress (1678), a gateway to Hell which the Pilgrim Christian

encounters on his way to the Celestial City; a notice also given in Hawthorne's tale of "The Celes

Rail-road" (see Appendix E.III).



Pag

ety, strengthened by thought and study, and illuminated by revelation, all of which

valuable gold was perhaps no better than rubbish to the seeker, he would turn back

scouraged, and begin his quest towards another point. He groped along as stealthily

th as cautious a tread, and as wary an outlook, as a thief entering a chamber where

an lies only half asleep, or, it may be, broad awake, with purpose to steal the very

asure which this man guards as the apple of his eye. In spite of his premeditatedrefulness, the floor would now and then creak; his garments would rustle; the shado

his presence, in a forbidden proximity, would be thrown across his victim. In othe

ords, Mr. Dimmesdale, whose sensibility of nerve often produced the effect of spiri

uition, would become vaguely aware that something inimical to his peace had thrus

elf into relation with him. But old Roger Chillingworth, too, had perceptions that w

most intuitive; and when the minister threw his startled eyes towards him, there the

ysician sat; his kind, watchful, sympathizing, but never intrusive friend.

t Mr. Dimmesdale would perhaps have seen this individual's character more perfec

a certain morbidness, to which sick hearts are liable, had not rendered him suspicio

all mankind. Trusting no man as his friend, he could not recognize his enemy when

ter actually appeared. He therefore still kept up a familiar intercourse with him, dail

ceiving the old physician in his study; or visiting the laboratory, and, for recreation'

ke, watching the processes by which weeds were converted into drugs of potency.

ne day, leaning his forehead on his hand, and his elbow on the sill of the open wind

at looked towards the grave-yard, he talked with Roger Chillingworth, while the oldan was examining a bundle of unsightly plants.

Where," asked he, with a look askance at them, for it was the clergyman's peculiarity

seldom, now-a-days, looked straight-forth at any object, whether human or inanim

where, my kind doctor, did you gather those herbs, with such a dark, flabby leaf?"

ven in the grave-yard, here at hand," answered the physician, continuing his

mployment. "They are new to me. I found them growing on a grave, which bore no

mbstone, nor other memorial



Pag

the dead man, save these ugly weeds that have taken upon themselves to keep him

membrance. They grew out of his heart, and typify, it may be, some hideous secret

as buried with him, and which he had done better to confess during his lifetime."

erchance," said Mr. Dimmesdale, "he earnestly desired it, but could not."

And wherefore?" rejoined the physician. "Wherefore not; since all the powers of natll so earnestly for the confession of sin, that these black weeds have sprung up out

ried heart, to make manifest an unspoken crime?"

hat, good Sir, is but a fantasy of yours," replied the minister. "There can be, if I

rebode aright, no power, short of the Divine mercy, to disclose, whether by uttered

ords, or by type or emblem, the secrets that may be buried with a human heart. The

art, making itself guilty of such secrets, must perforce hold them, until the day whe

dden things shall be revealed. Nor have I so read or interpreted Holy Writ, as to

derstand that the disclosure of human thoughts and deeds, then to be made, is inten

a part of the retribution. That, surely, were a shallow view of it. No; these revelatio

less I greatly err, are meant merely to promote the intellectual satisfaction of all

elligent beings, who will stand waiting on that day, to see the dark problem of this l

ade plain. A knowledge of men's hearts will be needful to the completest solution o

at problem. And I conceive, moreover, that the hearts holding such miserable secret

u speak of will yield them up, at that last day,1 not with reluctance, but with a joy

utterable."hen why not reveal them here" asked Roger Chillingworth, glancing quietly aside a

nister. "Why should not the guilty ones sooner avail themselves of this unutterable

lace?"

hey mostly do," said the clergyman, griping hard at his breast, as if afflicted with an

portunate throb of pain. "Many, many a poor soul hath given its confidence to me,

ly on the deathbed, but while strong in life, and fair in reputation. And ever, after s

outpouring, O, what a relief have I witnessed in those sinful1 Judgment day mentioned in Revelations.



Pag

ethren! Even as in one who at last draws free air, after long stifling with his own

lluted breath. How can it be otherwise? Why should a wretched man, guilty, we wi

y, of murder, prefer to keep the dead corpse buried in his own heart, rather than flin

rth at once, and let the universe take care of it!"

Yet some men bury their secrets thus," observed the calm physician.

rue; there are such men," answered Mr. Dimmesdale. "But, not to suggest more obv

asons, it may be that they are kept silent by the very constitution of their nature. Or,

e not suppose it? guilty as they may be, retaining, nevertheless, a zeal for God's glor

d man's welfare, they shrink from displaying themselves black and filthy in the view

en; because, thenceforward, no good can be achieved by them; no evil of the past b

deemed by better service. So, to their own unutterable torment, they go about amon

eir fellow-creatures, looking pure as new-fallen snow; while their hearts are all spec

d spotted with iniquity of which they cannot rid themselves."

hese men deceive themselves," said Roger Chillingworth, with somewhat more

mphasis than usual, and making a slight gesture with his forefinger. "They fear to tak

the shame that rightfully belongs to them. Their love for man, their zeal for God's

rvice, these holy impulses may or may not coexist in their hearts with the evil inmat

hich their guilt has unbarred the door, and which must needs propagate a hellish bre

thin them. But, if they seek to glorify God, let them not lift heavenward their unclea

nds! If they would serve their fellow-men, let them do it by making manifest the pod reality of conscience, in constraining them to penitential self-abasement! Wouldst

ou have me to believe, O wise and pious friend, that a false show can be better can

ore for God's glory, or man's welfare than God's own truth? Trust me, such men

ceive themselves!"

may be so," said the young clergyman indifferently, as waiving a discussion that he

nsidered irrelevant or unseasonable. He had a ready faculty, indeed, of escaping fro

y topic that agitated his too sensitive and nervous temperament. "But, now, I would

my well-skilled physician, whether, in good sooth, he deems



Pag

e to have profited by his kindly care of this weak frame of mine?"

fore Roger Chillingworth could answer, they heard the clear, wild laughter of a you

ild's voice, proceeding from the adjacent burial-ground. Looking instinctively from

en window, for it was summer-time, the minister beheld Hester Prynne and little Pe

ssing along the footpath that traversed the inclosure. Pearl looked as beautiful as th

y, but was in one of those moods of perverse merriment which, whenever they

curred, seemed to remove her entirely out of the sphere of sympathy or human con

e now skipped irreverently from one grave to another; until, coming to the broad f

morial tombstone of a departed worthy, perhaps of Isaac Johnson himself, she bega

nce upon it. In reply to her mother's command and entreaty that she would behave

ore decorously, little Pearl paused to gather the prickly burrs from a tall burdock, w

ew beside the tomb. Taking a handful of these, she arranged them along the lines of

arlet letter that decorated the maternal bosom, to which the burrs, as their nature wanaciously adhered. Hester did not pluck them off.

oger Chillingworth had by this time approached the window, and smiled grimly dow

here is no law, nor reverence for authority, no regard for human ordinances or

inions, right or wrong, mixed up with that child's composition," remarked he, as m

himself as to his companion. "I saw her, the other day, bespatter the Governor him

th water, at the cattle-trough in Spring Lane. What, in Heaven's name, is she? Is the

ogether evil? Hath she affections? Hath she any discoverable principle of being?"None, save the freedom of a broken law," answered Mr. Dimmesdale, in a quiet way

he had been discussing the point within himself. "Whether capable of good, I know

t."

e child probably overheard their voices; for, looking up to the window, with a brig

t naughty smile of mirth and intelligence, she threw one of the prickly burrs at the

verend Mr. Dimmesdale. The sensitive clergyman shrunk, with nervous dread, from

e light missile. Detecting his emotion, Pearl clapped her little hands in the mosttravagant ecstasy. Hester Prynne, likewise, had involuntarily looked up; and all thes

ur persons, old and young, regarded one



Pag

other in silence, till the child laughed aloud, and shouted, "Come away, mother! Co

way, or yonder old Black Man will catch you! He hath got hold of the minister alread

ome away, mother, or he will catch you! But he cannot catch little Pearl!"

she drew her mother away, skipping, dancing, and frisking fantastically among the

locks of the dead people, like a creature that had nothing in common with a bygone

d buried generation, nor owned herself akin to it. It was as if she had been made

resh, out of new elements, and must perforce be permitted to live her own life, and

w unto herself, without her eccentricities being reckoned to her for a crime.

here goes a woman," resumed Roger Chillingworth, after a pause, "who, be her

merits what they may, hath none of that mystery of hidden sinfulness which you de

grievous to be borne. Is Hester Prynne the less miserable, think you, for that scarle

ter on her breast?"

do verily believe it," answered the clergyman. "Nevertheless, I cannot answer for h

here was a look of pain in her face, which I would gladly have been spared the sigh

ut still, methinks, it must needs be better for the sufferer to be free to show his pain

s poor woman Hester is, than to cover it all up in his heart."

ere was another pause; and the physician began anew to examine and arrange the

ants which he had gathered.

You inquired of me, a little time agone," said he, at length, "my judgment as touchingur health."

did," answered the clergyman, "and would gladly learn it. Speak frankly, I pray you

for life or death."

reely, then, and plainly," said the physician, still busy with his plants, but keeping a

ary eye on Mr. Dimmesdale, "the disorder is a strange one; not so much in itself, nor

twardly manifested, in so far, at least, as the symptoms have been laid open to my

servation. Looking daily at you, my good Sir, and watching the tokens of your aspew for months gone by, I should deem you a man sore sick, it may be, yet not so sic

t that an instructed and watchful physician might well hope to cure you. But I know

hat to say the disease is what I seem to know, yet know it not."

You speak in riddles, learned Sir," said the pale minister, glanc-



Pag

g aside out of the window.

hen, to speak more plainly,"1 continued the physician, "and I crave pardon, Sir, sho

seem to require pardon, for this needful plainness of my speech. Let me ask, as you

end, as one having charge, under Providence, of your life and physical well-being,

the operation of this disorder been fairly laid open and recounted to me?"

How can you question it?" asked the minister. "Surely, it were child's play to call in a

ysician, and then hide the sore!"

You would tell me, then, that I know all?" said Roger Chillingworth, deliberately, an

ing an eye, bright with intense and concentrated intelligence, on the minister's face

so! But, again! He to whom only the outward and physical evil is laid open knoweth

tentimes, but half the evil which he is called upon to cure. A bodily disease, which w

ok upon as whole and entire within itself, may, after all, be but a symptom of some

ment in the spiritual part. Your pardon, once again, good Sir, if my speech give the

adow of offence. You, Sir, of all men whom I have known, are he whose body is th

osest conjoined, and imbued, and identified, so to speak, with the spirit whereof it i

strument."

hen I need ask no further," said the clergyman, somewhat hastily rising from his ch

You deal not, I take it, in medicine for the soul!"2

hus, a sickness," continued Roger Chillingworth, going on, in an unaltered tone,thout heeding the interruption, but standing up, and confronting the emaciated and

hite-cheeked minister with his low, dark, and misshapen figure, "a sickness, a sore

ace, if we may so call it, in your spirit, hath immediately its appropriate manifestatio

ur bodily frame. Would you, therefore, that your physician heal the bodily evil? Ho

ay this be, unless you first lay open

1 "Plainly": here, without metaphoric allusion. Ordinarily, to speak "plainly" would be to use

telling metaphors and parables, a device which Dimmesdale, as a preacher, would be well-verse

in; thus, an ironic usage by Dimmesdale to shunt Chillingworth's demands.2 Chillingworth has attempted to subsume the spiritual realm (of religion) within the physical thro

his practice as a physician; Dimmesdale, noting the turn of his argument, introduces a rigid divisio

obstruct that argument.



Pag

him the wound or trouble in your soul?"

No! not to thee! not to an earthly physician!" cried Mr. Dimmesdale, passionately, an

rning his eyes, full and bright, and with a kind of fierceness, on old Roger

hillingworth. "Not to thee! But, if it be the soul's disease, then do I commit myself to

e Physician of the soul!1 He, if it stand with his good pleasure, can cure; or he can

t him do with me as, in his justice and wisdom, he shall see good. But who art thou

at meddlest in this matter? that dares thrust himself between the sufferer and his Go

ith a frantic gesture, he rushed out of the room.

is as well to have made this step," said Roger Chillingworth to himself, looking aft

e minister with a grave smile. "There is nothing lost. We shall be friends again anon

e, now, how passion takes hold upon this man, and hurrieth him out of himself! As

th one passion, so with another! He hath done a wild thing ere now, this pious Mas

mmesdale, in the hot passion of his heart!"

proved not difficult to reëstablish the intimacy of the two companions, on the same

oting and in the same degree as heretofore. The young clergyman, after a few hours

vacy, was sensible that the disorder to his nerves had hurried him into an unseemly

tbreak of temper, which there had been nothing in the physician's words to excuse

lliate. He marvelled, indeed, at the violence with which he had thrust back the kind

an, when merely proffering the advice which it was his duty to bestow, and which t

nister himself had expressly sought. With these remorseful feelings, he lost no timeaking the amplest apologies, and besought his friend still to continue the care, which

t successful in restoring him to health, had, in all probability, been the means of

olonging his feeble existence to that hour. Roger Chillingworth readily assented, an

ent on with his medical supervision of the minister; doing his best for

1 Christ. Puritans, by the mid-1640s, had evolved a rite of confession attesting to justification of

salvation through grace; a penitent would confess, first, to a minister (in private, who would

ascertain the validity of an experience of grace) and, then, to a congregation. Dimmesdale, a

minister associating with the orthodox John Wilson and the powerful magistrate Richard

Bellingham, here espouses a doctrine of individualism that puts him outside the mainstream of

Puritan institutions.



Pag

m, in all good faith, but always quitting the patient's apartment, at the close of a

ofessional interview, with a mysterious and puzzled smile upon his lips. This

pression was invisible in Mr. Dimmesdale presence, but grew strongly evident as th

ysician crossed the threshold.

A rare case!" he muttered. "I must needs look deeper into it. A strange sympathy betw

ul and body! Were it only for the art's sake, I must search this matter to the bottom!

came to pass, not long after the scene above recorded, that the Reverend Mr.

mmesdale, at noonday, and entirely unawares, fell into a deep, deep slumber, sitting

s chair, with a large black-letter volume1 open before him on the table. It must have

en a work of vast ability in the somniferous school of literature. The profound dep

e minister's repose was the more remarkable; inasmuch as he was one of those pers

hose sleep, ordinarily, is as light, as fitful, and as easily scared away, as a small bird

pping on a twig. To such an unwonted remoteness, however, had his spirit nowthdrawn into itself, that he stirred not in his chair, when old Roger Chillingworth,

thout any extraordinary precaution, came into the room. The physician advanced

rectly in front of his patient, laid his hand upon his bosom, and thrust aside the

stment, that, hitherto, had always covered it even from the professional eye.

en, indeed, Mr. Dimmesdale shuddered, and slightly stirred.

fter a brief pause, the physician turned away.

ut with what a wild look of wonder, joy, and horror! With what a ghastly rapture, as

ere, too mighty to be expressed only by the eye and features, and therefore bursting

rth through the whole ugliness of his figure, and making itself even riotously manif

the extravagant gestures with which he threw up his arms towards the ceiling, and

mped his foot upon the floor! Had a man seen old Roger Chillingworth, at that

oment of his ecstasy, he would have had no need to ask how Satan comports himse

hen a precious

1 A book in which the first words of chapters begin with a large letter, suggesting gothic typefacethus, indicating Dimmesdale's search in esoteric books (among the ancients of "Old Catholic

times") for theological support of his refusal to give a confession of his secret sins.



Pag

man soul is lost to heaven, and won into his kingdom.

ut what distinguished the physician's ecstasy from Satan's was the trait of wonder in



Pag

I

he Interior of a Heart

fter the incident last described, the intercourse between the clergyman and the physi

ough externally the same, was really of another character than it had previously beee intellect of Roger Chillingworth had now a sufficiently plain path before it. It wa

t, indeed, precisely that which he had laid out for himself to tread. Calm, gentle,

ssionless, as he appeared, there was yet, we fear, a quiet depth of malice, hitherto la

t active now, in this unfortunate old man, which led him to imagine a more intimat

venge than any mortal had ever wreaked upon an enemy. To make himself the one

usted friend, to whom should be confided all the fear, the remorse, the agony, the

effectual repentance, the backward rush of sinful thoughts, expelled in vain! All tha

ilty sorrow, hidden from the world, whose great heart would have pitied and forgiv

be revealed to him, the Pitiless, to him, the Unforgiving! All that dark treasure to be

vished on the very man, to whom nothing else could so adequately pay the debt of

ngeance!

e clergyman's shy and sensitive reserve had balked this scheme. Roger Chillingwor

wever, was inclined to be hardly, if at all, less satisfied with the aspect of affairs, w

ovidence using the avenger and his victim for its own purposes, and, perchance,

rdoning, where it seemed most to punish had substituted for his black devices. Avelation, he could almost say, had been granted to him. It mattered little, for his obj

hether celestial, or from what other region. By its aid, in all the subsequent relations

twixt him and Mr. Dimmesdale, not merely the external presence, but the very inmo

ul of the latter seemed to be brought out before his eyes, so that he could see and

mprehend its every movement. He became, thenceforth, not a spectator only, but a

ief actor, in the poor minister's interior world. He could play upon him as he chose

ould he arouse him with a throb of agony? The victim was for ever on the rack; it

eded only to know the spring that controlled the engine; and the physician knew it would he star-



Pag

him with sudden fear? As at the waving of a magician's wand, uprose a grisly

antom, uprose a thousand phantoms, in many shapes, of death, or more awful sham

flocking round about the clergyman, and pointing with their fingers at his breast!

l this was accomplished with a subtlety so perfect, that the minister, though he had

nstantly a dim perception of some evil influence watching over him, could never ga

owledge of its actual nature. True, he looked doubtfully, fearfully, even, at times, w

rror and the bitterness of hatred, at the deformed figure of the old physician. His

stures, his gait, his grizzled beard, his slightest and most indifferent acts, the very

shion of his garments, were odious in the clergyman's sight; a token, implicitly to be

ied on, of a deeper antipathy in the breast of the latter than he was willing to

knowledge to himself. For, as it was impossible to assign a reason for such distrust

horrence, so Mr. Dimmesdale, conscious that the poison of one morbid spot was

fecting his heart's entire substance, attributed all his presentiments to no other causeok himself to task for his bad sympathies in reference to Roger Chillingworth,

sregarded the lesson that he should have drawn from them, and did his best to root

em out. Unable to accomplish this, he nevertheless, as a matter of principle, continu

s habits of social familiarity with the old man, and thus gave him constant opportun

r perfecting the purpose to which poor, forlorn creature that he was, and more

etched than his victim the avenger had devoted himself.

hile thus suffering under bodily disease, and gnawed and tortured by some black

uble of the soul, and given over to the machinations of his deadliest enemy, theverend Mr. Dimmesdale had achieved a brilliant popularity in his sacred office. He

on it, indeed, in great part, by his sorrows. His intellectual gifts, his moral perceptio

s power of experiencing and communicating emotion, were kept in a state of

eternatural activity by the prick and anguish of his daily life. His fame, though still

upward slope, already overshadowed the soberer reputations of his fellow-clergym

minent as several of them were. There were scholars among them, who had spent m

ars in acquiring abstruse lore, connected with the divine profession, than Mr.

mmesdale had lived;



Pag

d who might well, therefore, be more profoundly versed in such solid and valuable

ainments than their youthful brother. There were men, too, of a sturdier texture of m

an his, and endowed with a far greater share of shrewd, hard, iron or granite

derstanding; which, duly mingled with a fair proportion of doctrinal ingredient,

nstitutes a highly respectable, efficacious, and unamiable variety of the clerical spec

ere were others, again, true saintly fathers, whose faculties had been elaborated byeary toil among their books, and by patient thought, and etherealized, moreover, by

iritual communications with the better world, into which their purity of life had alm

roduced these holy personages, with their garments of mortality still clinging to the

l that they lacked was the gift that descended upon the chosen disciples, at Pentecos

ngues of flame;1 symbolizing, it would seem, not the power of speech in foreign an

known languages, but that of addressing the whole human brotherhood in the hear

tive language. These fathers, otherwise so apostolic, lacked Heaven's last and rarest

estation of their office, the Tongue of Flame. They would have vainly sought had ther dreamed of seeking to express the highest truths through the humblest medium o

miliar words and images. Their voices came down, afar and indistinctly, from the u

ights where they habitually dwelt.

ot improbably, it was to this latter class of men that Mr. Dimmesdale, by many of hi

its of character, naturally belonged. To their high mountain-peaks of faith and sanct

would have climbed, had not the tendency been thwarted by the burden, whatever

ght be, of crime or anguish, beneath which it was his doom to totter. It kept him doa level with the lowest; him, the man of ethereal attributes, whose voice the angels

ght else have listened to and answered! But this very burden it was, that gave him

mpathies so intimate with the sinful brotherhood of mankind; so that his heart vibra

unison with theirs, and received their pain into it-

1 Acts 2.111: Pentecost is the fortieth day after the Resurrection (Easter), and commemorates the

occasion in which the Holy Spirit descended to mark the disciplines with ''cloven tongues like as

fire" ("the Tongue of Flame"), enabling them to give the "good news" (gospel) to each nation,

regardless of language.



Pag

f, and sent its own throb of pain through a thousand other hearts, in gushes of sad,

rsuasive eloquence. Oftenest persuasive, but sometimes terrible! The people knew

e power that moved them thus. They deemed the young clergyman a miracle of

liness. They fancied him the mouth-piece of Heaven's messages of wisdom, and

buke, and love. In their eyes, the very ground on which he trod was sanctified. The

rgins of his church grew pale around him, victims of a passion so imbued with religntiment that they imagined it to be all religion, and brought it openly, in their white

soms, as their most acceptable sacrifice before the altar. The aged members of his

ck, beholding Mr. Dimmesdale's frame so feeble, while they were themselves so

gged in their infirmity, believed that he would go heavenward before them, and

joined it upon their children, that their old bones should be buried close to their yo

stor's holy grave. And, all this time, perchance, when poor Mr. Dimmesdale was

nking of his grave, he questioned with himself whether the grass would ever grow

because an accursed thing must there be buried!

is inconceivable, the agony with which this public veneration tortured him! It was h

nuine impulse to adore the truth, and to reckon all things shadow-like, and utterly

void of weight or value, that had not its divine essence as the life within their life.

en, what was he? a substance? or the dimmest of all shadows? He longed to speak

om his own pulpit, at the full height of his voice, and tell the people what he was. "I

hom you behold in these black garments of the priesthood, I, who ascend the sacred

sk, and turn my pale face heavenward, taking upon myself to hold communion, in half, with the Most High Omniscience, I, in whose daily life you discern the sanctit

och,1 I, whose footsteps, as you suppose, leave a gleam along my earthly track,

hereby the pilgrims that shall come after me may be guided to the regions of the ble

ho have laid the hand of baptism upon your children,

1 "Enoch walked with God" (Genesis 5.22); in Hebrews 11.5 Paul interprets the passage to say th

God "translated" Enoch that is, took him to heaven without suffering a mortal death and adds that

"No man can please God without [the] faith" that Enoch exemplified.



Pag

who have breathed the parting prayer over your dying friends, to whom the Amen

unded faintly from a world which they had quitted, I, your pastor, whom you so

verence and trust, am utterly a pollution and a lie!"

ore than once, Mr. Dimmesdale had gone into the pulpit, with a purpose never to co

wn its steps, until he should have spoken words like the above. More than once, he

d cleared his throat, and drawn in the long, deep, and tremulous breath, which, wh

nt forth again, would come burdened with the black secret of his soul. More than o

y, more than a hundred times he had actually spoken! Spoken! But how? He had to

s hearers that he was altogether vile, a viler companion of the vilest, the worst of

nners, an abomination, a thing of unimaginable iniquity; and that the only wonder w

at they did not see his wretched body shrivelled up before their eyes, by the burning

ath of the Almighty! Could there be plainer speech than this? Would not the people

rt up in their seats, by a simultaneous impulse, and tear him down out of the pulpithich he defiled? Not so, indeed! They heard it all, and did but reverence him the mo

ey little guessed what deadly purport lurked in those self-condemning words. "The

dly youth!" said they among themselves. "The saint on earth! Alas, if he discern su

nfulness in his own white soul, what horrid spectacle would he behold in thine or

ne!" The minister well knew subtle, but remorseful hypocrite that he was! the light

hich his vague confession would be viewed. He had striven to put a cheat upon

mself 1 by making the avowal of a guilty conscience, but had gained only one other

d a self-acknowledged shame without the momentary relief of being self-deceived. d spoken the very truth, and transformed it into the veriest falsehood. And yet, by t

nstitution of his nature, he loved the truth, and loathed the lie, as few men ever did

erefore, above all things else, he loathed his miserable self!

s inward trouble drove him to practices, more in accordance

1 Dimmesdale deceived himself to think that his "vague confession," in the form of a sermon, cou

be a sincere (valid) confession to the congregation and to God.



Pag

th the old, corrupted faith of Rome, than with the better light of the church in whic

d been born and bred. In Mr. Dimmesdale's secret closet, under lock and key, there

bloody scourge.1 Oftentimes, this Protestant and Puritan divine had plied it on his o

oulders; laughing bitterly at himself the while, and smiting so much the more pitiles

cause of that bitter laugh. It was his custom, too, as it has been that of many other p

ritans, to fast, not, however, like them, in order to purify the body and render it theter medium of celestial illumination, but rigorously, and until his knees trembled

neath him, as an act of penance. He kept vigils, likewise, night after night, sometim

er darkness; sometimes with a glimmering lamp; and sometimes, viewing his own f

a looking-glass, by the most powerful light which he could throw upon it. He thus

pified the constant introspection wherewith he tortured, but could not purify, himse

these lengthened vigils, his brain often reeled, and visions seemed to flit before him

rhaps seen doubtfully, and by a faint light of their own, in the remote dimness of th

amber or more vividly, and close beside him, within the looking-glass. Now it was rd of diabolic shapes, that grinned and mocked at the pale minister, and beckoned h

way with them; now a group of shining angels, who flew upward heavily, as sorrow

den, but grew more ethereal as they rose. Now came the dead friends of his youth, a

s white-bearded father, with a saint-like frown, and his mother, turning her face aw

e passed by. Ghost of a mother, thinnest fantasy of a mother, methinks she might ye

ve thrown a pitying glance towards her son! And now, through the chamber which

ese spectral thoughts had made so ghastly, glided Hester Prynne, leading along little

arl, in her scarlet garb, and pointing her forefinger, first, at the scarlet letter on her som, and then at the clergyman's own breast.

one of these visions ever quite deluded him. At any moment, by an effort of his wil

uld discern substances through their

1 A whip, usually short, used to "scourge" Jesus and used yet in some Catholic countries on Good

Friday in imitation of Jesus's "stations of the Cross"; hence, Dimmesdale's desperate measure to

repent without a confession.



Pag

sty lack of substance, and convince himself that they were not solid in their nature,

nder table of carved oak, or that big, square, leathern-bound and brazen-clasped

lume of divinity. But, for all that, they were, in one sense, the truest and most

bstantial things which the poor minister now dealt with. It is the unspeakable miser

ife so false as his, that it steals the pith and substance out of whatever realities there

und us, and which were meant by Heaven to be the spirit's joy and nutriment. To thtrue man, the whole universe is false, it is impalpable, it shrinks to nothing within h

asp. And he himself, in so far as he shows himself in a false light, becomes a shado

indeed, ceases to exist. The only truth, that continued to give Mr. Dimmesdale a re

istence on this earth, was the anguish in his inmost soul, and the undissembled

pression of it in his aspect. Had he once found power to smile, and wear a face of

yety, there would have been no such man!

n one of those ugly nights, which we have faintly hinted at, but forborne to picturerth, the minister started from his chair. A new thought had struck him. There might

oment's peace in it. Attiring himself with as much care as if it had been for public

orship, and precisely in the same manner, he stole softly down the staircase, undid t

or, and issued forth.



Pag

II

he Minister's Vigil

alking in the shadow of a dream, as it were, and perhaps actually under the influenc

pecies of somnambulism, Mr. Dimmesdale reached the spot, where, now so long sester Prynne had lived through her first hour of public ignominy. The same platform

affold, black and weather-stained with the storm or sunshine of seven long years, a

ot-worn, too, with the tread of many culprits who had since ascended it, remained

nding beneath the balcony of the meeting-house. The minister went up the steps.

was an obscure night of early May. An unvaried pall of cloud muffled the whole

panse of sky from zenith to horizon. If the same multitude which had stood as

ewitnesses while Hester Prynne sustained her punishment could now have beenmmoned forth, they would have discerned no face above the platform, nor hardly t

tline of a human shape, in the dark gray of the midnight. But the town was all aslee

ere was no peril of discovery. The minister might stand there, if it so pleased him, u

orning should redden in the east, without other risk than that the dank and chill nigh

would creep into his frame, and stiffen his joints with rheumatism, and clog his th

th catarrh and cough; thereby defrauding the expectant audience of to-morrow's pra

d sermon. No eye could see him, save that ever-wakeful one which had seen him in

oset, wielding the bloody scourge. Why, then, had he come hither? Was it but theockery of penitence? A mockery, indeed, but in which his soul trifled with itself! A

ockery at which angels blushed and wept, while fiends rejoiced, with jeering laught

e had been driven hither by the impulse of that Remorse which dogged him everyw

d whose own sister and closely linked companion was the Cowardice which invari

ew him back, with her tremulous gripe, just when the other impulse had hurried him

e verge of a disclosure. Poor, miserable man! what right had infirmity like his to bu

elf with crime? Crime is for the ironnerved, who have their choice either to endure

if it press too



Pag

rd, to exert their fierce and savage strength for a good purpose, and fling it off at on

is feeble and most sensitive of spirits could do neither, yet continually did one thin

other, which intertwined, in the same inextricable knot, the agony of heaven-defyin

ilt and vain repentance.

nd thus, while standing on the scaffold, in this vain show of expiation, Mr. Dimmes

as overcome with a great horror of mind, as if the universe were gazing at a scarlet

ken on his naked breast, right over his heart. On that spot, in very truth, there was,

ere had long been, the gnawing and poisonous tooth of bodily pain. Without any ef

his will, or power to restrain himself, he shrieked aloud; an outcry that went pealin

rough the night, and was beaten back from one house to another, and reverberated

e hills in the background; as if a company of devils, detecting so much misery and

ror in it, had made a plaything of the sound, and were bandying it to and fro.

is done!" muttered the minister, covering his face with his hands. "The whole townll awake, and hurry forth, and find me here!"

ut it was not so. The shriek had perhaps sounded with a far greater power, to his ow

rtled ears, than it actually possessed. The town did not awake; or, if it did, the drow

umberers mistook the cry either for something frightful in a dream, or for the noise

tches; whose voices, at that period, were often heard to pass over the settlements or

nely cottages, as they rode with Satan through the air. The clergyman, therefore, hea

symptoms of disturbance, uncovered his eyes and looked about him. At one of theamber-windows of Governor Bellingham's mansion, which stood at some distance

e line of another street, he beheld the appearance of the old magistrate himself, with

mp in his hand, a white night-cap on his head, and a long white gown enveloping h

ure. He looked like a ghost, evoked unseasonably from the grave. The cry had

idently startled him. At another window of the same house, moreover, appeared old

istress Hibbins, the Governor's sister, also with a lamp, which, even thus far off,

vealed the expression of her sour and discontented face. She thrust forth her head f

e lattice, and looked anxiously upward. Beyond the shadow



Pag

a doubt, this venerable witch-lady had heard Mr. Dimmesdale's outcry, and interpre

with its multitudinous echoes and reverberations, as the clamor of the fiend and nig

gs, with whom she was well known to make excursions into the forest.

etecting the gleam of Governor Bellingham's lamp, the old lady quickly extinguished

wn, and vanished. Possibly, she went up among the clouds. The minister saw nothin

rther of her motions. The magistrate, after a wary observation of the darkness into

hich, nevertheless, he could see but little farther than he might into a mill-stone retir

om the window.

e minister grew comparatively calm. His eyes, however, were soon greeted by a litt

mmering light, which, at first a long way off, was approaching up the street. It thre

eam of recognition on here a post, and there a garden-fence, and here a latticed

ndow-pane, and there a pump, with its full trough of water, and here, again, an arc

or of oak, with an iron knocker, and a rough log for the door-step. The Reverend Mmmesdale noted all these minute particulars, even while firmly convinced that the

om of his existence was stealing onward, in the footsteps which he now heard; and

e gleam of the lantern would fall upon him, in a few moments more, and reveal his

ng-hidden secret. As the light drew nearer, he beheld, within its illuminated circle, h

other clergyman, or, to speak more accurately, his professional father, as well as hig

lued friend, the Reverend Mr. Wilson; who, as Mr. Dimmesdale now conjectured, h

en praying at the bedside of some dying man. And so he had. The good old ministe

me freshly from the death-chamber of Governor Winthrop, who had passed from eheaven within that very hour.1 And now, surrounded, like the saint-like personage

den times, with a radiant halo, that glorified him amid this gloomy night of sin, as if

parted Governor had left him an inheritance of his glory, or as if he had caught upo

mself the distant shine of the celestial city, while

1 The historical John Winthrop was born in 1588 and died on March 26, 1649, not "in early May,

as stated in the second paragraph of this chapter. He was a charter-member of the Bay colony and

served almost without interruption as the colony's governor or deputy governor from its founding

his death.



Pag

oking thitherward to see the triumphant pilgrim pass within its gates, now, in short,

od Father Wilson was moving homeward, aiding his footsteps with a lighted lanter

e glimmer of this luminary suggested the above conceits to Mr. Dimmesdale, who

miled, nay, almost laughed at them, and then wondered if he were going mad.

the Reverend Mr. Wilson passed beside the scaffold, closely muffling his Geneva

oak 1 about him with one arm, and holding the lantern before his breast with the oth

e minister could hardly restrain himself from speaking.

A good evening to you, venerable Father Wilson! Come up hither, I pray you, and pa

easant hour with me!"

ood heavens! Had Mr. Dimmesdale actually spoken? For one instant, he believed th

ese words had passed his lips. But they were uttered only within his imagination. Th

nerable Father Wilson continued to step slowly onward, looking carefully at the mu

thway before his feet, and never once turning his head towards the guilty platform.

hen the light of the glimmering lantern had faded quite away, the minister discovere

the faintness which came over him, that the last few moments had been a crisis of

rible anxiety; although his mind had made an involuntary effort to relieve itself by

nd of lurid playfulness.

ortly afterwards, the like grisly sense of the humorous again stole in among the sol

antoms of his thought. He felt his limbs growing stiff with the unaccustomed chillin

the night, and doubted whether he should be able to descend the steps of the scafforning would break, and find him there. The neighbourhood would begin to rouse

elf. The earliest riser, coming forth in the dim twilight, would perceive a vaguely

fined figure aloft on the place of shame; and, half crazed betwixt alarm and curiosit

ould go, knocking from door to door, summoning all the people to behold the ghos

needs must think it of some defunct transgressor. A dusky tumult would flap its w

om one house to another. Then the morning light still waxing stronger old pa-

1 A black cloak worn by Calvinist ministers, named after Geneva, the city of John Calvin.



Pag

archs would rise up in great haste, each in his flannel gown, and matronly dames,

thout pausing to put off their night-gear. The whole tribe of decorous personages, w

d never heretofore been seen with a single hair of their heads awry, would start into

blic view, with the disorder of a nightmare in their aspects. Old Governor Bellingh

ould come grimly forth, with his King James's ruff fastened askew; and Mistress

bbins, with some twigs of the forest clinging to her skirts, and looking sourer than having hardly got a wink of sleep after her night ride; and good Father Wilson, too

er spending half the night at a death-bed, and liking ill to be disturbed, thus early, o

his dreams about the glorified saints. Hither, likewise, would come the elders and

acons of Mr. Dimmesdale's church, and the young virgins who so idolized their

nister, and had made a shrine for him in their white bosoms; which, now, by the by

eir hurry and confusion, they would scantly have given themselves time to cover wi

eir kerchiefs. All people, in a word, would come stumbling over their thresholds, an

rning up their amazed and horror-stricken visages around the scaffold. Whom wouey discern there, with the red eastern light upon his brow? Whom but the Reverend

thur Dimmesdale, half frozen to death, overwhelmed with shame, and standing wh

ester Prynne had stood!

rried away by the grotesque horror of this picture, the minister, unawares, and to h

wn infinite alarm, burst into a great peal of laughter. It was immediately responded t

ight, airy, childish laugh, in which, with a thrill of the heart, but he knew not wheth

exquisite pain, or pleasure as acute, he recognized the tones of little Pearl.earl! Little Pearl!" cried he, after a moment's pause; then, suppressing his voice,

ester! Hester Prynne! Are you there?"

Yes; it is Hester Prynne!" she replied, in a tone of surprise; and the minister heard he

otsteps approaching from the sidewalk, along which she had been passing. "It is I,

y little Pearl."

Whence come you, Hester?" asked the minister. "What sent you hither?"

have been watching at a death-bed," answered Hester Prynne; "at Governor Winthr

ath-bed, and have taken his measure



Pag

r a robe, and am now going homeward to my dwelling.''

ome up hither, Hester, thou and little Pearl," said the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale. "Y

ve both been here before, but I was not with you. Come up hither once again, and

ll stand all three together!"

e silently ascended the steps, and stood on the platform, holding little Pearl by thend. The minister felt for the child's other hand, and took it. The moment that he did

ere came what seemed a tumultuous rush of new life, other life than his own, pouri

e a torrent into his heart, and hurrying through all his veins, as if the mother and th

ild were communicating their vital warmth to his half-torpid system. The three form

electric chain.

Minister!" whispered little Pearl.

What wouldst thou say, child?" asked Mr. Dimmesdale.

Wilt thou stand here with mother and me, to-morrow noontide?" inquired Pearl.

Nay; not so, my little Pearl!" answered the minister; for, with the new energy of the

oment, all the dread of public exposure, that had so long been the anguish of his life

d returned upon him; and he was already trembling at the conjunction in which wit

ange joy, nevertheless he now found himself. "Not so, my child. I shall, indeed, sta

th thy mother and thee one other day, but not to-morrow!"

arl laughed, and attempted to pull away her hand. But the minister held it fast.

A moment longer, my child!" said he.

ut wilt thou promise," asked Pearl, "to take my hand, and mother's hand, to-morrow

ontide?"

Not then, Pearl," said the minister, "but another time!"

And what other time?" persisted the child.At the great judgment day!" whispered the minister, and, strangely enough, the sense

was a professional teacher of the truth impelled him to answer the child so. "Then,

ere, before the judgment-seat, thy mother, and thou, and I, must stand together! But

ylight of this world shall not see our meeting!"

arl laughed again.

ut, before Mr. Dimmesdale had done speaking, a light gleamed



Pag

r and wide over all the muffled sky. It was doubtless caused by one of those meteor

hich the night-watcher may so often observe burning out to waste, in the vacant reg

the atmosphere. So powerful was its radiance, that it thoroughly illuminated the de

edium of cloud betwixt the sky and earth. The great vault brightened, like the dome

immense lamp. It showed the familiar scene of the street, with the distinctness of m

y, but also with the awfulness that is always imparted to familiar objects by anaccustomed light. The wooden houses, with their jutting stories and quaint gable-p

e doorsteps and thresholds, with the early grass springing up about them; the garden

ots, black with freshly turned earth; the wheel-track, little worn, and, even in the

arket-place margined with green on either side; all were visible, but with a singulari

pect that seemed to give another moral interpretation to the things of this world than

ey had ever borne before. And there stood the minister, with his hand over his hear

d Hester Prynne, with the embroidered letter glimmering on her bosom; and little P

rself a symbol, and the connecting link between those two. They stood in the noonat strange and solemn splendor, as if it were the light that is to reveal all secrets, and

ybreak that shall unite all who belong to one another.

ere was witchcraft in little Pearl's eyes; and her face, as she glanced upward at the

nister, wore that naughty smile which made its expression frequently so elvish. She

thdrew her hand from Mr. Dimmesdale's, and pointed across the street. But he clasp

th his hands over his breast, and cast his eyes towards the zenith.

othing was more common, in those days, than to interpret all meteoric appearances,her natural phenomena, that occurred with less regularity than the rise and set of su

d moon, as so many revelations from a supernatural source.1 Thus, a blazing spear

ord of flame, a bow, or a sheaf of arrows, seen in the midnight sky, prefigured Ind

arfare. Pestilence was known to have been foreboded by a shower of crimson light.

ubt whether any marked

1 On the "signs" that appeared after the deaths of John Cotton and John Wilson, see Appendix

J.III.6,7.



Pag

ent, for good or evil, ever befell New England, from its settlement down to

volutionary times, of which the inhabitants had not been previously warned by som

ectacle of this nature. Not seldom, it had been seen by multitudes. Oftener, however

edibility rested on the faith of some lonely eyewitness, who beheld the wonder thro

e colored, magnifying, and distorting medium of his imagination, and shaped it mor

stinctly in his after-thought. It was, indeed, a majestic idea, that the destiny of nationould be revealed, in these awful hieroglyphics, on the cope1 of heaven. A scroll so

de might not be deemed too expansive for Providence to write a people's doom up

e belief was a favorite one with our forefathers, as betokening that their infant

mmonwealth was under celestial guardianship of a peculiar intimacy and strictness.

hat shall we say, when an individual discovers a revelation, addressed to himself alo

the same vast sheet of record! In such a case, it could only be the symptom of a hi

sordered mental state, when a man, rendered morbidly self-contemplative by long,

ense, and secret pain, had extended his egotism over the whole expanse of nature, ue firmament itself should appear no more than a fitting page for his soul's history an

e.

e impute it, therefore, solely to the disease in his own eye and heart, that the ministe

oking upward to the zenith, beheld there the appearance of an immense letter, the le

marked out in lines of dull red light. Not but the meteor may have shown itself at t

int, burning duskily through a veil of cloud; but with no such shape as his guilty

agination gave it; or, at least, with so little definiteness, that another's guilt might haen another symbol in it.

ere was a singular circumstance that characterized Mr. Dimmesdale's psychological

te, at this moment. All the time that he gazed upward to the zenith, he was,

vertheless, perfectly aware that little Pearl was pointing her finger towards old Roge

hillingworth, who stood at no great distance from the scaffold. The minister appeare

e him, with the same glance that discerned the mi-

1 Canopy.



Pag

culous letter. To his features, as to all other objects, the meteoric light imparted a ne

pression; or it might well be that the physician was not careful then, as at all other

mes, to hide the malevolence with which he looked upon his victim. Certainly, if the

eteor kindled up the sky, and disclosed the earth, with an awfulness that admonishe

ester Prynne and the clergyman of the day of judgment, then might Roger Chillingw

ve passed with them for the arch-fiend, standing there, with a smile and scowl, to cs own. So vivid was the expression, or so intense the minister's perception of it, tha

emed still to remain painted on the darkness, after the meteor had vanished, with an

fect as if the street and all things else were at once annihilated.

Who is that man, Hester?" gasped Mr. Dimmesdale, overcome with terror. "I shiver a

m! Dost thou know the man? I hate him, Hester!"

e remembered her oath, and was silent.

tell thee, my soul shivers at him," muttered the minister again. "Who is he? Who is

anst thou do nothing for me? I have a nameless horror of the man."

Minister," said little Pearl, "I can tell thee who he is!"

uickly, then, child!" said the minister, bending his ear close to her lips. "Quickly! a

low as thou canst whisper."

arl mumbled something into his ear, that sounded, indeed, like human language, bu

as only such gibberish as children may be heard amusing themselves with, by the hogether. At all events, if it involved any secret information in regard to old Roger

hillingworth, it was in a tongue unknown to the erudite clergyman, and did but incre

e bewilderment of his mind. The elvish child then laughed aloud.

ost thou mock me now?" said the minister.

hou wast not bold! Thou wast not true!" answered the child. "Thou wouldst not

omise to take my hand, and mother's hand, to-morrow noontide!"

Worthy Sir," said the physician, who had now advanced to the foot of the platform.

ious Master Dimmesdale! can this be you? Well, well, indeed! We men of study, wh

ads are in our books,



Pag

ve need to be straitly1 looked after! We dream in our waking moments, and walk in

ep. Come, good Sir, and my dear friend, I pray you, let me lead you home!"

How knewest thou that I was here?" asked the minister, fearfully.

Verily, and in good faith," answered Roger Chillingworth, "I knew nothing of the ma

ad spent the better part of the night at the bedside of the worshipful Governor inthrop, doing what my poor skill might to give him ease. He going home to a bette

orld, I, likewise, was on my way homeward, when this strange light shone out. Com

th me, I beseech you, Reverend Sir; else you will be poorly able to do Sabbath duty

orrow. Aha! see now, how they trouble the brain, these books! these books! You

ould study less, good Sir, and take a little pastime; or these night-whimseys will gro

on you!"

will go home with you," said Mr. Dimmesdale.

ith a chill despondency, like one awaking, all nerveless, from an ugly dream, he yie

mself to the physician, and was led away.

e next day, however, being the Sabbath, he preached a discourse which was held to

e richest and most powerful, and the most replete with heavenly influences, that had

er proceeded from his lips. Souls, it is said, more souls than one, were brought to t

uth by the efficacy of that sermon, and vowed within themselves to cherish a holy

atitude towards Mr. Dimmesdale throughout the long hereafter. But, as he came dowe pulpit-steps, the graybearded sexton met him, holding up a black glove, which the

nister recognized as his own.

was found," said the sexton, "this morning, on the scaffold, where evil-doers are se

public shame. Satan dropped it there, I take it, intending a scurrilous jest against yo

verence. But, indeed, he was blind and foolish, as he ever and always is. A pure han

eds no glove to cover it!"

hank you, my good friend," said the minister gravely, but star-1 Closely, strictly.



Pag

d at heart; for, so confused was his remembrance, that he had almost brought himse

ok at the events of the past night as visionary. "Yes, it seems to be my glove indeed

And, since Satan saw fit to steal it, your reverence must needs handle him without

oves, henceforward," remarked the old sexton, grimly smiling. "But did your revere

ar of the portent that was seen last night? A great red letter in the sky, the letter A,

hich we interpret to stand for Angel. For, as our good Governor Winthrop was mad

gel this past night, it was doubtless held fit that there should be some notice thereof

No," answered the minister. "I had not heard of it."



Pag

III

nother View of Hester

her late singular interview with Mr. Dimmesdale, Hester Prynne was shocked at the

ndition to which she found the clergyman reduced. His nerve seemed absolutelystroyed. His moral force was abased into more than childish weakness. It grovelled

lpless on the ground, even while his intellectual faculties retained their pristine stren

had perhaps acquired a morbid energy, which disease only could have given them.

ith her knowledge of a train of circumstances hidden from all others, she could read

fer, that, besides the legitimate action of his own conscience, a terrible machinery ha

en brought to bear, and was still operating, on Mr. Dimmesdale's well-being and

pose. Knowing what this poor, fallen man had once been, her whole soul was move

the shuddering terror with which he had appealed to her, the outcast woman, for

pport against his instinctively discovered enemy. She decided, moreover, that he ha

ht to her utmost aid. Little accustomed, in her long seclusion from society, to measu

r ideas of right and wrong by any standard external to herself, Hester saw or seeme

e that there lay a responsibility upon her, in reference to the clergyman, which she o

no other, nor to the whole world besides. The links that united her to the rest of hu

nd links of flowers, or silk, or gold, or whatever the material had all been broken. H

as the iron link of mutual crime, which neither he nor she could break. Like all othe

s, it brought along with it its obligations.

ester Prynne did not now occupy precisely the same position in which we beheld he

ring the earlier periods of her ignominy. Years had come, and gone. Pearl was now

ven years old.1 Her mother, with the scarlet letter on her breast, glittering in its fanta

mbroidery, had long been a familiar object to the townspeople. As

1 Seven is a magical number and also the age at which a consciousness of sin is traditionally

assumed to occur.



Pag

apt to be the case when a person stands out in any prominence before the communi

d, at the same time, interferes neither with public nor individual interests and

nvenience, a species of general regard had ultimately grown up in reference to Hest

ynne. It is to the credit of human nature, that, except where its selfishness is brough

o play, it loves more readily than it hates. Hatred, by a gradual and quiet process, w

en be transformed to love, unless the change be impeded by a continually new irritathe original feeling of hostility. In this matter of Hester Prynne, there was neither

itation nor irksomeness. She never battled with the public, but submitted

complainingly to its worst usage; she made no claim upon it, in requital for what sh

ffered; she did not weigh upon its sympathies. Then, also, the blameless purity of h

e, during all these years in which she had been set apart to infamy, was reckoned

gely in her favor. With nothing now to lose, in the sight of mankind, and with no h

d seemingly no wish, of gaining any thing, it could only be a genuine regard for vir

at had brought back the poor wanderer to its paths.

was perceived, too, that, while Hester never put forward even the humblest title to s

the world's privileges, farther than to breathe the common air, and earn daily bread

tle Pearl and herself by the faithful labor of her hands, she was quick to acknowledg

r sisterhood with the race of man, whenever benefits were to be conferred. None so

ady as she to give of her little substance to every demand of poverty; even though th

ter-hearted pauper threw back a gibe in requital of the food brought regularly to hi

or, or the garments wrought for him by the fingers that could have embroidered aonarch's robe. None so self-devoted as Hester, when pestilence stalked through the

wn. In all seasons of calamity, indeed, whether general or of individuals, the outcas

ciety at once found her place. She came, not as a guest, but as a rightful inmate, into

usehold that was darkened by trouble; as if its gloomy twilight were a medium in

hich she was entitled to hold intercourse with her fellow-creatures. There glimmere

mbroidered letter, with comfort in its unearthly ray. Elsewhere the token of sin, it wa

e taper of the sick-chamber. It had even thrown its gleam, in the sufferer's hard

tremity, across the verge of time. It



Pag

d shown him where to set his foot, while the light of earth was fast becoming dim,

e the light of futurity could reach him. In such emergencies, Hester's nature showed

elf warm and rich; a well-spring of human tenderness, unfailing to every real dema

d inexhaustible by the largest. Her breast, with its badge of shame, was but the softe

low for the head that needed one. She was self-or-dained a Sister of Mercy; or, we

her say, the world's heavy hand had so ordained her, when neither the world nor shoked forward to this result. The letter was the symbol of her calling. Such helpfulne

as found in her, so much power to do, and power to sympathize, that many people

fused to interpret the scarlet A by its original signification.1 They said that it meant

ble; so strong was Hester Prynne, with a woman's strength.

was only the darkened house that could contain her. When sunshine came again, sh

as not there. Her shadow had faded across the threshold. The helpful inmate had

parted, without one backward glance to gather up the meed2 of gratitude, if any wee hearts of those whom she had served so zealously. Meeting them in the street, she

ver raised her head to receive their greeting. If they were resolute to accost her, she

r finger on the scarlet letter, and passed on. This might be pride, but was so like

mility, that it produced all the softening influence of the latter quality on the public

nd. The public is despotic in its temper; it is capable of denying common justice, w

o strenuously demanded as a right; but quite as frequently it awards more than justic

hen the appeal is made, as despots love to have it made, entirely to its generosity.

terpreting Hester Prynne's deportment as an appeal of this nature, society was inclinshow its former victim a more benign countenance than she cared to be favored wi

perchance, than she deserved.

e rulers, and the wise and learned men of the community, were longer in

knowledging the influence of Hester's good qualities than the people. The prejudice

hich they shared in common

1 As a "token of sin," adultery.

2 Thanks, a gift, or token reward.



Pag

th the latter were fortified in themselves by an iron framework of reasoning, that m

a far tougher labor to expel them. Day by day, nevertheless, their sour and rigid

inkles were relaxing into something which, in the due course of years, might grow

an expression of almost benevolence. Thus it was with the men of rank, on whom

eir eminent position imposed the guardianship of the public morals. Individuals in

vate life, meanwhile, had quite forgiven Hester Prynne for her frailty; nay, more, thd begun to look upon the scarlet letter as the token, not of that one sin, for which s

d borne so long and dreary a penance, but of her many good deeds since. "Do you

at woman with the embroidered badge?" they would say to strangers. "It is our Hest

e town's own Hester, who is so kind to the poor, so helpful to the sick, so comforta

the afflicted!" Then, it is true, the propensity of human nature to tell the very worst

elf, when embodied in the person of another, would constrain them to whisper the

ack scandal of bygone years. It was none the less a fact, however, that, in the eyes o

e very men who spoke thus, the scarlet letter had the effect of the cross on a nun'ssom. It imparted to the wearer a kind of sacredness, which enabled her to walk

curely amid all peril. Had she fallen among thieves, it would have kept her safe. It w

ported, and believed by many, that an Indian had drawn his arrow against the badge

d that the missile struck it, but fell harmless to the ground.

e effect of the symbol or rather, of the position in respect to society that was indica

it on the mind of Hester Prynne herself, was powerful and peculiar. All the light an

aceful foliage of her character had been withered up by this red-hot brand, and hadng ago fallen away, leaving a bare and harsh outline, which might have been repulsi

d she possessed friends or companions to be repelled by it. Even the attractiveness

r person had undergone a similar change. It might be partly owing to the studied

sterity of her dress, and partly to the lack of demonstration in her manners. It was a

nsformation, too, that her rich and luxuriant hair had either been cut off, or was so

mpletely hidden by a cap, that not a shining lock of it ever once gushed into the

nshine. It was due in part to all these causes, but still more to something else, that th

emed to be no longer any thing in Hester's face for Love to dwell



Pag

on; nothing in Hester's form, though majestic and statue-like, that Passion would ev

eam of clasping in its embrace; nothing in Hester's bosom, to make it ever again the

low of Affection. Some attribute had departed from her, the permanence of which

en essential to keep her a woman. Such is frequently the fate, and such the stern

velopment, of the feminine character and person, when the woman has encountere

d lived through, an experience of peculiar severity. If she be all tenderness, she willshe survive, the tenderness will either be crushed out of her, or and the outward

mblance is the same crushed so deeply into her heart that it can never show itself m

e latter is perhaps the truest theory. She who has once been woman, and ceased to

might at any moment become a woman again, if there were only the magic touch t

fect the transfiguration. We shall see whether Hester Prynne were ever afterwards so

uched, and so transfigured.1

uch of the marble coldness of Hester's impression was to be attributed to thecumstance that her life had turned, in a great measure, from passion and feeling, to

ought. Standing alone in the world, alone, as to any dependence on society, and wit

tle Pearl to be guided and protected, alone, and hopeless of retrieving her position,

d she not scorned to consider it desirable, she cast away the fragments of a broken

ain. The world's law was no law for her mind. It was an age in which the human

ellect, newly emancipated, had taken a more active and a wider range than for man

nturies before. Men of the sword had overthrown nobles and kings. Men bolder tha

ese had overthrown and rearranged not actually, but within the sphere of theory, whas their most real abode the whole system of ancient prejudice, wherewith was linke

uch of ancient principle. Hester Prynne imbibed this spirit. She assumed a freedom

eculation, then common enough on the other side of the Atlantic, but which our

refathers, had they known of it, would have held to be a deadlier crime than that sti

1 ''Transfiguration": the bodily manifestation of the Divine in human form. In Chapter II, Hester w

first "transfigured" by the scarlet letter and then compared to the Madonna, a "transfigured" woma



Pag

atized by the scarlet letter.1 In her lonesome cottage, by the seashore, thoughts visite

r, such as dared to enter no other dwelling in New England; shadowy guests, that w

ve been as perilous as demons to their entertainer, could they have been seen so mu

knocking at her door.

is remarkable, that persons who speculate the most boldly often conform with the m

rfect quietude to the external regulations of society. The thought suffices them, with

vesting itself in the flesh and blood of action. So it seemed to be with Hester. Yet, h

tle Pearl never come to her from the spiritual world, it might have been far otherwis

hen, she might have come down to us in history, hand in hand with Ann Hutchinson

e foundress of a religious sect. She might, in one of her phases, have been a prophe

e might, and not improbably would, have suffered death from the stern tribunals o

riod, for attempting to undermine the foundations of the Puritan establishment. But

e education of her child, the mother's enthusiasm of thought had something to wreaelf upon. Providence, in the person of this little girl, had assigned to Hester's charge

rm and blossom of womanhood, to be cherished and developed amid a host of

fficulties. Every thing was against her. The world was hostile. The child's own natur

d something wrong in it, which continually betokened that she had been born amis

e effluence of her mother's lawless passion, and often impelled Hester to ask, in

terness of heart, whether it were for ill or good that the poor little creature had been

rn at all.

deed, the same dark question often rose into her mind, with reference to the whole womanhood. Was existence worth accepting, even to the happiest among them? As

ncerned her own individual existence, she had long ago decided in the negative, an

1 Hester's mind is paralleled to that of Ann Hutchinson, mentioned in Chapter I and in the paragra

below: both women spoke for the individual's right to conscience; Ann believed that the "justified

individual was a spokesperson for the Holy Ghost, but Hester is more radical in basing her

individualism on "sympathy" with immediate natural feelings. In connecting the two women,

Hawthorne juxtaposes the repressive Puritan age to his own day when the movement of

Transcendentalism, associated with Ralph Waldo Emerson, Margaret Fuller, and others of Concomade "sympathy" into a validation of "truth."



Pag

smissed the point as settled. A tendency to speculation, though it may keep woman

iet, as it does man, yet makes her sad. She discerns, it may be, such a hopeless task

fore her. As a first step, the whole system of society is to be torn down, and built u

ew. Then, the very nature of the opposite sex, or its long hereditary habit, which ha

come like nature, is to be essentially modified, before woman can be allowed to ass

hat seems a fair and suitable position. Finally, all other difficulties being obviated,oman cannot take advantage of these preliminary reforms, until she herself shall ha

dergone a still mightier change; in which, perhaps, the ethereal essence, wherein sh

s her truest life, will be found to have evaporated. A woman never overcomes thes

oblems by any exercise of thought. They are not to be solved, or only in one way. I

art chance to come uppermost, they vanish. Thus, Hester Prynne, whose heart had

regular and healthy throb, wandered without a clew in the dark labyrinth of mind;

rned aside by an insurmountable precipice; now starting back from a deep chasm. T

as wild and ghastly scenery all around her, and a home and comfort nowhere. At timfearful doubt strove to possess her soul, whether it were not better to send Pearl at o

Heaven, and go herself to such futurity as Eternal Justice should provide.

e scarlet letter had not done its office.

ow, however, her interview with the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, on the night of his

gil, had given her a new theme of reflection, and held up to her an object that appea

orthy of any exertion and sacrifice for its attainment. She had witnessed the intense

sery beneath which the minister struggled, or, to speak more accurately, had ceaseduggle. She saw that he stood on the verge of lunacy, if he had not already stepped

ross it. It was impossible to doubt, that, whatever painful efficacy there might be in

cret sting of remorse, a deadlier venom had been infused into it by the hand that

offered relief. A secret enemy had been continually by his side, under the semblanc

friend and helper, and had availed himself of the opportunities thus afforded for

mpering with the delicate springs of Mr. Dimmesdale's nature. Hester could not but

ked herself, whether there had not originally been a defect of truth, courage, and

yalty, on her own part, in allowing the minister to be



Pag

rown into a position where so much evil was to be foreboded, and nothing auspicio

be hoped. Her only justification lay in the fact, that she had been able to discern no

ethod of rescuing him from a blacker ruin than had overwhelmed herself, except by

quiescing in Roger Chillingworth's scheme of disguise. Under that impulse, she had

ade her choice, and had chosen, as it now appeared, the more wretched alternative o

e two. She determined to redeem her error, so far as it might yet be possible.rengthened by years of hard and solemn trial, she felt herself no longer so inadequa

pe with Roger Chillingworth as on that night, abased by sin, and half maddened by

nominy that was still new, when they had talked together in the prison-chamber. Sh

d climbed her way, since then, to a higher point. The old man, on the other hand, h

ought himself nearer to her level, or perhaps below it, by the revenge which he had

ooped for.

fine, Hester Prynne resolved to meet her former husband, and do what might be inwer for the rescue of the victim on whom he had so evidently set his gripe. The

casion was not long to seek. One afternoon, walking with Pearl in a retired part of t

ninsula, she beheld the old physician, with a basket on one arm, and a staff in the o

nd, stooping along the ground, in quest of roots and herbs to concoct his medicine

thal.



Pag

IV

ester and the Physician

ester bade little Pearl run down to the margin of the water, and play with the shells a

ngled seaweed, until she should have talked awhile with yonder gatherer of herbs. Se child flew away like a bird, and, making bare her small white feet, went pattering

ong the moist margin of the sea. Here and there, she came to a full stop, and peeped

riously into a pool, left by the retiring tide as a mirror for Pearl to see her face in. F

eped at her, out of the pool, with dark, glistening curls around her head, and an elf

mile in her eyes, the image of a little maid, whom Pearl, having no other playmate,

vited to take her hand and run a race with her. But the visionary little maid, on her p

ckoned likewise, as if to say, "This is a better place! Come thou into the pool!" And

arl, stepping in, mid-leg deep, beheld her own white feet at the bottom; while, out o

ll lower depth, came the gleam of a kind of fragmentary smile, floating to and fro in

itated water.

eanwhile, her mother had accosted the physician.

would speak a word with you," said she, "a word that concerns us much."

Aha! And is it Mistress Hester that has a word for old Roger Chillingworth?" answer

, raising himself from his stooping posture. "With all my heart! Why, Mistress, I heod tidings of you on all hands! No longer ago than yester-eve, a magistrate, a wise

dly man, was discoursing of your affairs, Mistress Hester, and whispered me that th

d been question concerning you in the council. It was debated whether or no, with

fety to the common weal, yonder scarlet letter might be taken off your bosom. On m

e, Hester, I made my entreaty to the worshipful magistrate that it might be done

rthwith!"

lies not in the pleasure of the magistrates to take off this badge," calmly replied He

Were I worthy to be quit of it, it would fall away of its own nature, or be transformed

o something that should speak a different purport."

Nay, then, wear it, if it suit you better," rejoined he. "A woman



Pag

ust needs follow her own fancy, touching the adornment of her person. The letter is

yly embroidered, and shows right bravely on your bosom!"

l this while, Hester had been looking steadily at the old man, and was shocked, as w

wonder-smitten, to discern what a change had been wrought upon him within the p

ven years. It was not so much that he had grown older; for though the traces of

vancing life were visible, he bore his age well, and seemed to retain a wiry vigor an

ertness. But the former aspect of an intellectual and studious man, calm and quiet,

hich was what she best remembered in him, had altogether vanished, and been

cceeded by an eager, searching, almost fierce, yet carefully guarded look. It seemed

his wish and purpose to mask this expression with a smile; but the latter played him

se, and flickered over his visage so derisively, that the spectator could see his black

the better for it. Ever and anon, too, there came a glare of red light out of his eyes;

e old man's soul were on fire, and kept on smouldering duskily within his breast, unsome casual puff of passion, it was blown into a momentary flame. This he repres

speedily as possible, and strove to look as if nothing of the kind had happened.

a word, old Roger Chillingworth was a striking evidence of man's faculty of

nsforming himself into a devil, if he will only, for a reasonable space of time,

dertake a devil's office. This unhappy person had effected such a transformation by

voting himself, for seven years, to the constant analysis of a heart full of torture, an

riving his enjoyment thence, and adding fuel to those fiery tortures which he analyz

d gloated over.

e scarlet letter burned on Hester Prynne's bosom. Here was another ruin, the

sponsibility of which came partly home to her.

What see you in my face," asked the physician, "that you look at it so earnestly?"

omething that would make me weep, if there were any tears bitter enough for it,"

swered she. "But let it pass! It is of yonder miserable man that I would speak."

And what of him?" cried Roger Chillingworth eagerly, as if he loved the topic, and wad of an opportunity to discuss it with the only person of whom he could make a

nfidant. "Not to hide



Pag

e truth, Mistress Hester, my thoughts happen just now to be busy with the gentleman

speak freely; and I will make answer."

When we last spake together," said Hester, "now seven years ago, it was your pleasur

tort a promise of secrecy, as touching the former relation betwixt yourself and me. A

e life and good fame of yonder man were in your hands, there seemed no choice to

ve to be silent, in accordance with your behest. Yet it was not without heavy misgiv

at I thus bound myself; for, having cast off all duty towards other human beings, th

mained a duty towards him; and something whispered me that I was betraying it, in

edging myself to keep your counsel. Since that day, no man is so near to him as you

ou tread behind his every footstep. You are beside him, sleeping and waking. You

arch his thoughts. You burrow and rankle in his heart! Your clutch is on his life, an

u cause him to die daily a living death; and still he knows you not. In permitting thi

ve surely acted a false part by the only man to whom the power was left me to be trWhat choice had you?" asked Roger Chillingworth. "My finger, pointed at this man,

ould have hurled him from his pulpit into a dungeon, thence, peradventure, to the

llows!"

had been better so!" said Hester Prynne.

What evil have I done the man?" asked Roger Chillingworth again. "I tell thee, Heste

ynne, the richest fee that ever physician earned from monarch could not have boug

ch care as I have wasted on this miserable priest! But for my aid, his life would havrned away in torments, within the first two years after the perpetration of his crime

ne. For, Hester, his spirit lacked the strength that could have borne up, as thine has

neath a burden like thy scarlet letter. O, I could reveal a goodly secret! But enough!

hat art can do, I have exhausted on him. That he now breathes, and creeps about on

rth, is owing all to me!"

etter he had died at once!" said Hester Prynne.

Yea, woman, thou sayest truly!" cried old Roger Chillingworth, letting the lurid fire os heart blaze out before her eyes. "Better had he died at once! Never did mortal suff

hat this man has suffered. And all, all, in the sight of his worst enemy! He has been

nscious of me. He has felt an influence dwelling always upon him



Pag

e a curse. He knew, by some spiritual sense, for the Creator never made another be

sensitive as this, he knew that no friendly hand was pulling at his heart-strings, and

at an eye was looking curiously into him, which sought only evil, and found it. But

ew not that the eye and hand were mine! With the superstition common to his

otherhood, he fancied himself given over to a fiend, to be tortured with frightful

eams, and desperate thoughts, the sting of remorse, and despair of pardon; as aretaste of what awaits him beyond the grave. But it was the constant shadow of my

esence! the closest propinquity of the man whom he had most vilely wronged! and

d grown to exist only by this perpetual poison of the direst revenge! Yea, indeed! h

d not err! there was a fiend at his elbow! A mortal man, with once a human heart, h

come a fiend for his especial torment!"

e unfortunate physician, while uttering these words, lifted his hands with a look of

rror, as if he had beheld some frightful shape, which he could not recognize, usurpe place of his own image in a glass. It was one of those moments which sometimes

cur only at the interval of years when a man's moral aspect is faithfully revealed to

nd's eye. Not improbably, he had never before viewed himself as he did now.

Hast thou not tortured him enough?" said Hester, noticing the old man's look. "Has h

t paid thee all?"

No! no! He has but increased the debt!" answered the physician; and, as he proceede

s manner lost its fiercer characteristics, and subsided into gloom. "Dost thoumembered me, Hester, as I was nine years agone? Even then, I was in the autumn o

ys, nor was it the early autumn. But all my life had been made up of earnest, studio

oughtful, quiet years, bestowed faithfully for the increase of mine own knowledge,

thfully, too, though this latter object was but casual to the other, faithfully for the

vancement of human welfare. No life had been more peaceful and innocent than m

w lives so rich with benefits conferred. Dost thou remember me? Was I not, though

ght deem me cold, nevertheless a man thoughtful for others, craving little for hims

nd, true, just, and of constant, if not warm affections? Was I not all this?"



Pag

All this, and more," said Hester.

And what am I now?" demanded he, looking into her face, and permitting the whole

thin him to be written on his features. "I have already told thee what I am! A fiend!

ho made me so?"

was myself!" cried Hester, shuddering. "It was I, not less than he. Why hast thou nenged thyself on me?"

have left thee to the scarlet letter," replied Roger Chillingworth. "If that have not

enged me, I can do no more!"

laid his finger on it, with a smile.

has avenged thee!" answered Hester Prynne.

judged no less," said the physician. "And now, what wouldst thou with me touchins man?"

must reveal the secret," answered Hester, firmly. "He must discern thee in thy true

aracter. What may be the result, I know not. But this long debt of confidence, due f

e to him, whose bane and ruin I have been, shall at length be paid. So far as concer

e overthrow or preservation of his fair fame and his earthly state, and perchance his

e, he is in thy hands. Nor do I, whom the scarlet letter has disciplined to truth, thou

the truth of red-hot iron, entering into the soul, nor do I perceive such advantage iing any longer a life of ghastly emptiness, that I shall stoop to implore thy mercy. D

th him as thou wilt! There is no good for him, no good for me, no good for thee!

ere is no good for little Pearl! There is no path to guide us out of this dismal maze!

Woman, I could wellnigh pity thee!" said Roger Chillingworth, unable to restrain a th

admiration too; for there was a quality almost majestic in the despair which she

pressed. "Thou hadst great elements. Peradventure, hadst thou met earlier with a be

ve than mine, this evil had not been. I pity thee, for the good that has been wasted i

y nature!"

And I thee," answered Hester Prynne, "for the hatred that has transformed a wise and

st man to a fiend! Wilt thou yet purge it out of thee, and be once more human? If no

r his sake, then doubly for thine own! Forgive, and leave his further retribution to t

wer that claims it! I said, but now, that there could be no good event for him, or th

me, who are here wandering together in this gloomy maze of evil, and stumbling, a

ery step, over the guilt



Pag

herewith we have strewn our path. It is not so! There might be good for thee, and th

one, since thou hast been deeply wronged, and hast it at thy will to pardon. Wilt tho

ve up that only privilege? Wilt thou reject that priceless benefit?"

eace, Hester, peace!" replied the old man, with gloomy sternness. "It is not granted

pardon. I have no such power as thou tellest me of. My old faith, long forgotten,

mes back to me, and explains all that we do, and all we suffer. By thy first step awr

ou didst plant the germ of evil; but, since that moment, it has all been a dark necessi

e that have wronged me are not sinful, save in a kind of typical illusion; neither am I

nd-like, who have snatched a fiend's office from his hands. It is our fate. Let the bl

wer blossom as it may!1 Now go thy ways, and deal as thou wilt with yonder man

e waved his hand, and betook himself again to his employment of gathering herbs.

1 In Chapter I, "the black flower of civilized society, a prison"; here, the fallen condition of

mankind which the Puritan experiment of the Bay colony cannot correct.



Pag

V

ester and Pearl

Roger Chillingworth a deformed old figure, with a face that haunted men's memor

nger than they liked took leave of Hester Prynne, and went stooping away along therth. He gathered here and there an herb, or grubbed up a root, and put it into the ba

his arm. His gray heard almost touched the ground, as he crept onward. Hester gaz

er him a little while, looking with a half-fantastic curiosity to see whether the tende

ass of early spring would not be blighted beneath him, and show the wavering track

s footsteps, sere and brown, across its cheerful verdure. She wondered what sort of

rbs they were, which the old man was so sedulous to gather. Would not the earth,

ickened to an evil purpose by the sympathy of his eye, greet him with poisonous

rubs, of species hitherto unknown, that would start up under his fingers? Or might

ffice him, that every wholesome growth should be converted into something

leterious and malignant at his touch? Did the sun, which shone so brightly everywh

e, really fall upon him? Or was there, as it rather seemed, a circle of ominous shad

oving along with his deformity, whichever way he turned himself? And whither wa

w going? Would he not suddenly sink into the earth, leaving a barren and blasted s

here, in due course of time, would be seen deadly nightshade, dogwood, henbane,1hatever else of vegetable wickedness the climate could produce, all flourishing with

deous luxuriance? Or would he spread bat's wings and flee away, looking so much

lier, the higher he rose towards heaven?

e it sin or no," said Hester Prynne bitterly, as she still gazed after him, "I hate the m

e upbraided herself for the sentiment, but could not overcome or lessen it. Attempt

do so, she thought of those long-past days,

1 Nightshade (belladonna) and henbane are poisonous plants; together with dogwood, they are

traditionally associated with magic and witchcraft.



Pag

a distant land, when he used to emerge at eventide from the seclusion of his study,

down in the fire-light of their home, and in the light of her nuptial smile. He neede

sk himself in that smile, he said, in order that the chill of so many lonely hours amo

s books might be taken off the scholar's heart. Such scenes had once appeared not

herwise than happy, but now, as viewed through the dismal medium of her subsequ

e, they classed themselves among her ugliest remembrances. She marvelled how suenes could have been! She marvelled how she could ever have been wrought upon

arry him! She deemed it her crime most to be repented of, that she had ever endure

d reciprocated, the lukewarm grasp of his hand, and had suffered the smile of her l

d eyes to mingle and melt into his own. And it seemed a fouler offence committed b

oger Chillingworth, than any which had since been done him, that, in the time when

art knew no better, he had persuaded her to fancy herself happy by his side.

es, I hate him!" repeated Hester, more bitterly than before. "He betrayed me! He hasne me worse wrong than I did him!"

t men tremble to win the hand of woman, unless they win along with it the utmost

ssion of her heart! Else it may be their miserable fortune, as it was Roger

hillingworth's, when some mightier touch than their own may have awakened all he

nsibilities, to be reproached even for the calm content, the marble image of happine

hich they will have imposed upon her as the warm reality. But Hester ought long ag

ve done with this injustice. What did it betoken? Had seven long years, under the

rture of the scarlet letter, inflicted so much of misery, and wrought out no repentanc

e emotions of that brief space, while she stood gazing after the crooked figure of o

oger Chillingworth, threw a dark light on Hester's state of mind, revealing much tha

ght not otherwise have acknowledged to herself.

e being gone, she summoned back her child.

earl! Little Pearl! Where are you?"

arl, whose activity of spirit never flagged, had been at no loss for amusement whileother talked with the old gatherer of herbs. At first, as already told, she had flirted

ncifully with her own



Pag

age in a pool of water, beckoning the phantom forth, and as it declined to venture

eking a passage for herself into its sphere of impalpable earth and unattainable sky.

on finding, however, that either she or the image was unreal, she turned elsewhere

tter pastime. She made little boats out of birch-bark, and freighted them with snail-

ells, and sent out more ventures on the mighty deep than any merchant in New

gland; but the larger part of them foundered near the shore. She seized a live horsethe tail, and made prize of several five-fingers,1 and laid out a jelly-fish to melt in

arm sun. Then she took up the white foam, that streaked the line of the advancing ti

d threw it upon the breeze, scampering after it with winged footsteps, to catch the g

ow-flakes ere they fell. Perceiving a flock of beach-birds, that fed and fluttered alon

e shore, the naughty child picked up her apron full of pebbles, and, creeping from r

rock after these small sea-fowl, displayed remarkable dexterity in pelting them. On

tle gray bird, with a white breast, Pearl was almost sure, had been hit by a pebble, a

uttered away with a broken wing. But then the elf-child sighed, and gave up her spocause it grieved her to have done harm to a little being that was as wild as the sea-

eeze, or as wild as Pearl herself.

er final employment was to gather sea-weed, of various kinds, and make herself a s

mantle, and a head-dress, and thus assume the aspect of a little mermaid. She inher

r mother's gift for devising drapery and costume. As the last touch to her mermaid's

rb, Pearl took some eel-grass, and imitated, as best she could, on her own bosom, t

coration with which she was so familiar on her mother's. A letter, the letter A, butshly green, instead of scarlet! The child bent her chin upon her breast, and

ntemplated this device with strange interest; even as if the one only thing for which

d been sent into the world was to make out its hidden import.

wonder if mother will ask me what it means!" thought Pearl.

st then, she heard her mother's voice, and flitting along as lightly as one of the little

rds, appeared before Hester Prynne,

1 "Horseshoe" crab; "five-fingers" are starfish.



Pag

ncing, laughing, and pointing her finger to the ornament upon her bosom.

My little Pearl," said Hester, after a moment's silence, "the green letter, and on thy

ildish bosom, has no purport. But dost thou know, my child, what this letter means

hich thy mother is doomed to wear?"

Yes, mother," said the child. "It is the great letter A. Thou hast taught it me in the horok."1

ster looked steadily into her little face; but, though there was that singular expressio

hich she had so often remarked in her black eyes, she could not satisfy herself whet

arl really attached any meaning to the symbol. She felt a morbid desire to ascertain

int.

ost thou know, child, wherefore thy mother wears this letter?"

ruly do I!" answered Pearl, looking brightly into her mother's face. "It is for the sam

ason that the minister keeps his hand over his heart!"

And what reason is that?" asked Hester, half smiling at the absurd incongruity of the

ild's observation; but, on second thoughts, turning pale. "What has the letter to do w

y heart, save mine?"

Nay, mother, I have told all I know," said Pearl, more seriously than she was wont to

eak. "Ask yonder old man whom thou hast been talking with! It may be he can tell.good earnest now, mother dear, what does this scarlet letter mean? and why dost th

ear it on thy bosom? and why does the minister keep his hand over his heart?"

e took her mother's hand in both her own, and gazed into her eyes with an earnestn

at was seldom seen in her wild and capricious character. The thought occurred to

ester, that the child might really be seeking to approach her with childlike confidenc

d doing what she could, and as intelligently as she knew how, to establish a meeting

int of sympathy. It showed Pearl in an un-

1 A child's reader and spelling book: a tablet (picturing an alphabet, prayer, or moral verse, etc.)

covered by horn (clear animal tissue), allowing a child to trace the letters.



Pag

onted aspect. Theretofore, the mother, while loving her child with the intensity of a

fection, had schooled herself to hope for little other return than the waywardness of

pril breeze; which spends its time in airy sport, and has its gusts of inexplicable pass

d is petulant in its best of moods, and chills oftener than caresses you, when you ta

your bosom; in requital of which misdemeanours, it will sometimes, of its own vag

rpose, kiss your cheek with a kind of doubtful tenderness, and play gently with youir, and then begone about its other idle business, leaving a dreamy pleasure at your

art. And this, moreover, was a mother's estimate of the child's disposition. Any othe

server might have seen few but unamiable traits, and have given them a far darker

loring. But now the idea came strongly into Hester's mind, that Pearl, with her

markable precocity and acuteness, might already have approached the age when she

uld be made a friend, and intrusted with as much of her mother's sorrows as could

parted, without irreverence either to the parent or the child. In the little chaos of Pe

aracter, there might be seen merging and could have been, from the very first thedfast1 principles of an unflinching courage, an uncontrollable will, a sturdy pride,

hich might be disciplined into self-respect, and a bitter scorn of many things, which

hen examined, might be found to have the taint of falsehood in them. She possesse

fections, too, though hitherto acrid and disagreeable, as are the richest flavours of

ripe fruit. With all these sterling attributes, thought Hester, the evil which she inheri

om her mother must be great indeed, if a noble woman do not grow out of this elfis

ild.

arl's inevitable tendency to hover about the enigma of the scarlet letter seemed an in

ality of her being. From the earliest epoch of her conscious life, she had entered up

s as her appointed mission. Hester had often fancied that Providence had a design o

stice and retribution, in endowing the child with this marked propensity; but never,

w, had she bethought herself to ask, whether, linked with that design, there might n

ewise be

1 Steadfast; Hawthorne's alternate spelling.



Pag

purpose of mercy and beneficence. If little Pearl were entertained with faith and trus

pirit-messenger no less than an earthly child, might it not be her errand to soothe aw

e sorrow that lay cold in her mother's heart, and converted it into a tomb? and to he

r to overcome the passion, once so wild, and even yet neither dead nor asleep, but

prisoned within the same tomb-like heart?

ch were some of the thoughts that now stirred in Hester's mind, with as much vivac

impression as if they had actually been whispered into her ear. And there was little

arl, all this while, holding her mother's hand in both her own, and turning her face

ward, while she put these searching questions, once, and again, and still a third tim

What does the letter mean, mother? and why dost thou wear it? and why does the

nister keep his hand over his heart?"

What shall I say?" thought Hester to herself. "No! If this be the price of the child's

mpathy, I cannot pay it!"

hen she spoke aloud.

illy Pearl," said she, "what questions are these? There are many things in this world

child must not ask about. What know I of the minister's heart? And as for the scarle

ter, I wear it for the sake of its gold thread!"

all the seven bygone years, Hester Prynne had never before been false to the symb

r bosom. It may be that it was the talisman of a stern and severe, but yet a guardianirit, who now forsook her; as recognizing that, in spite of his strict watch over her

art, some new evil had crept into it, or some old one had never been expelled. As fo

tle Pearl, the earnestness soon passed out of her face.

ut the child did not see fit to let the matter drop. Two or three times, as her mother a

e went homeward, and as often at supper-time, and while Hester was putting her to

d, and once after she seemed to be fairly asleep, Pearl looked up, with mischief

eaming in her black eyes.Mother," said she, "what does the scarlet letter mean?"

nd the next morning, the first indication the child gave of being awake was by popp

her head from the pillow, and making that



Pag

her inquiry, which she had so unaccountably connected with her investigations abo

e scarlet letter:

Mother! Mother! Why does the minister keep his hand over his heart?"

Hold thy tongue, naughty child!" answered her mother, with an asperity that she had

ver permitted to herself before. "Do not tease me; else I shall shut thee into the darkoset!"



Pag

VI

Forest Walk

ester Prynne remained constant in her resolve to make known to Mr. Dimmesdale, a

hatever risk of present pain or ulterior consequences, the true character of the man d crept into his intimacy. For several days, however, she vainly sought an opportun

addressing him in some of the meditative walks which she knew him to be in the h

taking, along the shores of the peninsula, or on the wooded hills of the neighbouri

untry. There would have been no scandal, indeed, nor peril to the holy whiteness o

ergyman's good fame, had she visited him in his own study; where many a penitent,

w, had confessed sins of perhaps as deep a die as the one betokened by the scarlet

ter. But, partly that she dreaded the secret or undisguised interference of old Roger

hillingworth, and partly that her conscious heart imputed suspicion where none cou

ve been felt, and partly that both the minister and she would need the whole wide

orld to breathe in, while they talked together, for all these reasons, Hester never thou

meeting him in any narrower privacy than beneath the open sky.

last, while attending in a sick-chamber, whither the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale had

en summoned to make a prayer, she learnt that he had gone, the day before, to visit

postle Eliot,1 among his Indian converts. He would probably return, by a certain ho

the afternoon of the morrow. Betimes, therefore, the next day, Hester took little Peaho was necessarily the companion of all her mother's expeditions, however

convenient her presence, and set forth.

he road, after the two wayfarers had crossed from the peninsula to the mainland, wa

her than a footpath. It straggled onward

1 John Eliot (1604-1690), educated at Cambridge, preached to the Native Americans in their own

dialects and became known as "the Apostle to the Indians." This reference, besides setting the sce

for the meeting of Hester and Arthur, may betoken Arthur's similar ability to speak to other nationwith pentecostal "tongues of flames."



Pag

o the mystery of the primeval forest. This hemmed it in so narrowly, and stood so

ack and dense on either side, and disclosed such imperfect glimpses of the sky abov

at, to Hester's mind, it imaged not amiss the moral wilderness in which she had so lo

en wandering. The day was chill and sombre. Overhead was a gray expanse of clou

ghtly stirred, however, by a breeze; so that a gleam of flickering sunshine might now

d then be seen at its solitary play along the path. This flitting cheerfulness was alwae farther extremity of some long vista through the forest. The sportive sunlight feeb

ortive, at best, in the predominant pensiveness of the day and scene withdrew itself

ey came nigh, and left the spots where it had danced the drearier, because they had

ped to find them bright.

Mother," said little Pearl, "the sunshine does not love you. It runs away and hides its

cause it is afraid of something on your bosom. Now, see! There it is, playing, a goo

ay off. Stand you here, and let me run and catch it. I am but a child. It will not flee e; for I wear nothing on my bosom yet!"

Nor ever will, my child, I hope," said Hester.

And why not, mother?" asked Pearl, stopping short, just at the beginning of her race

Will not it come of its own accord, when I am a woman grown?"

un away, child," answered her mother, "and catch the sunshine! It will soon be gon

arl set forth, at a great pace, and, as Hester smiled to perceive, did actually catch thenshine, and stood laughing in the midst of it, all brightened by its splendor, and

ntillating with the vivacity excited by rapid motion. The light lingered about the lon

ild, as if glad of such a playmate, until her mother had drawn almost nigh enough t

p into the magic circle too.

will go now!" said Pearl, shaking her head.

ee!" answered Hester, smiling. "Now I can stretch out my hand, and grasp some of

she attempted to do so, the sunshine vanished; or, to judge from the bright expressat was dancing on Pearl's features, her mother could have fancied that the child had

sorbed it into herself, and would give it forth again, with a gleam about her path, as

ey



Pag

ould plunge into some gloomier shade. There was no other attribute that so much

pressed her with a sense of new and untransmitted vigor in Pearl's nature, as this

ver-failing vivacity of spirits; she had not the disease of sadness, which almost all

ildren, in these latter days, inherit, with the scrofula,1 from the troubles of their

cestors. Perhaps this too was a disease, and but the reflex of the wild energy with

hich Hester had fought against her sorrows, before Pearl's birth. It was certainly aubtful charm, imparting a hard, metallic lustre to the child's character. She wanted w

me people want throughout life a grief that should deeply touch her, and thus huma

d make her capable of sympathy. But there was time enough yet for little Pearl!

ome, my child!" said Hester, looking about her, from the spot where Pearl had stoo

ll in the sunshine. "We will sit down a little way within the wood, and rest ourselve

am not aweary, mother," replied the little girl. "But you may sit down, if you will te

e a story meanwhile."

A story, child!" said Hester. "And about what?"

, a story about the Black Man!" answered Pearl, taking hold of her mother's gown,

oking up, half earnestly, half mischievously, into her face. "How he haunts this fore

d carries a book with him, a big, heavy book, with iron clasps; and how this ugly B

an offers his book and an iron pen to every body that meets him here among the tre

d they are to write their names with their own blood. And then he sets his mark on

soms! Didst thou ever meet the Black Man, mother?"

And who told you this story, Pearl?" asked her mother, recognizing a common

perstition of the period.

was the old dame in the chimney-corner, at the house where you watched last nigh

d the child. "But she fancied me asleep while she was talking of it. She said that a

ousand and a thousand people had met him here, and had written in his book, and h

s mark on them. And that ugly-tempered lady, old Mistress Hibbins, was one. And,

other, the old dame said that this scarlet letter was

1 A tubercular condition affecting children, but not inheritable.



Pag

e Black Man's mark on thee, and that it glows like a red flame when thou meetest hi

dnight, here in the dark wood. Is it true, mother? And dost thou go to meet him in

ght-time?''

idst thou ever awake, and find thy mother gone?" asked Hester.

Not that I remember," said the child. "If thou fearest to leave me in our cottage, thoughtest take me along with thee. I would very gladly go! But, mother, tell me now! I

ere such a Black Man? And didst thou ever meet him? And is this his mark?"

Wilt thou let me be at peace, if I once tell thee?" asked her mother.

es, if thou tellest me all," answered Pearl.

nce in my life I met the Black Man!" said her mother. "This scarlet letter is his mark

us conversing, they entered sufficiently deep into the wood to secure themselves fre observation of any casual passenger along the forest-track. Here they sat down on

xuriant heap of moss; which, at some epoch of the preceding century, had been a

gantic pine, with its roots and trunk in the darksome shade, and its head aloft in the

per atmosphere. It was a little dell where they had seated themselves, with a leaf-str

nk rising gently on either side, and a brook flowing through the midst, over a bed o

len and drowned leaves. The trees impending over it had flung down great branche

om time to time, which choked up the current, and compelled it to form eddies and

ack depths at some points; while, in its swifter and livelier passages, there appearedannel-way of pebbles, and brown, sparkling sand. Letting the eyes follow along the

urse of the stream, they could catch the reflected light from its water, at some short

stance within the forest, but soon lost all traces of it amid the bewilderment of tree-

unks and underbrush, and here and there a huge rock, covered over with gray lichen

l these giant trees and boulders of granite seemed intent on making a mystery of the

urse of this small brook; fearing, perhaps, that, with its never-ceasing loquacity, it

ould whisper tales out of the heart of the old forest whence it flowed, or mirror its

velations on the smooth surface of a pool. Continually, indeed as it stole onward, theamlet kept up a babble, kind, quiet, soothing, but melancholy,



Pag

e the voice of a young child that was spending its infancy without playfulness, and

ew not how to be merry among sad acquaintance and events of sombre hue.

brook! O foolish and tiresome little brook!" cried Pearl, after listening awhile to it

k. "Why art thou so sad? Pluck up a spirit, and do not be all the time sighing and

urmuring!"

ut the brook, in the course of its little lifetime among the forest-trees, had gone throu

solemn an experience that it could not help talking about it, and seemed to have

thing else to say. Pearl resembled the brook, inasmuch as the current of her life gus

om a well-spring as mysterious, and had flowed through scenes shadowed as heavi

th gloom. But, unlike the little stream, she danced and sparkled, and prattled airily

ong her course.

What does this sad little brook say, mother?" inquired she.

f thou hadst a sorrow of thine own, the brook might tell thee of it," answered her

other, "even as it is telling me of mine! But now, Pearl, I hear a footstep1 along the

d the noise of one putting aside the branches. I would have thee betake thyself to p

d leave me to speak with him that comes yonder."

it the Black Man?" asked Pearl.

Wilt thou go and play, child?" repeated her mother. "But do not stray far into the woo

nd take heed that thou come at my first call."

es, mother," answered Pearl. "But, if it be the Black Man, wilt thou not let me stay a

oment, and look at him, with his big book under his arm?"

Go, silly child!" said her mother, impatiently. "It is no Black Man! Thou canst see him

w through the trees. It is the minister!"

And so it is!" said the child. "And, mother, he has his hand over his heart! Is it becau

hen the minister wrote his name in the book, the Black Man set his mark in that placut why does he not wear it outside his bosom, as thou dost, mother?"

1 Possibly an allusion or parody of Genesis 2:16-17 and 3:6-8 ("the voice of the Lord God walki

in the Garden"). Earlier, in Chapter VII, Hester had a similar expression when she heard the

approach of Governor Bellingham, a patriarchal magistrate, "in the garden." Now, at the edge of t

wilderness, she hears the footstep of her former lover.



Pag

Go now, child, and thou shalt tease me as thou wilt another time!" cried Hester Prynn

ut do not stray far. Keep where thou canst hear the babble of the brook."

e child went singing away, following up the current of the brook, and striving to

ngle a more lightsome cadence with its melancholy voice. But the little stream wou

t be comforted, and still kept telling its unintelligible secret of some very mournful

ystery that had happened or making a prophetic lamentation about something that w

t to happen within the verge of the dismal forest. So Pearl, who had enough of shad

her own little life, chose to break off all acquaintance with this repining brook. She

rself, therefore, to gathering violets and wood-anemones, and some scarlet columb

at she found growing in the crevices of a high rock.

hen her elf-child had departed, Hester Prynne made a step or two towards the track

d through the forest, but still remained under the deep shadow of the trees. She beh

e minister advancing along the path, entirely alone, and leaning on a staff which he t by the way-side. He looked haggard and feeble, and betrayed a nerveless despond

his air, which had never so remarkably characterized him in his walks about the

tlement, nor in any other situation where he deemed himself liable to notice. Here i

as wofully visible, in this intense seclusion of the forest, which of itself would have

en a heavy trial to the spirits. There was a listlessness in his gait; as if he saw no rea

r taking one step farther, nor felt any desire to do so, but would have been glad, cou

be glad of any thing, to fling himself down at the root of the nearest tree, and lie th

ssive for evermore. The leaves might bestrew him, and the soil gradually accumulad form a little hillock over his frame, no matter whether there were life in it or no.

eath was too definite an object to be wished for, or avoided.

Hester's eye, the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale exhibited no symptom of positive and

vacious suffering, except that, as little Pearl had remarked, he kept his hand over hi

art.



Pag

VII

he Pastor and His Parishioner

owly as the minister walked, he had almost gone by, before Hester Prynne could ga

ice enough to attract his observation. At length, she succeeded.

Arthur Dimmesdale!" she said, faintly at first; then louder, but hoarsely. "Arthur

mmesdale!"

Who speaks?" answered the minister.

athering himself quickly up, he stood more erect, like a man taken by surprise in a

ood to which he was reluctant to have witnesses. Throwing his eyes anxiously in th

rection of the voice, he indistinctly beheld a form under the trees, clad in garments smbre, and so little relieved from the gray twilight into which the clouded sky and th

avy foliage had darkened the noontide, that he knew not whether it were a woman

adow. It may be, that his pathway through life was haunted thus, by a spectre that h

olen out from among his thoughts.

made a step nigher, and discovered the scarlet letter.

Hester! Hester Prynne!" said he. "Is it thou? Art thou in life?"

ven so!" she answered. "In such life as has been mine these seven years past! and t

thur Dimmesdale, dost thou yet live?"

was no wonder that they thus questioned one another's actual and bodily existence,

en doubted of their own. So strangely did they meet, in the dim wood, that it was li

e first encounter, in the world beyond the grave, of two spirits who had been intima

nnected in their former life, but now stood coldly shuddering, in mutual dread; as n

t familiar with their state, nor wonted to the companionship of disembodied beings

ch a ghost, and awe-stricken at the other ghost! They were awe-stricken likewise atemselves; because the crisis flung back to them their consciousness, and revealed to

ch heart its history and experience, as life never does, except at such breathless epo

e soul beheld its features in the mirror of the passing moment. It was with fear, and

mulously, and, as it were, by a slow, reluctant necessity, that Arthur Dimmesdale pu

rth his hand, chill as death, and touched the chill hand of



Pag

ester Prynne. The grasp, cold as it was, took away what was dreariest in the interview

ey now felt themselves, at least, inhabitants of the same sphere.

ithout a word more spoken, neither he nor she assuming the guidance, but with an

expressed consent, they glided back into the shadow of the woods, whence Hester

merged, and sat down on the heap of moss where she and Pearl had before been sitt

hen they found voice to speak, it was, at first, only to utter remarks and inquiries su

any two acquaintance might have made, about the gloomy sky, the threatening stor

d, next, the health of each. Thus they went onward, not boldly, but step by step, int

e themes that were brooding deepest in their hearts. So long estranged by fate and

cumstances, they needed something slight and casual to run before, and throw open

ors of intercourse, so that their real thoughts might be led across the threshold.

fter a while, the minister fixed his eyes on Hester Prynne's.

Hester," said he, "hast thou found peace?"

e smiled drearily, looking down upon her bosom.

Hast thou?" she asked.

None! nothing but despair!" he answered. "What else could I look for, being what I

d leading such a life as mine? Were I an atheist, a man devoid of conscience, a wret

th coarse and brutal instincts, I might have found peace, long ere now. Nay, I never

ould have lost it! But, as matters stand with my soul, whatever of good capacity theginally was in me, all of God's gifts that were the choicest have become the ministe

spiritual torment. Hester, I am most miserable!"

he people reverence thee," said Hester. "And surely thou workest good among them

oth this bring thee no comfort?"1

More misery, Hester! only the more misery!" answered the clergyman, with a bitter

mile. "As concerns the good which I may appear to do, I have no faith in it. It must

eds be a delusion. What can a ruined soul, like mine, effect towards the redemptionher souls? or a polluted soul, towards their purification? And as for the

1 Hester offers Arthur the solace of the doctrine of "good works," repudiated by Puritans.



Pag

ople's reverence, would that it were turned to scorn and hatred! Canst thou deem it

ester, a consolation, that I must stand up in my pulpit, and meet so many eyes turned

ward to my face, as if the light of heaven were beaming from it! must see my flock

ngry for the truth, and listening to my words as if a tongue of Pentecost were speak

d then look inward, and discern the black reality of what they idolize? I have laugh

bitterness and agony of heart, at the contrast between what I seem and what I am! Atan laughs at it!"

You wrong yourself in this," said Hester, gently. "You have deeply and sorely repent

our sin is left behind you, in the days long past. Your present life is not less holy, in

uth, than it seems in people's eyes. Is there no reality in the penitence thus sealed an

tnessed by good works?1 And wherefore should it not bring you peace?"

No, Hester, no!" replied the clergyman. "There is no substance in it! It is cold and de

d can do nothing for me! Of penance I have had enough! Of penitence there has bene! Else, I should long ago have thrown off these garments of mock holiness, and

own myself to mankind as they will see me at the judgment-seat. Happy are you, H

at wear the scarlet letter openly upon your bosom! Mine burns in secret! Thou little

owest what a relief it is, after the torment of a seven years' cheat, to look into an ey

at recognizes me for what I am! Had I one friend, or were it my worst enemy! to wh

hen sickened with the praises of all other men, I could daily betake myself, and be

own as the vilest of all sinners, methinks my soul might keep itself alive thereby. E

us much of truth would save me! But, now, it is all falsehood! all

1 Hawthorne poses here another essential of the Puritan paradox of faith: if repentence precedes

penance in the Puritan process of Christ's justification of one's sins through faith, Arthur has failed

but if "good works" are a result of repentence (or remorse for a sin against the excellence of God

as Hester insinuates, he may be "sanctified" (a ''saint"). Arthur denies that he has sufficient

repentence, and thus negates his "good works." As for Hester, if "the scarlet letter had not done it

office" (Chapter XIII), Hester herself cannot be said to have repented according to the Puritan

ritual; even so, Hester's works as a "Sister of Charity" are dedicated, selfless "good works"

appreciated by the community.



Pag

mptiness! all death!"

ester Prynne looked into his face, but hesitated to speak. Yet, uttering his long-restra

motions so vehemently as he did, his words here offered her the very point of

cumstances in which to interpose what she came to say. She conquered her fears, a

oke.

uch a friend as thou hast even now wished for," said she, "with whom to weep ove

n, thou hast in me, the partner of it!" Again she hesitated, but brought out the words

th an effort. "Thou hast long had such an enemy, and dwellest with him under the s

of!''

e minister started to his feet, gasping for breath, and clutching at his heart as if he

ould have torn it out of his bosom.

Ha! What sayest thou?" cried he. "An enemy! And under mine own roof! What meanu?"

ester Prynne was now fully sensible of the deep injury for which she was responsibl

s unhappy man, in permitting him to lie for so many years, or, indeed, for a single

oment, at the mercy of one, whose purposes could not be other than malevolent. Th

ry contiguity of his enemy, beneath whatever mask the latter might conceal himself

as enough to disturb the magnetic sphere of a being so sensitive as Arthur Dimmesd

ere had been a period when Hester was less alive to this consideration; or, perhaps,e misanthropy of her own trouble, she left the minister to bear what she might pictu

rself as a more tolerable doom. But of late, since the night of his vigil, all her

mpathies towards him had been both softened and invigorated. She now read his h

ore accurately. She doubted not, that the continual presence of Roger Chillingworth

cret poison of his malignity, infecting all the air about him, and his authorized

erference, as a physician, with the minister's physical and spiritual infirmities, that t

d opportunities had been turned to a cruel purpose. By means of them, the sufferer

nscience had been kept in an irritated state, the tendency of which was, not to cure holesome pain, but to disorganize and corrupt his spiritual being. Its result, on earth

uld hardly fail to be insanity, and hereafter, that eternal alienation from the Good an

ue, of which madness is perhaps the earthly type.

ch was the ruin to which she had brought the man, once,



Pag

y, why should we not speak it? still so passionately loved! Hester felt that the sacrif

the clergyman's good name, and death itself, as she had already told Roger

hillingworth, would have been infinitely preferable to the alternative which she had

ken upon herself to choose. And now, rather than have had this grievous wrong to

nfess, she would gladly have lain down on the forest-leaves, and died there, at Arth

mmesdale's feet.

Arthur," cried she, "forgive me! In all things else, I have striven to be true! Truth w

e one virtue which I might have held fast, and did hold fast through all extremity; sa

hen thy good, thy life, thy fame, were put in question! Then I consented to a decept

ut a lie is never good, even though death threaten on the other side! Dost thou not se

hat I would say? That old man! the physician! he whom they call Roger Chillingwo

was my husband!"

e minister looked at her, for an instant, with all that violence of passion, whichermixed, in more shapes than one, with his higher, purer, softer qualities was, in fa

e portion of him which the Devil claimed, and through which he sought to win the r

ever was there a blacker or a fiercer frown, than Hester now encountered. For the b

ace that it lasted, it was a dark transfiguration. But his character had been so much

feebled by suffering, that even its lower energies were incapable of more than a

mporary struggle. He sank down on the ground, and buried his face in his hands.

might have known it!" murmured he. "I did know it! Was not the secret told me in tural recoil of my heart, at the first sight of him, and as often as I have seen him sin

hy did I not understand? O Hester Prynne, thou little, little knowest all the horror o

s thing! And the shame! the indelicacy! the horrible ugliness of his exposure of a si

d guilty heart to the very eye that would gloat over it! Woman, woman, thou art

countable for this! I cannot forgive thee!"

hou shalt forgive me!" cried Hester, flinging herself on the fallen leaves beside him

et God punish! Thou shalt forgive!"

ith sudden and desperate tenderness, she threw her arms around him, and pressed h

ad against her bosom; little caring



Pag

ough his cheek rested on the scarlet letter. He would have released himself, but stro

in to do so. Hester would not set him free, lest he should look her sternly in the fac

l the world had frowned on her, for seven long years had it frowned upon this lone

oman, and still she bore it all, nor ever once turned away her firm, sad eyes. Heaven

ewise, had frowned upon her, and she had not died. But the frown of this pale, we

nful and sorrow-stricken man was what Hester could not bear, and live!

Wilt thou yet forgive me?" she repeated, over and over again. "Wilt thou not frown?

ou forgive?"

do forgive you, Hester," replied the minister at length, with a deep utterance out of

yss of sadness, but no anger. "I freely forgive you now. May God forgive us both! W

e not, Hester, the worst sinners in the world. There is one worse than even the pollu

est! That old man's revenge has been blacker than my sin. He has violated, in cold

ood, the sanctity of a human heart. Thou and I, Hester, never did so!"1

Never, never!" whispered she. "What we did had a consecration of its own. We felt i

e said so to each other! Hast thou forgotten it?"

Hush, Hester!" said Arthur Dimmesdale, rising from the ground. "No; I have not

rgotten!"

hey sat down again, side by side, and hand clasped in hand, on the mossy trunk of t

len tree.2 Life had never brought them a gloomier hour; it was the point whither thethway had so long been tending, and darkening ever, as it stole along; and yet it in-

osed a charm that made them linger upon it, and claim another,

1 By this response, Arthur has returned to his earlier non-orthodox view of an individual treating

directly with "the one Physician of the soul" with the added notice that "the human heart" has a

"sanctity" or sacredness all its own. In the next paragraph, Hester confirms Arthur's non-orthodox

with the Romantic notion that because a person deals directly with God, his or her acts have a

''consecration" similar to a religious rite.

2 During this scene, Arthur and Hester are sitting on or standing about a "mossy bough"; moss is gthe ancient color of hope, but thrives upon decaying matter; it thus represents an implied delusion

Hester's hope to leave the past behind and flee to England; in contrast, Arthur, without any hope,

would stay in the forest and bury himself under "these withered leaves" which are subject to deca



Pag

d another, and, after all, another moment. The forest was obscure around them, and

eaked with a blast that was passing through it. The boughs were tossing heavily abo

eir heads; while one solemn old tree groaned dolefully to another, as if telling the sa

ory of the pair that sat beneath, or constrained to forebode evil to come.

nd yet they lingered. How dreary looked the forest-track that led backward to the

tlement, where Hester Prynne must take up again the burden of her ignominy, and

nister the hollow mockery of his good name! So they lingered an instant longer. No

lden light had ever been so precious as the gloom of this dark forest. Here, seen on

his eyes, the scarlet letter need not burn into the bosom of the fallen woman! Here

en only by her eyes, Arthur Dimmesdale, false to God and man, might be, for one

oment, true!

e started at a thought that suddenly occurred to him.

Hester," cried he, "here is a new horror! Roger Chillingworth knows your purpose to

veal his true character. Will he continue, then, to keep our secret? What will now be

urse of his revenge?"

here is a strange secrecy in his nature," replied Hester, thoughtfully; "and it has grow

on him by the hidden practices of his revenge. I deem it not likely that he will betra

e secret. He will doubtless seek other means of satiating his dark passion."

And I! how am I to live longer, breathing the same air with this deadly enemy?"claimed Arthur Dimmesdale, shrinking within himself, and pressing his hand nervo

ainst his heart, a gesture that had grown involuntary with him. "Think for me, Heste

hou art strong. Resolve for me!"

hou must dwell no longer with this man," said Hester, slowly and firmly. "Thy hear

ust be no longer under his evil eye!"

were far worse than death!" replied the minister. "But how to avoid it? What choic

mains to me? Shall I lie down again on these withered leaves, where I cast myself wou didst tell me what he was? Must I sink down there, and die at once?"

Alas, what a ruin has befallen thee!" said Hester, with the tears gushing into her eyes

Wilt thou die for very weakness? There is no other cause!"

he judgment of God is on me," answered the conscience-



Pag

icken priest. "It is too mighty for me to struggle with!"

Heaven would show mercy," rejoined Hester, "hadst thou but the strength to take

vantage of it."

e thou strong for me!" answered he. "Advise me what to do."

the world then so narrow?" exclaimed Hester Prynne, fixing her deep eyes on the

nister's and instinctively exercising a magnetic power over a spirit so shattered and

bdued, that it could hardly hold itself erect. "Doth the universe lie within the compa

yonder town, which only a little time ago was but a leaf-strewn desert, as lonely as

ound us? Whither leads yonder forest-track? Backward to the settlement, thou sayes

es; but onward, too! Deeper it goes, and deeper, into the wilderness, less plainly to b

en at every step; until, some few miles hence, the yellow leaves will show no vestig

e white man's tread. There thou art free! So brief a journey would bring thee from a

orld where thou hast been most wretched, to one where thou mayest still be happy!

ere not shade enough in all this boundless forest to hide thy heart from the gaze of

oger Chillingworth?"

Yes, Hester; but only under the fallen leaves!" replied the minister, with a sad smile.

hen there is the broad pathway of the sea!" continued Hester. "It brought thee hithe

ou so choose, it will bear thee back again. In our native land, whether in some remo

ral village or in vast London, or, surely, in Germany, in France, in pleasant Italy, thoouldst be beyond his power and knowledge! And what has thou to do with all these

n men, and their opinions? They have kept thy better part in bondage too long

eady!"

cannot be!" answered the minister, listening as if he were called upon to realize a

eam. "I am powerless to go. Wretched and sinful as I am, I have had no other thoug

an to drag on my earthly existence in the sphere where Providence hath placed me.

my own soul is, I would still do what I may for other human souls! I dare not quit

st, though an unfaithful sentinel, whose sure reward is death and dishonor, when heary watch shall come to an end!"

hou art crushed under this seven years' weight of misery," replied Hester, fervently

solved to buoy him up with her own en-



Pag

gy. "But thou shalt leave it all behind thee! It shall not cumber thy steps, as thou trea

ong the forest-path; neither shalt thou freight the ship with it, if thou prefer to cross

a. Leave this wreck and ruin here where it hath happened! Meddle no more with it!

gin all anew! Hast thou exhausted possibility in the failure of this one trial? Not so!

ture is yet full of trial and success. There is happiness to be enjoyed! There is good

done! Exchange this false life of thine for a true one. Be, if thy spirit summon theech a mission, the teacher and apostle of the red men. Or, as is more thy nature, be a

holar and a sage among the wisest and the most renowned of the cultivated world.

each! Write! Act! Do any thing, save to lie down and die! Give up this name of Art

mmesdale, and make thyself another, and a high one, such as thou canst wear witho

ar or shame. Why shouldst thou tarry so much as one other day in the torments that

ve so gnawed into thy life! that have made thee feeble to will and to do! that will le

ee powerless even to repent! Up, and away!"

Hester!" cried Arthur Dimmesdale, in whose eyes a fitful light, kindled by her

thusiasm, flashed up and died away, "thou tellest of running a race to a man whose

ees are tottering beneath him! I must die here. There is not the strength or courage

e to venture into the wide, strange, difficult world, alone!"

was the last expression of the despondency of a broken spirit. He lacked energy to

asp the better fortune that seemed within his reach.

e repeated the word.Alone, Hester!"

hou shalt not go alone!" answered she, in a deep whisper.

hen, all was spoken!



Pag

VIII

Flood of Sunshine

thur Dimmesdale gazed into Hester's face with a look in which hope and joy shone

deed, but with fear betwixt them, and a kind of horror at her boldness, who had spohat he vaguely hinted at, but dared not speak.

ut Hester Prynne, with a mind of native courage and activity, and for so long a perio

t merely estranged, but outlawed, from society, had habituated herself to such latitu

speculation as was altogether foreign to the clergyman. She had wandered, without

e or guidance, in a moral wilderness; as vast, as intricate and shadowy, as the untam

rest, amid the gloom of which they were now holding a colloquy that was to decide

eir fate. Her intellect and heart had their home, as it were, in desert places, where shamed as freely as the wild Indian in his woods. For years past she had looked from

ranged point of view at human institutions, and whatever priests or legislators had

ablished; criticizing all with hardly more reverence than the Indian would feel for t

erical band, the judicial robe, the pillory, the gallows, the fireside, or the church. Th

ndency of her fate and fortunes had been to set her free. The scarlet letter was her

ssport into regions where other women dared not tread. Shame, Despair, Solitude!

hese had been her teachers, stern and wild ones, and they had made her strong, but

ught her much amiss.

e minister, on the other hand, had never gone through an experience calculated to l

m beyond the scope of generally received laws; although, in a single instance, he ha

arfully transgressed one of the most sacred of them. But this had been a sin of passi

t of principle, nor even purpose. Since that wretched epoch, he had watched, with

orbid zeal and minuteness, not his acts, for those it was easy to arrange, but each bre

emotion, and his every thought. At the head of the social system, as the clergymen

at day stood, he was only the more trammelled by its regulations, its principles, anden its prejudices. As a priest, the framework of his order inevitably hemmed him in

man who



Pag

d once sinned, but who kept his conscience all alive and painfully sensitive by the

tting of an unhealed wound, he might have been supposed safer within the line of

rtue, than if he had never sinned at all.1

us, we seem to see that, as regarded Hester Prynne, the whole seven years of outlaw

d ignominy had been little other than a preparation for this very hour. But Arthur

mmesdale! Were such a man once more to fall, what pleas could be urged in

tenuation of his crime? None; unless it avail him somewhat, that he was broken dow

long and exquisite suffering; that his mind was darkened and confused by the very

morse which harrowed it; that, between fleeing as an avowed criminal, and remaini

a hypocrite, conscience might find it hard to strike the balance; that it was human to

oid the peril of death and infamy, and the inscrutable machinations of an enemy; th

ally, to this poor pilgrim, on his dreary and desert path, faint, sick, miserable, there

peared a glimpse of human affection and sympathy, a new life, and a true one, inchange for the heavy doom which he was now expiating. And be the stern and sad

uth spoken, that the breach which guilt has once made into the human soul is never,

s mortal state, repaired. It may be watched and guarded; so that the enemy shall no

rce his way again into the citadel, and might even, in his subsequent assaults, select

me other avenue, in preference to that where he had formerly succeeded. But there

ll the ruined wall, and, near it, the stealthy tread of the foe that would win over agai

s unforgotten triumph.2

e struggle, if there were one, need not be described. Let it suffice, that the clergymasolved to flee, and not alone.

1 Hawthorne has caught the quintessence of Puritanism which makes it appear so gloomy to the

nineteenth century and after: "conscience" was the individual's clue to reading whether or not one

was "justified" in the eyes of God by faith; for "conscience" to be "all alive'' meant that one was

continually aware of the "unhealed wound" of sin; consequently, one must not be distracted from

searching out one's sin in order, once again, to reassert one's "justification."

2 Arthur, as Hester, has a mind that has been "darkened and confused"; further, as he seeks to guar

against the "enemy" coming through the "ruined wall" of adultery, the "enemy" may have found ano

"avenue" left undefended, and thus may enter to "win over again his unforgotten triumph." What th

"avenue" is, may be the subject of the next chapter.



Pag

f, in all these past seven years," thought he, "I could recall one instant of peace or h

would yet endure, for the sake of that earnest of Heaven's mercy. But now, since I am

evocably doomed, wherefore should I not snatch the solace allowed to the condem

lprit before his execution? Or, if this be the path to a better life, as Hester would

rsuade me, I surely give up no fairer prospect by pursuing it! Neither can I any lon

e without her companionship; so powerful is she to sustain, so tender to soothe! Oou to whom I dare not lift mine eyes, wilt Thou yet pardon me!"1

hou wilt go!" said Hester calmly, as he met her glance.

e decision once made, a glow of strange enjoyment threw its flickering brightness

e trouble of his breast. It was the exhilarating effect upon a prisoner just escaped fro

e dungeon of his own heart of breathing the wild, free atmosphere of an unredeeme

christianized, lawless region. His spirit rose, as it were, with a bound, and attained

arer prospect of the sky, than throughout all the misery which had kept him grovellthe earth. Of a deeply religious temperament, there was inevitably a tinge of the

votional in his mood.

o I feel joy again?" cried he, wondering at himself. "Methought the germ of it was

me! O Hester, thou art my better angel! I seem to have flung myself sick, sin-staine

d sorrow-blackened down upon these forest-leaves, and to have risen up all made

ew, and with new powers to glorify Him that hath been merciful! This is already th

tter life! Why did we not find it sooner?"et us not look back," answered Hester Prynne. "The past is gone! Wherefore should

ger upon it now? See! With this symbol, I undo it all, and make it as it had never

en!"

speaking, she undid the clasp that fastened the scarlet letter, and, taking it from her

som, threw it to a distance among the

1 Arthur, in addressing Hester as Thou, addresses his prayer to "an earthly Physician" after all (se

Chapter X); his words, therefore, look ahead to the 1850s ideas of love, conceivably held by theSurveyor writing the text.



Pag

thered leaves. The mystic token alighted on the hither verge of the stream. With a

nd's breadth farther flight it would have fallen into the water, and have given the lit

ook another woe to carry onward, besides the unintelligible tale which it still kept

urmuring about. But there lay the embroidered letter, glittering like a lost jewel, whi

me ill-fated wanderer might pick up, and thenceforth be haunted by strange phanto

guilt, sinkings of the heart, and unaccountable misfortune.

e stigma gone, Hester heaved a long, deep sigh, in which the burden of shame and

guish departed from her spirit. O exquisite relief! She had not known the weight, u

e felt the freedom! By another impulse, she took off the formal cap that confined he

ir; and down it fell upon her shoulders, dark and rich, with at once a shadow and a

ht in its abundance, and imparting the charm of softness to her features. There play

ound her mouth, and beamed out of her eyes, a radiant and tender smile, that seeme

shing from the very heart of womanhood.1 A crimson flush was glowing on her chat had been long so pale. Her sex, her youth, and the whole richness of her beauty,

me back from what men call the irrevocable past, and clustered themselves, with he

aiden hope, and a happiness before unknown, within the magic circle of this hour.

if the gloom of the earth and sky had been but the effluence of these two mortal he

vanished with their sorrow. All at once, as with a sudden smile of heaven, forth bur

e sunshine, pouring a very flood into the obscure forest, gladdening each green leaf

nsmuting the yellow fallen ones to gold, and gleaming adown the gray trunks of th

lemn trees. The objects that had made a shadow hitherto, embodied the brightness ne course of the little brook might be traced by its merry gleam afar into the wood's

art of mystery, which had become a mystery of joy.

1 See Chapter XIII in which this transformation is given the religious term of "transfiguration"

(whereby God became human): "She who has once been woman, and ceased to be so, might at any

moment become a woman again, if there were only the magic touch to effect the transfiguration." I

Hester learned "much amiss," this "transfiguration'' celebrating her "sympathy" with Arthur and

nature at large is an ironic comment of how Hester has gone awry.



Pag

ch was the sympathy of Nature that wild, heathen Nature of the forest, never

bjugated by human law, nor illumined by higher truth with the bliss of these two

irits! Love, whether newly born, or aroused from a deathlike slumber, must always

eate a sunshine, filling the heart so full of radiance, that it overflows upon the outw

orld. Had the forest still kept its gloom, it would have been bright in Hester's eyes, a

ght in Arthur Dimmesdale's!

ester looked at him with the thrill of another joy.

hou must know Pearl!" said she. "Our little Pearl! Thou hast seen her, yes, I know

t thou wilt see her now with other eyes. She is a strange child! I hardly comprehen

r! But thou wilt love her dearly, as I do, and wilt advise me how to deal with her."

ost thou think the child will be glad to know me?" asked the minister, somewhat

easily. "I have long shrunk from children, because they often show a distrust, a

ckwardness to be familiar with me. I have even been afraid of little Pearl!"

Ah, that was sad!" answered the mother. "But she will love thee dearly, and thou her

e is not far off. I will call her! Pearl! Pearl!"

see the child," observed the minister. "Yonder she is, standing in a streak of sunshin

od way off, on the other side of the brook. So thou thinkest the child will love me?

ester smiled, and again called to Pearl, who was visible, at some distance, as the min

d described her, like a bright-apparelled vision, in a sunbeam, which fell down upor through an arch of boughs. The ray quivered to and fro, making her figure dim o

stinct, now like a real child, now like a child's spirit, as the splendor went and came

ain. She heard her mother's voice, and approached slowly through the forest.

arl had not found the hour pass wearisomely, while her mother sat talking with the

ergyman. The great black forest stern as it showed itself to those who brought the gu

d troubles of the world into its bosom became the playmate of the lonely infant, as

it knew how. Sombre as it was, it put on the kindest of its moods to welcome her. Ifered her the partridge-berries, the growth of the preceding autumn, but ripening on

the spring, and now red as drops of blood upon the withered leaves. These Pearl

thered, and was pleased with their wild flavor. The small denizens



Pag

the wilderness hardly took pains to move out of her path. A partridge, indeed, with

ood of ten behind her, ran forward threateningly, but soon repented of her fiercene

d clucked to her young ones not to be afraid. A pigeon, alone on a low branch, allo

arl to come beneath, and uttered a sound as much of greeting as alarm. A squirrel,

e lofty depths of his domestic tree, chattered either in anger or merriment, for a squ

such a choleric and humorous little personage that it is hard to distinguish between oods, so he chattered at the child, and flung down a nut upon her head. It was a las

ar's nut, and already gnawed by his sharp tooth. A fox, startled from his sleep by he

ht footstep on the leaves, looked inquisitively at Pearl, as doubting whether it were

tter to steal off, or renew his nap on the same spot. A wolf, it is said, but here the ta

s surely lapsed into the improbable, came up, and smelt of Pearl's robe, and offered

vage head to be patted by her hand. The truth seems to be, however, that the mothe

rest, and these wild things which it nourished, all recognized a kindred wildness in

man child.

nd she was gentler here than in the grassy-margined streets of the settlement, or in h

other's cottage. The flowers appeared to know it; and one and another whispered, a

ssed, "Adorn thyself with me, thou beautiful child, adorn thyself with me!" and, to

ease them, Pearl gathered the violets, and anemones, and columbines, and some twi

the freshest green, which the old trees held down before her eyes. With these she

corated her hair, and her young waist, and became a nymph-child, or an infant drya

whatever else was in closest sympathy with the antique wood. In such guise had Peorned herself, when she heard her mother's voice, and came slowly back.

owly; for she saw the clergyman!

1 Wood nymph; hence, Pearl is a part of nature.



Pag

IX

he Child at the Brook-Side

hou wilt love her dearly," repeated Hester Prynne, as she and the minister sat watch

tle Pearl. "Dost thou not think her beautiful? And see with what natural skill she hasade those simple flowers adorn her! Had she gathered pearls, and diamonds, and ru

the wood, they could not have become her better. She is a splendid child! but I kno

hose brow she has!"

ost thou know, Hester," said Arthur Dimmesdale, with an unquiet smile, "that this d

ild, tripping about always at thy side, had caused me many an alarm? Methought O

ester, what a thought is that, and how terrible to dread it! that my own features were

rtly repeated in her face, and so strikingly that the world might see them! But she isostly thine!"

No, no! Not mostly!" answered the mother with a tender smile. "A little longer, and t

edest not be afraid to trace whose child she is. But how strangely beautiful she look

th those wild flowers in her hair! It is as if one of the fairies, whom we left in our d

d England, had decked her out to meet us."

was with a feeling which neither of them had ever before experienced, that they sat

atched Pearl's slow advance. In her was visible the tie that united them. She had beefered to the world, these seven years past, as the living hieroglyphic, in which was

vealed the secret they so darkly sought to hide, all written in this symbol, all plainly

anifest, had there been a prophet or magician skilled to read the character of flame!

arl was the oneness of their being. Be the foregone evil what it might, how could th

ubt that their earthly lives and future destinies were conjoined, when they beheld at

ce the material union, and the spiritual idea, in whom they met, and were to dwell

mortally together? Thoughts like these and perhaps other thoughts, which they did

knowledge or define threw an awe about the child, as she came onward.

et her see nothing strange no passion nor eagerness in thy way of accosting her,"

hispered Hester. "Our Pearl is a fitful



Pag

d fantastic little elf, sometimes. Especially, she is seldom tolerant of emotion, when

es not fully comprehend the why and wherefore. But the child hath strong affection

e loves me, and will love thee!"

hou canst not think," said the minister, glancing aside at Hester Prynne, "how my h

eads this interview, and yearns for it! But, in truth, as I already told thee, children a

t readily won to be familiar with me. They will not climb my knee, nor prattle in m

r, nor answer to my smile; but stand apart, and eye me strangely. Even little babes,

hen I take them in my arms, weep bitterly. Yet Pearl, twice in her little lifetime, hath

en kind to me! The first time, thou knowest it well! The last was when thou ledst h

th thee to the house of yonder stern old Governor."

And thou didst plead so bravely in her behalf and mine!" answered the mother. "I

member it; and so shall little Pearl. Fear nothing! She may be strange and shy at firs

t will soon learn to love thee!"

y this time Pearl had reached the margin of the brook, and stood on the farther side,

zing silently at Hester and the clergyman, who still sat together on the mossy tree-tru

aiting to receive her. Just where she had paused the brook chanced to form a pool,

mooth and quiet that it reflected a perfect image of her little figure, with all the brillia

cturesqueness of her beauty, in its adornment of flowers and wreathed foliage, but m

fined and spiritualized than the reality. This image, so nearly identical with the livin

arl, seemed to communicate somewhat of its own shadowy and intangible quality tild herself. It was strange, the way in which Pearl stood, looking so stedfastly1 at th

rough the dim medium of the forest-gloom; herself, meanwhile, all glorified with a

sunshine, that was attracted thitherward as by a certain sympathy. In the brook ben

ood another child, another and the same, with likewise its ray of golden light. Heste

rself, in some indistinct and tantalizing manner, estranged from Pearl; as if the child

r lonely ramble through the forest, had strayed out of the sphere in which she

1 Steadfastly; Hawthorne's alternate spelling.



Pag

d her mother dwelt together, and was now vainly seeking to return to it.

ere was both truth and error in the impression; the child and mother were estrange

t through Hester's fault, not Pearl's. Since the latter rambled from her side, another

mate had been admitted within the circle of the mother's feelings, and so modified t

pect of them all, that Pearl, the returning wanderer, could not find her wonted place

d hardly knew where she was.

have a strange fancy," observed the sensitive minister, "that this brook is the bound

tween two worlds, and that thou canst never meet thy Pearl again. Or is she an elfis

irit, who, as the legends of our childhood taught us, is forbidden to cross a running

eam? Pray hasten her; for this delay has already imparted a tremor to my nerves."

ome, dearest child!" said Hester encouragingly, and stretching out both her arms. "H

ow thou art! When hast thou been so sluggish before now? Here is a friend of mine

ho must be thy friend also. Thou wilt have twice as much love, henceforward, as th

other alone could give thee! Leap across the brook and come to us. Thou canst leap

young deer!"

arl, without responding in any manner to these honey-sweet expressions, remained

e other side of the brook. Now she fixed her bright, wild eyes on her mother, now o

e minister, and now included them both in the same glance; as if to detect and expla

rself the relation which they bore to one another. For some unaccountable reason, a

thur Dimmesdale felt the child's eyes upon himself, his hand with that gesture sobitual as to have become involuntary stole over his heart. At length, assuming a

ngular air of authority, Pearl stretched out her hand, with the small forefinger extend

d pointing evidently towards her mother's breast. And beneath, in the mirror of the

ook, there was the flower-girdled and sunny image of little Pearl, pointing her smal

refinger too.

hou strange child, why dost thou not come to me?" exclaimed Hester.

arl still pointed with her forefinger; and a frown gathered on her brow; the morepressive from the childish, the almost baby-like aspect of the features that conveye

her mother still kept



Pag

ckoning to her, and arraying her face in a holiday suit of unaccustomed smiles, the

ild stamped her foot with a yet more imperious look and gesture. In the brook, aga

as the fantastic beauty of the image, with its reflected frown, its pointed finger, and

perious gesture, giving emphasis to the aspect of little Pearl.

Hasten, Pearl; or I shall be angry with thee!" cried Hester Prynne, who, however inur

such behaviour on the elf-child's part at other seasons, was naturally anxious for a

ore seemly deportment now. "Leap across the brook, naughty child, and run hither!

must come to thee!"

ut Pearl, not a whit startled at her mother's threats, any more than mollified by her

treaties, now suddenly burst into a fit of passion, gesticulating violently, and throw

r small figure into the most extravagant contortions. She accompanied this wild

tbreak with piercing shrieks, which the woods reverberated on all sides; so that, alo

she was in her childish and unreasonable wrath, it seemed as if a hidden multitudeere lending her their sympathy and encouragement. Seen in the brook, once more, w

e shadowy wrath of Pearl's image, crowned and girdled with flowers, but stamping

ot, wildly gesticulating, and, in the midst of all, still pointing its small forefinger at

ester's bosom!

see what ails the child," whispered Hester to the clergyman, and turning pale in spit

trong effort to conceal her trouble and annoyance. "Children will not abide any, the

ghtest, change in the accustomed aspect of things that are daily before their eyes. Pesses something which she has always seen me wear!"

pray you," answered the minister, "if thou hast any means of pacifying the child, do

rthwith! Save it were the cankered wrath of an old witch, like Mistress Hibbins," ad

, attempting to smile. "I know nothing that I would not sooner encounter than this

ssion in a child. In Pearl's young beauty, as in the wrinkled witch, it has a preternat

fect. Pacify her, if thou lovest me!"

ester turned again towards Pearl, with a crimson blush upon her cheek, a consciousance aside at the clergyman, and then a heavy sigh; while, even before she had time

eak, the blush yielded to a deadly pallor.

earl," said she, sadly, "look down at thy feet! There! before



Pag

ee! on the hither side of the brook!"

e child turned her eyes to the point indicated; and there lay the scarlet letter, so clos

on the margin of the stream, that the gold embroidery was reflected in it.

ring it hither!" said Hester.

ome thou and take it up!" answered Pearl.

Was ever such a child!" observed Hester aside to the minister. "O, I have much to tel

ee about her. But, in very truth, she is right as regards this hateful token. I must bear

rture yet a little longer, only a few days longer, until we shall have left this region, a

ok back hither as to a land which we have dreamed of. The forest cannot hide it! Th

d-ocean shall take it from my hand, and swallow it up for ever!"

ith these words, she advanced to the margin of the brook, took up the scarlet letter,

stened it again into her bosom. Hopefully, but a moment ago, as Hester had spoken

owning it in the deep sea, there was a sense of inevitable doom upon her, as she thu

ceived back this deadly symbol from the hand of fate. She had flung it into infinite

ace! she had drawn an hour's free breath! and here again was the scarlet misery,

ttering on the old spot! So it ever is, whether thus typified or no, that an evil deed

vests itself with the character of doom. Hester next gathered up the heavy tresses of

ir, and confined them beneath her cap. As if there were a withering spell in the sad

ter, her beauty, the warmth and richness of her womanhood, departed, like fadingnshine; and a gray shadow seemed to fall across her.

hen the dreary change was wrought, she extended her hand to Pearl.

ost thou know thy mother now, child?" asked she, reproachfully, but with a subdu

ne. "Wilt thou come across the brook, and own thy mother, now that she has her sh

on her, now that she is sad?"

Yes; now I will!" answered the child, bounding across the brook, and clasping Heste

r arms. "Now thou art my mother indeed! And I am thy little Pearl!"

a mood of tenderness that was not usual with her, she drew down her mother's hea

d kissed her brow and both her cheeks.



Pag

ut then by a kind of necessity that always impelled this child to alloy whatever comf

e might chance to give with a throb of anguish Pearl put up her mouth, and kissed

arlet letter too!

hat was not kind!" said Hester. "When thou hast shown me a little love, thou mocke

e!"

Why doth the minister sit yonder?" asked Pearl.

He waits to welcome thee," replied her mother. "Come thou, and entreat his blessing

ves thee, my little Pearl, and loves thy mother too. Wilt thou not love him? Come! h

ngs to greet thee!"

oth he love us?" said Pearl, looking up with acute intelligence into her mother's fac

Will he go back with us, hand in hand, we three together, into the town?"

Not now, dear child," answered Hester. "But in days to come he will walk hand in ha

th us. We will have a home and fireside of our own; and thou shalt sit upon his kne

d he will teach thee many things, and love thee dearly. Thou wilt love him; wilt tho

t?"

And will he always keep his hand over his heart?" inquired Pearl.

oolish child, what a question is that!" exclaimed her mother. "Come and ask his

essing!"ut, whether influenced by the jealousy that seems instinctive with every petted child

wards a dangerous rival, or from whatever caprice of her freakish nature, Pearl wou

ow no favor to the clergyman. It was only by an exertion of force that her mother

ought her up to him, hanging back, and manifesting her reluctance by odd grimaces

hich, ever since her babyhood, she had possessed a singular variety, and could

nsform her mobile physiognomy into a series of different aspects with a new misch

them, each and all. The minister painfully embarrassed, but hoping that a kiss migh

ove a talisman to admit him into the child's kindlier regards bent forward, andpressed one on her brow. Hereupon, Pearl broke away from her mother, and, runn

the brook, stooped over it, and bathed her forehead, until the unwelcome kiss was

ite washed off, and diffused through a long lapse of the gliding water. She then

mained apart, silently watching Hester and the clergyman; while they talked togethe

d made such arrangements as



Pag

ere suggested by their new position, and the purposes soon to be fulfilled.

nd now this fateful interview had come to a close. The dell was to be left a solitude

mong its dark, old trees, which, with their multitudinous tongues, would whisper lon

hat had passed there, and no mortal be the wiser. And the melancholy brook would

s other tale to the mystery with which its little heart was already overburdened, and

hereof it still kept up a murmuring babble, with not a whit more cheerfulness of ton

an for ages heretofore.



Pag

X

he Minister in a Maze

the minister departed, in advance of Hester Prynne and little Pearl, he threw a

ckward glance; half expecting that he should discover only some faintly traced featuoutline of the mother and the child, slowly fading into the twilight of the woods. S

eat a vicissitude in his life could not at once be received as real. But there was Heste

ad in her gray robe, still standing beside the tree-trunk, which some blast had

erthrown a long antiquity ago, and which time had ever since been covering with m

that these two fated ones, with earth's heaviest burden on them, might there sit dow

gether, and find a single hour's rest and solace. And there was Pearl, too, lightly dan

om the margin of the brook, now that the intrusive third person was gone, and takin

r old place by her mother's side. So the minister had not fallen asleep, and dreamed

order to free his mind from this indistinctness and duplicity of impression, which

xed it with a strange disquietude, he recalled and more thoroughly defined the plan

hich Hester and himself had sketched for their departure. It had been determined

tween them, that the Old World, with its crowds and cities, offered them a more eli

elter and concealment than the wilds of New England, or all America, with its

ernatives of an Indian wigwam, or the few settlements of Europeans, scattered thinl

ong the seaboard. Not to speak of the clergyman's health, so inadequate to sustain thrdships of a forest life, his native gifts, his culture, and his entire development wou

cure him a home only in the midst of civilization and refinement; the higher the stat

e more delicately adapted to it the man. In furtherance of this choice, it so happened

at a ship lay in the harbour; one of those questionable cruisers, frequent at that day,

hich, without being absolutely outlaws of the deep, yet roamed over its surface with

markable irresponsibility



Pag

character. This vessel had recently arrived from the Spanish Main, and, within thre

ys' time, would sail for Bristol.1 Hester Prynne whose vocation, as a self-enlisted Si

Charity,2 had brought her acquainted with the captain and crew could take upon

rself to secure the passage of two individuals and a child, with all the secrecy which

cumstances rendered more than desirable.

e minister had inquired of Hester, with no little interest, the precise time at which th

ssel might be expected to depart. It would probably be on the fourth day from the

esent. ''That is most fortunate!" he had then said to himself. Now, why the Reveren

r. Dimmesdale considered it so very fortunate, we hesitate to reveal. Nevertheless, t

ld nothing back from the reader, it was because, on the third day from the present,

as to preach the Election Sermon;3 and, as such an occasion formed an honorable e

the life of a New England clergyman, he could not have chanced upon a more suita

ode and time of terminating his professional career. "At least, they shall say of me,"ought this exemplary man, "that I leave no public duty unperformed, nor ill

rformed!" Sad, indeed, that an introspection so profound and acute as this poor

nister's should be so miserably deceived! We have had, and may still have, worse

ngs to tell of him; but none, we apprehend, so pitiably weak; no evidence, at once s

ht and irrefragable, of a subtle disease, that had long since begun to eat into the rea

bstance of his character. No man, for any considerable period, can wear one face to

mself, and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which m

the true.e excitement of Mr. Dimmesdale's feelings, as he returned from his interview with

ester, lent him unaccustomed physical energy, and hurried him townward at a rapid

ce. The pathway among the woods seemed wilder, more uncouth with its rude natu

stacles, and less trodden by the foot of man, than he remem-

1 A key seaport in western England.

2 As a Sister of Charity, Hester is a practitioner of the doctrine of "good works;" thus an ironic

contrast to Arthur's doctrine of "faith" which is based on "repentance."3 The Election Sermon was preached (usually in early May) by a prominent minister at the

inauguration of a new governor to secure God's blessing for the colony in the coming year.



Pag

red it on his outward journey. But he leaped across the plashy1 places, thrust himse

rough the clinging underbrush, climbed the ascent, plunged into the hollow, and

ercame, in short, all the difficulties of the track, with an unweariable activity that

onished him. He could not but recall how feebly, and with what frequent pauses fo

eath, he had toiled over the same ground only two days before. As he drew near the

wn, he took an impression of change from the series of familiar objects that presentemselves. It seemed not yesterday, not one, nor two, but many days, or even years a

nce he had quitted them. There, indeed, was each former trace of the street, as he

membered it, and all the peculiarities of the houses, with the due multitude of gable

aks, and a weathercock at every point where his memory suggested one. Not the le

wever, came this importunately obtrusive sense of change. The same was true as

garded the acquaintances whom he met, and all the well-known shapes of human li

out the little town. They looked neither older nor younger, now; the beards of the a

ere no whiter, nor could the creeping babe of yesterday walk on his feet to-day; it wpossible to describe in what respect they differed from the individuals on whom he

recently bestowed a parting glance; and yet the minister's deepest sense seemed to

form him of their mutability. A similar impression struck him most remarkably, as h

ssed under the walls of his own church. The edifice had so very strange, and yet so

miliar, an aspect, that Mr. Dimmesdale's mind vibrated between two ideas; either tha

d seen it only in a dream hitherto, or that he was merely dreaming about it now.

is phenomenon, in the various shapes which it assumed, indicated no external chant so sudden and important a change in the spectator of the familiar scene, that the

ervening space of a single day had operated on his consciousness like the lapse of

ars. The minister's own will, and Hester's will, and the fate that grew between them

ought this transformation. It was the same town as heretofore; but the same ministe

urned not from the forest. He might have said to the friends who greeted him, "I am

t the

1 A New-England term for what would give a splash; thus, a puddle.



Pag

an for whom you take me! I left him yonder in the forest, withdrawn into a secret d

a mossy tree-trunk, and near a melancholy brook! Go, seek your minister, and see

s emaciated figure, his thin cheek, his white, heavy, pain-wrinkled brow, be not flun

wn there like a cast-off garment!" His friends, no doubt, would still have insisted w

m, "Thou art thyself the man!" but the error would have been their own, not his.

fore Mr. Dimmesdale reached home, his inner man gave him other evidences of a

volution in the sphere of thought and feeling. In truth, nothing short of a total chang

nasty and moral code, in that interior kingdom, was adequate to account for the

pulses now communicated to the unfortunate and startled minister. At every step he

as incited to do some strange, wild, wicked thing or other, with a sense that it would

once involuntary and intentional; in spite of himself, yet growing out of a profound

f than that which opposed the impulse. For instance, he met one of his own deacon

e good old man addressed him with the paternal affection and patriarchal privilegehich his venerable age, his upright and holy character, and his station in the Church

titled him to use; and, conjoined with this, the deep, almost worshipping respect, w

e minister's professional and private claims alike demanded. Never was there a mor

autiful example of how the majesty of age and wisdom may comport with the

eisance and respect enjoined upon it, as from a lower social rank and inferior orde

dowment, towards a higher. Now, during a conversation of some two or three mom

tween the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale and this excellent and hoary-bearded deacon,

as only by the most careful self-control that the former could refrain from utteringrtain blasphemous suggestions that rose into his mind, respecting the communion-

pper. He absolutely trembled and turned pale as ashes, lest his tongue should wag it

utterance of these horrible matters, and plead his own consent for so doing withou

ving fairly given it. And, even with this terror in his heart, he could hardly avoid

ughing to imagine how the sanctified old patriarchal deacon would have been petrif

his minister's impiety!

gain, another incident of the same nature. Hurrying along the street, the Reverend M

mmesdale encountered the eldest female



Pag

ember of his church; a most pious and exemplary old dame; poor, widowed, lonely,

th a heart as full of reminiscences about her dead husband and children, and her de

ends of long ago, as a burial-ground is full of storied grave-stones. Yet all this, whi

ould else have been such heavy sorrow, was made almost a solemn joy to her devou

d soul by religious consolations and the truths of Scripture, wherewith she had fed

rself continually for more than thirty years. And, since Mr. Dimmesdale had taken hcharge, the good grandam's chief earthly comfort which, unless it had been likewis

avenly comfort, could have been none at all was to meet her pastor, whether casual

of set purpose, and be refreshed with a word of warm, fragrant, heaven-breathing

ospel truth from his beloved lips into her dulled, but rapturously attentive ear. But,

s occasion, up to the moment of putting his lips to the old woman's ear, Mr.

mmesdale, as the great enemy of souls1 would have it, could recall no text of Scrip

r aught else, except a brief, pithy, and, as it then appeared to him, unanswerable

gument against the immortality of the human soul. The instilment thereof into her mould probably have caused this aged sister to drop down dead, at once, as by the ef

an intensely poisonous infusion. What he really did whisper, the minister could ne

erwards recollect. There was, perhaps, a fortunate disorder in his utterance, which

led to impart any distinct idea to the good widow's comprehension, or which

ovidence interpreted after a method of its own. Assuredly, as the minister looked ba

beheld an expression of divine gratitude and ecstasy that seemed like the shine of t

lestial city on her face, so wrinkled and ashy pale.

gain, a third instance. After parting from the old church-member, he met the younge

ter of them all. It was a maiden newly won and won by the Reverend Mr.

mmesdale's own sermon, on the Sabbath after his vigil to barter the transitory pleas

the world for the heavenly hope, that was to assume brighter sub-

1 The Devil, spoken of in the previous chapter, who can find other "avenues" if the "ruined wall"

shorn up and guarded; here, the "enemy" tries four, but the minister, conscious of the temptation,

resists each.



Pag

nce as life grew dark around her, and which would gild the utter gloom with final

ory. She was fair and pure as a lily that had bloomed in Paradise. The minister knew

ell that he was himself enshrined within the stainless sanctity of her heart, which hu

snowy curtains about his image, imparting to religion the warmth of love, and to lo

igious purity. Satan, that afternoon, had surely led the poor young girl away from h

other's side, and thrown her into the pathway of this sorely tempted, or shall we nother say? this lost and desperate man. As she drew nigh, the arch-fiend whispered h

condense into small compass and drop into her tender bosom a germ of evil that w

sure to blossom darkly soon, and bear black fruit betimes. Such was his sense of

wer over this virgin soul, trusting him as she did, that the minister felt potent to bli

the field of innocence with but one wicked look, and develop all its opposite with

word. So with a mightier struggle than he had yet sustained he held his Geneva cloa

fore his face, and hurried onward, making no sign of recognition, and leaving the

ung sister to digest his rudeness as she might. She ransacked her conscience, -whicas full of harmless little matters, like her pocket or her work-bag, and took herself t

k, poor thing, for a thousand imaginary faults; and went about her household dutie

th swollen eyelids the next morning.

fore the minister had time to celebrate his victory over this last temptation, he was

nscious of another impulse, more ludicrous, and almost as horrible. It was, we blus

l it, it was to stop short in the road, and teach some very wicked words to a knot of

tle Puritan children who were playing there, and had but just begun to talk. Denyingmself this freak, as unworthy of his cloth, he met a drunken seaman, one of the ship

ew from the Spanish Main. And, here, since he had so valiantly forborne all other

ckedness, poor Mr. Dimmesdale longed, at least, to shake hands with the tarry

ackguard, and recreate himself with a few improper jests, such as dissolute sailors s

ound with, and a volley of good, round, solid,



Pag

isfactory, and heaven-defying oaths! It was not so much a better principle, as partly

tural good taste, and still more his buckramed1 habit of clerical decorum, that carrie

m safely through the latter crisis.

What is it that haunts and tempts me thus?" cried the minister to himself, at length,

using in the street, and striking his hand against his forehead. "Am I mad? or am I

ven over utterly to the fiend? Did I make a contract with him in the forest, and sign

th my blood? And does he now summon me to its fulfilment, by suggesting the

rformance of every wickedness which his most foul imagination can conceive?"

the moment when the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale thus communed with himself, an

uck his forehead with his hand, old Mistress Hibbins, the reputed witch-lady, is said

ve been passing by. She made a very grand appearance; having on a high head-dres

h gown of velvet, and a ruff done up with the famous yellow starch, of which Ann

rner,2 her especial friend, had taught her the secret, before this last good lady had bnged for Sir Thomas Overbury's murder. Whether the witch had read the minister's

oughts, or no, she came to a full stop, looked shrewdly into his face, smiled craftily

d though little given to converse with clergymen began a conversation.

o, reverend Sir, you have made a visit into the forest," observed the witch-lady,

dding her high head-dress at him. "The next time, I pray you to allow me only a fai

arning, and I shall be proud to bear you company. Without taking overmuch upon

yself, my good word will go far towards gaining any strange gentleman a fair recepom yonder potentate you wot of!"

profess, madam," answered the clergyman, with a grave obeisance, such as the lady

nk demanded, and his own good-breeding made imperative, "I profess, on my

nscience and character, that

1 Stiff or rigid.

2 Turner (? - 1615), a madam for a house of prostitution, brought the poison to the Tower where S

Thomas Overbury was murdered; she was convicted and executed. Earlier, in Chapter IX, a Bostotestified that he saw Chillingworth, using another name, associate with Dr. Forman, a known

conspirator in Overbury's poisoning.



Pag

m utterly bewildered as touching the purport of your words! I went not into the for

seek a potentate; neither do I, at any future time, design a visit thither, with a view t

ining the favour of such personage. My one sufficient object was to greet that pious

end of mine, the Apostle Eliot, and rejoice with him over the many precious souls h

th won from heathendom!"

Ha, ha, ha!" cackled the old witch-lady, still nodding her high head-dress at the minis

Well, well, we must needs talk thus in the daytime! You carry it off like an old hand!

midnight, and in the forest, we shall have other talk together!"

e passed on with her aged stateliness, but often turning back her head and smiling a

m, like one willing to recognize a secret intimacy of connection.

Have I then sold myself," thought the minister, "to the fiend whom, if men say true, t

llow-starched and velveted old hag has chosen for her prince and master!"

e wretched minister! He had made a bargain very like it! Tempted by a dream of

ppiness, he had yielded himself with deliberate choice, as he had never done before

hat he knew was deadly sin. And the infectious poison of that sin had been thus rap

ffused throughout his moral system. It had stupefied all blessed impulses, and

wakened into vivid life the whole brotherhood of bad ones. Scorn, bitterness,

provoked malignity, gratuitous desire of ill, ridicule of whatever was good and holy

woke, to tempt, even while they frightened him. And his encounter with old Mistress

bbins, if it were a real incident, did but show his sympathy and fellowship with wicortals and the world of perverted spirits.

e had by this time reached his dwelling, on the edge of the burial-ground, and, haste

the stairs, took refuge in his study. The minister was glad to have reached this shel

thout first betraying himself to the world by any of those strange and wicked

centricities to which he had been continually impelled while passing through the str

entered the accustomed room, and looked around him on its books, its windows,

eplace, and the tapestried comfort of the walls, with the same perception of strangeat had haunted him throughout his walk from the forest-dell into the town, and

therward. Here he had studied and written; here, gone



Pag

rough fast and vigil, and come forth half alive; here, striven to pray; here, borne a

ndred thousand agoines! There was the Bible, in its rich old Hebrew, with Moses an

e Prophets speaking to him, and God's voice through all! There, on the table, with t

ky pen beside it, was an unfinished sermon, with a sentence broken in the midst, w

s thoughts had ceased to gush out upon the page two days before. He knew that it w

mself, the thin and white-cheeked minister, who had done and suffered these thingsd written thus far into the Election Sermon! But he seemed to stand apart, and eye t

rmer self with scornful, pitying, but half-envious curiosity. That self was gone! Ano

an had returned out of the forest; a wiser one; with a knowledge of hidden mysterie

hich the simplicity of the former never could have reached. A bitter kind of knowle

at!

hile occupied with these reflections, a knock came at the door of the study, and the

nister said, "Come in!" not wholly devoid of an idea that he might behold an evil spnd so he did! It was old Roger Chillingworth that entered. The minister stood, white

d speechless, with one hand on the Hebrew Scriptures, and the other spread upon h

east.

Welcome home, reverend Sir!" said the physician. "And how found you that godly m

e Apostle Eliot? But methinks, dear Sir, you look pale; as if the travel through the

lderness had been too sore for you. Will not my aid be requisite to put you in heart

ength to preach your Election Sermon?"

Nay, I think not so," rejoined the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale. "My journey, and the s

the holy Apostle yonder, and the free air which I have breathed, have done me goo

er so long confinement in my study. I think to need no more of your drugs, my kin

ysician, good though they be, and administered by a friendly hand."

l this time, Roger Chillingworth was looking at the minister with the grave and inte

gard of a physician towards his patient. But, in spite of this outward show, the latter

most convinced of the old man's knowledge, or, at least, his confident suspicion, wi

spect to his own interview with Hester Prynne. The physician knew, then, that, in thnister's regard, he was no longer a trusted



Pag

end, but his bitterest enemy. So much being known, it would appear natural that a p

it should be expressed. It is singular, however, how long a time often passes before

ords embody things; and with what security two persons, who choose to avoid a ce

bject, may approach its very verge, and retire without disturbing it. Thus, the minist

t no apprehension that Roger Chillingworth would touch, in express words, upon t

al position which they sustained towards one another. Yet did the physician, in his day, creep frightfully near the secret.

Were it not better," said he, "that you use my poor skill tonight? Verily, dear Sir, we m

ke pains to make you strong and vigorous for this occasion of the Election discours

e people look for great things from you; apprehending that another year may come

out, and find their pastor gone."

Yea, to another world," replied the minister, with pious resignation. "Heaven grant it

tter one; for, in good sooth, I hardly think to tarry with my flock through the flittingasons of another year! But, touching your medicine, kind Sir, in my present frame o

dy I need it not."

joy to hear it," answered the physician. "It may be that my remedies, so long

ministered in vain, begin now to take due effect. Happy man were I, and well deser

New England's gratitude, could I achieve this cure!"

thank you from my heart, most watchful friend," said the Reverend Mr. Dimmesda

th a solemn smile. "I think you, and can but requite your good deeds with my praye

A good man's prayers are golden recompense!" rejoined old Roger Chillingworth, as

ok his leave. "Yea, they are the current gold coin of the New Jerusalem, with the Ki

wn mintmark on them!"

ft alone, the minister summoned a servant of the house, and requested food, which

ing set before him, he ate with ravenous appetite. Then, flinging the already written

ges of the Election Sermon into the fire, he forthwith began another, which he wrot

th such a impulsive flow of thought and emotion, that he fancied himself inspired; ly wondered that Heaven should see fit to transmit the grand and solemn music of i

acles through so foul an



Pag

gan-pipe as he. However, leaving that mystery to solve itself, or go unsolved for ev

drove his task onward, with earnest haste and ecstasy. Thus the night fled away, as

ere a winged steed, and he careering on it; morning came, and peeped blushing thro

e curtains; and a last sunrise threw a golden beam into the study, and laid it right acr

e minister's bedazzled eyes. There he was, with the pen still between his fingers, and

st, immeasurable tract of written space behind him!



Pag

XI

he New England Holiday

times1 in the morning of the day on which the new Governor was to receive his of

the hand of the people,2 Hester Prynne and little Pearl came into the market-place. as already thronged with the craftsmen and other plebeian inhabitants of the town, i

nsiderable numbers; among whom, likewise, were many rough figures, whose attir

er-skins marked them as belonging to some of the forest settlements, which surroun

e little metropolis of the colony.

n this public holiday, as on all other occasions, for seven years past, Hester was clad

garment of coarse gray cloth. Not more by its hue than by some indescribable

culiarity in its fashion, it had the effect of making her fade personally out of sight atline; while, again, the scarlet letter brought her back from this twilight indistinctne

d revealed her under the moral aspect of its own illumination. Her face, so long fam

the townspeople, showed the marble quietude which they were accustomed to beho

ere. It was like a mask; or rather, like the frozen calmness of a dead woman's featur

wing this dreary resemblance to the fact that Hester was actually dead, in respect to a

aim of sympathy, and had departed out of the world with which she still seemed to

ngle.

might be, on this one day, that there was an expression unseen before, nor, indeed,

vid enough to be detected now; unless some preternaturally gifted observer should

st read the heart, and have afterwards sought a corresponding development in the

untenance and mien. Such a spiritual seer might have conceived, that, after sustaini

e gaze of the multitude through seven miserable years as a necessity, a penance, and

mething which it was a stern religion to endure, she now, for one last time more,

countered it freely and voluntarily, in order to convert what had so long been ag-

1 Early.

2 The third day after the meeting of Hester and Arthur in the forest.



Pag

y into a kind of triumph. ''Look your last on the scarlet letter and its wearer!" the

ople's victim and life-long bond-slave, as they fancied her, might say to them. "Yet

tle while, and she will be beyond your reach! A few hours longer, and the deep,

ysterious ocean will quench and hide for ever the symbol which ye have caused to b

on her bosom!" Nor were it an inconsistency too improbable to be assigned to hum

ture, should we suppose a feeling of regret in Hester's mind, at the moment when shas about to win her freedom from the pain which had been thus deeply incorporate

th her being. Might there not be an irresistible desire to quaff a last, long, breathless

aught of the cup of wormwood and aloes, with which nearly all her years of

omanhood had been perpetually flavored? The wine of life, henceforth to be presen

her lips, must be indeed rich, delicious, and exhilarating, in its chased and golden

aker; or else leave an inevitable and weary languor, after the lees of bitterness

herewith she had been drugged, as with a cordial of intensest potency.

arl was decked out with airy gayety. It would have been impossible to guess that th

ght and sunny apparition owed its existence to the shape of gloomy gray; or that a

ncy, at once so gorgeous and so delicate as must have been requisite to contrive the

ild's apparel, was the same that had achieved a task perhaps more difficult, in impa

distinct a peculiarity to Hester's simple robe. The dress, so proper was it to little Pe

emed an effluence, or inevitable development and outward manifestation of her

aracter, no more to be separated from her than the many-hued brilliancy from a

tterfly's wing, or the painted glory from the leaf of a bright flower. As with these, sth the child; her garb was all of one idea with her nature. On this eventful day,

oreover, there was a certain singular inquietude and excitement in her mood, resemb

thing so much as the shimmer of a diamond, that sparkles and flashes with the vari

robbings of the breast on which it is displayed. Children have always a sympathy in

itations of those connected with them; always, especially, a sense of any trouble or

pending revolution, of whatever kind, in domestic circumstances; and therefore Pe

ho was the gem on her mother's unquiet bosom, betrayed, by the very dance of her

irits, the emotions which none could de-



Pag

ct in the marble passiveness of Hester's brow.

is effervescence made her flit with a bird-like movement, rather than walk by her

other's side. She broke continually into shouts of a wild, inarticulate, and sometime

ercing music. When they reached the market-place, she became still more restless, o

rceiving the stir and bustle that enlivened the spot; for it was usually more like the

oad and lonesome green before a village meeting-house, than the centre of a town's

siness.

Why, what is this, mother?" cried she. "Wherefore have all the people left their work

y? Is it a play-day for the whole world. See, there is the blacksmith! He has washed

oty face, and put on his Sabbath-day clothes, and looks, as if he would gladly be m

any kind body would only teach him how! And there is Master Brackett, the old jail

dding and smiling at me. Why does he do so, mother?"

e remembers thee a little babe, my child," answered Hester.

He should not nod and smile at me, for all that, the black, grim, ugly-eyed old man!"

arl. "He may nod at thee if he will; for thou art clad in gray, and wearest the scarlet

ter. But, see, mother, how many faces of strange people, and Indians among them,

lors! What have they all come to do here in the market-place?"

hey wait to see the procession pass," said Hester. "For the Governor and the magist

e to go by, and the ministers, and all the great people and good people, with the mud the soldiers marching before them."

And will the minister be there?" asked Pearl. "And will he hold out both his hands to

when thou ledst me to him from the brook-side?"

He will be there, child," answered her mother. "But he will not greet thee to-day; nor

ust thou greet him."

What a strange, sad man is he!" said the child, as if speaking partly to herself. "In the

rk night-time, he calls us to him, and holds thy hand and mine, as when we stood wm on the scaffold yonder! And in the deep forest, where only the old trees can hear

d the strip of sky see it, he talks with thee, sitting on a heap of moss! And he kisses

rehead, too, so that the little brook would



Pag

rdly wash it off! But here in the sunny day, and among all the people, he knows us

r must we know him! A strange, sad man is he, with his hand always over his hear

e quiet, Pearl! Thou understandest not these things," said her mother. "Think not n

the minister, but look about thee, and see how cheery is everybody's face to-day. T

ildren have come from their schools, and the grown people from their workshops a

eir fields, on purpose to be happy. For, to-day, a new man is beginning to rule over

em; and so as has been the custom of mankind ever since a nation was first gathered

ey make merry and rejoice; as if a good and golden year were at length to pass over

or old world!"

was as Hester said, in regard to the unwonted jollity that brightened the faces of the

ople. Into this festal season of the year as it already was, and continued to be durin

eater part of two centuries the Puritans compressed whatever mirth and public joy t

emed allowable to human infirmity; thereby so far dispelling the customary cloud, tr the space of a single holiday, they appeared scarcely more grave than most other

mmunities at a period of general affliction.

ut we perhaps exaggerate the gray or sable tinge, which undoubtedly characterized th

ood and manners of the age. The persons now in the market-place of Boston had no

en born to an inheritance of Puritanic gloom. They were native Englishmen, whose

hers had lived in the sunny richness of the Elizabethan epoch; a time when the life

gland, viewed as one great mass, would appear to have been as stately, magnificend joyous, as the world has ever witnessed. Had they followed their hereditary taste,

ew England settlers would have illustrated all events of public importance by bonfir

nquets, pageantries, and processions. Nor would it have been impracticable, in the

servance of majestic ceremonies, to combine mirthful recreation with solemnity, an

ve, as it were, a grotesque and brilliant embroidery to the great robe of state, which

tion, at such festivals, puts on. There was some shadow of an attempt of this kind i

e mode of celebrating the day on which the political year of the colony commenced

e dim reflection of a remembered splendor, a colorless and manifold di-



Pag

ed repetition of what they had beheld in proud old London, we will not say at a roy

ronation, but at a Lord Mayor's show,1 might be traced in the customs which our

refathers instituted, with reference to the annual installation of magistrates. The fath

d founders of the commonwealth the statesman, the priest, and the soldier deemed

ty then to assume the outward state and majesty, which, in accordance with antique

yle, was looked upon as the proper garb of public or social eminence. All came fortove in procession before the people's eye, and thus impart a needed dignity to the

mple framework of a government so newly constructed.

en, too, the people were countenanced, if not encouraged, in relaxing the severe an

ose application to their various modes of rugged industry, which, at all other times,

emed of the same piece and material with their religion. Here, it is true, were none o

e appliances which popular merriment would so readily have found in the England

izabeth's time, or that of James; no rude shows of a theatrical kind; no minstrel withrp and legendary ballad, nor gleeman, with an ape dancing to his music; no juggler,

th his tricks of mimic witchcraft; no Merry Andrew, to stir up the multitude with je

rhaps hundreds of years old, but still effective, by their appeals to the very broades

urces of mirthful sympathy. All such professors of the several branches of jocularit

ould have been sternly repressed, not only by the rigid discipline of law, but by the

neral sentiment which gives law its vitality. Not the less, however, the great, honest

the people smiled, grimly, perhaps, but widely too. Nor were sports wanting, such

e colonists had witnessed, and shared in, long ago, at the country fairs and on thelage-greens of England; and which it was thought well to keep alive on this new so

r the sake of the courage and manliness that were essential in them. Wrestling-match

the differing fashions of Cornwall and Devonshire,2 were seen here and there abou

e mar-

1 The Lord Mayor of London is inaugurated following a similar procession of important

functionaries, which is a "people's festival" in contrast to the regal splendor of a coronation.

2 Counties in south-west England, known for their free-style "country-style" wrestling; in addition

Devonshire, one could kick one's opponent.



Pag

t-place; in one corner, there was a friendly bout at quarterstaff;1 and what attracted

ost interest of all on the platform of the pillory, already so noted in our pages, two

asters of defence were commencing an exhibition with the buckler and broadsword

ut, much to the disappointment of the crowd, this latter business was broken off by

erposition of the town beadle, who had no idea of permitting the majesty of the law

violated by such an abuse of one of its consecrated places.

may not be too much to affirm, on the whole, (the people being then in the first stag

joyless deportment, and the offspring of sires who had known how to be merry, in

eir day,) that they would compare favorably, in point of holiday keeping, with their

scendants, even at so long an interval as ourselves. Their immediate posterity, the

neration next to the early emigrants, wore the blackest shade of Puritanism, and so

rkened the national visage with it, that all the subsequent years have not sufficed to

ear it up. We have yet to learn again the forgotten art of gayety.e picture of human life in the market-place, though its general tint was the sad gray

own, or black of the English emigrants, was yet enlivened by some diversity of hue

rty of Indians in their savage finery of curiously embroidered deer-skin robes,

ampumbelts, red and yellow ochre, and feathers, and armed with the bow and arrow

d stone-headed spear stood apart, with countenances of inflexible gravity, beyond w

en the Puritan aspect could attain. Nor, wild as were these painted barbarians, were

e wildest feature of the scene. This distinction could more justly be claimed by som

ariners, a part of the crew of the vessel from the Spanish Main, who had come ashosee the humors of Election Day. They were rough-looking desperadoes, with sun-

ackened faces, and an immensity of beard; their wide, short trousers were confined

out the waist by belts, often clasped with a rough plate of gold, and sustaining alwa

ng knife, and, in some instances, a sword. From beneath their broad-brimmed hats

lm-leaf,

1 A long wooden staff, often used for sparring.

2 A small round shield and a short sword.



Pag

eamed eyes which, even in good nature and merriment, had a kind of animal ferocit

ey transgressed, without fear or scruple, the rules of behaviour that were binding o

hers; smoking tobacco under the beadle's very nose, although each whiff would hav

st a townsman a shilling; and quaffing, at their pleasure, draughts of wine or aqua-v

om pocket-flasks, which they freely tendered to the gaping crowd around them. It

markably characterized the incomplete morality of the age, rigid as we call it, that aense was allowed the seafaring class, not merely for their freaks on shore, but for f

ore desperate deeds on their proper element. The sailor of that day would go near to

raigned as a pirate in our own. There could be little doubt, for instance, that this ver

ip's crew, though no unfavorable specimens of the nautical brotherhood, had been

ilty, as we should phrase it, of depredations on the Spanish commerce, such as wou

ve perilled all their necks in a modern court of justice.

ut the sea, in those old times, heaved, swelled, and foamed very much at its own wilbject only to the tempestuous wind, with hardly any attempts at regulation by huma

w. The buccaneer on the wave might relinquish his calling, and become at once, if h

ose, a man of probity and piety on land; nor, even in the full career of his reckless l

as he regarded as a personage with whom it was disreputable to traffic, or casually

sociate. Thus, the Puritan elders, in their black cloaks, starched bands, and steeple-

owned hats, smiled not unbenignantly at the clamor and rude deportment of these jo

afaring men; and it excited neither surprise nor animadversion when so reputable a

izen as old Roger Chillingworth, the physician, was seen to enter the market-place, ose and familiar talk with the commander of the questionable vessel.

e latter was by far the most showy and gallant figure, so far as apparel went, anywh

be seen among the multitude. He wore a profusion of ribbons on his garment, and

ce on his hat, which was also encircled by a gold chain, and surmounted with a feat

here was a sword at his side, and a sword-cut on his forehead, which, by the

rangement of his hair, he seemed anxious rather to

1 A clear alcoholic drink, usually gin.



Pag

that is in peril from these sour old Puritan rulers!"

hey know each other well, indeed," replied Hester, with a mien of calmness, though

e utmost consternation. "They have long dwelt together."

othing further passed between the mariner and Hester Prynne. But, at that instant, sh

held old Roger Chillingworth himself, standing in the remotest corner of the markeace, and smiling on her; a smile which across the wide and bustling square, and thro

the talk and laughter, and various thoughts, moods, and interests of the crowd

nveyed secret and fearful meaning.



Pag

XII

he Procession

fore Hester Prynne could call together her thoughts, and consider what was practic

be done in this new and startling aspect of affairs, the sound of military music wasard approaching along a contiguous street. It denoted the advance of the procession

agistrates and citizens, on its way towards the meeting-house; where, in compliance

th a custom thus early established, and ever since observed, the Reverend Mr.

mmesdale was to deliver an Election Sermon.

on the head of the procession showed itself, with a slow and stately march, turning

rner, and making its way across the market-place. First came the music. It comprise

riety of instruments, perhaps imperfectly adapted to one another, and played with neat skill, but yet attaining the great object for which the harmony of drum and clario

dresses itself to the multitude, that of imparting a higher and more heroic air to the

ene of life that passes before the eye. Little Pearl at first clapped her hands, but then

st, for an instant, the restless agitation that had kept her in a continual effervescence

roughout the morning; she gazed silently, and seemed to be borne upward, like a

ating sea-bird, on the long heaves and swells of sound. But she was brought back t

r former mood by the shimmer of the sunshine on the weapons and bright armour

e military company, which followed after the music, and formed the honorary escore procession.

his body of soldiery1 which still sustains a corporate existence, and marches down f

st ages with an ancient and honorable fame was composed of no mercenary materi

ranks were filled with gentlemen, who felt the stirrings of martial impulse, and sou

establish a kind of College of Arms,2 where, as in an

1 The Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company of Massachusetts was established in 1638 to

commemorate the victories over the Pequod natives in 1637.2 The College of Arms, the basis of heraldry since about the middle of the fifteenth century, maint

a genealogy of nobility and coats of arms.



Pag

sociation of Knights Templars,1 they might learn the science, and, so far as peacefu

ercise would teach them, the practices of war. The high estimation then placed upon

litary character might be seen in the lofty port of each individual member of the

mpany. Some of them, indeed, by their services in the Low Countries2 and on othe

lds of European warfare, had fairly won their title to assume the name and pomp o

ldiership. The entire array, moreover, clad in burnished steel, and with plumagedding over their bright morions,3 had a brilliancy of effect which no modern displ

n aspire to equal.

nd yet the men of civil eminence, who came immediately behind the military escort,

ere better worth a thoughtful observer's eye. Even in outward demeanour they show

mp of majesty that made the warrior's haughty stride look vulgar, if not absurd. It w

age when what we call talent had far less consideration than now, but the massive

aterials which produce stability and dignity of character a great deal more. The peopssessed, by hereditary right, the quality of reverence; which in their descendants, if

rvive at all, exists in smaller proportion, and with a vastly diminished force in the

ection and estimate of public men. The change may be for good or ill, and is partly

rhaps, for both. In that old day, the English settler on these rude shores having left

ng, nobles, and all degrees of awful rank behind, while still the faculty and necessity

verence were strong in him, bestowed it on the white hair and venerable brow of ag

long-tried integrity; on solid wisdom and sad-colored experience; on endowments

at grave and weighty order, which gives the idea of permanence, and comes under tneral definition of respectability. These primitive states-

1 A twelfth-century order of crusaders, initially founded to protect the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusale

but eventually becoming a political fraternity extending from the Baltic to the island of Malta.

2 Belgium and the Netherlands were ruled for much of the late middle-ages by the Catholic power

Spain and Austria; the Dutch rebellion in the early sixteenth century led to the Calvinist United

Provinces where British Separatists and Puritans took refuge during the time of James I and his

successors until the migrations to Massachusetts.

3 High-crested helmets worn by the Spanish (in the Low Countries) where the Calvinists firstchallenged Catholic Spain.



Pag

en, therefore, Bradstreet, Endicott, Dudley, Bellingham,1 and their compeers, who w

evated to power by the early choice of the people, seem to have been not often brill

t distinguished by a ponderous sobriety, rather than activity of intellect. They had

rtitude and self-reliance, and, in time of difficulty or peril, stood up for the welfare

e state like a line of cliffs against a tempestuous tide. The traits of character here

dicated were well represented in the square cast of countenance and large physicalvelopment of the new colonial magistrates. So far as a demeanour of natural author

as concerned, the mother country need not have been ashamed to see these foremos

en of an actual democracy adopted into the House of Peers,2 or made the Privy Cou

the sovereign.

ext in order to the magistrates came the young and eminently distinguished divine, f

hose lips the religious discourse of the anniversary was expected. His was the

ofession, at that era, in which intellectual ability displayed itself far more than inlitical life; for leaving a higher motive out of the question it offered inducements

werful enough, in the almost worshipping respect of the community, to win the mo

piring ambition into its service. Even political power as in the case of Increase Math

as within the grasp of a successful priest.

was the observation of those who beheld him now, that never, since Mr. Dimmesda

st set his foot on the New England shore, had he exhibited such energy as was seen

e gait and air with which he kept his pace in the procession. There was no feeblenes

p, as at other times; his frame was not bent; nor did his hand rest ominously upon hart. Yet, if the clergyman were rightly viewed, his strength seemed not of the body.

ght be spiritual,

1 Besides Richard Bellingham (1592-1672), other Governors during the first generation were

Simon Bradstreet (1603-1697), John Endicott (1588-1665), and Thomas Dudley (1576-1653).

2 The House of Lords, the upper house of the British parliament.

3 Mather (1639-1723), a minister as was his father Richard and his son Cotton, was politically

influential as a colonial representative to James II and William III in the period of the GloriousRevolution of 1688, and as President of Harvard College (1685-1701).



Pag

d imparted to him by angelic ministrations. It might be the exhilaration of that poten

rdial, which is distilled only in the furnace-glow of earnest and long-continued thou

, perchance, his sensitive temperament was invigorated by the loud and piercing m

at swelled heavenward, and uplifted him on its ascending wave. Nevertheless, so

stracted was his look, it might be questioned whether Mr. Dimmesdale even heard t

usic. There was his body, moving onward, and with an unaccustomed force. But was his mind? Far and deep in its own region, busying itself, with preternatural activi

marshall a procession of stately thoughts that were soon to issue thence; and so he

thing, heard nothing, knew nothing, of what was around him; but the spiritual elem

ok up the feeble frame, and carried it along, unconscious of the burden, and conver

o spirit like itself. Men of uncommon intellect, who have grown morbid, possess th

casional power of mighty effort, into which they throw the life of many days, and t

e lifeless for as many more.

ster Prynne, gazing steadfastly at the clergyman, felt a dreary influence come over h

t wherefore or whence she knew not; unless that he seemed so remote from her ow

here, and utterly beyond her reach. One glance of recognition, she had imagined, m

eds pass between them. She thought of the dim forest, with its little dell of solitude

ve, and anguish, and the mossy tree-trunk, where, sitting hand in hand they had

ngled their sad and passionate talk with the melancholy murmur of the brook. How

eply had they known each other then! And was this the man? She hardly knew him

w! He, moving proudly past, enveloped, as it were, in the rich music, with theocession of majestic and venerable fathers; he, so unattainable in his worldly positi

d still more so in that far vista of his unsympathizing thoughts through which she n

held him! Her spirit sank with the idea that all must have been a delusion, and that,

vidly as she had dreamed it, there could be no real bond betwixt the clergyman and

rself. And thus much of woman was there in Hester, that she could scarcely forgive

m, least of all now, when the heavy footstep of their approaching Fate might be hea

arer, nearer, nearer! for being able so completely to withdraw himself from their m

orld; while she



Pag

oped darkly, and stretched forth her cold hands, and found him not.

arl either saw and responded to her mother's feelings, or herself felt the remoteness

angibility that had fallen around the minister. While the procession passed, the child

as uneasy, fluttering up and down, like a bird on the point of taking flight. When th

hole had gone by, she looked up into Hester's face.

Mother," said she, "was that the same minister that kissed me by the brook?"

Hold thy peace, dear little Pearl!" whispered her mother. "We must not always talk in

arket-place of what happens to us in the forest."

could not be sure that it was he; so strange he looked," continued the child. "Else I

ould have run to him, and bid him kiss me now, before all the people; even as he di

nder among the dark old trees. What would the minister have said, mother? Would

ve clapped his hand over his heart, and scowled on me, and bid me begone?"

What should he say, Pearl," answered Hester, "save that it was no time to kiss, and th

sses are not to be given in the marketplace? Well for thee, foolish child, that thou di

t speak to him!"

nother shade of the same sentiment, in reference to Mr. Dimmesdale, was expressed

person whose eccentricities or insanity, as we should term it led her to do what few

e townspeople would have ventured on; to begin a conversation with the wearer of

arlet letter, in public. It was Mistress Hibbins, who, arrayed in great magnificence, wriple ruff, a broidered stomacher, a gown of rich velvet, and a gold-headed cane, h

me forth to see the procession. As this ancient lady had the renown (which

bsequently cost her no less a price than her life) of being a principal actor in all the

orks of necromancy that were continually going forward, the crowd gave way befor

r, and seemed to fear the touch of her garment, as if it carried the plague among its

rgeous folds. Seen in conjunction with Hester Prynne, kindly as so many now felt

wards the latter, the dread inspired by Mistress Hibbins was doubled, and caused a

neral movement from that part of the market-place in which the two women stood.



Pag

Now, what mortal imagination could conceive it!" whispered the old lady confidentia

Hester. "Yonder divine man! that saint on earth, as the people uphold him to be, an

must needs say he really looks! Who, now, that saw him pass in the procession, wou

nk how little while it is since he went forth out of his study, chewing a Hebrew text

ripture in his mouth, I warrant, to take an airing in the forest! Aha! we know what

eans, Hester Prynne! But, truly, forsooth, I find it hard to believe him the same manany a church-member saw I, walking behind the music, that has danced in the same

easure with me, when Somebody was fiddler, and, it might be, an Indian powwow1

Lapland wizard changing hands with us! That is but a trifle, when a woman knows

orld. But this minister! Couldst thou surely tell, Hester, whether he was the same ma

at encountered thee on the forest-path!"

Madam, I know not of what you speak," answered Hester Prynne, feeling Mistress

bbins to be of infirm mind; yet strangely startled and awe-stricken by the confidencth which she affirmed a personal connection between so many persons (herself am

em) and the Evil One. "It is not for me to talk lightly of a learned and pious ministe

e Word, like the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale!"

ie, woman, fie!" cried the old lady, shaking her finger at Hester. "Dost thou think I

en to the forest so many times, and have yet no skill to judge who else has been the

ea; though no leaf of the wild garlands which they wore while they danced, be left in

eir hair! I know thee, Hester; for I behold the token. We may all see it in the sunshin

d it glows like a red flame in the dark. Thou wearest it openly; so there need be noestion about that. But this minister! Let me tell thee in thine ear! When the Black M

es one of his own servants, signed and sealed, so shy of owning to the bond as is th

verend Mr. Dimmesdale, he hath a way of ordering matters so that the mark shall b

sclosed in open daylight to the eyes of all the world! What is it that the minister seek

1 Native medicine man, able to utter chants.



Pag

de, with his hand always over his heart? Ha, Hester Prynne!"

What is it, good Mistress Hibbins?" eagerly asked little Pearl. "Hast thou seen it?"

No matter, darling!" responded Mistress Hibbins, making Pearl a profound reverence

hou thyself wilt see it, one time or another. They say, child, thou art of the lineage o

e Prince of the Air!1 Wilt thou ride with me, some fine night, to see thy father? Theou shalt know wherefore the minister keeps his hand over his heart!"

ughing so shrilly that all the market-place could hear her, the weird old gentlewoma

ok her departure.

y this time the preliminary prayer had been offered in the meeting-house, and the

cents of the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale were heard commencing his discourse. an

esistible feeling kept Hester near the spot. As the sacred edifice was too much thron

admit another auditor, she took up her position close beside the scaffold of the pillowas in sufficient proximity to bring the whole sermon to her ears, in the shape of an

distinct, but varied, murmur and flow of the minister's very peculiar voice.

is vocal organ was in itself a rich endowment; insomuch that a listener, comprehen

thing of the language in which the preacher spoke, might still have been swayed to

o by the mere tone and cadence. Like all other music, it breathed passion and patho

d emotions high or tender, in a tongue native to the human heart, wherever educate

uffled as the sound was by its passage through the church-walls, Hester Prynne listeth such intentness, and sympathized so intimately, that the sermon had throughout a

eaning for her, entirely apart from its indistinguishable words. These, perhaps, if mo

stinctly heard, might have been only a grosser medium, and have clogged the spiritu

nse. Now she caught the low undertone, as of the wind sinking down to repose itse

en ascended with it, as it rose through progressive gradations of sweetness and pow

til its volume seemed to envelop her with an atmosphere of awe and solemn grand

nd yet, majestic as the

1 Ephesians 2.2: Satan is "the prince of the power of the air, the spirit that now worketh in thechildren of disobedience."



Pag

ice sometimes became, there was for ever in it an essential character of plaintivenes

ud or low expression of anguish, the whisper, or the shriek, as it might be conceive

ffering humanity, that touched a sensibility in every bosom! At times this deep strai

thos was all that could be heard, and scarcely heard, sighing amid a desolate silence

ut even when the minister's voice grew high and commanding, when it gushed

epressibly upward, when it assumed its utmost breadth and power, so overfilling thurch as to burst its way through the solid walls, and diffuse itself in the open air, sti

e auditor listened intently, and for the purpose, he could detect the same cry of pain

hat was it? The complaint of a human heart, sorrow-laden, perchance guilty, telling

cret, whether of guilt or sorrow, to the great heart of mankind; beseeching its sympa

forgiveness, at every moment, in each accent, and never in vain! It was this profou

d continual undertone that gave the clergyman his most appropriate power.

uring all this time Hester stood, statue-like, at the foot of the scaffold. If the ministerice had not kept her there, there would nevertheless have been an inevitable magne

that spot, whence she dated the first hour of her life of ignominy. There was a sens

thin her, too ill-defined to be made a thought, but weighing heavily on her mind, th

r whole orb of life, both before and after, was connected with this spot, as with the

int that gave it unity.

ttle Pearl, meanwhile, had quitted her mother's side, and was playing at her own wil

out the market-place. She made the sombre crowd cheerful by her erratic and gliste

y; even as a bird of bright plumage illuminates a whole tree of dusky foliage by darand fro, half seen and half concealed, amid the twilight of the clustering leaves. Sh

d an undulating, but, often times, a sharp and irregular movement. It indicated the

stless vivacity of her spirit, which to-day was doubly indefatigable in its tiptoe danc

cause it was played upon and vibrated with her mother's disquietude. Whenever Pe

w any thing to excite her ever active and wandering curiosity, she flew thitherward,

d, as we might say, seized upon that man or thing as her own property, so far as sh

sired it; but without yielding the minutest degree of control over her motions in re-



Pag

ital. The Puritans looked on, and, if they smiled, were none the less inclined to

onounce the child a demon offspring, from the indescribable charm of beauty and

centricity that shone through her little figure, and sparkled with its activity. She ran

oked the wild Indian in the face; and he grew conscious of a nature wilder than his

wn. Thence, with native audacity, but still with a reserve as characteristic, she flew in

e midst of a group of mariners, the swarthy-cheeked wild men of the ocean, as thedians were of the land; and they gazed wonderingly and admiringly at Pearl, as if a

ke of the sea-foam had taken the shape of a little maid, and were gifted with a soul

e sea-fire, that flashes beneath the prow in the night-time.

ne of these seafaring men the shipmaster, indeed, who had spoken to Hester Prynne

smitten with Pearl's aspect, that he attempted to lay hands upon her, with purpose t

atch a kiss. Finding it as impossible to touch her as to catch a humming-bird in the

took from his hat the gold chain that was twisted about it, and threw it to the child.arl immediately twined it around her neck and waist, with such happy skill, that, on

en there, it became a part of her, and it was difficult to imagine her without it.

hy mother is yonder woman with the scarlet letter," said the seaman. "Wilt thou car

r a message from me?"

f the message pleases me I will," answered Pearl.

hen tell her," rejoined he, "that I spake again with the black-a-visaged, hump-

ouldered old doctor, and he engages to bring his friend, the gentleman she wots of,oard with him. So let thy mother take no thought, save for herself and thee. Wilt th

l her this, thou witch-baby?"

Mistress Hibbins says my father is the Prince of the Air!" cried Pearl, with her naugh

mile. "If thou callest me that ill name, I shall tell him of thee; and he will chase thy sh

th a tempest!"

rsuing a zigzag course across the market-place, the child returned to her mother, an

mmunicated what the mariner had said. Hester's strong, calm, steadfastly enduring most sank, at last, on beholding this dark and grim countenance of an inevitable do

hich at the moment when a passage seemed to open for the minister and herself out

eir labyrinth of misery showed itself,



Pag

th an unrelenting smile, right in the midst of their path.

ith her mind harassed by the terrible perplexity in which the shipmaster's intelligenc

volved her, she was also subjected to another trial. There were many people present

om the country roundabout, who had often heard of the scarlet letter, and to whom

d been made terrific by a hundred false or exaggerated rumors, but who had never

held it with their own bodily eyes. These, after exhausting other modes of amusem

w thronged about Hester Prynne with rude and boorish intrusiveness. Unscrupulou

was, however, it could not bring them nearer than a circuit of several yards. At that

stance they accordingly stood, fixed there by centrifugal force of the repugnance wh

e mystic symbol inspired. The whole gang of sailors, likewise, observing the press o

ectators, and learning the purport of the scarlet letter, came and thrust their sunburn

d desperado-looking faces into the ring. Even the Indians were affected by a sort o

ld shadow of the white man's curiosity, and, gliding through the crowd, fastened thake-like black eyes on Hester's bosom; conceiving, perhaps, that the wearer of this

lliantly embroidered badge must needs be a personage of high dignity among her

ople. Lastly, the inhabitants of the town (their own interest in this worn-out subject

nguidly reviving itself, by sympathy with what they saw others feel) lounged idly to

me quarter, and tormented Hester Prynne, perhaps more than all the rest, with their

ol, well-acquainted gaze at her familiar shame. Hester saw and recognized the self-s

ces of that group of matrons, who had awaited her forthcoming from the prison-do

ven years ago; all save one, the youngest and only compassionate among them, whorial-robe she had since made. At the final hour, when she was so soon to fling asid

rning letter, it had strangely become the centre of more remark and excitement, and

us made to sear her breast more painfully than at any time since the first day she pu

.

hile Hester stood in the magic circle of ignominy, where the cunning cruelty of her

ntence seemed to have fixed her for ever, the admirable preacher was looking down

om the sacred pulpit upon an audience, whose very inmost spirits had yielded to his

ntrol. The sainted minister in the church! The woman of the scarlet



Pag

ter in the market-place! What imagination would have been irreverent enough to

rmise that the same scorching stigma was on them both?



Pag

XIII

he Revelation of the Scarlet Letter

he eloquent voice, on which the souls of the listening audience had been borne, alof

the swelling waves of the sea, at length came to a pause. There was a momentaryence, profound as what should follow the utterance of oracles. Then ensued a murm

d half-hushed tumult; as if the auditors, released from the high spell that had

nsported them into the region of another's mind, were returning into themselves, w

their awe and wonder still heavy on them. In a moment more, the crowd began to

rth from the doors of the church. Now that there was an end, they needed other bre

ore fit to support the gross and earthly life into which they relapsed, than that

mosphere which the preacher had converted into words of flame, and had burdened

th the rich fragrance of his thought.

the open air their rapture broke into speech. The street and the market-place absolu

bbled, from side to side, with applauses of the minister. His hearers could not rest u

ey had told one another of what each knew better than he could tell or hear. Accord

their united testimony, never had man spoken in so wise, so high, and so holy a spi

he that spake this day; nor had inspiration ever breathed through mortal lips more

idently than it did through his. Its influence could be seen, as it were, descending u

m, and possessing him, and continually lifting him out of the written discourse that fore him, and filling him with ideas that must have been as marvellous to himself a

s audience.1 His subject, it appeared, had been the relation between the Deity and th

mmunities of mankind, with a special reference to the New England which they we

re planting in the wilderness. And, as he drew towards the close, a spirit as of prop

d come upon him, constraining

1 These lines suggest that Dimmesdale departed from his written text, as the Holy Ghost of the

pentecostal "tongues of flame" descended and possessed him. As a result, he went on to indulge "

spirit as of prophecy," akin to what Hester and Ann Hutchinson are said to have done.



Pag

m to its purpose as mightily as the old prophets of Israel were constrained; only wit

s difference, that, whereas the Jewish seers had denounced judgements and ruin on

eir country, it was his mission to foretell a high and glorious destiny for the newly

thered people of the Lord. But, throughout it all, and through the whole discourse,

ere had been a certain deep, sad undertone of pathos, which could not be interprete

herwise than as the natural regret of one soon to pass away. Yes; their minister whomey so loved and who so loved them all, that he could not depart heavenward withou

gh had the foreboding of untimely death upon him, and would soon leave them in t

ars! This idea of his transitory stay on earth gave the last emphasis to the effect whic

e preacher had produced; it was as if an angel, in his passage to the skies, had shake

s bright wings over the people for an instant, at once a shadow and a splendour, an

d shed down a shower of golden truths upon them.

us, there had come to the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale as to most men, in their varioheres, though seldom recognized until they see it far behind them an epoch of life m

lliant and full of triumph than any previous one, or than any which could hereafter

e stood, at this moment, on the very proudest eminence of superiority, to which the

intellect, rich lore, prevailing eloquence, and a reputation of whitest sanctity, could

alt a clergyman in New England's earliest days, when the professional character wa

elf a lofty pedestal. Such was the position which the minister occupied, as he bowe

ad forward on the cushions of the pulpit, at the close of his Election Sermon.

eanwhile, Hester Prynne was standing beside the scaffold of the pillory, with the scater still burning on her breast!

ow was heard again the clangor of the music, and the measured tramp of the militar

cort, issuing from the church-door. The procession was to be marshalled thence to

wn-hall, where a solemn banquet would complete the ceremonies of the day.

nce more, therefore, the train of venerable and majestic fathers was seen moving

rough a broad pathway of the people, who drew back reverently, on either side, as

overnor and magistrates, the old and wise men, the holy ministers, and all that wereminent and



Pag

nowned, advanced into the midst of them. When they were fairly in the market-plac

eir presence was greeted by a shout. This though doubtless it might acquire addition

rce and volume from the childlike loyalty which the age awarded its rulers was felt

an irrepressible outburst of the enthusiasm kindled in the auditors by that high stra

eloquence which was yet reverberating in their ears. Each felt the impulse in himse

d, in the same breath, caught it from his neighbour. Within the church, it had hardlyen kept down; beneath the sky, it pealed upward to the zenith. There were human

ings enough, and enough of highly wrought and symphonious feeling, to produce t

ore impressive sound than the organ-tones of the blast, or the thunder, or the roar o

a; even that mighty swell of many voices, blended into one great voice by the unive

pulse which makes likewise one vast heart out of the many. Never, from the soil of

ew England, had gone up such a shout! Never, on new England soil, had stood the m

honored by his mortal brethren as the preacher?

ow fared it with him then? Were there not the brilliant particles of a halo in the air a

s head? So etherealized by spirit as he was, and so apotheosized by worshipping

mirers, did his footsteps in the procession really tread upon the dust of earth?

the ranks of military men and civil fathers moved onward, all eyes were turned

wards the point where the minister was seen to approach among them. The shout d

o a murmur, as one portion of the crowd after another obtained a glimpse of him. H

eble and pale he looked amid all his triumph! The energy or say, rather, the inspirat

hich had held him up, until he should have delivered the sacred message that brougwn strength along with it from heaven was withdrawn, now that it had so faithfully

rformed its office. The glow, which they had just before beheld burning on his che

as extinguished, like a flame that sinks down hopelessly among the late-decaying

mbers. It seemed hardly the face of a man alive, with such a deathlike hue; it was ha

man with life in him, that tottered on his path so nervelessly, yet tottered, and did no

l!

ne of his clerical brethren, it was the venerable John Wilson, observing the state inhich Mr. Dimmesdale was left by the re-



Pag

ing wave of intellect and sensibility, stepped forward hastily to offer his support. T

nister tremulously, but decidedly, repelled the old man's arm. He still walked onwa

at movement could be so described, which rather resembled the wavering effort of

fant, with its mother's arms in view, outstretched to tempt him forward. And now,

most imperceptible as were the latter steps of his progress, he had come opposite th

ell-remembered and weather-darkened scaffold, where, long since, with all that dreapse of time between, Hester Prynne had encountered the world's ignominious stare.

ere stood Hester, holding little Pearl by the hand! And there was the scarlet letter on

east! The minister here made a pause; although the music still played the stately and

oicing march to which the procession moved. It summoned him onward, onward t

e festival! but here he made a pause.

llingham, for the last few moments, had kept an anxious eye upon him. He now lef

wn place in the procession, and advanced to give assistance; judging from Mr.mmesdale's aspect that he must otherwise inevitably fall. But there was something i

e latter's expression that warned back the magistrate, although a man not readily

eying the vague intimations that pass from one spirit to another. The crowd,

eanwhile, looked on with awe and wonder. This earthly faintness was, in their view

ly another phase of the minister's celestial strength; nor would it have seemed a mir

o high to be wrought for one so holy, had he ascended before their eyes, waxing

mmer and brighter, and fading at last into the light of heaven!

e turned towards the scaffold, and stretched forth his arms.

ester," said he, "come hither! Come, my little Pearl!"

was a ghastly look with which he regarded them; but there was something at once

nder and strangely triumphant in it. The child, with the bird-like motion which was

her characteristics, flew to him, and clasped her arms about his knees. Hester Pryn

owly, as if impelled by inevitable fate, and against her strongest will likewise drew n

t paused before she reached him. At this instant old Roger Chillingworth thrust him

rough the crowd, or, perhaps, so dark, disturbed, and evil was his look, he rose up some nether region, to snatch back his victim from what he



Pag

ught to do! Be that as it might, the old man rushed forward and caught the minister

e arm.

Madman, hold! What is your purpose?" whispered he. "Wave back that woman! Cas

s child! All shall be well! Do not blacken your fame, and perish in dishonor! I can

ve you! Would you bring infamy on your sacred profession?"

Ha, tempter! Methinks thou art too late!" answered the minister, encountering his eye

arfully, but firmly. "Thy power is not what it was! With God's help, I shall escape th

w!" He again extended his hand to the woman of the scarlet letter.

Hester Prynne," cried he, with a piercing earnestness, "in the name of Him, so terribl

d so merciful, who gives me grace, at this last moment, to do what for my own hea

n and miserable agony I withheld myself from doing seven years ago, come hither n

d twine thy strength about me! Thy strength, Hester; but let it be guided by the will

hich God hath granted me! This wretched and wronged old man is opposing it with

s might! with all his own might and the fiend's! Come, Hester, come! Support me up

nder scaffold!"

e crowd was in a tumult. The men of rank and dignity, who stood more immediate

ound the clergyman, were so taken by surprise, and so perplexed as to the purport o

hat they saw, unable to receive the explanation which most readily presented itself,

agine any other, that they remained silent and inactive spectators of the judgment w

ovidence seemed about to work. They beheld the minister, leaning on Hester's shoud supported by her arm around him, approach the scaffold, and ascend its steps; w

ll the little hand of the sin-born child was clasped in his. Old Roger Chillingworth

lowed, as one intimately connected with the drama of guilt and sorrow in which th

d all been actors, and well entitled, therefore, to be present at its closing scene.

Hadst thou sought the whole earth over," said he, looking darkly at the clergyman, "t

as no one place so secret, no high place nor lowly place, where thou couldst have

caped me, save on this very scaffold!"hanks be to Him who hath led me hither!" answered the minister.



Pag

et he trembled, and turned to Hester with an expression of doubt and anxiety in his e

t the less evidently betrayed, that there was a feeble smile upon his lips.

not this better," murmured he, "than what we dreamed of in the forest?"

know not! I know not!" she hurriedly replied. "Better? Yea; so we may both die, an

le Pearl die with us!"

or thee and Pearl, be it as God shall order," said the minister; "and God is merciful!

e now do the will which he hath made plain before my sight. For, Hester, I am a dyi

an. So let me make haste to take my shame upon me."

rtly supported by Hester Prynne, and holding one hand of little Pearl's, the Reveren

r. Dimmesdale turned to the dignified and venerable rulers; to the holy ministers, w

ere his brethren; to the people, whose great heart was thoroughly appalled, yet

erflowing with tearful sympathy, as knowing that some deep life-matter which, if fsin, was full of anguish and repentance likewise was now to be laid open to them.

n, but little past its meridian, shone down upon the clergyman, and gave a distinctn

his figure, as he stood out from all the earth to put in his plea of guilty at the bar of

ernal Justice.

eople of New England!" cried he, with a voice that rose over them, high, solemn, a

ajestic, yet had always a tremor through it, and sometimes a shriek, struggling up ou

fathomless depth of remorse and woe, "ye, that have loved me! ye, that have deemee holy! behold me here, the one sinner of the world! At last! at last! I stand upon th

ot where, seven years since, I should have stood; here, with this woman, whose arm

ore than the little strength wherewith I have crept hitherward, sustains me, at this

eadful moment, from grovelling down upon my face! Lo, the scarlet letter which He

ears! Ye have all shuddered at it! Wherever her walk hath been, wherever, so misera

rdened, she may have hoped to find repose, it hath cast a lurid gleam of awe and

rrible repugnance round about her. But there stood one in the midst of you, at who

and of sin and infamy ye have not shuddered!"seemed, at this point, as if the minister must leave the remain-



Pag

r of his secret undisclosed. But he fought back the bodily weakness, and, still more

ntness of heart, that was striving for the mastery with him. He threw off all assistan

d stepped passionately forward a pace before the woman and the child.

was on him!" he continued, with a kind of fierceness; so determined was he to spe

t the whole. "God's eye beheld it! The angels were for ever pointing at it! The Devi

ew it well, and fretted it continually with the touch of his burning finger! But he hid

nningly from men, and walked among you with the mien of a spirit, mournful, bec

pure in a sinful world! and sad, because he missed his heavenly kindred! Now, at

ath-hour, he stands up before you! He bids you look again at Hester's scarlet letter!

ls you, that, with all its mysterious horror, it is but the shadow of what he bears on

wn breast, and that even this, his own red stigma, is no more than the type of what h

ared his inmost heart! Stand any here that question God's judgment on a sinner?

hold! Behold a dreadful witness of it!"ith a convulsive motion he tore away the ministerial band from before his breast. It

vealed! But it were irreverent to describe that revelation. For an instant the gaze of t

rror-stricken multitude was concentred on the ghastly miracle; while the minister st

th a flush of triumph in his face, as one who, in the crisis of acutest pain, had won

ctory. Then, down he sank upon the scaffold! Hester partly raised him, and support

s head against her bosom. Old Roger Chillingworth knelt down beside him, with a

ank, dull countenance, out of which the life seemed to have departed.

hou hast escaped me!" he repeated more than once. "Thou hast escaped me!"

May God forgive thee!" said the minister. "Thou, too, hast deeply sinned!"

e withdrew his dying eyes from the old man, and fixed them on the woman and the

ild.

My little Pearl," said he feebly, and there was a sweet and gentle smile over his face,

a spirit sinking onto deep repose; nay, now that the burden was removed, it seemed

most as if he would be sportive with the child, "dear little Pearl, wilt thou kiss me nhou wouldst not yonder, in the forest! But now thou wilt?"



Pag

arl kissed his lips. A spell was broken. The great scene of grief, in which the wild

fant bore a part, had developed all her sympathies; and as her tears fell upon her fat

eek, they were the pledge that she would grow up amid human joy and sorrow, nor

er do battle with the world, but be a woman in it. Towards her mother, too, Pearl's

rand as a messenger of anguish was all fulfilled.

ester," said the clergyman, "farewell!"

hall we not meet again?" whispered she, bending her face down close to his. "Shall

t spend our immortal life together? Surely, surely, we have ransomed one another,

this woe! Thou lookest far into eternity, with those bright dying eyes! Then tell me

hat thou seest?"

Hush, Hester, hush!" said he, with tremulous solemnity. "The law we broke! the sin h

awfully revealed! let these alone be in thy thoughts! I fear! I fear! It may be, that,

hen we forgot our God, when we violated our reverence each for the other's soul, it

enceforth vain to hope that we could meet hereafter, in an everlasting and pure reun

od knows; and He is merciful! He hath proved his mercy, most of all, in my afflictio

y giving me this burning torture to bear upon my breast! By sending yonder dark an

rible old man, to keep the torture always at red-heat! By bringing me hither, to die t

ath of triumphant ignominy before the people! Had either of these agonies been

anting, I had been lost for ever! Praised be his name! His will be done! Farewell!"

at final word came forth with the minister's expiring breath. The multitude, silent tien, broke out in a strange, deep voice of awe and wonder, which could not as yet fi

erance, save in this murmur that rolled so heavily after the departed spirit.



Pag

XIV

onclusion

fter many days, when time sufficed for the people to arrange their thoughts in refere

the foregoing scene, there was more than one account of what had been witnessed e scaffold.

ost of the spectators testified to having seen, on the breast of the unhappy minister,

CARLET LETTER the very semblance of that worn by Hester Prynne imprinted in t

sh. As regard to its origin, there were various explanations, all of which must

cessarily have been conjectural. Some affirmed that the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale

e very day when Hester Prynne first wore her ignominious badge, had begun a cour

penance, which he afterwards, in so many futile methods, followed out, by inflictindeous torture on himself. Others contended that the stigma had not been produced u

ong time subsequent, when old Roger Chillingworth, being a potent necromancer, h

used it to appear, through the agency of magic and poisonous drugs. Others, again,

ose best able to appreciate the minister's peculiar sensibility, and the wonderful

eration of his spirit upon the body, whispered their belief, that the awful symbol w

e effect of the ever active tooth of remorse, gnawing from the inmost heart outward

d at last manifesting Heaven's dreadful judgment by the visible presence of the lette

e reader may choose among these theories. We have thrown all the light we couldquire upon the portent, and would gladly, now that it has done its office, erase its d

nt out of our own brain; where long meditation has fixed it in very undesirable

stinctness.

is singular, nevertheless, that certain persons, who were spectators of the whole sce

d professed never once to have removed their eyes from the Reverend Mr.

mmesdale, denied that there was any mark whatever on his breast, more than on a n

rn infant's. Neither, by their report, had his dying words acknowledged, nor evenmotely implied, any, the slightest connection, on his part, with the guilt for which H

ynne had so long worn the scarlet letter. According to these highly respectable

tnesses, the minister,



Pag

nscious that he was dying, conscious, also, that the reverence of the multitude place

m already among saints and angels, had desired, by yielding up his breath in the arm

at fallen woman, to express to the world how utterly nugatory is the choicest of man

wn righteousness. After exhausting life in his efforts for mankind's spiritual good, h

d made the manner of his death a parable, in order to impress on his admirers the

ghty and mournful lesson, that, in the view of Infinite Purity, we are sinners all alikas to teach them, that the holiest among us has but attained so far above his fellows

discern more clearly the Mercy which looks down, and repudiate more utterly the

antom of human merit, which would look aspiringly upward. Without disputing a t

momentous, we must be allowed to consider this version of Mr. Dimmesdale's stor

ly an instance of that stubborn fidelity with which a man's friends and especially a

ergyman's will sometimes uphold his character; when proofs, clear as the mid-day

nshine on the scarlet letter, establish him a false and sin-stained creature of the dust

he authority which we have chiefly followed a manuscript of old date, drawn up fro

e verbal testimony of individuals, some of whom had known Hester Prynne, while

hers had heard the tale from contemporary witnesses fully confirms the view taken

e foregoing pages. Among many morals which press upon us from the poor ministe

serable experience, we put only this into a sentence: "Be true! Be true! Be true! Sho

ely to the world, if not your worst, yet some trait whereby the worst may be inferre

othing was more remarkable than the change which took place, almost immediately

er Mr. Dimmesdale's death, in the appearance and demeanour of the old man knowoger Chillingworth. All his strength and energy all his vital and intellectual force see

once to desert him; insomuch that he positively withered up, shrivelled away, and

most vanished from mortal sight, like an uprooted weed that lies wilting in the sun.

happy man had made the very principle of his life to consist in the pursuit and

stematic exercise of revenge; and when, by its completest triumph and consummati

at evil principle was left with no further material to support it, when, in short, there

more devil's work on earth for him to do, it only remained for the unhumanized

ortal



Pag

betake himself whither his Master would find him tasks enough, and pay him his

ages duly. But, to all these shadowy beings, so long our near acquaintances, as well

oger Chillingworth, as his companions, we would fain be merciful. It is a curious

bject of observation and inquiry, whether hatred and love be not the same thing at

ttom. Each, in its utmost development, supposes a high degree of intimacy and hea

owledge; each renders one individual dependent for the food of his affections andiritual life upon another; each leaves the passionate lover, or the no less passionate

ter, forlorn and desolate by the withdrawal of his object. Philosophically considere

erefore, the two passions seem essentially the same, except that one happens to be s

a celestial radiance, and the other in a dusky and lurid glow. In the spiritual world,

d physician and the minister mutual victims as they have been may, unawares, have

und their earthly stock of hatred and antipathy transmuted into golden love.

aving this discussion apart, we have a matter of business to communicate to the reaold Roger Chillingworth's decease (which took place within the year), and by his l

ll and testament, of which Governor Bellingham and the Reverend Mr. Wilson wer

ecutors, he bequeathed a very considerable amount of property, both here and in

gland, to little Pearl, the daughter of Hester Prynne.

Pearl the elf-child, the demon offspring, as some people, up to that epoch, persiste

nsidering her became the richest heiress of her day, in the New World. Not improba

s circumstance wrought a very material change in the public estimation; and, had th

other and child remained here, little Pearl, at a marriageable period of life, might hangled her wild blood with the lineage of the devoutest Puritan among them all. But

long time after the physician's death, the wearer of the scarlet letter disappeared, an

arl along with her. For many years, though a vague report would now and then find

ay across the sea, like a shapeless piece of driftwood tost ashore, with the initials of

me upon it, yet no tidings of them unquestionably authentic were received. The sto

e scarlet letter grew into a legend. Its spell, however, was still potent, and kept the

affold awful where the poor minister



Pag

d died, and likewise the cottage by the sea-shore, where Hester Prynne had dwelt. N

s latter spot, one afternoon, some children were at play, when they beheld a tall

oman, in gray robe, approach the cottage-door. In all those years it had never once b

ened; but either she unlocked it, or the decaying wood and iron yielded to her hand

e glided shadow-like through these impediments, and, at all events, went in.

n the threshold she paused, turned partly round, for, perchance, the idea of entering

one, and all so changed, the home of so intense a former life, was more dreary and

solate than even she could bear. But her hesitation was only for an instant, though l

ough to display a scarlet letter on her breast.

nd Hester Prynne had returned, and taken up her long-forsaken shame. But where w

tle Pearl? If still alive, she must now have been in the flush and bloom of early

omanhood. None knew nor ever learned, with the fullness of perfect certainty whet

e elf-child had gone thus untimely to a maiden grave; or whether her wild, rich natud been softened and subdued, and made capable of a woman's gentle happiness. Bu

rough the remainder of Hester's life, there were indications that the recluse of the sc

ter was the object of love and interest with some inhabitant of another land. Letters

me, with armorial seals upon them, though of bearings unknown to English heraldr

e cottage there were articles of comfort and luxury, such as Hester never cared to us

t which only wealth could have purchased, and affection have imagined for her. Th

ere trifles, too, little ornaments, beautiful tokens of a continual remembrance, that m

ve been wrought by delicate fingers, at the impulse of a fond heart. And, once Hestas seen embroidering a baby-garment, with such a lavish richness of golden fancy a

ould have raised a public tumult, had any infant, thus apparelled, been shown to ou

bre-hued community.

fine, the gossips of that day believed, and Mr. Surveyor Pue, who made investigati

century later, believed, and one of his recent successors in office, moreover, faithfu

lieves, that Pearl was not only alive, but married, and happy, and mindful of her

other; and that she would most joyfully have entertained that sad and lonely motherr fireside.



Pag

ut there was a more real life for Hester Prynne, here, in New England, than in that

known region where Pearl had found a home. Here had been her sin; here, her sorr

d here was yet to be her penitence. She had returned, therefore, and resumed, of he

wn free will, for not the sternest magistrate of that iron period would have imposed

sumed the symbol of which we have related so dark a tale. Never afterwards did it q

r bosom. But, in the lapse of the toilsome, thoughtful, and self-devoted years that mHester's life, the scarlet letter ceased to be a stigma which attracted the world's scor

d bitterness, and became a type of something to be sorrowed over, and looked upo

th awe, yet with reverence too. And, as Hester Prynne had no selfish ends, nor live

y measure for her own profit and enjoyment, people brought all their sorrows and

rplexities, and besought her counsel, as one who had herself gone through a mighty

uble. Women, more especially, in the continually recurring trials of wounded, wast

onged, misplaced, or erring and sinful passion, or with the dreary burden of a hear

yielded, because unvalued and unsought, came to Hester's cottage, demanding whyey were so wretched, and what the remedy! Hester comforted and counselled them,

st she might. She assured them, too, of her firm belief, that, at some brighter period

hen the world should have grown ripe for it, in Heaven's own time, a new truth wou

revealed, in order to establish the whole relation between man and woman on a su

ound of mutual happiness. Earlier in life, Hester had vainly imagined that she hersel

ght be the destined prophetess, but had long since recognized the impossibility that

ssion of divine and mysterious truth should be confided to a woman stained with s

wed down with shame, or even burdened with a life-long sorrow. The angel andostle of the coming revelation must be a woman, indeed but lofty, pure, and beautif

d wise, moreover, not through dusky grief, but the ethereal medium of joy; and

owing how sacred love should make us happy, by the truest test of a life successful

ch an end!

said Hester Prynne, and glanced her sad eyes downward at the scarlet letter. And, a

any, many years, a new grave was delved, near an old and sunken one, in that buria

ound beside which



Pag

ng's Chapel has since been built. It was near that old and sunken grave, yet with a s

tween, as if the dust of the two sleepers had no right to mingle. Yet one tombstone

rved for both. All around, there were monuments carved with armorial bearings; an

this simple slab of slate as the curious investigator may still discern, and perplex

mself with the purport there appeared the semblance of an engraved escutcheon.1 I

re a device, a herald's wording of which might serve for a motto and brief descriptour now concluded legend; so sombre is it, and relieved only by one ever-glowing

int of light gloomier than the shadow:

N A FIELD, SABLE, THE LETTER A, GULES."2

THE END

1 In Heraldry, the shield-shaped emblem.

2 In heraldry, "on a black background, the letter A, in red."



Pag

PPENDIX A

AWTHORNE AND BROOK FARM (1841)

ook Farm was founded by several Transcendentalists for the reform of society.

owever, the idea of the Farm had an apparent paradox. The founder, George Ripley802-1880), an important philosopher of education, thought that communal living w

e the individual to develop fully; in contrast, Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882), s

r the primacy of the individual. Emerson never joined the Farm itself, but was a

quent visitor. The two sides of the issue are evident in the following two letters

llected in Frothingham's George Ripley.

[Ripley set the implicit purpose of community-individualism for Brook Farm:]

Our objects, as you know, are to insure a more natural union between intellectual and manual labothan now exists; to combine the thinker and the worker, as far as possible, in the same individual;

guarantee the highest mental freedom by providing all with labor adapted to their tastes and talent

and securing to them the fruits of their industry; to do away with the necessity of menial services b

opening the benefits of education and the profits of labor to all; and thus to prepare a society of

liberal, intelligent, and cultivated persons whose relations with each other would permit a more

simple and wholesome life than can be led amidst the pressure of our competitive institutions.

To accomplish these objects, we propose to take a small tract of land, which, under skilful

husbandry, uniting the garden and the farm, will be adequate to the subsistence of the families, andto connect with this a school or college in which the most complete instruction shall be given, fro

the first rudiments to the highest culture. Our farm would be a place for improving the race of men

that lived on it; thought would preside over the operations of labor, and labor would contribute to

the expansion of thought; we should have industry without drudgery, and true equality without its

vulgarity. (307-08)



Pag

. . . Personally . . . I have a passion for being independent of the world and of every man in it. Thi

could do easily on the estate which is now offered, and which I could rent at a rate that, with my

other resources, would place me in a very agreeable condition as far as my personal interests wer

involved. I should have a city of God on a small scale of my own; and please God, I should hope

one day to drive my own cart to market and sell greens. But I feel bound to sacrifice this private

feeling in the hope of a great social good. . . . (310-11)

[In response Emerson demurred participation because he would not "sacrifice" of

mself; to do so would contradict the ultimate goal of individual development which

pley himself espoused in his own letter.]

My feeling is that the community is not good for me, that it has little to offer me which, with

resolution, I cannot procure for myself; that it would not be worth my while to make the difficult

exchange of my property in Concord for a share in the new household. I am in many respects plac

as I wish to be, in an agreeable neighborhood, in a town which I have some reason to love, and

which has respected my freedom so far that I have reason to hope it will indulge me further when demand it. I cannot accuse my townsmen or my neighbors of my domestic grievances, only my ow

sloth and conformity. It seems to me a circuitous and operose way of relieving myself to put upon

your community the emancipation which I ought to take on myself. I must assume my own vows.

(315)

. . . I ought to say that I do not put much trust in any arrangements or combinations, only in the spir

which dictates them. Is that benevolent or divine, they will answer their end. Is there any alloy in

that, it will certainly appear in the result. (316)



Pag

PPENDIX B

AWTHORNE AT CONCORD (18421845): THOREAU, EMERSON,

ULLER, AND TRANSCENDENTALISM

awthorne and Friends

e period Hawthorne spent at Concord sharpened his sense of caricature. He caught

s American Notebooks what he believed was the egotistic self-importance and the so

bterfuges of his several neighbors. He himself preferred privacy, venturing into the

lage unobtrusively and walking in the bush, as was his habit since his youth.[Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862) lived most of his life in Concord. Hawthorne's

ofile of the man is ironic, but kindly; his stylistic balance reflects his close imitation

e deft, sabrethrusts of the eighteenth-century caricaturists, Addison and Steele, who

studied in his youth and who inspired him to be a writer. Amos Bronson Alcott wa

other neighbor, and a loquacious, didactic conversationalist who devised the name

e Dial ; hence he was a contrast to Thoreau himself. Ellery Channing was the broth

law of Margaret Fuller and a poet, reputed by Emerson to be a "genius"; Hawthorn

t much care for his poetry, and refused Margaret's request to board Ellery at "the ol

anse."]

. . . I was interrupted by a visit from Mr. Thoreau, who came to return a book, and to announce his

purpose of going to reside at Staten Island, as private tutor in the family of Mr. Emerson's brother

We had some conversation upon this subject, and upon the spiritual advantages of change of place

and upon the Dial, and upon Mr. Alcott, and other kindred or concatenated subjects. I am glad, on

Mr. Thoreau's own



Pag

account, that he is going away; as he is physically out of health, and, morally and intellectually,

seems not to have found exactly the guiding clue; and in all these respects, he may be benefitted by

his removal; also, it is one step towards a circumstantial position in the world. On my account, I

should like to have him remain here; he being one of the few persons, I think, with whom to hold

intercourse is like hearing the wind among the bough of a forest-tree; and with all this wild

freedom, there is high and classic cultivation in him too. He says that Ellery Channing is coming

back to Concord, and that he (Mr. Thoreau) has concluded a bargain, in his behalf, for the hire of small house, with land attached, at $55 per year. I am rather glad than otherwise; but Ellery, so far

as he has been developed to my observation, is but a poor substitute for Mr. Thoreau. (CE , VIII:

369; Friday, April 7, 1843)

[Emerson was a major presence among the luminaries at Concord. In his visits to th

lebrities of the town, he often noted the ownership of property as investments; he w

rewder and more human than most biographers would acknowledge. Hawthorne w

ware of such aspects of Emerson. In the main, Hawthorne believed that Emerson wa

ven to unfounded enthusiasms due to his Transcendentalism. In particular, Emerson

as said to praise too much the activities of Margaret Fuller, America's first major

minist, and her brother-in-law, Ellery Channing, a now-forgotten poet. The tone of

nversation with Emerson reflects, once again, Hawthorne's wit learned from the

ghteenth-century "spectators," Addison and Steele. The excerpt below, written durin

e of his wife's absences, presents Hawthorne as a domesticated, down-to-earth pers

contrast with Emerson the philosopher of an ethereal, higher consciousness;

awthorne expanded this view of Emerson to refer to all the Concord Transcendentalentioned in "The Custom-House." Charles Newcomb was a contributor to The Dial

aised by Emerson, but received only poor reviews.]

[Saturday, April 8th, 1842]

. . . I returned to our lonely old abbey [the Old Manse], opened the



Pag

door with no such heart-spring as if I were to be welcomed by my wife's loving smile, ascended t

my study, and began to read a tale of Tieck. Slow work, and dull work too! Anon, Molly rang the

bell for dinnera sumptuous banquet of stewed veal and maccaroni, to which I sat down in solitary

state. My appetite served me sufficiently to eat with, but not for enjoyment; nothing has a zest, in m

present widowed state. (Thus far I have written when Mr. Emerson called.) After dinner, I lay dow

on the couch, with the Dial as a soporific, and had a short nap; then began to journalize.

Mr. Emerson came, with a sunbeam in his face; and we had as good a talk as I ever remember

experiencing with him. My little wife, I know, will demand to know every word that was spoken;

but she knows me too well to anticipate anything of the kind. He seemed fullest of Margaret Fuller

who, he says, has risen perceptibly into a higher state, since their last meeting. He apotheosized h

as the greatest woman, I believe, of ancient or modern times, and the one figure in the world wort

considering. (There rings the supper-bell.) Then we spoke of Ellery Channing, a volume of whose

poems is to be immediately published, with revisions by Mr. Emerson himself, and Mr. Sam Ward

He seems to anticipate no very wide reception for them; he calls them "poetry for poets," and think

that perhaps a hundred persons may admire them very much; while, to the rest of the world, theywill be little or nothing. Next Mr. Thoreau was discussed, and his approaching departure; in respe

to which we agreed pretty well; but Mr. Emerson appears to have suffered some inconveniency

from his experience of Mr. Thoreau as an inmate. It may well be that such a sturdy and

uncompromising person is fitter to meet occasionally in the open air, than to have as a permanent

guest at table and fireside. We talked of Brook Farm, and the singular moral aspects which it

presents, and the great desirability that its progress and developments should be observed, and its

history written. We talked of Charles Newcomb, who, it appears, is now passing through a new

moral phasis; he is silent, inexpressive, talks little or none, and listens without response except a

sardonic laugh; and some of his friends think that he is passing into permanent eclipse. Various othmatters were discussed or glanced at; and finally, between five and six o'clock, Mr. Emerson took

his leave, threatening to come again, unless I call on him very



Pag

soon. I then went out to chop wood, my allotted space for which had been very much abridged by

his visit; but, on the whole, I was not sorry. I went on with the journal for a few minutes before

supper; and have finished the present record in the setting sunshine and gathering dusk. I would lik

to see my wife! (CE , VIII: 370-72)

[From Emerson's standpoint, Hawthorne was a difficult person to know.]

Sept. 1842

N. Hawthorn's [ sic] reputation as a writer is a very pleasing fact, because his writing is not good

for anything, and this is a tribute to the man. ( Emerson in His Journals, 288)

[The following entry, dated May 1846 by Joel Porte, might pertain to Hawthorne's

osses from an Old Manse, published in early June 1846. It refers to the preface, "Th

d Manse: the Author Makes the Reader Acquainted with His Abode," which

reshadows the welcoming, less formal invitation of the reader into "The Custom-

ouse." Emerson was a poet-essayist, but had little interest in fiction and seems to havssed the point of Hawthorne's prefaces.]

[June?] 1846

Hawthorn invites his readers too much into his study, opens the process before them. As if the

confectioner should say to his customers Now let us make the cake. ( Emerson in His Journals,

356)

[The day after Hawthorne's burial at Sleepy Hollow, Emerson focused on Hawthorn

parent isolation which precluded their deeper friendship.]

May 24, 1864:

Clarke in the church said, that Hawthorne had done more justice than any other to the shades of lif

shown a sympathy with the crime in our nature, &, like Jesus, was the friend of sinners.

I thought there was a tragic element in the event, that might be



Pag

more fully rendered in the painful solitude of the man which, I suppose, could not longer be

endured, & he died of it.

I have found in his death a surprise & disappointment. I thought him a greater man than any of his

works betray, that there was still a great deal of work in him, & that he might one day show a pure

power.

Moreover I have felt sure of him in his neighborhood, & in his necessities of sympathy &

intelligence, that I could well wait his time his unwillingness & caprice and might one day conque

a friendship. It would have been a happiness, doubtless to both of us, to have come into habits of

unreserved intercourse. It was easy to talk with him there were no barriers only, he said so little,

that I talked too much, & stopped only because as he gave no indications I feared to exceed. He

showed no egotism or self assertion, rather a humility, &, at one time, a fear that he had written

himself out. One day, when I found him on the top of his hill, in the woods, he paced back the path

to his house, & said, "this path is the only remembrance of me that will remain." Now it appears

that I waited too long. ( Emerson in His Journals, 522)

[Despite these words, Emerson himself was hurt that Hawthorne had apparently us

argaret Fuller as a model for Zenobia in his Blithedale Romance. This romance wa

itten in 1852, two years after Margaret's death by drowning at sea; it satirizes the

opian ideals of social and sexual equality at Brook Farm by showing that Zenobia fe

ctim to the egotism of a social reformer, Hollingsworth, who seduces her by the pow

his "sympathy" in a manner reminiscent of Dimmesdale's liaison with Hester.]

March 1868:

In an earlier page in this book [the Journal] I wrote some notes touching the so called

Transcendentalists of Boston in 1837. Hawthorne drew some sketches in his Blithedale Romance

but not happily, as I think: rather, I should say quite unworthy of his genius. To be sure I do not thi

any of his books worthy of his genius. I admired the man, who was simple, amiable, truth loving, &

frank in conversation: but I



Pag

never read his books with pleasure they are too young.

In & around Brook Farm, whether as members, boarders, or visiters, were many remarkable

persons, whether for character, or intellect, or accomplishments. There were [Charles] Newcomb

one of the subtlest minds I believe I must say the subtlest observer & diviner of character I ever m

living, reading, writing, talking there, as long, I believe, as the colony held together: Margaret

Fuller, whose rich & brilliant genius no friend who really knew her could recognize under thedismal mask which, it is said, is meant for her in Hawthorne's story. ( Emerson in His Journals,

548)

[One episode that reveals Hawthorne's attitude towards both Emerson and Margare

ller takes place in a cemetery, in which the two Transcendentalists seemingly chase

other for company. Hawthorne gives a sly commentary of the two, suggesting that

argaret was decidedly more human than her "spiritual" conversations with him alon

ould bespeak, and that Emerson was a suitor. To Hawthorne's middle-class mind, th

isode hinted of some kind of liaison between the two, whether either would admit ct or not.]

[Monday, August 22d, 1842.]

I took a walk through the woods, yesterday afternoon, to Mr. Emerson's, with a book which

Margaret Fuller had left behind her, after a call on Saturday eve. . . .

. . . After leaving the book at Mr. Emerson's, I returned through the woods, and entering Sleepy

Hollow, I perceived a lady reclining near the path which bends along its verge. It was Margaret

herself. She had been there the whole afternoon, meditating or reading; for she had a book in her hand, with some strange title, which I did not understand and have forgotten. She said that nobody

had broken her solitude, and was just giving utterance to a theory that no inhabitant of Concord ev

visited Sleepy Hollow, when we saw a whole group of people entering the sacred precincts. Mos

of them followed a path that led them remote from us; but an old man passed near us, and smiled to

see Margaret lying on the ground, and me sitting by her side. He made some remark about the beau

of the afternoon, and withdrew himself into



Pag

the shadow of the wood. Then we talked about Autumn and about the pleasures of getting lost in th

woods and about the crows, whose voices Margaret had heard and about the experiences of early

childhood, whose influence remains upon the character after the collection of them has passed aw

and about the sight of mountains from a distance, and the view from their summits and about other

matters of high and low philosophy. In the midst of our talk, we heard footsteps above us, on the

high bank; and while the intruder was still hidden among the trees, he called to Margaret, of whom

he had gotten a glimpse. Then he emerged from the green shade; and, behold, it was Mr. Emerson,who, in spite of his clerical consecration, had found no better way of spending the Sabbath than to

ramble among the woods. He appeared to have had a pleasant time; for he said that there were

Muses in the woods to-day, and whispers to be heard in the breezes. It being now nearly six

o'clock, we separated, Mr. Emerson and Margaret towards his house, and I towards mine, where

my little wife was very busy getting tea. . . . (CE , VIII: 340, 342-43)

[Margaret Fuller, like Emerson, also felt that Hawthorne was a difficult person to k

a letter to Hawthorne on behalf of a mutual friend, Charles Newcomb, to lodge wit

e Hawthornes at "the old manse," Fuller wrote on an awkward mission with great chd personal attractiveness.]

Cambridge, 16th Jany 1843

Dear Mr Hawthorne,

You must not think I have any black design against your domestic peace Neither am I the agent of

any secret tribunal of the dagger and Cord. Nor am I commissioned by the malice of some baffled

lover to make you wretched.

Yet it may look so, when you find me once again, in defiance of my failure last summer, despite yoletter of full exposition, once more attempting to mix a foreign element in your well compounded

cup.

But, indeed, Oh serenest and most resolute man, these propositions are none of mine. How can I

help it if gentle souls, ill at ease elsewhere, wish to rest with you upon the margin of that sleepy

stream?



Pag

How can I help it, if they choose me for an interpreter, when their reason is the undoubted, not to b

doubted truth that I can bear hearing the cold cruel word No, better than any soul now living. Bett

surely than our friend and youngest brother Charles Newcomb in behalf of whom I now ''take up th

pen."

Charles is desirous, very, if all circumstances should be with him as at present, to come to Concor

next summer, work with you on your farm, if you have employment for him, be received as aboarder beneath your roof, if such arrangement would be pleasant for you and Sophia.

I told him that, when you wrote declining to receive Ellery, you said you should not wish to have

any man but Mr Bradford. Yet knowing your regard for Charles, we have thought it possible you

might think again.

Charles is in very delicate health. He needs work, needs influences both cheering and tranquillizi

He would like to be with you and in Concord, but his heart is not set upon the plan and he is

prepared for a denial. If you do not want him, simply say so, and trouble not to state the reasons; w

shall divine them. In fact I am not annoying you with a proposition, being employed only to soundyour dispositions, but as I know no diplomacy and can move only in a straight-forward direction,

you have the present blunt epistle and are only requested to imagine all has been done in the

indirect, delicate style of old European policy, and answer accordingly.

I should like much to hear something about yourselves, whether ther[e] is writing, or drawing or

modelling in what room you pass the short, dark days, and long bright evenings of Nay, what the

Genius loci says whether through voice of ghost, or rat, or winter wind, or kettle singing symphon

to the happy duet, and whether, by any chance, you sometimes give a thought to your friend

Margaret. ( Letters III: 115, 117)

ranscendentalism

[Emerson conveyed the popularity of Transcendentalism by noting the words of an

thusiastic novice searching for the "new age":]



Pag

Oct. 6, 1836:

Transcendentalism means, says our accomplished Mrs B. with a wave of her hand, A little beyond

( Emerson in His Journals, 151)

[In the passages below from his seminal essay of 1836, Nature (Concord Edition I)

merson shows several key ideas and stylistic features of Transcendentalist thought. Fs eloquence derives from the same Puritan tradition as what one might expect from

verend Arthur Dimmesdale in the pulpit. Its "plain style" makes use of metaphors

awn from every-day life and it counterpoints them to gain a musicality found in

mmesdale's Election Sermon. Secondly, the emphasis is on individualism as the

crum of truth. Thirdly, Emerson noted that his age was "critical" and "historical,'' a

rned to the aesthetic impulse in humans to determine what is truth.]

Our age is retrospective. It builds the sepulchres of the fathers. It writes biographies, histories, an

criticism. The foregoing generations beheld God and nature face to face; we, through their eyes.Why should not we have an original relation to the universe? Why should not we have a poetry an

philosophy of insight and not of tradition, and a religion by revelation to us, and not the history of

theirs. Embosomed for a season in nature, whose floods of life stream around and through us, and

invite us by the powers they supply, to action proportioned to nature, why should we grope among

the dry bones of the past, or put the living generation into masquerade out of its faded wardrobe?

The sun shines to-day also. There is more wool and flax in the fields. There are new lands, new

men, new thoughts. Let us demand our own works and laws and worship. (I: 3)

To go into solitude, a man needs to retire as much from his chamber as from society. I am notsolitary whilst I read and write, though nobody is with me. But if a man would be alone, let him

look at the stars. The rays that come from those heavenly worlds will separate between him and

what he touches. One might think the atmosphere was made transparent with this design, to give

man, in the heavenly bodies, the perpetual presence of the sublime. . . . If the stars should appear

one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore;



Pag

and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the city of God which had been shown! Bu

every night come out these envoys of beauty, and light the universe with their admonishing smile.

7)

. . . The lover of nature is he whose inward and outward senses are still truly adjusted to each oth

who has retained the spirit of infancy even into the era of manhood. . . . In the presence of nature a

wild delight runs through the man, in spite of real sorrows. . . . In the woods, too, a man casts off hyears, as the snake his slough, and at what period soever of life is always a child. In the woods is

perpetual youth. . . . In the woods, we return to reason and faith. There I feel that nothing can befa

me in life, no disgrace, no calamity, (leaving me my eyes,) which nature cannot repair. Standing o

the bare ground, my head bathed by the blithe air, and uplifted into infinite space, all mean egotism

vanishes. I become a transparent eye-ball; I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Bei

circulate through me; I am part or particle of God. The name of the nearest friend sounds then

foreign and accidental: to be brothers, to be acquaintances, master or servant, is then a trifle and a

disturbance. I am the lover of uncontained and immortal beauty. In the wilderness, I find something

more dear and connate than in streets and villages. In the tranquil landscape, and especially in thedistant line of the horizon, man beholds somewhat as beautiful as his own nature. (I: 910)

Nature is the vehicle of thought, and in a simple, double, and threefold degree.

1. Words are signs of natural facts.

2. Particular natural facts are symbols of particular spiritual facts.

3. Nature is the symbol of spirit. (I: 25)

. . . There seems to be a necessity in spirit to manifest itself in material forms; and day and night,river and storm, beast and bird, acid and alkali, preëxist necessary Ideas in the mind of God, and

are what they are by virtue of preceding affections, in the world of spirit. A Fact is the end or last

issue of spirit. The visible creation is the terminus or the circumference of the invisible world. . .

(I: 345)

The world proceeds from the same spirit as the body of man. It is a remoter and inferior incarnati

of God, a projection of God in the unconscious. . . . It is, therefore, to us, the present expositor of

the divine mind. . . . We are as much strangers in nature, as we are aliens



Pag

from God. We do not understand the notes of birds. The fox and the deer run away from us; the be

and tiger rend us. We do not know the uses of more than a few plants, as corn and the apple, the

potato and the vine. Is not the landscape, every glimpse of which hath a grandeur, a face of him? Y

this may show us what discord is between man and nature, for you cannot freely admire a noble

landscape, if laborers are digging in the field hard by. The poet finds something ridiculous in his

delight, until he is out of the sight of men. (I: 645)

[Orestes Brownson (18031876) was a complex New Englander, and one of those w

emplified the "critical" feature of thought which Emerson believed was enervating t

ntemporary age. Raised as a Presbyterian, Brownson turned to Universalism and th

the Unitarianism preached by the Reverends William Ellery Channing (17801842) a

eodore Parker (18101860). After a time of association with some Unitarians of the

anscendental Club in the 1830s, he formed his own church (in accord with the prin

low of "God in every man"). About 1842, he underwent a conversion to Catholicism

d commenced a mission, as he conceived it, to disabuse the modern world of itsceptance and faith in the "latest form of infidelity," manifest in Transcendentalism.]

In the analysis we gave of the teaching of transcendentalists, we reduced that teaching to three

fundamental propositions, namely: 1. Man is the measure of truth and goodness; 2. Religion is a fa

or principle of human nature; 3. All religious institutions, which have been or are, have their

principle and cause in human nature. We have disposed of the first and second of these propositio

[by an analysis of Theodore Parker's A Discourse of Matters pertaining to Religion, Boston,

1842]; and there remains for us now to consider and dispose of only the third and last.

Transcendentalism is virtually the ground on which the enemies of the church, generally, are rallyi

and endeavoring to make a stand, and the ground on which they are to be met and vanquished.

Protestantism, as set forth by the early reformers, is virtually no more. It yielded to the well-

directed blows of Bossuet and other Catholic di-



Pag

vines in the seventeenth century. But its spirit was not extinguished. It survived, and in the beginni

of the eighteenth century reappeared in England under the form of infidelity, or the denial of all

supernatural revelation from God to men; and, by the aid of Voltaire, Rousseau, and other French

philosophes, soon passed into France and Germany and, to no inconsiderable extent, penetrated

even into Italy and Spain. Forced to abandon the form with which it had been clothed by Luther an

Calvin and their associates, it found it could subsist and maintain its influence only by falling bac

on natural religion, and finally on no religion. But this did not long avail it. The world protestedagainst incredulity, and the human race would not consent to regard itself as a "child without a sir

condemned to eternal orphanage. Either Protestantism must assume the semblance at least of

religion, or yield up the race once more to Catholicity. But the latter alternative was more than

could be expected of human pride and human weakness. The reform party could not willingly

forego all their dreams of human perfectibility, "the march of mind," "the progress of the species,"

the realization of what they had emblazoned on their banners, and in the name of which they had

established the Reign of Terror, and drenched Europe in her noblest and richest blood. To abando

these glorious dreams, these sublime hopes, to bow down their lofty heads before priests and

monks, to sheathe the sword and embrace the cross, to give up the age of Reason, and readmit the

Age of Faith was a sacrifice too great for poor human nature. Yet what other alternative was left?

The race demanded a religion would have some kind of faith and worship. To stand on open,

avowed infidel ground was impossible. To return to the elder Protestantism was also impossible,

for that had ceased to exist; and if it had not, a return to it would have been only subjecting itself

anew to the necessity of going further and reuniting with Rome, or of falling back once more on

deism, and then on atheism. It must, then, either vanish in thin air or invent some new form of erro

which, in appearance at least, should be neither the Protestantism of the sixteenth century nor the

unbelief of the eighteenth. The last hope of the party was in the invention of this new form.Germany, mother of the Reformation, saw the extremities to which it was reduced, and charged

herself with conceiving and bringing it forth, as sin conceives and brings forth death. The period o

gestation was brief; the child was



Pag

forthwith ushered into the world. France applauded, young America hurrahed, and even old Engla

pricked up her ears, and calculated the practical advantages she might derive from adopting the

bantling.

The bantling is named Transcendentalism, and not inappropriately. The name defines the thing . . .

that is, a doctrine founded on that which transcends or surpasses sense and understanding.

According to Mr. Parker, this transcendentalism is a sort of pipe, or conduit, through which the

Divinity flows naturally into the human soul. The soul has a double set of faculties, one set on eac

side. Each at the terminus is furnished with a valve which the soul opens and shuts at will. If it

opens one set, the external world flows in and it lives a purely material or animal life; if the other

the Divinity flows in, it becomes filled to its capacity with God, and lives a divine life. As the pip

or conduit through which the Divinity is let in as a natural endowment essential to the soul, and as

we open or close its valve and let in or shut out God at will, the "supply of God" obtained is said

be obtained naturally, and as it is really God who runs in and fills the soul, the influx is said to be

divine, or divine inspiration. As it is of God, and received through a natural inlet in a natural

manner, it is natural inspiration and distinguishable, on the one hand, from the mere light of nature

and on the other, from supernatural inspiration, and may be termed, if you will, natural

supernaturalism, natural spiritualism, or "the natural religious view."

Religious institutions are constructed by the human intellect and passions on the ideas of God

furnished the soul through this natural channel. They are the more or less successful efforts of men

to realize outwardly as well as inwardly the ideas and sentiments of God, of spirit, of the true,

permanent, eternal, and absolute, which are supplied by this natural influx of God. Considered in

their idea and sentiment, all religious institutions are true, sacred, divine, immutable, and eternal;

but considered solely as institutions, they are human, partial, incomplete, variable, and transitory.They may even, as institutions, in relation to their time and place, when they are in harmony with t

actual intelligence of the race and respond to the actual wants of the soul, be useful and legitimate

They spring from, at least are occasioned by, what is purest and best in the human soul, and do,

then, really embody its highest conceptions of what is highest and holiest.



Pag

It is not necessary to denounce the race for having formed itself religious institutions, nor even to

denounce religious institutions themselves, regarded in relation to the legitimate time and place. W

should rather view them with indulgence and seek to explain them, to ascertain their real

significance, the great and eternal ideas they are intended to symbolize. It is foolish, for instance,

unite with the unbelievers of the last century in their denunciations of the Bible. We should accept

the sacred books of Christians; ay, and of all nations the Veda, the Zendavesta, the writings of

Confucius, the Koran, and the Book of Mormon. All are the sincere and earnest efforts of the soul utter the Divinity with which it is filled, and each in its degree, and after its manner, is authentic

Scripture. Every sincere utterance of an earnest soul is a divine word; for every sincere soul is

filled with God, with an elemental fire, and is big with a divine message. Hence the worth of

sincere souls; hence the importance of studying individualities, what is peculiar, exceptional,

without regard to what is common to men in general. If you are a true man, you can make us a new

revelation of God. What can you tell us? Under what new and peculiar phase can you show us the

Universal Being? In what new tone are you able to speak?

As all religious institutions have a common origin in the soul, and do, in their degree and after themanner, shadow forth the same idea and sentiment, they are all, as to their idea and sentiment,

identical. Mumbo-Jumbo of the African, or Manitou of the North American savage, is, at bottom, t

true God as much as the Zeus of the Greeks, the Jupiter of the Romans and either of these as much

the Jehovah of the Jews, or God the Father of the Christians. One or another is nothing but the form

with which, in different ages and in different nations, men clothe the eternal and immutable idea o

the highest and best, which is the same in all ages and nations and in all individuals. The differen

is all in the form; there is none in the idea. . . . (Works VI: 8387)

. . . Weak and ignorant men naturally imagine that the idea and sentiment must be inoperative andinefficacious unless clothed with positive institution. . . . But the race has now advanced far enou

to correct this mistake. Jesus saw the mistake, and his superiority lies in his having risen superior

all forms and asserted the sufficiency of the



Pag

idea and sentiment alone, that is, of absolute religion. He discarded all forms, all institutions, all

contrivances of men, and fell back on absolute religion, on the naked idea and sentiment, and taugh

his followers to do the same. Here was his transcendent merit. Here he proved himself in advance

of his age nay, in advance of all ages since. Unhappily, the world knew him not. His immediate

disciples did not comprehend his divine work. They foolishly imagined that he came to introduce

new form, or to found a new religious institution which, like Aaron's rod, should swallow up all t

rest; and even to this day the great mass of his professed followers have supposed that to beChristians they must sustain institution, believe certain formal dogmas, and observe certain

prescribed rites and ceremonies. Nevertheless, in all ages a bold few branded as heretics by the

orthodox of their time have had some glimpses of the real significance of the Christian movement,

and have stood forth the prophets and harbingers of the glory hereafter to be revealed. . . . The

mighty Welt-Geist , the world-spirit, is on their side, moves in them, and fights and conquers for

them; and we may trust that the time draws near when, in this country at least, we can dispense wi

all religious forms and institutions and carry out the sublime thought of Jesus, for proclaiming wh

a corrupt and formal age crucified him between two thieves. Then men will be satisfied with

absolute religion; then the noble spirit of man will be emancipated, and the godlike mind that wou

explore all things and rise to its primal source, will spurn all formal dogmas, all contracting and

debasing forms, and scorn to seek the living word of God in the dead petrifactions of crafty priest

and besotted monks. Then God himself will be our teacher, and the soul nestle in the bosom of the

All-Father; then man will be man, dare act out himself, and bow to no authority but that of the

invisible Spirit, to whom gravitation and purity of heart, a man, a maggot, a mountain, a moss, are

all the same; and then the human race will what? (Works VI: 8889)

A peculiar excellence of Transcendentalism is that it permits its advocates to use the consecrated

words of faith and piety in impious and infidel senses, and with so much speciousness as to deceimen and women not contemptible either for their intelligence or their motives. All religious

institutions are symbolical and shadow forth, or conceal , real facts. Every rite, every ceremony,

every dogma of religion has its



Pag

root in the soul and conceals some truth of the soul. This truth is a truth, and therefore not to be

rejected; but this truth, or fact, is all that in the symbol is valuable, or that is essential to retain.

Penetrate the symbol, then, ascertain this fact, and you have its real meaning, all that it has ever

meant , even for the race. Thus, the human race believes in divine inspiration. Very well. Then

divine inspiration is a fact. But the human race believes that divine inspiration is the supernatural

communication, through chosen individuals, of truths pertaining to the supernatural order. But this

not the fact: it is only the form with which, through craft, ignorance, or credulity, the fact has beenclothed, not the fact itself but its symbol. The real fact is that every man's soul is furnished with a

pipe through which God runs into it as it wills, in any quantity not exceeding its capacity. The

church asserts the Incarnation that the human nature and the divine nature were united in Jesus in o

person. Very true. She also asserts that the two natures were so united in him and in no other. Ther

she is wrong, for there she gives not the fact but its symbol. The real fact is the union of the human

and divine in all men, or that no man need look out of his own nature to find God, who is one with

the nature of each man. I and my Father are one. The Christian life is a combat, a warfare; we mus

take up the cross, and fight constantly against the world, the flesh, and the devil. All very true. Bu

the world, flesh, and devil against which we are to fight are not what stupid ascetics dream, but

low and debasing views of religion, attachment to obsolete forms, and unwillingness to receive

new light. The real devil is the conservative spirit. At one time it is the church; at another, civil

government; among Protestants, it is the Bible; among Christians generally, the authority of Jesus.

a word, the devil is always that particular thing, institution, or party which restrains the free actio

of the soul and confines it to a prescribed formula, whether of religion, politics, or morals, or

whatever would subject the soul to any law or authority distinguishable from itself. Against this, i

our own time and country, be it what it may, we must take up arms, fight the good fight, regardless

what may be the consequences to ourselves. In this way, Transcendentalists appropriate to their own use all the sacred language of religion and utter the foulest blasphemy in the terms of faith an

piety. . . . Be not the dupe of words. . . . (Works VI: 9091)



Pag

Having done our best to explain away the difficulties likely to embarrass our untranscendental

readers, we are led very naturally to ask, what are the proofs by which transcendentalists attempt

sustain their position, that all religious institutions have their principle and cause in human nature

But transcendentalists regard this question of proofs as a delicate one, and are apt to look upon th

demand for proofs as a decided breach of politeness, a downright piece of impertinence. They do

not reason; they affirm, and we should take their simple assertion as sufficient. They are not

reasoners, but seers; and will we not believe them, when they tell us what they see? Their doctrinrests not on discursion [ sic], but on intuition. The intuition is, indeed, possible to all, but not to al

states of the soul. The soul must be prepared, and its vision purged by regimen, and strengthened b

exercise. We must, by strict regimen and exercise, rise to the pure empyrean, and then we shall se

and know for ourselves. Then no proofs will be needed; and before then none can be appreciated.

Proofs offered to one still in the low regions of the logical understanding are pearls cast before

swine. (Works VI: 102)

But if, by a rare condescension to our rationality, transcendentalists deign to discuss the question

proofs with us, they refer us to their doctrine of the unity and identity of the one nature, which surgunder all forms, and which, out of courtesy to the religious world, they are pleased to call God.

What we foolishly imagine to be distinct natures are, as distinct from this one nature, mere forms,

mere phenomena, and therefore unproductive. But there can be no phenomenon without being, any

more than a shadow without a substance. The being of each particular phenomenon is the one

identical nature, universal in all, particular in each. But this nature is named always from the

particular phenomenon or class of phenomena in which it manifests itself. Manifesting itself in the

phenomenal man, it is call man or human nature, and is precisely what is meant by man consider

as real instead of phenomenal. But as the phenomenal is in itself unproductive, all in the history of

man must proceed from this nature, which we term human nature. Religious institutions are facts inman's history; therefore they proceed from, or have their principle and cause in human nature.

Moreover, if you consider the matter, your demand for proofs is exceedingly foolish. There can be

nothing in history which has not its



Pag

principle and cause in nature. But all natures are really one and the same nature, however

diversified the forms of its manifestation, and this one nature is the nature of all men and of each

man, is in all and in each; for no man can be without a nature. Then you need but study your own

nature, look into yourselves, in order to see and know the truth of our position. All truth is in natu

and all nature is in each man. Each man contains all the facts of history in himself, and can ascerta

them from the analysis of his own consciousness. Nature is essentially intelligent, and therefore

each man must needs know all that has been, is, or is to be, and therefore all phenomena past,present, and to come. We have, then, a universal intuitive power, and therefore many have the

particular intuition of the fact in question. This universal intuitive power is the transcendental

faculty of the soul which we assert, and from which we derive our name of transcendentalists.

Having this faculty, we can of ourselves know all things. . . . (Works VI: 103104)

In conclusion; while surveying the mass of absurdities and impieties heaped together under the

name of transcendentalism, and which attract so many, and even some of our own friends, whose

kindness of heart, whose simple manners, and whose soundness of judgment on all other subjects

command our love and esteem, we have been forcibly struck with the utter impotence of humanreason to devise a scheme which reason herself shall not laugh to scorn. As often as man has

attempted of himself alone to build a tower which shall reach to heaven, or to connect by his own

skill and labor the earthly with the celestial, and make a free and easy passage from one to the oth

the Lord has derided his impotent efforts, confounded his language, and made confusion more

confused. Uniform failure should teach us the folly of the attempt, and lead us to ask, if it be not th

highest reason to bow to the divine reason, and the most perfect freedom to have no will but the

will of God. "O Israel! thou destroyeth thyself; in me is thy help." (Works VI: 113)



Pag

PPENDIX C

HE CONTROVERSY OF ''THE CUSTOM-HOUSE" INTRODUCTIO

[Hawthorne had long considered the possibility of his dismissal from the custom-

use, but as the letter to Longfellow indicates, he was incensed that erstwhile supporch as the family-friend, Horace Conolly, had changed his party and would "betray"

the Salem Whig caucus.]

[To H. W. Longfellow, Cambridge]

[Salem] Custom-House, June 5th. 1849

. . . I should like to have written a long notice of it [Longfellow's Kavanaugh], and would have

done so for the Salem Advertiser; but, on the strength of my notice of Evangeline and some half-

dozen other books, I have been accused of a connection with the editorship of that paper, and of writing political articles which I never did one single time in my whole life! I must confess, it stir

up a little of the devil within me, to find myself hunted by these political bloodhounds. If they

succeed in getting me out of office, I will surely immolate one or two of them. Not that poor mons

of a Conolly, whom I desire only to bury in oblivion, far out of my own remembrance. Nor any of

the common political brawlers, who work on their own level, and can conceive of no high ground

than what they occupy. But if there be among them (as there must be, if they succeed) some men w

claim a higher position, and ought to know better, I may perhaps select a victim, and let fall one

little drop of venom on his heart, that shall make him writhe before the grin of the multitude for a

considerable time to come. This I will do, not as an act of individual vengeance, but in your behalas well as mine, because he will have violated the sanctity of the priesthood to which we both, in

our different degrees, belong. I do not claim to be a poet; and yet I cannot but feel that some of the

sacredness of that character adheres to me, and ought to be respected in me, unless I step out of its

immunities, or make it a plea for violating any of the rules of ordinary life. When other people

concede me this privilege, I never think that I possess it; but when they disre-



Pag

grad it, the consciousness makes itself felt. If they will pay no reverence to the imaginative power

when it causes herbs of grace and sweet-scented flowers to spring up along their pathway, then th

should be taught what it can do in the way of producing nettles, skunk-cabbage, deadly night-shad

wolf's bane, dog-wood. If they will not be grateful for its works of beauty and beneficence, then l

them dread it as a pervasive and penetrating mischief, that can reach them at their firesides and in

their bedchambers, follow them to far countries, and make their very graves refuse to hide them. I

have often thought that there must be a good deal of enjoyment in writing personal satire; but, nevehaving felt the slightest ill-will towards any human being, I have hitherto been debarred from this

peculiar source of pleasure. I almost hope I shall be turned out, so as to have an opportunity of

trying it. I cannot help smiling in anticipation of the astonishment of some of these local magnates

here, who suppose themselves quite out of the reach of any retribution on my part. . . . (CE , XVI:

26970)

[Initially, Hawthorne had hopes that his friends would assist him in getting a new

sition. Hillard was a close friend, an editor, and Hawthorne's lawyer.]

[Letter to G. S. Hillard, Boston]

Salem, June 8th. 1849.

I am turned out of office!

There is no use in lamentation. It now remains to consider what I shall do next. The emoluments o

the office have been so moderate that I have not been able to do anything more than support my

family, and pay some few debts that I had contracted. If you could do anything in the way of

procuring me some stated literary employment, in connection with a newspaper, or as corrector o

the press to some printing-establishment, &c, it could not come at a better time. Perhaps Epes

Sargent, who is a friend of mine, would know of something. I shall not stand upon my dignity; that

must take care of itself. Possibly there may be some subordinate office connected with the Boston

Athenaeum. Do not think anything too humble to be mentioned to me. (CE , XVI: 273)



Pag

[On June 16, an anonymous letter, perhaps written by Charles Upham, the leader o

lem Whig caucus, was published in the politically allied Salem Atlas, attacking

awthorne's claim to political innocence. Hawthorne responded by confining himself

ters to friends. However, the one to G. S. Hillard, an editor and his family lawyer, w

eased to the Boston Advertiser , along with the notice of its being sent "at the reques

friend"; the letter, when published, made Hawthorne's case a public issue which thehigs could not henceforth overlook.]

[To G. S. Hillard, Boston]

Salem, June 18th, 1849.

. . . I refer, among others and am most happy so to do to a gentleman now very prominent and activ

in our local politics, the Rev. Charles Wentworth Upham, who told me, in presence of David

Roberts, Esq., that I need never fear removal under a Whig administration, inasmuch as my

appointment had not displaced a Whig. . . . (CE , XVI: 280)

[Fields, to publicize the upcoming publication of The Scarlet Letter , had suggested

ert Duyckinck that his Democratic Literary World publish separately the section on

spector (William Lee) in "The Custom-House." Hawthorne recognized the political

nsitivity of the subject if the excerpt was not balanced by the other sketches of the

eneral, "the man of business," and himself as the frustrated artist, and so he refused

ve permission. However, the editor of the journal, Evert Duyckinck, went ahead and

blished the excerpt on March 16, 1850, arousing the local Whigs one more time, an

ading to Hawthorne's "Preface to the Second Edition," published April 22 1850.]

[To J. T. Fields, Boston]

Salem, March 7th. 1850.

My Dear Fields,

I pray Heaven the book may be a quarter part as successful as your prophecy. Never-the-less, I do

expect even this small modicum of



Pag

luck. It is not in my cards.

Touching the advance-sheets for the Literary World, I think it would be well to give them; but I

hesitate about that particular passage. I shall catch it pretty smartly from my ill-willers, here in

Salem, on the score of this old Inspector; and though I care little for that, yet it may be as well not

bring his character out in the alto relievo of a preliminary extract. How would it do to take the

character of General Miller? I don't think it advisable to give any thing from the story itself; becauI know of no passage that would not throw too much light on the plan of the book. The whole

Introduction might be sent to Duyckinck, with only a veto of that one passage. (CE , XVI: 322)

[Hawthorne, in writing to influential reviewers, avowed that he had no animosity

wards Whig individuals in writing his "Introduction."]

[To Oliver Cromwell Gardiner, New York]

Salem, April 3d. 1850

My dear Sir,

. . . I thank you . . . for your favorable notice of my book, and am especially glad that you took

occasion to praise the introductory article; for it has exposed me to great animadversion in this

immediate vicinity. I thought that it was written in a vein of good-humor; and I certainly had no

feelings which would have prompted me to write otherwise. The book has met with good success

the first edition (of 2500 copies) having been exhausted in ten days. (CE , XVI: 327)

[In his more intimate circle, despite the early success of The Scarlet Letter , Hawtho

as sensitive about his "betrayal" by the Salem community, and voiced his intent to le

lem, taking his "household gods" with him as did the Romans in making a permaneove.]



Pag

[Letter To Horatio Bridge, Portsmouth]

Salem, April 13th. 1850.

Dear Bridge,

I am glad you like the Scarlet Letter; it would have been a sad matter indeed, if I had missed the

favorable award of my oldest and friendliest critic. The other day, I met with your notice of

"Twice-Told Tales," for the Augusta Age; and I really think that nothing better has been said abouthem since. This book has been highly successful; the first edition having been exhausted in ten

days, and the second (5000 copies in all) promising to go off rapidly.

As to the Salem people, I really thought that I had been exceedingly good-natured in my treatment

them. They certainly do not deserve good usage at my hands, after permitting me (their most

distinguished citizen; for they have no other that was ever heard of beyond the limits of the

Congressional district)after permitting me to be deliberately lied down, not merely once, but at tw

separate attacks, on two false indictments, without hardly a voice being raised in my behalf; and

then sending one of the false witnesses to Congress, others to the State legislature, and choosing

another as their Mayor. I feel an infinite contempt for them, and probably have expressed more of

than I intended; for my preliminary chapter has caused the greatest uproar that ever happened here

since witch-times. If I escape from town without being tarred-and-feathered, I shall consider it go

luck. I wish they would tar-and-feather me it would be such an entirely novel kind of distinction fo

a literary man! And from such judges as my fellow-citizens, I should look upon it as a higher hono

than a laurel-crown.

I have taken a cottage in Lenox, and mean to take up my residence there, about the first of May. In

the interim, my wife and children are going to stay in Boston, and nothing could be more agreeabl

to myself than to spend a week or so with you; so that your invitation comes extremely apropos. Infact, I was on the point of writing to propose a visit. We shall remove our household gods from th

infernal locality, tomorrow or next day. . . .

Truly Your friend,

Nath1 Hawthorne

(CE , XVI: 329-30)



Pag

[The extent to which Hawthorne felt "betrayed" is evident in a letter to Horace Lore

onolly (1810-1894). Conolly was an illegitimate child of the housekeeper for Miss S

gersoll (c. 1785-1858), a second cousin of Hawthorne. She virtually "adopted" him

pported him to become an Episcopal minister; hence the nickname of "the Cardinal

e Hawthorne circle. In the 1840s, Conolly became a politician, first as a Democrat a

en as a key member of the Salem Whig caucus. Thus, his "betrayal'' was doubly paiHawthorne, who portrays him here as an opportunist (see Thomas Woodson,

ntroduction to the Letters," CE , XV: 63-4). Alluding to the Biblical story of Baalim a

s ass, Hawthorne implies that Conolly having given Longfellow the story line for hi

em Evangeline and by having himself dismissed from the Custom House inspired h

write The Scarlet Letter , thus "blessing when he meant to curse." The letter shows

fluence of Hawthorne's reading among the eighteenth-century satirists.]

[To Horace Conolly, Salem]

Lenox June 17th 1850.

Mr. Ex Cardinal,

I don't care a d who is Surveyor of Salem, and shall give myself no trouble about making or

unmaking him. One thing I am determined upon never to be Surveyor, nor any other kind of Custom

House Officer, in my own person. If you had any chance of getting the Surveyorship for yourself, I

might take some little trouble to promote it, to reward you for getting me out, and to punish you for

your misdeeds generally. But as you seem to desire it only from your natural instinct for mischief,

you must excuse me for not meddling with the matter, especially as I cannot very well eat my own

words, in a letter to Bradbury, in which I expressed a kindly feeling towards Putnam, and desiredhis confirmation. He may be a knave and a jackass indeed, I have very little doubt of it, but he

treated me in rather a gentlemanly way; and I am inclined to think, in spite of your opinion, that his

confirmation will plague more than it pleases. If I had not interfered, he must have been rejected t

a dead certainty. As the case



Pag

stands, both the Surveyor and Naval Officer will doubtless be confirmed.

Who would have thought of our ever corresponding again, and what a meeting that was in Boston!

is almost too incredible to be put into a romance. Certainly I must say it for myself there is the lea

gall and animosity in my nature, and the greatest and sweetest quantity of the milk of human

kindness, that ever existed in any son of Adam. I am a true Christian and the only one I ever met

with. Here have you been slandering and backbiting and stabbing me in the dark for years past, bobefore and after our breach, you dug me out of office, and do your best to starve me and at the clo

of all I find myself eating bread and salt and getting corned [drunk] with you, and just as kindly as

nothing had happened, and friendly, I sit down to write you, with pretty much the same feelings as

ten years ago when you used to bother me with your infernal drafts from Philadelphia. There is on

Christian in the world and I am he.

But the truth is, as happened with somebody in the Bible, whom I forget but perhaps you will

remember you have blessed where you meant to curse. If I had stayed four years longer in the

Custom-House, I should have rusted utterly away, and never have been heard of more, but being

kicked out (through your good offices) just at the nick of time, I came forth as fresh as if I had been

just made, and went to work as if the devil were in me, if it were only to put my enemies to the

blush. I don't reckon you among my enemies, nor ever have. You are a kind of pet serpent, and mu

be allowed to bite now and then; that being the nature of the critter, not but what there are good

qualities in you too. If it had not been for that meeting in Boston, I do believe I should have put yo

into my next book, not with any unkindness, but developing, as well as I could, your good and you

evil, and showing about as queer a combination as the world has ever witnessed. I suppose I must

not do it now as we have shaken hands again, for though I should have done the business in a

perfectly good natured way, I doubt whether the result would have been altogether satisfactory toyourself.

By the way what an influence you have exerted on our literature. The seed of Evangeline was you

and the Scarlet Letter would not have existed, unless you had set your mischief making faculties to



Pag

work. If not a literary man yourself you are certainly the cause of literature in other people.

Good bye. Imitate my Christian virtues, and as I take nothing amiss which you have done, so do yo

take in good part all the rough things which my pen lets drop in writing to you as naturally as a be

distils honey. Whatever I may say, I doubt whether anybody (except perhaps the Duchess,) feels a

greater kindness for you, or would be more sorry to have you come to harm. Try to be a better boy

than you have been. Say your prayers. Leave off cigars. Eschew evil, make the most of what goodyou find in yourself. Stick to your friends. Forgive your enemies; and leave that wretched old tow

of Salem, the moment you are your own man. N.H. (CE , XVI: 344-46)

[Zachariah Burchmore, Jr. (1809-1884) was the model for the "man of business" in

etch of "The Custom-House" (Thomas Woodson, ''Introduction", CE , XV:66). Ephr

iller succeeded his father, General Miller, as Collector of the Custom-House.

wthorne's notice of "the scarlet letter" refers to the invitation in "The Custom-Hous

r readers to check its "authenticity":]

[To Zachariah Burchmore, Salem]

Lenox, Sept. 17th, 1850

Dear Zach,

. . . How does the Collector stand, under the new administration? I have often wished to see you

since we parted, and still hope that you will not entirely desert me. The champagne, I regret to say

is almost gone; for I have had a good many visitors, who come to ask for a sight of the Scarlet

Letter; and as it is impossible to produce that article, I endeavor to satisfy them in the best way I

can. There is some pretty fair brandy at an apothecary's in the village, and I got a quart of it for

medicinal purposes; but that, too, is exhausted. (CE , XVI: 364)



Pag

PPENDIX D

AWTHORNE'S PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION

Much to the author's surprise, and (if he may say so without additional offence) considerably to hi

amusement, he finds that his sketch of official life, introductory to THE SCARLET LETTER, hascreated an unprecedented excitement in the respectable community immediately around him.1 It

could hardly have been more violent, indeed, had he burned down the Custom-House, and quench

its last smoking ember in the blood of a certain venerable personage, against whom he is suppose

to cherish a peculiar malevolence.2 As the public disapprobation would weigh very heavily on

him, were he conscious of deserving it, the author begs leave to say, that he has carefully read ove

the introductory pages, with a purpose to alter or expunge whatever might be found amiss, and to

make the best reparation in his power for the atrocities of which he has been adjudged guilty. But

appears to him, that the only remarkable features of the sketch are its frank and genuine good-humo

and the general accuracy with which he has conveyed his sincere impressions of the characterstherein described. As to enmity, or ill-feeling of any kind, personal or political, he utterly disclaim

such motives. The sketch might, perhaps, have been wholly omitted, without loss to the public or

detriment to the book; but, having undertaken to write it, he conceives that it could not have been

done in a better or a kindlier spirit, nor, so far as his abilities availed, with a livelier effect of trut

1 Salem, Massachusetts; Hawthorne's hometown and site of the Custom-House from which he wa

dismissed June 8, 1849. The "excitement" was partially caused by efforts on the part of the

Hawthornes (particularly his wife, Sophia, and close friends) to get his position restored despite

the code of patronage under the Spoils System.2 William Lee (17711851), the permanent Inspector of the Custom-House. Evart Duyckinck publi

separately the section on him in "The Custom-House" on March 16, 1850 in his Literary World de

Hawthorne's protests (Appendix C.4); the separate publication, intended as humor to publicize the

romance itself, back fired and brought down the wrath of the Whigs.



Pag

The author is constrained, therefore, to republish his introductory sketch without the change of a

word.

SALEM, March 30, 1850



Pag

PPENDIX E

AWTHORNE'S EARLIER WRITINGS ON PURITAN HISTORY

om "Endicott and the Red Cross" (1838)

his sketch is Hawthorne's first fictional depiction of a woman similar to Hester Pryn

In close vicinity to the sacred edifice [the Puritan meeting-house or church] appeared that importa

engine of Puritanic authority, the whipping-post with the soil around it well trodden by the feet of

evil doers, who had there been disciplined. At one corner of the meeting-house was the pillory, an

at the other the stocks; and, by a singular good fortune for our sketch, the head of an Episcopalianand suspected Catholic was grotesquely incased in the former machine; while a fellow-criminal,

who had boisterously quaffed a health to the king, was confined by the legs in the latter. Side by

side, on the meeting-house steps, stood a male and female figure. The man was a tall, lean, haggar

personification of fanaticism, bearing on his breast this label, A WANTON GOSPELLER, which

betokened that he had dared to give interpretations of Holy Writ unsanctioned by the infallible

judgment of the civil and religious rulers. His aspect showed no lack of zeal to maintain his

heterodoxies, even at the stake. The woman wore a cleft stick on her tongue, in appropriate

retribution for having wagged that unruly member against the elders of the church; and her

countenance and gestures gave much cause to apprehend that, the moment the stick should beremoved, a repetition of the offence would demand new ingenuity in chastising it.

The above-mentioned individuals had been sentenced to undergo their various modes of ignominy

for the space of one hour at noonday. But among the crowd were several whose punishment would

be life-long; some, whose ears had been cropped, like those of puppy dogs; others, whose cheeks

had been branded with the initials of their misdemeanors; one, with his nostrils slit and seared; an

another, with a halter about his neck, which he was forbidden ever to take off, or to



Pag

conceal beneath his garments. Methinks he must have been grievously tempted to affix the other en

of the rope to some convenient beam or bough. There was likewise a young woman, with no mean

share of beauty, whose doom it was to wear the letter A on the breast of her gown, in the eyes of a

the world and her own children. And even her own children knew what that initial signified.

Sporting with her infamy, the lost and desperate creature had embroidered the fatal token in scarle

cloth, with golden thread and the nicest art of needlework; so that the capital A might have been

thought to mean Admirable, or anything rather than Adulteress. (CE, IX, 43435)

om "Main-Street" (1849)

his sketch, written at the same time as The Scarlet Letter , concisely presents

awthorne's ambiguous attitude towards the Puritans.]

. . . The Quakers have come! We are in peril! See! they trample upon our wise and well-establishe

laws in the person of our chief magistrate; for Governor Endicott is passing, now an aged man, an

dignified with long habits of authority, and not one of the irreverent vagabonds has moved his

hat! . . .

But look yonder! Can we believe our eyes? A Quaker woman, clad in sackcloth, and with ashes o

her head, has mounted the steps of the meeting-house. She addresses the people in a wild, shrill

voice, wild and shrill it must be, to suit such a figure, which makes them tremble and turn paly,

although they crowd open-mouthed to hear her. She is bold against established authority; she

denounces the priest and his steeple-house. Many of her hearers are appalled; some weep; andothers listen with a rapt attention, as if a living truth had now, for the first time, forced its way

through the crust of habit, reached their hearts, and awakened them to life. This matter must be

looked to; else we have brought our faith across the seas with us in vain; and it had been better th

the old forest were still standing here, waving its tangled boughs, and murmuring to the sky out of

desolate recesses, instead of this goodly street, if such blasphemies be spoken in it.

So thought the old Puritans. What was their mode of action may be



Pag

partly judged from the spectacles which now pass before your eyes. Joshua Buffum is standing in

the pillory. Cassandra Southwick is led to prison. And there is a woman, it is Ann Coleman, nake

from the waist upward, and bound to the tail of a cart, is dragged through the Main-street at the pa

of a brisk walk, while the constable follows with a ship of knotted cords. A strong-armed fellow

that constable; and each time that he flourishes his lash in the air, you see a frown wrinkling and

twisting his brow, and, at the same instant, a smile upon his lips. He loves his business, faithful

officer that he is, and puts his soul into every stroke, zealous to fulfil the injunction of Major Hawthorne's warrant, in the spirit and to the letter. There came down a stroke that has drawn bloo

Ten such stripes are to be given in Salem, ten in Boston, and ten in Dedham; and, with those thirty

stripes of blood upon her, she is to be driven into the forest. The crimson trail goes wavering alon

the Main-street; but Heaven grant, that, as the rain of so many years has wept upon it, time after

time, and washed it all away, so there may have been a dew of mercy, to cleanse this cruel blood-

stain out of the record of the persecutor's life. (CE , XI: 6970)

. . . Happy are we, if for nothing else, yet because we did not live in those days. . . . Such a life w

sinister to the intellect, and sinister to the heart; especially when one generation had bequeathed itreligious gloom, and the counterfeit of its religious ardor, to the next; for these characteristics, as

was inevitable, assumed the form both of hypocrisy and exaggeration, by being inherited from the

example and precept of other human beings, and not from an original and spiritual source. The son

and grandchildren of the first settlers were a race of lower and narrower souls than their

progenitors had been. The latter were stern, severe, intolerant, but not superstitious, not even

fanatical; and endowed, if any men of that age were, with a far-seeing worldly sagacity. But it wa

impossible for the succeeding race to grow up, in Heaven's freedom, beneath the discipline which

their gloomy energy of character had established; nor, it may be, have we even yet thrown off all th

unfavorable influences which among many good ones, were bequeathed to us by our Puritanforefathers. Let us thank God for having given us such ancestors; and let each successive generatio

thank him, not less fervently, for being one step further from them in the march of ages. (CE , XI:

6768)



Pag

om "The Celestial Rail-Road" (1843)

awthorne's own attitude towards the Transcendentalism of his era is exemplified in

lowing selections from this tale. The tale is a modern parody of John Bunyan'slgrim's Progress, one of Hawthorne's most beloved books. Hawthorne's point is tha

gon and assumptions of the Transcendentalists have reduced the realities of sin and

mere illusions of which any up-to-date modern person had a right to be

ntemptuous.]

Not a great while ago, passing through the gate of dreams, I visited that region of the earth in whic

lies the famous city of Destruction. It interested me much to learn, that, by the public spirit of som

of the inhabitants, a rail-road has recently been established between this populous and flourishing

town, and the Celestial City. Having a little time upon my hands, I resolved to gratify a liberal

curiosity by making a trip thither. Accordingly, one fine morning, after paying my bill at the hotel,

and directing the porter to stow my luggage behind a coach, I took my seat in the vehicle, and set o

for the Station House. It was my good fortune to enjoy the company of a gentleman one Mr. Smooth

it-away who, though he had never actually visited the Celestial City, yet seemed as well acquainte

with its laws, customs, policy, and statistics, as with those of the city of Destruction, of which he

was a native townsman. Being, moreover, a director of the rail-road corporation, and one of its

largest stockholders, he had it in his power to give me all desirable information respecting that

praiseworthy enterprise. (CE X: 186)The spot, where we had now paused, is the same that our friend Bunyan a truthful man, but infecte

with many fantastic notions has designated, in terms plainer than I like to repeat, as the mouth of th

infernal region. This, however, must be a mistake; inasmuch as Mr. Smooth-it-away, while we

remained in the smoky and lurid cavern, took occasion to prove that Tophet has not even a

metaphorical existence. The place, he assured us, is no other than the crater of a half-extinct

volcano, in which the Directors had caused forges to be set up, for the manufacture of rail-road

iron. Hence, also, is obtained



Pag

a plentiful supply of fuel for the use of the engines. Whoever had gazed into the dismal obscurity o

the broad cavern-mouth, whence, ever and anon, darted huge tongues of dusky flame, and had seen

the strange, half-shaped monsters, and visions of faces horribly grotesque, into which the awful

murmurs, and shrieks, and deep shuddering whispers of the blast, sometimes forming itself into

words almost articulate, he would have seized upon Mr. Smooth-it-away's comfortable explanatio

as greedily as we did. . . . (CE X: 194-95)

At the end of the Valley, as John Bunyan mentions, is a cavern, where, in his days, dwelt two crue

giants, Pope and Pagan, who had strewn the ground about their residence with the bones of

slaughtered pilgrims. These vile old troglodytes are no longer there; but into their deserted cave

another terrible giant has thrust himself, and makes it his business to seize upon honest travellers,

and fat them for his table with plentiful meals of smoke, mist, moonshine, raw potatoes, and

sawdust. He is a German by birth, and is called Giant Transcendentalist; but as to his form, his

features, his substance, and his nature generally, it is the chief peculiarity of this huge miscreant, th

neither he for himself, nor anybody for him, has ever been able to describe them. As we rushed by

the cavern's mouth, we caught a hasty glimpse of him, looking somewhat like an ill-proportionedfigure, but considerably more like a heap of fog and duskiness. He shouted after us, but in so stran

a phraseology that we knew not what he meant, nor whether to be encouraged or affrighted. (CE X

196-97)



Pag

PPENDIX F

AWTHORNE'S AMERICAN NOTEBOOKS

awthorne's entries in his American Notebooks (CE VIII), over the years, conceptual

oralistic dramas and suggest his point of view about possible characters for The Scatter:

[Hester Prynne]

e life of a woman, who, by the old colony law, was condemned always to wear the

ter A, sewed on her garment, in token of her having committed adultery. (254; July

44)

[Arthur Dimmesdale]a. Insincerity in a man's own heart must make all his enjoyments, all that concern

him, unreal; so that his whole life must seem like a merely dramatic representatio

And this would be the case, even though he were surrounded by true-hearted

relatives and friends. (166-67; December 6, 1837)

b. The situation of a man in the midst of a crowd, yet as completely in the power

another, life and all, as if they two were in the deepest solitude. (170; June 15, 18

c. Character of a man who, in himself and his external circumstances, shall be

equally and totally false: his fortune resting on baseless credit, his patriotism

assumed, his domestic affections, his honor and honesty, all a sham. His own mi

in the midst of it, in making the whole universe, heaven and earth alike, an

unsubstantial mockery to him. (180; July 13, 1838)

d. Dr. Johnson's penance in Uttoxeter Market. A man who does penance in what

might appear to lookers-on the most glorious and triumphal circumstance of his

Each circumstance of the career of an ap-



Pag

parently successful man to be a penance and torture to him on account of some

fundamental error in early life. (180; July 13, 1838)

e. A person, while awake and in the business of life, to think highly of another, a

place perfect confidence in him, but to be troubled with dreams in which this

seeming friend appears to act the part of a most deadly enemy. Finally it is

discovered that the dream-character is the true one. The explanation would be th

soul's instinctive perception. (181; October 24, 1838)

f. The strange sensation of a person who feels himself an object of deep interest,

close observation, and various construction of all his actions, by another person

(183; January 4, 1839)

g. To symbolize moral or spiritual disease by disease of the body; thus, when a

person committed any sin, it might cause a sore to appear on the body; this to be

wrought out. (222; October 27, 1841)

h. A Father Confessor his reflections on character, and the contrast of the inward

man with the outward, as he looks round on his congregation all whose secret si

are known to him. (235; June 1, 1842)

i. Some men have no right to perform great deeds, or think high thoughts and w

they do so, it is a kind of humbug. They had better keep within their own propri

(273; October 11, 1845)[Roger Chillingworth]

a. The influence of a peculiar mind, in close communion with another, to drive t

latter to insanity. (170; December 6, 1837)

b. A physician for the cure of moral diseases. (235; June 1, 1842)

c. Sketch of a person, who, by strength of character, or assistant circumstances, h

reduced another to absolute slavery and dependence on him. Then show, that th person who appears to be the master, must inevitably be at least as much a slave

not more, than the other.



Pag

All slavery is reciprocal, on the supposition most favorable to the rulers. (253; Ju

27, 1844)

d. A story of the effects of revenge, in diabolizing him who indulges in it. (278;

November 17, 1847)

[Pearl is the Biblical ''pearl of great price"; Hawthorne modelled her on his daughtena, about five years old at the time he wrote The Scarlet Letter :]

a. Pearl the English of Margaret a pretty name for a girl in a story. (242; June 1 1

b. The baby, the other day, tried to grasp a handfull of Sunshine. She also grasp

the shadows of things, in candle light. [This baby was Una.] (250; July 27, 1844)

c. . . . Una, I think, does not possess humor, nor anything of the truly comic; she

cannot at all bear to be laughed at, for anything funny that she perpetrates

unawares. . . . Her natural bent is towards the passionate and tragic. (410-11; Jan

28, 1849)

d. . . . She [Una] is infinitely adventurous, and spends much of her time, in this

summer-weather, hanging on that gate, and peeping forth into the great, unknow

world that lies beyond. Ever and anon, without giving us the slightest notice, she

apt to take a flight into the said unknown, and when we go to seek her, we find h

surrounded by a knot of children with whom she has made acquaintance, and w

gaze at her with a kind of wonder recognizing that she is not altogether likethemselves. (426; July 29, 1849)

e. . . . But, to return to Una, there is something that almost frightens me about the

child I know not whether elfish or angelic, but, at all events, supernatural. She st

so boldly into the midst of everything, shrinks from nothing, has such

comprehension of everything, seems at times to have but little delicacy, and anon

shows that she possesses the finest essence of it; now so hard, now so tender; no

so perfectly un-



Pag

reasonable, soon again so wise. In short, I now and then catch an aspect of her,

which I cannot believe her to be my own human child, but a spirit strangely min

with good and evil, haunting the house where I dwell. (430-31; July 30, 1849)

[Although "the Unpardonable Sin" of the despair of redemption is the basis for the

"Ethan Brand: A Chapter from an Abortive Romance," the theme also applies to Ar

mmesdale's inability to repent despite his seven years of penance. It also pertains to

oger Chillingworth whose pursuit of "narrow" scientific truth destroys his faith in th

man:]

a. The search of an investigator for the Unpardonable Sin; he at last finds it in hi

own heart and practice. (251; July 27, 1844)

b. The Unpardonable Sin might consist in a want of love and reverence for the

Human Soul; in consequence of which, the investigator pried into its dark depth

not with a hope or purpose of making it better, but from a cold philosophical

curiosity, content that it should be wicked in whatever kind or degree, and only

desiring to study it out. Would not this, in other words, be the separation of the

intellect from the heart? (251; July 27, 1844)



Pag

PPENDIX G

AWTHORNE'S IRONIC VISION

[An important instance of Hawthorne's personality is the following entry in his

merican Notebooks of his visit to his mother's bedside, three days before her death oly 31, 1849. It exemplifies an eighteenth-century balance of mind that is ripe for iro

nday, July 29th, 1849, 1/2 past 9 o'clock AM.

. . . At about five o'clock [Saturday evening], I went to my mother's chamber, and was shocked to

see such an alteration since my last visit, the day before yesterday. I love my mother; but there has

been, even since my boyhood, a sort of coldness of intercourse between us, such as is apt to come

between persons of strong feelings, if they are not managed rightly. I did not expect to be much

moved at the time that is to say, not to feel any overpowering emotion struggling, just then though I

knew that I should deeply remember and regret her. Mrs. Dike was in the chamber. Louisa pointedto a chair near the bed; but I was moved to kneel down close by my mother, and take her hand. She

knew me, but could only murmur a few indistinct words among which I understood an injunction t

take care of my sisters. Mrs. Dike left the chamber, and then I found tears slowly gathering in my

eyes. I tried to keep them down; but it would not be I kept filling up, till, for a few moments, I sho

with sobs. For a long time, I knelt there, holding her hand; and surely it is the darkest hour I ever

lived. Afterwards, I stood by the open window, and looked through the crevice of the curtain. The

shouts, laughter, and cries of the two children had come up into the chamber, from the open air,

making a strange contrast with the death-bed scene. And now, through the crevice of the curtain, I

saw my little Una of the golden locks, looking very beautiful; and so full of spirit and life, that she

was life itself. And then I looked at my poor dying mother; and seemed to see the whole of human

existence at once, standing in the dusty midst of it. Oh what a mockery, if what I saw were all, let

the interval between extreme youth and dying age be filled up with what happiness it might! But



Pag

God would not have made the close [the interval between] so dark and wretched, if there were

nothing beyond; for then it would have been a fiend that created us, and measured out our existenc

and not God. It would be something beyond wrong it would be insult to be thrust out of life into

annihilation in this miserable way. So, out of the very bitterness of death, I gather the sweet

assurance of a better state of being.

At one moment, little Una's voice came up, very clear and distinct, into the chamber "Yes; she isgoing to die." I wish she had said "going to God" which is her idea and usual expression of death

would have been so hopeful and comforting, uttered in that bright young voice. She must have bee

repeating or enforcing the words of some elder person who had just spoken. (CE , VIII: 42830)

[Two days before his mother's death, Hawthorne had another experience of "balanc

s time positioned from the perspective of his two children, Una and Julian.]

[Monday], July 30th, [1849], 1/2 past 10 o'clock.

Another bright forenoon, warmer than yesterday, with flies buzzing through the sunny air. Mother still lives, but is gradually growing weaker, and appears to be scarcely sensible. Julian is playing

quietly about, and is now out of doors, probably hanging on the gate. Una takes a strong and strang

interest in poor mother's condition, and can hardly be kept out of the chamber endeavoring to thrus

herself into the door, whenever it is opened, and continually teazing [ sic] me to be permitted to go

up. This is partly the intense curiosity of her active mind partly, I suppose, natural affection. I kno

not what she supposes is to be the final result to which grandmamma is approaching. She talks of

her being soon to go to God, and probably thinks that she will be taken away bodily. Would to Go

it were to be so! Faith and trust would be far easier than they are now. But, to return to Una, there

something that almost frightens me about the child I know not whether elfish or angelic, but, at allevents, supernatural. She steps so boldly into the midst of everything, shrinks from nothing, has su

comprehension of everything, seems at times to have but little delicacy, and anon shows that she

possesses the finest essence of it; now so



Pag

hard, now so tender; now so perfectly unreasonable, soon again so wise. In short, I now and then

catch an aspect of her, in which I cannot believe her to be my own human child, but a spirit

strangely mingled with good and evil, haunting the house where I dwell. The little boy [Julian] is

always the same child, and never varies in his relation to me. (CE , VIII: 43031)

[This sense of balance and multiple viewpoints pervades Hawthorne's life and expl

s wide range of emotions. In the Yesterdays with Authors, Fields shows another sidawthorne's personality that is often overlooked or submerged by commentators who

ould have him conform to the image of a brooding, solitary romantic. The date was

ugust 5, 1850, and Hawthorne, having moved to Lenox, was enjoying his triumph o

e Scarlet Letter with a picnic among friends on Monument Mountain.]

One beautiful summer day, twenty years ago, I found Hawthorne in his little red cottage at Lenox,

surrounded by his happy young family. He had the look, as somebody said, of a banished lord, and

his grand figure among the hills of Berkshire seemed finer than ever. His boy and girl were

swinging on the gate as we drove up to his door, and with their sunny curls formed an attractivefeature in the landscape. As the afternoon was cool and delightful, we proposed a drive over to

Pittsfield to see Holmes, who was then living on his ancestral farm. Hawthorne was in a cheerful

condition, and seemed to enjoy the beauty of the day to the utmost. Next morning we were all

invited by Mr. Dudley Field, then living at Stockbridge, to ascend Monument Mountain. Holmes,

Hawthorne, [E.A.] Duyckinck, Herman Melville, [Phineas Camp] Headley [Presbyterian

clergyman], [Charles] Sedgwick [of Lenox, brother to Catherine Maria Sedgwick], [Cornelius]

Matthews [associate of Duyckinck], and several ladies, were of the party.

We scrambled to the top with great spirit, and when we arrived, Melville, I remember, bestrode apeaked rock, which ran out like a bowsprit, and pulled and hauled imaginary ropes for our

delectation. Then we all assembled in a shady spot, and one of the party read to us Bryant's

beautiful poem commemorating Monument Mount. Then



Pag

we lunched among the rocks, and somebody proposed Bryant's health, and "long life to the dear o

poet." This was the most popular toast of the day, and it took, I remember, a considerable quantity

of Heidsieck [a champagne] to do it justice. In the afternoon, pioneered by Headley, we made our

way, with merry shouts and laughter, through the Ice-Glen. Hawthorne was among the most

enterprising of the merry-makers; and being in the dark much of the time, he ventured to call out

lustily and pretend that certain destruction was inevitable to all of us. After this extemporaneous

jollity, we dined together at Mr. Dudley Field's in Stockbridge, and Hawthorne rayed out in asparkling and unwonted manner. I remember the conversation at table chiefly ran on the physical

differences between the present American and English men, Hawthorne stoutly taking part in favo

of the American. This 5th of August [1850] was a happy day throughout, and I never saw

Hawthorne in better spirits. (Fields 5253)

[Hawthorne's record of the same day is more subdued in tone.]

Monday, August 5th, [1850].

Rode with Fields & wife to Stockbridge, being thereto invited by Mr. Field of S. in order to ascenMonument mountain. Found at Mr. F's Dr. Holmes, Mr. Duyckink of New-York, also Messrs.

Cornelius Mathews & Herman Melville. Ascended the mountain that is to say, Mrs. Fields & Mis

Jenny Field Messrs. Field & Fields Dr. Holmes, Messrs. Duyckinck, Mathews, Melville, Mr. Hen

Sedgwick, & I. and were caught in a shower. Dined at Mr. F's. Afternoon, under guidance of J.T.

Headley, the party scrambled through the Ice Glen. Left Stockbridge and arrived at home, about 8

P.M. (CE , VIII: 295)

[Two days later, the "champaigne" enjoyed on Monument Mountain was the subjec

quip in his notebook; Hawthorne's memory of the day was strong though not explic

Wednesday, August 7th, [1850].

Messrs. Duyckinck, Mathews, Melville, & Melville, Jr., called in the forenoon. Gave them a coup

of bottles of Mr. Mansfield's cham-



Pag

paigne, and walked down to the lake with them. At twilight, Mr. Edwin P. Whipple and wife calle

from Lenox. (CE , VIII: 295)

[In a typically short entry of seemingly different thoughts, Hawthorne's dash becom

ylistic of "multiple" moods coming together.]

[Monday], August 12th, [1850].Seven chickens hatched. Afternoon, J. T. Headley and Brother called. Eight chickens. (CE , VIII:

296)

[Two weeks later, Hawthorne tended to reconstruct the episode of Monument Moun

a suggestive pictorial "composition".]

[Monday], August 19th, [1850].

Monument mountain, in the early sunshine; its base enveloped in mist, parts of which are floating

the sky; so that the great hill looks really as if it were founded on a cloud. Just emerging from themist is seen a yellow field of rye, and above that, forest. (CE , VIII: 296)

[In an entry two days later, the "chickens" merge with a hike up "a mountain,"

ggestive of the August 5th picnic.]

Wednesday, August 21st, [1850].

Eight more chickens hatched. Ascended a mountain with wife; a beautiful, mellow, autumnal

sunshine. (CE , VIII: 296)

[In August of the following year, Hawthorne has a conversation with Melville that

ows his ability to comprehend and balance ideas that were bedeviling the author of

oby-Dick .]

Friday, August 1st, [1851].

. . . Returning to the Post office, I got Mr. Tappan's mail and my own, and proceeded homeward, b

clambered over the fence and sat down in Love Grove, to read the papers. While thus engaged, a

cavalier on horseback came along the road, and saluted me in Spanish; to which I



Pag

replied by touching my hat, and went on with the newspaper. But the cavalier renewing his

salutation, I regarded him more attentively, and saw that it was Herman Melville! So, hereupon,

Julian and I hastened to the road, where ensued a greeting, and we all went homeward together,

talking as we went. Soon, Mr. Melville alighted, and put Julian into the saddle; and the little man

was highly pleased, and sat on the horse with the freedom and fearlessness of an old equestrian, a

had a ride of at least a mile homeward.

I asked Mrs. Peters to make some tea for Herman Melville; and so she did, and he drank a cup, bu

was afraid to drink much, because it would keep him awake. After supper, I put Julian to bed; and

Melville and I had a talk about time and eternity, things of this world and of the next, and books, a

publishers, and all possible and impossible matters, that lasted pretty deep into the night; and if

truth must be told, we smoked cigars even within the sacred precincts of the sitting-room. At last,

arose, and saddled his horse (whom we had put into the barn) and rode off for his own domicile;

and I hastened to make the most of what little sleeping-time remained for me. (CE , VIII: 44748)

. [The next day, Hawthorne is mindful of the picnic on Monument Mountain, andcasts it in a manner suggestive of the pictorial depiction given on August 19, 1850; t

cture here suggests a duplicity within existence that inspires Hawthorne's "balance."

Saturday, August 2d, [1851].

In the morning, we got up at about 1/2 past six, and, Julian being bathed, and also myself, and

Julian's wool duly frizzled, we set out for the milk. For the first time since some immemorial date

was really a pleasant morning; not a cloud to be seen, except a few white and bright streaks, far o

to the southward. Monument Mountain, however, had a fleece of sun-brightened mist, entirely

covering it except its western summit, which emerged. There were also mists along the westernside, hovering on the tree-tops, and portions of the same mist had flitted upwards, and become rea

clouds in the sky. These vapors were rapidly passing away; and by the time we had done our

errand, and returned, they had wholly disappeared. (CE , VIII: 44849).



Pag

PPENDIX H

HE DEVELOPMENT OF THE SCARLET LETTER INTO A ROMAN

[James T. Fields, in Yesterdays with Authors (4851), gives his account, twenty year

er the event, of securing Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter and developing it from a setch into the romance it became.]

I came to know Hawthorne very intimately after the Whigs displaced the Democratic romancer fro

office. In my ardent desire to have him retained in the public service, his salary at that time being

his sole dependence, not foreseeing that his withdrawal from that sort of employment would be th

best thing for American letters that could possibly happen, I called, in his behalf, on several

influential politicians of the day, and well remember the rebuffs I received in my enthusiasm for th

author of the "Twice-Told Tales." One pompous little gentleman in authority, after hearing my

appeal, quite astounded me by his ignorance of the claims of a literary man on his country. "Yes,yes," he sarcastically croaked down his public turtle-fed throat, "I see through it all, I see through

this Hawthorne is one of them 'ere visionists, and we don't want no such man as him round." So th

"visionist" was not allowed to remain in office, and the country was better served by him in anoth

way. In the winter of 1849, after he had been ejected from the custom-house, I went down to Salem

to see him and inquire after his health, for we heard he had been suffering from illness. He was th

living in a modest wooden house in Mall Street, if I remember rightly the location. I found him

alone in a chamber over the sitting-room of the dwelling; and as the day was cold, he was hoverin

near a stove. We fell into talk about his future prospects, and he was, as I feared I should find him

in a very desponding mood. "Now,'' said I, "is the time for you to publish, for I know during theseyears in Salem you must have got something ready for the press." "Nonsense," said he; "what hear

had I to write anything, when my publishers (M. and Company) have been so many years trying to

sell a small edition of 'Twice-Told Tales'?" I still pressed upon him the good chances he



Pag

would have now with something new. "Who would risk publishing a book for me, the most

unpopular writer in America?" "I would," said I, ''and would start with an edition of two thousand

copies of anything you write." "What madness!" he exclaimed; "your friendship for me gets the

better of your judgment. No, no," he continued; "I have no money to indemnify a publisher's losses

on my account." I looked at my watch and found that the train would soon be starting for Boston, a

I knew there was not much time to lose in trying to discover what had been his literary work durin

these last few years in Salem. I remember that I pressed him to reveal to me what he had beenwriting. He shook his head and gave me to understand he had produced nothing. At that moment I

caught sight of a bureau or set of drawers near where we were sitting; and immediately it occurre

to me that hidden away somewhere in that article of furniture was a story or stories by the author o

the "Twice-Told Tales," and I became so positive of it that I charged him vehemently with the fac

He seemed surprised, I thought, but shook his head again; and I rose to take my leave, begging him

not to come into the cold entry, saying I would come back and see him again in a few days. I was

hurrying down the stairs when he called after me from the chamber, asking me to stop a moment.

Then quickly stepping into the entry with a roll of manuscript in his hands, he said: "How in

Heaven's name did you know this thing was there? As you have found me out, take what I have

written, and tell me, after you get home and have time to read it, if it is good for anything. It is eith

very good or very bad, I don't know which." On my way up to Boston I read the germ of "The

Scarlet Letter"; before I slept that night I wrote him a note all aglow with admiration of the

marvellous story he had put into my hands, and told him that I would come again to Salem the next

day and arrange for its publication. I went on in such an amazing state of excitement when we met

again in the little house, that he would not believe I was really in earnest. He seemed to think I wa

beside myself, and laughed sadly at my enthusiasm. However, we soon arranged for his appearan

again before the public with a book.This quarto volume before me contains numerous letters, written by him from 1850 down to the

month of his death. The first one refers to "The Scarlet Letter," and is dated in January, 1850. At m

sugges-



Pag

tion he had altered the plan of that story. It was his intention to make "The Scarlet Letter" one of

several short stories, all to be included in one volume, and to be called

OLD-TIME LEGENDS;

Together with Sketches,

EXPERIMENTAL AND IDEAL.

His first design was to make "The Scarlet Letter" occupy about two hundred pages in his new boo

but I persuaded him, after reading the first chapters of the story, to elaborate it, and publish it as a

separate work. After it was settled that "The Scarlet Letter" should be enlarged and printed by its

in a volume he wrote to me: [Letter from NH to JTF, Salem, January 20, 1850, follows].

[Writing to James Fields in Boston on January 15th, 1850, Hawthorne touched upon

ecemeal writing of the romance and sent along the introductory "Custom-House" to

mance, nothing its importance to "the volume" as a whole; at the moment, as his

stscript indicates, Hawthorne intended to complete a collection of ''articles" (tales) f

hich the introductory "article" would serve also.]

Salem, Jan. 15 1850

My dear Fields,

I send you, at last, the manuscript portion of my volume; not quite all of it, however, there are thre

chapters still to be written of "The Scarlet Letter." I have been much delayed by illness in my fam

and other interruptions. Perhaps you will not like the book nor think well of its prospects with the

public. If so (I need not say) I shall not consider you under any obligation to publish it. "The Scar

Letter" is rather a delicate subject to write upon, but in the way in which I have treated it, it appeato me there can be no objections on that score. The article entitled "Custom-House" is introductor

to the volume, so please read it first. In the process of writing, all political and official turmoil ha

subsided within me, so that I have not felt inclined to execute justice on any of my enemies. I have

not yet struck out a title, but may possibly hit on one before I close the package. If not, there need

no running title of the book over each page, but only of the indi-



Pag

vidual articles. Calculating the page of the new volume at the size of that of the "Mosses," I can

supply 400 and probably more. "The Scarlet Letter," I suppose, will make half of that number;

otherwise, the calculation may fall a little short, though I think not.

P. S. The proof-sheets will need to be revised by the author. I write such an infernal hand that this

absolutely indispensable.

If my wife approves whom I have made the umpire in the matter I shall call the book Old-Time

Legends; together with sketches, experimental and ideal. I believe we must consider the book

christened as above. Of course, it will be called simply "Old-Time Legends," and the rest of the

title will be printed in small capitals. I wish I could have brought a definition of the whole book

within the compass of a single phrase, but it is impossible. If you think it essentially a bad title, I

will make further trials. (CE , XVI: 305306)

[On January 20, 1850, Hawthorne wrote to Fields in Boston and reiterated the

nctional importance of "The Custom-House" as an introduction to the entire volume

e romance as well as "shorter" pieces. Hawthorne suggested that the title of the entirlume be that of the longer romance and that the title of The Scarlet Letter be in red

elds followed both suggestions.]

Salem, January 20th. 1850.

My dear Fields,

I am truly glad that you like the introduction; for I was rather afraid that it might appear absurd and

impertinent to be talking about myself, when nobody, that I know of, has requested any information

on that subject.

As regards the size of the book, I have been thinking a good deal about it. Considered merely as a

matter of taste and beauty, the form of publication which you recommend seems to me much

preferable to that of the "Mosses." In the present case, however, I have some doubts of the

expediency; because, if the book is made up entirely of "The Scarlet Letter," it will be too sombre

found it impossible to relieve the shadows of the story with so much light as I would gladly have

thrown in. Keeping so close to its point as the tale does, and diversi-



Pag

fied no otherwise than by turning different sides of the same dark idea to the reader's eye, it will

weary very many people, and disgust some. Is it safe, then, to stake the fate of the book entirely on

this one chance? A hunter loads his gun with a bullet and several buck-shot; and, following his

sagacious example, it was my purpose to conjoin the one long story with half a dozen shorter ones

so that, failing to kill the public outright with my biggest and heaviest lump of lead, I might have

other chances with the smaller bits, individually and in the aggregate.

However, I am willing to leave these considerations to your judgment, and should not be sorry to

have you decide for the separate publication.

In this latter event, it appears to me that the only proper title for the book would be "The Scarlet

Letter"; for "The Custom- House" is merely introductory an entrance-hall to the magnificent edific

which I throw open to my guests. It would be funny, if, seeing the further passages so dark and

dismal, they should all choose to stop there!

If "The Scarlet Letter" is to be the title, would it not be well to print it on the title-page in red ink?

am not quite sure about the good taste of so doing; but it would certainly be piquant and appropriaand, I think, attractive to the great gull whom we are endeavouring to circumvent. (CE , XVI: 3070

[In an undated draft of the same letter to Fields, Hawthorne is more decisive about

e of red ink for the title The Scarlet Letter.]

As regards the book, I have been thinking and considering I was rather afraid that it appears

sagacious absurd and impertinent to have some doubts, of the introduction to the book, which you

recommend. I have found it impossible to relieve the shadows of the story with so much light as I

would gladly stake the fate of the book entirely on the public. However, I am willing to leave thes

considerations to your judgment, and should not be sorry to have you decide for the separate

publication.

If the Judgment Letter is to be the title print it on the title page



Pag

in red ink. I think that the only proper title for the book would be the Scarlet Letter. I am quite sure

about the taste of so doing. I think it is attractive and appropriate (CE , XVI: 308)

[Writing to Horatio Bridge in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, on February 4, 1850,

awthorne was pleased to note the completion of his romance, and that the "success"

e romance's aesthetic "effect" on both Fields and his wife, Sophia, was a matter of t

periencing a ''hell-fired story." Mentioning the toll of the writing on himself, Hawtho gives vent to his recent alienation from the townspeople of Salem.]

Salem, Feby 4th. 1850.

Dear Bridge,

I finished my book only yesterday; one end being in the press in Boston, while the other was in my

head here in Salem so that, as you see, the story is at least fourteen miles long.

I should make you a thousand apologies for being so negligent a correspondent; if you did not kno

me of old, and as you have tolerated me so many years, I do not fear that you will give me up nowThe fact is, I have a natural abhorrence of pen and ink, and nothing short of absolute necessity eve

drives me to them.

My book, the publisher tells me, will not be out before April. He speaks of it in tremendous terms

of approbation; so does Mrs Hawthorne, to whom I read the conclusion, last night. It broke her he

and sent her to bed with a grievous headache which I look upon as a triumphant success! Judging

from its effect on her and the publisher, I may calculate on what bowlers call a "ten-strike." Yet I d

not make any such calculation. Some portions of the book are powerfully written; but my writings

do not, nor ever will, appeal to the broadest class of sympathies, and therefore will not attain a vewide popularity. Some like them very much; others care nothing for them, and see nothing in them

There is an introduction to this bookgiving a sketch of my Custom-House life, with an imaginative

touch here and there which perhaps may be more widely attractive than the main narrative. The

latter lacks sunshine. To tell you the truth it is (I hope Mrs. Bridge is not present) it is positively a

h-ll-fired story, into



Pag

which I found it almost impossible to throw any cheering light.

. . . .

I should like to give up the house which I now occupy, at the beginning of April; and must soon

make a decision as to where I shall go. I long to get into the country; for my health, latterly, is not

quite what it has been, for many years past. I should not long stand such a life of bodily inactivity

and mental exertion as I have led for the last few months. An hour or two of daily labor in a garde

and a daily ramble in country air or on the seashore, would keep all right. Here, I hardly go out

once a week. Do not allude to this matter in your letters to me; as my wife already sermonizes me

quite sufficiently on my habits and I never own up to not feeling perfectly well. Neither do I feel

anywise ill, but only a lack of physical vigor and energy, which re-acts upon the mind. I detest thi

town so much that I hate to go into the streets, or to have the people see me. Anywhere else, I shal

at once be entirely another man.

With our best regards to Mrs. Bridge, I remain,

truly Your friend,Nath Hawthorne (CE , XVI: 31113)



Pag

PPENDIX I

MAGINATION AND "THE NEUTRAL GROUND" OF MOONLIGHT

awthorne's paucity of a critical language to describe his narratives and their workin

parent in the prefaces to all his "romances." Below is an 1848 source for the "neutraound."]

During this moon, I have two or three evenings, sat sometime in our sitting-room, without light,

except from the coal-fire and the moon. Moonlight produces a very beautiful effect in the room;

falling so white upon the carpet, and showing its figures so distinctly; and making all the room so

visible, and yet so different from a morning or noontide visibility. There are all the familiar things

every chair, the tables, the couch, the bookcase, all the things that we are accustomed to in the

daytime; but now it seems as if we were remembering them through a lapse of years rather than

seeing them with the immediate eye. A child's shoe the doll, sitting in her little wicker-carriage alobjects, that have been used or played with during the day, though still as familiar as ever, are

invested with something like strangeness and remoteness. I cannot in any measure express it. Then

the somewhat dim coal-fire throws its unobtrusive tinge through the room a faint ruddiness upon th

wall which has a not unpleasant effect in taking from the colder spirituality of the moonbeams.

Between both these lights, such a medium is created that the room seems just fit for the ghosts of

persons very dear, who have lived in the room with us, to glide noiselessly in, and sit quietly dow

without affrighting us. It would be like a matter of course, to look round, and find some familiar

form in one of the chairs. If one of the white curtains happen to be down before the windows, the

moonlight makes a delicate tracery with the branches of the trees, the leaves somewhat thinned bythe progress of autumn, but still pretty abundant. It is strange how utterly I have failed to give

anything the effect of moonlight in a room.

The fire-light diffuses a mild, heart-warm influence through the room; but is scarcely visible, unle

you particularly look for it and



Pag

then you become conscious of a faint tinge upon the cieling [ sic], of a reflected gleam from the

mahogany furniture; and if your eyes fall on the glass, deep within it you perceive the glow of the

burning anthracite.

I hate to leave such a scene; and when retiring to bed, after closing the sitting-room door, I re-ope

it, again and again, to peep back at the warm, cheerful, solemn repose, the white light, the faint

ruddiness, the dimness, all like a dream, and which makes me feel as if I were in a consciousdream. (CE , VIII: 28384; October 13, 1848)



Pag

PPENDIX J

HE HISTORICAL SOURCES FOR THE SCARLET LETTER

Ancient Laws and Practices of the Massachusetts Bay Colony.

[The older Massachusetts colony of the Pilgrim Separatists at Plymouth punished

ultery with whipping and with the wearing of a capital letter A; unlike Hester's, this

ter was to be worn on the arm or back.]

It is enacted [in 1636] by the Court and Authoritie [of New Plymouth, a separate colony until 169

that whosoever shall comitt Adultery shalbee severely punished by whiping two severall times; v

one whiles the Court is in being att which they are convicted of the fact, and the 2cond time as the

Court shal order; and likewise to weare two Capitall letters viz. AD. cut out in cloth and sowed o

theire upermost Garments on theire arme or backe; and if att any time they shalbee taken without thsaid letters whiles they are in the Govr ment soe worn to bee forthwith taken and publickly whipt.

(The Compact with the Charter and Laws of the Colony of New Plymouth . . . [Boston, 1836],

113, cited in Stewart, American Notebooks, 299)

[Both George F. Willison (Saints and Strangers 324) and Austin Warren

ntroduction," The Scarlet Letter viii) cite one instance of the law being used in

ymouth, for a married woman's seduction of an Indian.]

. . . Goodwife Mendame of Duxbury was sentenced to be whipt at a cart's tayle through the town's

streets, and to weare a badge with the capital letters AD cut in cloth upon her left sleeve . . . and i

shee shall be found without it abroad, then to be burned in the face with a hot iron. . . .

[Charles Boewe and Murray G. Murphy ("Hester Prynne in



Pag

story" 203) cite the Records and Files of the Quarterly Courts of Essex County,

assachusetts (Salem, 1914), IV: 84, for an instance of the Salem application of the l

ainst fornication (not adultery), administered by Hawthorne's great-great grandfathe

ere, the presence of a child at the time of punishment might have suggested Hester's

uation in Chapter II.]

Hester Craford, for fornication with John Wedg, as she confessed, was ordered to be severely

whipped and that security be given to save the town from the charge of keeping the child.

Mordecaie Craford [her father] bound [gave bond]. The judgment of her being whipped was

respitted for a month or six weeks after the birth of the child, and it was left to the Worshipful

Major William Hathorne to see it executed on a lecture day.

[In distinction from fornication, adultery involved sexual intercourse between marr

rsons, and in the colony of Massachusetts Bay, was normally to be punished by dea

e Journal of John Winthrop, 1644, (cited in Austin Warren, "Introduction," op. cit.

i} records the death of a woman in a circumstance somewhat similar to that of Hest

ynne:]

Mary Latham, eighteen, married to "an ancient man . . . whom she had no affection unto [committe

adultery with] divers young men."

[One of Hawthorne's major sources for perspectives of the seventeenth century in

assachusetts was Cotton Mather's Magnalia Christi Americana, or the Ecclesiastica

story of New England from Its First Planting in the Year 1620, unto the Year of O

rd, 1698 (1702). Full of Latinate terms, long Senecan flourishes, and many italics,

ather is yet witty if analyzed for his puns; these devices were a stylistic that Hawthor

nd others, such as Melville) used to signal parodies and ironies. In his Magnalia,

ather has a long section on Puritan preachers and their arts, and one of his masterfu

rtraits is that of John Cotton.]

. . . [I]n his common preaching, he did as Basil reports of Ephrem



Pag

gave to these plain labours of his faithful, humble, diligent servant, was beyond what most

ministers in the country ever did experience: there have been few that have seen so many and migh

effects, given to the travels of their souls. (III: 250)

He was even from his youth to his age, an indefatigable student, under the conscience of the

apostolical precept, Be not slothful in business, but fervent in spirit serving the Lord . He was

careful to redeem his hours, as well as his days; and might lay claim to that character of the blessemartyr, Sparing of sleep, more sparing of words, but most sparing of time. . . . For which cause h

went not much abroad; but he judged ordinarily that more benefit was obtained, according to the

advice of the wise King, by conversing with the dead (in Books) than with the living (in Talks); an

that needless visits do commonly unframe our spirits, and perhaps disturb our comforts. He was a

early riser, taking the morning for the muses; and in his latter days forbearing a supper, he turned h

former supping-time, into a reading, a thinking, a praying-time. Twelve hours in a day he common

studied, and would call that a scholar's day; resolving rather to wear out with using, than with

rusting. In truth, had he not been of an healthy and hearty constitution, and had he not made a caref

though not curious diet serve him, instead of an Hippocrates, his continued labour must have madehis life, as well as his labour, to have been but of a short continuance. (I: 251)

He was one so clothed with humility, that according to the emphasis of the apostolical direction,

this livery his relation as a disciple to the lowly Jesus, was notably discovered; and hence he was

patient and peaceable, even to a proverb. . . . Once particularly, an humorous and imperious

brother, following Mr. Cotton home to his house, after his publick labours, instead of the grateful

respects with which those holy labours were to have been encouraged, rudely told him, that his

ministry was become generally, either dark, or flat: whereto this meek man, very mildly and

gravely, made only this answer: Both, brother, it may be, both: let me have your prayers that it may be otherwise. But it is remarkable, that the man sick thus of wanton singularities, afterwards

died of those damnable heresies, for which he was deservedly excommunicated. Another time,

when Mr. Cotton had modestly replied unto one that would much talk and crack of his insight into

the revelations: Brother, I must confess myself to want light in those mysteries. the man



Pag

went home, and sent him a pound of candles: upon which action this good man bestowed only a

silent smile. He would not set the beacon of his great soul on fire, at the landing of such a little

cock-boat. He learned the lesson of Gregory, It is better, many times, to fly from an injury by

silence, than to overcome it by replying: and he used the practice of Grynaeus, To revenge wrong

by christian taciturnity. (I: 251-52)

. Caleb Hopkins Snow's A History of Boston, The Metropolis of Massachusetts, froOrigin to the Present Period; with some Account of the Environs (1825) was one o

ree books that were the main sources for The Scarlet Letter . Reading Snow's book

26 and, again, in 1829 (Kesselring 61), Hawthorne grasped the irony that his narrow

nded ancestors were the basis for American independence. Most influential on

awthorne's style was Snow's searching, ambivalent tone. While Snow's editorial "vo

typical of historians in the first half of the nineteenth century, it is also a model for

awthorne's "voice" in both ''The Custom-House" and The Scarlet Letter itself.

awthorne's major distinction from Snow's style is his deliberate parody of an event taves a reader unable to decide on the "sensible" response.

[Snow's entry below is non-ironic, but in its use of "let us pause a moment, and mi

r sympathy with their sorrows," one is suggestively led to the concluding paragraph

hapter I of the romance where the narrator enters his fiction to "pluck" a rose from a

se-bush associated with "the sainted Ann Hutchinson" and presents it to the reader.

me of the incident is between February 1630 and the end of May 1630 when a fleet o

urteen vessels began leaving England for Massachusetts; Snow's quotation marks incond paragraph indicate his use of other historians.]

In this fleet were congregated our fathers, with their wives and their little ones, about to quit

forever their native country, kindred, friends and acquaintance. Let us pause a moment, and mingle

our sympathy with their sorrows, "as hand in hand we see them lead each other to the sandy banks

of the brinish ocean."



Pag

They were about to leave the land of their fathers' sepulchres, perhaps forever; to break asunder

those cords of affection, which so powerfully bind a good man to his native soil; and to dissolve

those tender associations which constitute the bliss of civil society. In ordinary cases, the pain of

separation is lessened by the promises of hope the pleasure of another interview; but here adieu, t

most of them at least, was to be the last, like the final farewell to a departing spirit. (24)

[The "sainted" Ann Hutchinson (1591-1643).]The differences and dissensions [of Antinomianism] to which the Governor referred, originated in

the Boston church, which it will be recollected at that time composed the great body of the people

of the town. The members of the church had been accustomed to meet once a week, to repeat the

sermons they had heard on the Lord's day, and to debate upon the doctrines that had been delivere

These meetings being peculiar to the men, at least none of the other sex being allowed to take part

the debates, some of the zealous women thought it might be useful for them to have such meetings

among themselves. Accordingly, Mrs. Ann, wife of Mr. William Hutchinson, a woman of a bold a

masculine spirit, of ready talents and great flow of speech, established one at her house.. . . The novel of the thing and the fame of Mrs. H. quickly gained her a numerous audience at her

meetings. They were kept every week, and from sixty to eighty women would usually attend. Mrs.

H. took the lead in prayer and in the repetition of Mr. Cotton's sermons, and afterwards made

reflections of her own. She grounded her practice on the injunction given by Paul, that the elder

women should teach the younger. At first these meetings were generally approved, but after some

time it appeared that Mrs. H. was in the habit of making an invidious distinction between the

ministers in the colony: two or three of them she allowed to be sound men, under the covenant of

grace; the rest she condemned as under the covenant of works.

Mr. John Wheelwright, a brother-in-law to Mrs. Hutchinson, a minister of character for learning a

piety, joined with her in sentiment. To their fault of classing the clergy under so exceptionable a d



Pag

tinction, as was that of grace and works in those days, they added the propagation of two tenets,

which were deemed to be dangerous errours: 1. That the person of the Holy Ghost dwells in a

justified person. 2. That sanctification is no proof of justification. And Mrs. H. maintained the

belief, that individuals might, as herself had been, be favoured with immediate revelations equally

infallible with the scriptures. (68-9)

. . . Such were some of the notions that turned the city upside down, as they are unintelligiblycommunicated to us. Had the trouble ended here, as it ought to have done, we should probably hav

known still less about it. But opinions had been expressed too freely, and some persons retained t

much attachment to their own notions to let the matter rest. On the contrary, affairs were so manag

that the Boston church became embroiled in its private concerns, and before the close of the

difficulty, found herself opposed to all the other churches in the country, and ministers and

magistrates in all quarters arrayed against her. (70)

[The Rev. John Wilson (1591-1667) is one of the most important sub-characters of

awthorne's romance: in it, he is the church spokesman within the theocratic state. Heme to the Bay colony in 1630, and into Boston in 1635, just as the Antinomian Crisi

as beginning. His position was orthodox, even legalistic, and it put him on the side o

e autocratic John Winthrop, governor at the time. Snow's testimonial on Wilson's

aracter surely compelled Nathaniel Hawthorne to consider his character in The Scar

tter and how Wilson blended both compassion and orthodoxy. Hawthorne's depict

allenged the post-romantic (that is, Transcendentalist) view that Puritan orthodoxy

pressive of individualism, and that the Puritans were cold in their emotions.]

The death of Mr. Wilson, the first pastor of the First Church, occurred in 1667, on the 7th. of

August, in the 79th year of his age. He left an amiable character, and is presented as one of the mo

humble, pious, and benevolent men. Cotton Mather, who tells us he never would sit for his likenes

says "if the picture of this good, and therein great man,



Pag

were to be exactly given, great zeal with great love would be the two principal strokes, that joine

with orthodoxy should make up his portraiture." . . . His heart was full of compassion for the

distressed and of affection for all: his house was renowned for hospitality, and his purse was

continually emptying itself into the hands of the needy. (156)

Mr. Wilson met with his share of the difficulties of the wilderness. He lost his houses several tim

by fire; buried his wife and some of his children and grand children, under trying circumstances;outlived two of his friends and associates in the ministerial office; saw errours stalking into the

churches, in forms which appeared to him dreadful in the extreme; and died lamenting, that the zea

and pious devotion of the first generation had died with them, and that their children promised

nothing better than to prove degenerate plants. He left a little property, which was valued at

£419.14s.6d. and distributed it in small portions to many individuals, not forgetting the poor of his

own church. . . . (157)

[One of the most important persons of the Bay Colony is missing from Hawthorne'

mance. John Cotton (1584-1652) came to the colony in 1633, and was renowned foholarship that developed the doctrines of the Puritan church. He was also known fo

resence" and delivery as a preacher, and in these features, Cotton had much in com

th Arthur Dimmesdale.]

Mr. Cotton's personal appearance was strikingly impressive. His complexion was clear and fair,

and his countenance florid: in size he was rather short and inclining to corpulent, but in the whole

an agreeable mediocrity. In his youth, his hair was brown, but as he advanced in life it became as

white as the driven snow. The colour of his eye his "prosopographer" omitted; but we know its

glance flashed the keenest rebuke on every appearance of evil, and smiled the heartiest approbatioon every worthy action. He had a clear, neat and audible voice, which easily filled the largest hal

His delivery was not noisy and thundering, yet it had a very awful majesty, set off with a natural an

becoming motion of his right hand. His style of preaching was plain, designed to be understood by

the meanest capacity, while his more discerning hearers could perceive from it that he was a man

more



Pag

than ordinary abilities and research. (134)

[At first, John Cotton encouraged Hutchinson to critique his sermons; later, under

ack from more orthodox preachers and the magistrates, he was more ambiguous

wards her, and apparently left her to her fate. Cotton's response to Hutchinson's

fficulties bordered on the hypocritical or opportunistic. Snow's entry should be view

ongside that given by Cotton Mather in section II above. These passages might haveaped Hawthorne's portrayal of Arthur Dimmesdale as an eloquent orator who indul

ttingly or not, in hypocrisy even as he is able to inspire beliefs about the Divine in h

dience.]

Mrs. Hutchinson continued her lectures, and her admirers are said to have been indefatigable in

spreading her sentiments: both church and state were thrown into uproar and the affections of

people strangely alienated; they were frequently quarrelsome, and upon every occasion ready to

come to blows. Both parties claimed Mr. Cotton for their own man: the one affirmed that the

doctrines they taught were regularly deduced from his sermons, the other denied it. At last Mr.

Cotton was desired to declare himself freely from the pulpit, which he accordingly did, and

condemned most of the new positions as false and erroneous. This brought upon him the bitterest

reproaches: he was called by some a timorous man, that durst not abide by his own sentiments; by

others a deceiver, that taught one thing in publick and another in private. One man, more impudent

more witty than the rest, sent him a pound of candles, bidding his servant tell him it was because h

wanted light; "upon which the good man bestowed only a silent smile." (75-6)

[When Cotton died, on December 23, 1652, Snow records that "signs" were seen in

ening sky, as a sign of Cotton's reception into heaven. Hawthorne, if he used thisssage below, presents the "signs" as occurring on the night of John Winthrop's deat

arch of 1649.]

The death of Mr. Cotton took place towards the close of the year



Pag

1652. . . . (132)

While he thus lay sick, the magistrates, and the ministers of the country, and christians of all ranks

resorted to him as to a publick father, full of sad apprehensions for the loss they were about to

sustain. A short time before his death he desired to be left alone, that he might fix his thoughts,

without interruption, on his great and last change. So, lying speechless a few hours, he expired

about noon, on Thursday the 23 of December [1652], having just completed his sixty-seventh year

Strange and alarming signs appeared in the heavens, while his body lay, according to the custom o

the times, till the Tuesday following, "when it was most honourably interred, with a most numerou

concourse of people, and the most grievous and solemn funeral, that was ever known, perhaps upo

the American strand; and the lectures in his church, the whole winter, were but so many funeral

sermons upon the death and worth of this extraordinary person." (133)

[Snow does not mention what were the "signs" at the time of Cotton's death. Howe

hen the Rev. John Wilson died in 1667, Snow presents a short curriculum of his life

56-57) and concludes with the following event suggestive of Puritan belief thatovidence would use natural phenomena to indicate the future fate of the colony.]

Signs Of The Times

The relation of an incident in 1668 will show us the character of the age. "There appeared a meteo

in the heavens in the beginning of March, in the form of a spear, of a bright colour, something thick

in the midst than at either end. It was seen several nights together, in the west, about half an hour

within night: it stood stooping, one end pointing towards the setting of the sun, and moved

downwards by little and little, till it descended beneath the horizon." This and some other occurrences excited the magistrates to make an effort towards "a reformation of manners"; for it

was observed, that the youth of the age had degenerated very much from the strictness of their

fathers. A brief was therefore issued to all the ministers in the colony, urging them to a more strict

performance of their duty of visiting and instructing families, with the hope, that "the effectual and

constant prosecution



Pag

hereof will have a tendency to promote the salvation of souls, to suppress the growth of sin and

profaneness, to beget more love and unity among the people, and more reverence and esteem of th

ministry, and it will assuredly be to the enlargement of your crown, and recompense in eternal

glory."

It is evident, that the face of society was now becoming changed, and so strongly marked, that the

line was plainly to be drawn, between those who maintained a regard for primitive holiness, andthose who preferred to follow the inclination of their own hearts. This comports well with the

observation of Hutchinson, that the colony about this time made a greater figure than it ever did at

any other time. Their trade was as extensive as they could wish: no custom-house was established

The acts of parliament of the 12th and 15th of king Charles II. for regulating the plantation trade

were in force, but the governour, whose business it was to carry them into execution, was annuall

to be elected by the people, whose interest it was that they should not be observed. Some of the

magistrates and principal merchants grew very rich, and a spirit of industry and economy prevaile

through the colony. (15758)

["Mistress Ann Hibbins and witchcraft": Snow's attitude presents a post-Enlightenm

fence of Mistress Hibbins as he tries to explain away the causes by her "natural

abbedness," and concludes that she was the victim of an age's "delusion."]

The most remarkable occurrence in the colony in the year 1655 was the trial and condemnation of

Mrs. Ann Hibbins of Boston for witchcraft. Her husband, who died July 23, 1654, was an agent fo

the colony in England, several years one of the assistants, and a merchant of note in the town; but

losses in the latter part of his life had reduced his estate, and increased the natural crabbedness of

his wife's temper, which made her turbulent and quarrelsome, and brought her under churchcensures, and at length rendered her so odious to her neighbours as to cause some of them to acuse

her of witchcraft. The jury brought her in guilty, but the magistrates refused to accept the verdict; s

the cause came to the general court, where the popular clamour prevailed against her, and the

miserable old lady was condemned and



Pag

executed in June 1656. Search was made upon her body for tetts, and in her chests and boxes for

puppets or images, but there is no record of any thing of that sort being found. Mr. Beach, a minist

in Jamaica, in a letter to Dr. Increase Mather, says, "You may remember what I have sometimes to

you your famous Mr. Norton once said at his own table, before Mr. Wilson the pastor, elder Penny

and myself and wife, and others, who had the honour to be his guests: That one of your magistrates

wives, as I remember, was hanged for a witch only for having more wit than her neighbours. It wa

his very expression; she having, as he explained it, unhappily guessed that two of her persecutors,whom she saw talking in the street, were talking of her, which proving true, cost her life,

notwithstanding all he could do to the contrary, as he himself told us." (193)

The execution of Mrs. Hibbins for witchcraft had been disapproved by many people of note, and i

is not unlikely that her death saved the lives of many, who might have been made the victims of a

delusion, which, in the thirty years succeeding, had brought many to believe that there might exist

such a thing as a witch, or person favoured with uncommon communications from the prince of

darkness. (14043)

[Richard Bellingham (15921672) was a popular governor of the colony during the

cade in which The Scarlet Letter takes place. He was, apparently, a more sympathe

rson than Winthrop, whom he rivalled for political office and who ruled for most o

e first twenty years of settlement:]

Gov. Bellingham, who from the time of his arrival, in 1635, had been an inhabitant of Boston, died

Dec. 7, 1672. He appears to have been a popular man, and was strongly attached to the liberties o

the people. He was by education lawyer. As a man he was benevolent, upright, and active in

business: it is always mentioned as singular part of his character, that he would never take a bribeAs a christian he was devout, zealous, and attentive to external forms. In politicks, he leaned rathe

to the democratick side, but in the church was a violent opposer of the new sects, that contended f

religious freedom. He was sometimes subject to melancholy and mental derangement, lived to the

age



Pag

of 80 years, and was the only surviving patentee named in the charter. (159)

. The third major historical source for Hawthorne was Joseph B. Felt's The Annals

lem, from Its First Settlement (1827). Hawthorne read Felt's Annals in 1833, 1834,

ain in January 1849 (Kesselring 50), and found graphic details of the harsh, bigoted

tivities of his ancestors, William and John Hathorne (as was the early spelling of the

mily name). Felt was not a stylist as Snow or Mather, and wrote with great brevity.

[Stocks and whippings were punishments employed by the Puritans since the start

e colony. However, the first record of stocks and a whipping post, alongside the Sal

eeting house, is dated April 23d, 1657, and suggests that the growing presence of

iends (Quakers) entering the colony to preach presented a new challenge to the rule

e magistrates.]

April 23. [1657]. Measures were taken to erect stocks and a whipping post. (195)

June 8th. [1657]. An order was taken that the seats at the meeting house [Congregational church] b

distributed; and that foreigners be not entertained in town. The latter was evidently done to preven

the entrance of the Friends. (195)

Sept. 21st. [1657]. Christopher Holder and John Copeland, of the Friends' denomination, being at

Salem, the former attempted to address the people after the minister had done. They were both

secured till the next day and then sent to Boston, where they received 30 stripes apiece, and were

imprisoned nine weeks. (195)

[One of the leaders preserving the orthodoxy of Salem was William Hathorne,athaniel Hawthorne's great-great-great-grandfather mentioned in "The Custom-Hous

May 22d. [1661]. General Court sat. Wm. Hathorne and Edmund Bat-



Pag

ter were Deputies. . . . The Court order[ed] "that Quakers," when discovered, shall be made bare

from the middle upwards, tied to a cart, and whipped through the town towards the boundary of

Massachusetts; and, if returning, that they shall be similarly punished, with the addition, that some

of them shall be branded with an R. [to mark their "return," a second offense] on their left shoulde

and, if coming back a third time, that they shall be banished on pain of death. (21011)

Nov. 27th. [1667]. Some of the Friends are fined £7. "The Court do order that the wreck that waslately secured by the worshipful Maj. Wm. Hathorne, and left by him in the hands of John Devorix

all those goods or wreck shall be remanded by the said Maj. Hathorne and by him made use of for

erecting a Cage in Salem and to be accountable for the remainder." It was the practice to punish

some offenders by confining them in a cage, and exposing them to public view on lecture days.

(229)

[Felt notes the apparent repentance of Wm. Hathorne for his "mistake" (in having

rsecuted the Friends so harshly), but he does not record the moment of Hathorne's

pology" nor the words.]June 28th. [1681]. Hon. Wm. Hathorne died lately Æ. 74. . . . From the time of Mr. Hathorne's

coming from Dorchester to Salem 1636, he sustained some town or colonial office. The public bo

at home and abroad, appeared to believe that his services might be applied to political, military,

judicial, and ecclesiastical concerns. As Selectman, Surveyor, Deputy, Major [of militia], Assista

[Privy Counsellor], Judge and Commissioner of the United Colonies [to England], he ever showe

himself able, faithful and worthy of confidence. He was actively respectably useful to his country

till the last. If long, various, multiplied and important duties, performed from patriotic motives,

should bring the reputation of any man to our minds with sentiments of respect and esteem, thenshould the reputation of Mr. Hathorne be thus remembered. He knew what it was to offend his ow

Legislature and his Kings, by the open expression of his opinions; but he refused not, when

convinced of his mistakes, to make a manly apology for them. (27071)



Pag

May 5th. [1694]. Among such laws, passed this session [by the General Court], wer

o against Adultery and Polygamy. ''Those guilty of the first crime, were to sit an ho

the gallows, with ropes about their necks, be severely whipt not above 40 stripes; a

rever after wear a capital A, two inches long, cut out of cloth coloured differently fr

eir clothes, and sewed on the arms, or back parts of their garments so as always to b

en when they were about. The other crime, stated with suitable exceptions, wasnishable with death." (317)

[Nathaniel Hawthorne's great-great-grandfather, John Hathorne, was another person

e older age to be remembered with "sentiments of high respect and esteem." John

rved as a judge in the 1692 Salem witch trials, a service for which he never repented

May 10th. [1717]. John, son of Wm. Hathorne, dies. . . . He was an eminent member of the First

Church. He held the principal offices in town. He was Representative and Counsellor at General

Court for many years. He was Judge of the Court of Sessions, of the Court of Common Pleas, and the Supreme Court. He was in active service as Colonel, against the French and Indians. His

official trusts, were many, various and important. His faithful discharge of them should lead us to

remember him, with sentiments of high respect and esteem. (36364)

[Even as a new century began, and persons such as Cotton Mather and Benjamin

anklin (an erstwhile Bostonian) became renowned for their interest in science, the

nishment stocks remained a lingering reminder to New Englanders of their great

rrand into the wilderness" to reform the Church of England.]

Feb. 6th. [1727]. As the old stocks are broken and gone, new ones are to be made according to law

(384)



Pag

[In contrast to the memorials to his ancestors, Nathaniel Hawthorne must have been

uck by a brief entry about an earlier custom-house surveyor.]

March 24th. [1760]. Jonathan Pue, Esq. d. suddenly. He was surveyor and searcher of this Port an

Marb[lehead]. (455)



Pag

PPENDIX K

HE CONTEMPORARY REVIEWS OF THE SCARLET LETTER

[From Anon., "The New Romance," Boston Transcript , March 15, 1850, 4: 1. This

view, the day before the novel's publication, prepared the audience to find "a greatoral lesson . . . against the sin" of adultery. The success of the novel was attributed t

ncidents" of "much truth and vigor," as if Hawthorne were depicting realistic scenes

e review noted "The Custom-House" as a humorous bit of autobiography, juxtapos

with the grim romance, rather than seeing the two texts as integral]

. . . Following immediately a careful perusal of The Scarlet Letter we have no hesitation in saying

that in imagination, power, pathos, beauty, and all the other essential qualifications requisite to the

completeness of a first rate romance, Mr Hawthorne has equalled if not surpassed any other write

who has appeared in our country during the last half century. Indeed, we are inclined to the

conclusion that he has not been eclipsed by the higher class of European minds which have led the

way in that department to which his genius belongs. . . .

We shall not attempt to picture in advance of its publication the plot of the Romance. The subject i

one that needed to be most carefully handled, and no man but Hawthorne could have traced so

delicately and with so much effect. The Scarlet Letter is the work of infamy branded on the bosom

of one, who has violated the seventh commandment and side by side with the partner of her guilt t

sad heroine walks through a life of retribution crowded with incidents which the novelist has

depicted with so much truth and vigor that the interest at every page of his book grapples to thereader with a powerful hold upon his sympathy, and he will not lay down the story till he knows i

result at its close. As a great moral lesson this novel will outweigh in its influence all the sermons

that have ever been preached against the sin, the effects of which The Scarlet Letter is written to

exhibit. Mr Hawthorne has prefaced his Romance with an autobiographical introduction giving

some account of his life in the Salem Custom-House.



Pag

These pages are full of wit and humor of the richest description, and show that the writer is as mu

at home with a smile on his countenance, as he is with a tear in his eye. . . .

[From Anon., Salem Register, March 21, 1850, 2: 12. This review is an example of

hig political attack on Hawthorne, resuscitated by "The Custom-House" sketch. It g

nt praise to the romance, and then begins a savage attack on Hawthorne as the

smissed Surveyor of "The Custom-House" and his inability to be moral despite themoral" of the romance:]

The long expected Romance from the pen of Hawthorne has at length appeared. . . . It is a narrativ

of singular interest and originality, sustained throughout with a continuous power and pathos, and

affluence of imagination and bold and striking thought, that hold the reader a willing captive. It is

marked by all the exquisiteness of Hawthorne's genius, but with less of that dreamy indistinctness

which has sometimes made not a few of his productions unintelligible to an ordinary mind. . . . We

have rarely read a work which enchains the attention by so potent a spell a spell with which only

rare genius could invest such unpromising materials. The moral which the tale enforces is: "Be truBe true! Be true! Show freely to the world, if not your worst, yet some trait whereby the worst ma

be inferred!"

And here we wish we could pause, with only a word of praise upon our lips; but justice compels

to notice some other things, which, as citizens of Salem and taking an interest in our native place

and in our neighbors, we can not suffer to pass in silence. Mr. Hawthorne, it may be remembered,

some three or four years ago, supplanted another gentleman in the Surveyor's office of the Salem

Custom-House, where he continued until, by the fortune of politics, he was himself superseded, a

few months since, and relieved from the burdens of the public service. He has, accordingly,prefaced his Scarlet Letter with some fifty pages or more of autobiographical reminiscences durin

his incarceration in the Custom-House, in which he developes some new traits in his character, or

at least, some which the public could never before have suspected, from his writings, that he

possessed. Whether from an undue sensitiveness on account of his removal, or from what other



Pag

reason we know not, he seeks to vent his spite on something or somebody, by small sneers at Salem

and by vilifying some of his former associates, to a degree of which we would have supposed any

gentleman, to say nothing of a man of ordinary feeling, refinement, and kindliness of heart,

incapable. Indeed, while reading this chapter on the Custom-House, we almost began to think that

Hawthorne had mistaken his vocation that, instead of indulging in dreamy transcendentalism, and

weaving exquisite fancies to please the imagination and improve the heart, he would have been

more at home as a despicable lampooner, and in that capacity would have achieved a notorietywhich none of his tribe, either of ancient or modern times, has reached. We were almost induced t

throw down the book in disgust, without venturing on the Scarlet Letter, so atrocious, so heartless

so undisguised, so utterly inexcusable seemed his calumnious caricatures of inoffensive men, who

could not possibly have given occasion for such wanton insults. . . .

o confirm this point of insulting communal values, the review makes a comparison

e Surveyor's "sneering" at aged colleagues to Dimmesdale's disrespect for an "aged"

me on his return from the forest meeting with Hester. It then finishes with an attack

he Custom-House Sketch.'']

. . . It is only by a strong effort to reconcile the incongruities of poor human nature that we can

possibly recognize in the malignant Hawthorne of the Salem Custom-House, the reputed "gentle

Hawthorne," of former days. Whether he places himself in the category of those who "suffer mora

detriment from this peculiar mode of life," as he says most Custom-House officials do, or whether

he has only developed features which previously existed, we fear that he has been but too painful

true to his own moral, and has shown freely to the world, if not his worst, yet a "trait whereby the

worst may be inferred." If we had any doubt before, we have not a single scruple remaining in

regard to the full justification of the Administration in relieving him from the dignified employmenof "pacing to and fro across [his] room, or traversing with a hundred fold repetition, the long exte

from the front-door of the Custom-House to the side entrance, and back again." The



Pag

" Posthumous Papers of a Decapitated Surveyor " amply vindicate the justice of this application o

the political guillotine.

[From Evert. A. Duyckinck, "Nathaniel Hawthorne," The Literary World , March 30

50, 6: 3235. Duyckinck was a personal friend and in Hawthorne's debt for having

blished against his wishes, in advance of the romance, the sketch of the Custom-Ho

spector. In the manner of the day, reviewers often summarized the plot as if it were velation of an author's mind.]

Mr. Hawthorne introduces his new story to the public, the longest of all that he has yet published,

and most worthy in this way to be called a romance, with one of those pleasant personal

descriptions which are the most charming of his compositions, and of which he had so happy an

example in the preface to his last collection, the "Mosses from an Old Manse." In these narratives

everything seems to fall happily into its place. The style is simple and flowing, the observation

accurate and acute; persons and things are represented in their minutest shades, and difficult traits

character presented with an instinct which art might be proud to imitate. They are, in fine, littlecabinet pictures exquisitely painted. The readers of the "Twice-Told Tales" will know the picture

to which we allude. They have not, we are sure, forgotten "Little Annie's Ramble,'' or the "Sights

from a Steeple." This is the Hawthorne of the present day in the sunshine. There is another

Hawthorne less companionable, of sterner Puritan aspect, with the shadow of the past over him, a

reviver of witchcrafts and of those dark agencies of evil which lurk in the human soul, and which

even now represent the old gloomy historic era in the microcosm and eternity of the individual; an

this Hawthorne is called to mind by such tales as the "Minister's Black Veil" or the "Old Maid in

the Winding Sheet," and reappears in the "Scarlet Letter," a romance. Romantic in sooth! Such

romance as you may read in the intensest sermons of old Puritan divines, or in the mouldy pages othe "Marrow of Divinity," the ascetic Jeremy Taylor.

The "Scarlet Letter" is a psychological romance. The hardiest Mrs. Malaprop would never ventur

to call it a novel. It is a tale of remorse, a study of character in which the human heart is

anatomized, carefully



Pag

elaborately, and with striking poetic and dramatic power. . . .

. . . [T]he scarlet letter, . . . in Hawthorne's hands, skilled to these allegorical, typical

semblances, . . . is the hero of the volume. The denouement is the death of the clergyman on a day

public festivity, after a public confession in the arms of the pilloried, branded woman. But few as

are these main incidents thus briefly told, the action of the story, or its passion, is "long, obscure,

and infinite." It is a drama in which thoughts are acts. The material has been thoroughly fused in thwriter's mind, and springs forth an entire, perfect creation. We know of no American tales except

some of the early ones of Mr. Dana, which approach it in conscientious completeness. Nothing is

slurred over, superfluous, or defective. The story is grouped in scenes simply arranged, but with

artistic power, yet without any of those painful impressions which the use of the words, as it is the

fashion to use them, "grouping" and "artistic'' excite, suggesting artifice and effort at the expense o

nature and ease.

r. Hawthorne has, in fine, shown extraordinary power in this volume, great feeling a

scrimination, subtle knowledge of character in its secret springs and outer anifestations. He blends, too, a delicate fancy with this metaphysical insight. We wo

stance the chapter towards the close, entitled "The Minister in a Maze," where the ef

a diabolic temptation are curiously depicted, or "The Minister's Vigil," the night sce

the pillory. The atmosphere of the piece also is perfect. It has the mystic element, th

eird forest influences of the old Puritan discipline and era. Yet there is no affrightme

hich belongs purely to history, which has not its echo even in the unlike and pervers

mmonplace custom-house of Salem. Then for the moral. Though severe, it is

holesome, and is a sounder bit of Puritan divinity than we have been of late accustohear from the degenerate successors of Cotton Mather. We hardly know another wr

ho has lived so much among the new school who would have handled this delicate

bject without an infusion of George Sand. The spirit of his old Puritan ancestors, to

hom he refers in the preface, lives in Nathaniel Hawthorne.

e personal situation of Nathaniel Hawthorne in whom the city by his removal lost a

different official, and the world regained a good author is amusingly presented in th

emoir of



Pag

A Decapitated Surveyor.

. . . And a literary man long may he remain, an honor and a support to the craft, of genuine worth a

fidelity, to whom no word is idle, no sentiment insincere. Our literature has given to the world no

truer product of the American soil, though of a peculiar culture, than Nathaniel Hawthorne.

[From George Ripley, New York Tribune Supplement , April 1, 1850, 9: 2. Being a

nitarian minister, a member of the Transcendentalist circle, and one of the founders

ook Farm, Ripley's views represent the perspective of liberal religious and moral vi

wards the romance. Consequently, though giving articulate praise to Hawthorne's

eculiar genius," he dwells on the terrors of the "weird and ghostly legends of the

ritanic history" that were to be shunted aside in the contemporary world-view. Unli

hers who connect the "moral" of the story to Dimmesdale's apparent inability to "be

ue," Ripley sees Hester as the point of the ''moral." Ripley closes with a defense of

awthorne's "The Custom-House" as an "agreeable amusement" to be tolerated becaua poet's right to "sensitiveness" in a position subject to political patronage.]

The weird and ghostly legends of the Puritanic history present a singularly congenial field for the

exercise of Mr. Hawthorne's peculiar genius. From this fruitful source, he has derived the materia

for his most remarkable creations. He never appears so much in his element as when threading ou

some dim, shadowy tradition of the twilight age of New England, peering into the faded records o

our dark-visaged forefathers for the lingering traces of the preternatural, and weaving into his

gorgeous web of enchantment the slender filaments which he has drawn from the distaff of some

muttering witch on Gallows-Hill. He derives the same terrible excitement from the legendary

horrors, as was drawn by Edgar Poe from the depths of his own dark and perilous imagination, an

bring before us pictures of death-like, but strangely fascinating agony, which are described with th

same minuteness of finish the same slow and fatal accumulation of details the same exquisite

coolness of coloring, while everything creeps forward with



Pag

irresistible certainty to a soul-harrowing climax which made the last-named writer such a

consummate master of the horrible and infernal in fictitious composition. Hawthorne's tragedies,

however, are always motivated with a wonderful insight and skill, to which the intellect of Poe w

a stranger. In the most terrific scenes with which he delights to scare the imagination, Hawthorne

does not wander into the region of the improbable; you scarcely know that you are in the presence

of the supernatural, until your breathing becomes too thick for this world; it is the supernatural

relieved, softened, made tolerable, and almost attractive, by a strong admixture of the human; youare tempted onward by the mild, unearthly light, which seems to shine upon you like a healthful st

you are blinded by no lurid glare; you acquiesce in the necessity of the wizard journey; instead of

being provoked to anger by a superfluous introduction to the company of the devil and his angels.

The elements of terror, which Mr. Hawthorne employs with such masterly effect, both in the origin

conceptions of his characters and the scenes of mystery and dread in which they are made to act, a

blended with such sweet gushes of natural feeling, such solemn and tender relations of the deepes

secrets of the heart, that the painful impression is greatly mitigated, and the final influence of his

most startling creation is a serene sense of refreshment, without the stupor and bewildermentoccasioned by a drugged cup of intoxication.

The "Scarlet Letter," in our opinion, is the greatest production of the author, beautifully displaying

the traits we have briefly hinted at, and sustained with a more vigorous reach of imagination, a mo

subtle instinct of humanity, and a more imposing splendor of portraiture, than any of his more

successful previous works. . . . We have not intended to forestall our readers with a description o

the plot, which it will be perceived abound in elements of tragic interest, but to present them with

some specimens of a genuine native romance, which none will be content without reading for

themselves. The moral of the story for it has a moral for all wise enough to detect it is shadowedforth rather than expressed in a few brief sentences near the close of the volume. [Here the review

cites the long paragraph in Chapter XXIV, beginning "But there was a more real life for Hester

Prynne, here, in New England, than in that unknown region where Pearl had



Pag

found a home. . . ."]

The introduction, presenting a record of savory reminiscences of the Salem Custom-House, a fran

display of autobiographical confessions, and a piquant daguerreotype of his ancient colleagues in

office, while surveyor of that port, is written with Mr. Hawthorne's unrivalled force of graphic

delineation, and will furnish an agreeable amusement to those who are so far from the scene of

action as to feel no wound in their personal relations, but the occasional too sharp touches of thecaustic acid, of which the "gentle author" keeps some phials on his shelf for convenience and use.

The querulous tone in which he alludes to his removal from the Custom-House, may be forgiven to

the sensitiveness of a poet, especially as this is so rare a quality in Uncle Sam's office-holders.

[From E.P. Whipple, Graham's Magazine, May 1850, 36: 345-46. Whipple emphas

awthorne's major step in narrative from earlier sketches and tales, but neglected to ti

e Introduction to the romance. He did recognize the strong influence of the "essays

ddison and Charles Lamb" in the characterizations of the Introduction; but these sati

ricatures simply highlighted the "fault" of the romance, which Whipple saw as itsmost morbid intensity with which the characters are realized, and the consequent la

sufficient geniality in the delineation." Even so, Whipple grasped the principle of

omposition" inherent in the structure of the narrative plot.]

In this beautiful and touching romance Hawthorne has produced something really worthy of the fin

and deep genius which lies within him. The "Twice-Told Tales," and "Mosses from an Old Mans

are composed simply of sketches and stories, and although such sketches and stories as few living

men could write, they are rather indications of the possibilities of his mind than realizations of its

native power, penetration, and creativeness. In "The Scarlet Letter" we have a complete work,evincing a true artist's certainty of touch and expression in the exhibition of characters and events

and a keen-sighted and far-sighted vision into the essence and purpose of spiritual laws. There is

profound philosophy underlying the story which will escape many of the



Pag

readers whose attention is engrossed by the narrative.

The book is prefaced by some fifty pages of autobiographical matter, relating to the author, his

native city of Salem, and the Custom-House, from which he was ousted by the Whigs. These page

instinct with the vital spirit of humor, show how rich and exhaustless a fountain of mirth Hawthorn

has at his command. The whole representation has the dreamy yet distinct remoteness of the purely

comic ideal. The view of Salem streets; the picture of the old Custom-House at the head of Derbywharf, with its torpid officers on a summer's afternoon, their chairs all tipped against the wall,

chatting about old stories, "while the frozen witticisms of past generations were thawed out, and

came bubbling with laughter from their lips" the delineation of the old Inspector, whose

"reminiscences of good cheer, however ancient the date of the actual banquet, seemed to bring the

savor of pig or turkey under one's very nostrils," and on whose palate there were flavors "which

had lingered there not less than sixty or seventy years, and were still apparently as fresh as that of

the mutton-chop which he had just devoured for his breakfast," and the grand view of the stout

Collector, in his aged heroism, with the honors of Chippewa and Fort Erie on his brow, are all

encircled with that visionary atmosphere which proves the humorist to be a poet, and indicates thhis pictures are drawn from the images which observation has left on his imagination. The whole

introduction, indeed, is worthy of a place among the essays of Addison and Charles Lamb.

With regard to "The Scarlet Letter," the readers of Hawthorne might have expected an exquisitely

written story, expansive in sentiment, and suggestive in characterization, but they will hardly be

prepared for a novel of so much tragic interest and tragic power, so deep in thought and so

condensed in style, as is here presented to them. It evinces equal genius in the region of great

passions and elusive emotions, and bears on every page the evidence of a mind thoroughly alive,

watching patiently the movements of morbid hearts when stirred by strange experiences, andpiercing, by its imaginative power, directly through all the externals to the core of things. The faul

of the book, if fault it have, is the almost morbid intensity with which the characters are realized,

and the consequent lack of sufficient geniality in the delineation. A portion of the pain of the autho

own heart is



Pag

communicated to the reader, and although there is great pleasure received while reading the volum

the general impression left by it is not satisfying to the artistic sense. Beauty bends to power

throughout the work, and therefore the power displayed is not always beautiful. There is a strange

fascination to a man of contemplative genius in the psychological details of a strange crime like th

which forms the plot of "The Scarlet Letter," and he is therefore apt to become, like Hawthorne, to

painfully anatomical in his exhibition of them.

If there be, however, a comparative lack of relief to the painful emotions which the novel excites,

owing to the intensity with which the author concentrates attention on the working of dark passion

it must be confessed that the moral purpose of the book is made more definite by this very

deficiency. The most abandoned libertine could not read the volume without being thrilled into

something like virtuous resolution, and the roué would find that the deep-seeing eye of the novelis

had mastered the whole philosophy of that guilt of which practical roués are but childish disciples

To another class of readers, those who have theories of seduction and adultery modeled after the

French school of novelists, and whom libertinism is of the brain, the volume may afford matter fo

very instructive and edifying contemplation; for, in truth, Hawthorne, in "The Scarlet Letter," hasutterly undermined the whole philosophy on which the French novels rest, by seeing farther and

deeper into the essence both of conventional and moral laws; and he has given the results of his

insight, not in disquisitions and criticisms, but in representations more powerful even than those o

Sue, Dumas, or George Sand. He has made his guilty parties end, not as his own fancy of this own

benevolent sympathies might dictate, but as the spiritual laws, lying back to all persons, dictated t

him. In this respect there is hardly a novel in English literature more purely objective. . . .

In common, we trust, with the rest of mankind, we regretted Hawthorne's dismissal from the Custo

House, but if that event compels him to exert his genius in the production of such books as thepresent, we shall be inclined to class the Honorable Secretary of the Treasury among the great

Philanthropists. In his next work we hope to have a romance equal to The Scarlet Letter in pathos

and power, but more relieved by touches of that beautiful and peculiar humor, so serene and



Pag

so searching, in which he excels almost all living writers.

[From Henry F. Chorley, Athenæum, June 1850: 634. This British critic placed

awthorne "among the most original and peculiar writers of American fiction." Altho

awthorne's art of "mixtures" is complex, "the invention" of the plot is too "painful" i

ffect" and thus it is questionable as a "legitimate subject for fiction." Chorley tied th

mance's "touch of the fantastic" to the superstitious Puritanic age, but had toknowledge the "thrill" of "its action being indefinite, and its source vague and distan

This is a most powerful but painful story. Mr. Hawthorne must be well known to our readers as a

favourite with the Athenaeum. We rate him as among the most original and peculiar writers of

American fiction. There is in his works a mixture of Puritan reserve and wild imagination, of

passion and description, of the allegorical and the real, which some will fail to understand, and

which others will positively reject but which, to ourselves, is fascinating, and which entitles him

be placed on a level with Brockden Brown and the author of "Rip Van Winkle." "The Scarlet

Letter" will increase his reputation with all who do not shrink from the invention of the tale; butthis, as we have said, is more than ordinarily painful. When we have announced that the three

characters are a guilty wife, openly punished for her guilt, her tempter, whom she refuses to unmas

and who during the entire story carries a fair front and an unblemished name among his

congregation, and her husband, who, returning from a long absence at the moment of her sentence,

sits himself down betwixt the two in the midst of a small and severe community to work out his

slow vengeance on both under the pretext of magnanimous forgiveness, when we have explained

that "The Scarlet Letter" is the badge of Hester Prynne's shame, we ought to add that we recollect

no tale dealing with crime so sad and revenge so subtly diabolical, that is at the same time so clea

of fever and of prurient excitement. The misery of the woman is as present in every page as the

heading which in the title of the romance symbolizes her punishment. Her terrors concerning her

strange elvish child present retribution in a form which is new and natural:



Pag

done. . . . The delineations of wharf scenery, and of the Custom House, with their appropriate

figures and personages, are worthy of the pen of Dickens; and really, so far as mere style is

concerned, Mr. Hawthorne has no reason to thank us for the compliment; he has the finer touch, if

not more genial feeling, of the two. Indeed, if we except a few expressions which savor somewha

strongly of his late unpoetical associations, and the favorite metaphor of the guillotine, which,

however apt, is not particularly agreeable to the imagination in such detail, we like the preface

better than the tale.

No one who has taken up the Scarlet Letter will willingly lay it down till he has finished it; and h

will do well not to pause, for he cannot resume the story where he left it. He should give himself u

to the magic power of the style, without stopping to open wide the eyes of his good sense and

judgment, and shake off the spell; or half the weird beauty will disappear like a "dissolving

view". . . . That the author himself felt this sort of intoxication as well as the willing subjects of hi

enchantment, we think, is evident in many pages of the last half of the volume. His imagination has

sometimes taken him fairly off his feet, insomuch that he seems almost to doubt if there be any firm

ground at all. . . .

Thus devils and angels are alike beautiful, when seen through the magic glass; and they stand side

by side in heaven, however the former may be supposed to have come here. As for Roger

Chillingworth, he seems to have so little in common with man, he is such a gnome-like phantasm,

such an unnatural personification of an abstract ideas, that we should be puzzled to assign him a

place among angels, men, or devils. . . . Hester at first strongly excites our pity, for she suffers lik

an immortal being; and our interest in her continues only while we have hope for her soul, that its

baptism of tears will reclaim it from the foul stain which has been cast upon it. We see her humble

meek, self-denying, charitable, and heartwrung with anxiety for the moral welfare of her waywardchild. But anon her humility catches a new tint, and we find it pride; and so a vague unreality stea

by degrees over all her most humanizing traits we lose our confidence in all and finally, like

Undine, she disappoints us, and shows the dream-land origin and nature, when we were looking to

behold a Christian.

There is rather more power, and better keeping, in the character of



Pag

Dimmesdale. But here again we are cheated into a false regard and interest, partly perhaps by the

associations thrown around him without the intention of the author, and possibly contrary to it, but

our habitual respect for the sacred order, and by our faith in religion, where it has once been roote

in the heart. We are told repeatedly, that the Christian element yet pervades his character and guid

his efforts; but it seems strangely wanting. "High aspirations for the welfare of his race, warm lov

of souls, pure sentiments, natural piety, strengthened by thought and study, and illuminated by

revelation all of which invaluable gold was little better than rubbish" to Roger Chillingworth, arelittle better than rubbish at all, for any use to be made of them in the story. Mere suffering, aimless

and without effect for purification or blessing to the soul, we do not find in God's moral world. T

sting that follows crime is most severe in the purest conscience and the tenderest heart, in mercy,

not in vengeance, surely; and we can conceive of any cause constantly exerting itself without its

appropriate effects, as soon as of a seven years' agony without penitence. But here every pang is

wasted. A most obstinate and unhuman passion, or a most unwearying conscience it must be, neith

being worn out, or made worse or better, but such a prolonged application of the scourge. Peniten

may indeed be lifelong; but as for this, we are to understand that there is no penitence about it. . .

But Little Pearl gem of the purest water what shall we say of her? That if perfect truth to childish

and human nature can make her a mortal, she is so; and immortal, if the highest creations of genius

have any claim to immortality. Let the author throw what light he will upon her, from his magical

prism, she retains her perfect and vivid human individuality. When he would have us call her elvi

and implike, we persist in seeing only a capricious, roguish, untamed child, such as many a mothe

has looked upon with awe, and a feeling of helpless incapacity to rule. Every motion, every featur

every word and tiny shout, every naughty scream and wild laugh, come to us as if our very senses

were conscious of them. The child is a true child, the only genuine and consistent mortal in the

book; and wherever she crosses the dark and gloomy track of the story, she refreshes our spirit wipure truth and radiant beauty, and brings to grateful remembrance the like ministry of gladsome

childhood, in some of the saddest



Pag

scenes of actual life. We feel at once that the author must have a "Little Pearl" of his own, whose

portrait, consciously or unconsciously, his pen sketches out. Not that we would deny to Mr.

Hawthorne the power to call up any shape, angel or goblin, and present it before his readers in a

striking and vivid light. But there is something more than imagination in the picture of "Little

Pearl." . . .

. . . One cannot but wonder, by the way, that the master of such a wizard power over language asMr. Hawthorne manifests should not choose a less revolting subject than this of the Scarlet Letter,

which fine writing seems as inappropriate as fine embroidery. The ugliness of pollution and vice

no more relieved by it than the gloom of the prison is by the rose tree at its door. There are some

palliative expressions used, which cannot, even as a matter of taste, be approved. . . .

We hope to be forgiven, if in any instance our strictures have approached the limits of what may b

considered personal. We would not willingly trench upon the right which an individual may claim

in common courtesy, not to have his private qualities or personal features discussed to his face,

with everybody looking on. But Mr. Hawthorne's example in the preface, and the condescending

familiarity of the attitude he assumes therein, are at once our occasion and our apology.

[From George Bailey Loring, Massachusetts Quarterly Review, September 1850, 3

4500. Loring was one of the first critics to recognize Hawthorne's art of the new

mance, noting Hawthorne's balanced viewpoint of Puritan severity and the current

nlightenment" about social forces.]

No author of our own country, and scarcely any author of our times, manages to keep himself

clothed in such a cloak of mystery as Nathaniel Hawthorne. From the time when his "Twice-Told

Tales" went, in their first telling, floating through the periodicals of the day, up to the appearance o"The Scarlet Letter," he has stood on the confines of society, as we see some sombre figure, in the

dim light of the stage scenery, peering through that narrow space, when a slouched hat and a

muffling cloak do not meet, upon the tragic events which are made conspicuous by the glare of the

footlights. From nowhere in par-



Pag

ticular, from an old manse, and from the drowsy dilapidation of an old custom-house, he has spok

such oracular words, such searching thoughts, as sounded of old from the mystic God whose face

was never seen even by the most worthy. It seems useless now to speak of his humor, subtle and

delicate as Charles Lamb's; of his pathos, deep as Richter's; of his penetration into the human hear

clearer than that of Goldsmith or Crabbe; of his apt and telling words, which Pope might have

envied; of his description, graphic as Scott's or Dickens's; of the delicious lanes he opens, on eith

hand, and leaves you alone to explore, masking his work with the fine " faciebat " which removes limit from all high art, and gives every man scope to advance and develop. He seems never to

trouble himself, either in writing or living, with the surroundings of life. He is no philosopher for

the poor or the rich, for the ignorant or the learned, for the righteous or the wicked, for any specia

rank or condition in life, but for human nature as given by God into the hands of man. He calls us t

be indignant witnesses of no particular social, religious, or political enormity. He asks no

admiration for this or that individual or associated virtue. The face of society, with its manifold

features, never comes before you, as you study the extraordinary experience of his men and wome

except as a necessary setting for the picture. They might shine at tournaments, or grovel in cellars,

or love, or fight, or meet with high adventure, or live the deepest and quietest life in unknown

concerns of the earth, their actual all vanishes before the strange and shifting picture he gives of th

motive heart of man. In no work of his is this characteristic more strikingly visible than in "The

Scarlet Letter"; and in no work has he presented so clear and perfect an image of himself, as a

speculative philosopher, an ethical thinker, a living man. Perhaps he verges strongly upon the

supernatural, in the minds of those who would recognize nothing but the corporeal existence of

human life. But man's nature is, by birth, super natural; and the deep mystery which lies beneath al

his actions is far beyond the reach of any mystical vision that ever lent its airy shape to the creatio

of the most intense dreamer. . . . It is, as we had a right to expect, extraordinary, as a work of art,and as a vehicle of religion and ethics.

Surrounded by the stiff, formal dignitaries of our early New England Colony, and subjected to the

severe laws, and severer social at-



Pag

mosphere, we have a picture of crime and passion. It would be hard to conceive of a greater

outrage upon the freezing and self-denying doctrines of that day, than the sin for which Hester

Prynne was damned by society, and for which Arthur Dimmesdale damned himself. For centuries,

the devoted and superstitious Catholic had made it a part of his creed to cast disgrace upon the

passions; and the cold and rigid Puritan, with less fervor, and consequently with less beauty, had

driven them out of his paradise, as the parents of all sin. There was no recognition of the intention

or meaning of that sensuous element of human nature which, gilding life like a burnishing sunset,lays the foundation of all that beauty which seeks its expression in poetry, and music, and art, and

give the highest apprehension of religious fervor. Zest of life was no part of the Puritan's belief. .

The state of society which this grizzly form of humanity created, probably served as little to purify

men as any court of voluptuousness; and, while we recognize with compressed lip that heroism

which braved seas and unknown shores, for opinion's sake, we remember, with a warm glow, the

elegances and intrepid courage and tropical luxuriance of the cavaliers whom they left behind the

Asceticism and voluptuarism on either hand, neither fruitful of the finer and truer virtues, were all

that men had arrived at in the great work of sensuous life.

It was the former which fixed the scarlet letter to the breast of Hester Prynne, and which drove

Arthur Dimmesdale into a life of cowardly and selfish meanness, that added tenfold disgrace and

ignominy to his original crime. In any form of society hitherto known, the sanctity of the devoted

relation between the sexes has constituted the most certain foundation of all purity and all social

safety. Imperfect as this great law has been in most of its development, founded upon and founding

the rights of property, instead of positively recognizing the delicacy of abstract virtue, and having

become, of necessity, in the present organization, a bulwark of heredity rights, and a bond for a

deed of conveyance, it nevertheless appeals to the highest sense of virtue and honor which a man

finds in his breast. In an age in which there is a tendency to liberalize these, as well as allobligations, in order to secure those which are more sacred and binding than any which have been

born of the statute-book, we can hardly conceive of the consternation and disgust which

overwhelmed our forefathers when



Pag

the majesty of virtue, and the still mightier majesty of the law, were insulted. It was as heir of thes

virtues, and impressed with this education, that Arthur Dimmesdale, a clergyman, believing in and

applying all the moral remedies of the times, found himself a criminal. . . . In this way, he presente

the twofold nature which belongs to us as members of society; a nature born from ourselves and o

associations, and comprehending all the diversity and all the harmony of our individual and socia

duties. Violation of either destroys our fitness for both. And when we remember that, in this

development, no truth comes except from harmony, no beauty except from a fit conjunction of theindividual with society, and of society with the individual, can we wonder that the great elements

Arthur Dimmesdale's character should have been overbalanced by a detestable crowd of mean an

grovelling qualities, warmed into life by the hot antagonism he felt radiating upon himself and all

his fellow-men from the society in which he moved, and from which he received his engrafted

moral nature? He sinned in the arms of society, and fell almost beyond redemption; his companion

in guilt became an outcast, and a flood of heroic qualities gathered around her. Was this the work

social influences?

In this matter of crime, as soon as he became involved, he appeared before himself no longer aclergyman, but a man a human being. He answered society in the cowardly way we have seen. He

answered himself in that way which every soul adopts, where crime does not penetrate. The

physical facts of crime alone, with which society has to do, in reality constitute sin. Crimes are

committed under protest of the soul, more or less decided, as the weary soul itself has been more

less besieged and broken. The war in the individual begins, and the result of the fierce struggle is

the victory of the sensual over the spiritual, when the criminal act is committed. If there is no such

war, there is no crime; let the deed be what it may, and be denominated what it may, by society. Th

soul never assents to sin, and weeps with the angels when the form in which it dwells violates the

sacred obligations it imposes upon it. When this human form, with its passions and tendencies,commits the violation, and, at the same time, abuses society, it is answerable to this latter tribunal

where it receives its judgement; while the soul flees to her God, dismayed and crushed by the

conflict, but not deprived of her divine inheritance. Between the individual



Pag

and his God, there remains a spot, larger or smaller, as the soul has been kept unclouded, where n

sin can enter, where no mediation can come, where all the discords of his life are resolved into th

most delicious harmonies, and his whole existence becomes illuminated by a divine intelligence.

Sorrow and sin reveal this spot to all men as, through death, we are born to an immortal life. They

reveal what beliefs and dogmas becloud and darken. They produce that intense consciousness,

without which virtue can not rise above innocence. They are the toil and trial which give strength

and wisdom, and which, like all other toil, produce weariness and fainting and death, if pursuedbeyond the limit where reaction and invigorating process being. We can not think with too much

awe upon the temptations and trials which beset the powerful. The solemn gloom which shuts dow

over a mighty nature, during the struggle, which it recognizes with vivid sense, between its demon

and its divinity, is like that fearful night in which no star appears to relieve the murky darkness. A

yet, from such a night as this, and from no other, the grandeur of virtue has risen to beautify and

warm and bless the broad universe of human hearts, and to make the whole spiritual creation

blossom like the rose. The Temptation and Gethsemane, these are the miracles which have

redeemed mankind.

Thus it stands with the individual and his soul. With himself and society come up other obligation

other influences, other laws. The tribunal before which he stands as a social being cannot be

disregarded with impunity. The effects of education and of inheritance cling around us with the

tenacity of living fibres of our own bodies, and they govern, with closest intimacy, the estimate of

deeds which constitute the catalogue of vice and virtue, and which in their commission elevate or

depress our spiritual condition.

We doubt if there is a stronger element in our natures than that which forbids our resisting with

impunity surrounding social institutions. However much we may gain in the attempt, it is alwaysattended with some loss. The reverence which enhanced so beautifully the purity and innocence o

childhood, often receives its death-blow from that very wisdom out of which comes our mature

virtue. Those abstractions whose foundation is the universe, and without an apprehension of whic

we may go handcuffed and fettered through life,



Pag

may draw us away from the devotion which deepened and gilded the narrow world in which we

were strong by belief alone. The institutions in which we were born controlled in a great degree th

mental condition of our parents, as surrounding nature did their physical, and we owe to these two

classes of internal and external operations the characters we inherit. An attack, therefore, upon

these institutions, affects us to a certain degree as if we were warring against ourselves. Reason a

conscience, and our sublimest sense of duty, may call us to the work of reform, instinct resists. . .

Arthur Dimmesdale, shrinking from intimate contact and intercourse with his child, shrunk from avisible and tangible representation of the actual life which his guilty love had created for himself

and Hester Prynne; love, guilty, because, secured as it may have been to them, it drove them

violently from the moral centre around which they revolved.

We have seen that this was most especially the case with the man who was bound and labelled the

puritan clergyman; that he had raised a storm in his own heavens which he could not quell, and ha

cast the whirlwind over the life of his own child. How was it with Hester Prynne?

On this beautiful and luxuriant woman, we see the effect of open conviction of sin, and the

continued galling punishment. The heroic traits awakened in her character by her position were th

great self-sustaining properties of woman, which, in tribulation and perplexity, elevate her so far

above man. The sullen defiance in her, was imparted to her by society. Without, she met only

ignominy, scorn, banishment, a shameful brand. Within, the deep and sacred love for which she w

suffering martyrdom, for her crime was thus sanctified in her own apprehension, was turned into a

store of perplexity, distrust, and madness, which darkened all her heavens. Little Pearl was a toke

more scarlet than the scarlet letter of her guilt; for the child, with a birth presided over by the mos

intense conflict of love and fear in the mother's heart, nourished at a breast swelling with anguish,

and surrounded with burning marks of its mother's shame in its daily life, developed day by day ina void little demon perched upon the most sacred horn of the mother's altar. Even this child, whos

young, plastic nature caught the impress which surrounding circumstances most naturally gave,

bewildered and maddened her. The pledge of love



Pag

which God had given her, seemed perverted into an emblem of hate. And yet how patiently and

courageously she labored on, bearing her burthen the more firmly, because, in its infliction, she

recognized no higher hand than that of civil authority! . . .

Her social ignominy forced her back upon the true basis of her life. She alone, of all the world,

knew the length and breadth of her own secret. Her lawful husband no more pretended to hold a

claim, which may always have been a pretence; the father of her child, her own relation to both, athe tragic life which was going on beneath that surface which all men saw, were known to her

alone. How poor and miserable must have seemed the punishment which society had inflicted! Th

scarlet letter was a poor type of the awful truth which she carried within her heart. Without deceit

before the world, she stands forth the most heroic person in all that drama. When, from the platfor

of shame she bade farewell to that world, she retired to a holier, and sought for such peace as a so

cast out by men may always find. This was her right. No lie hung over her head. Society had heard

her story, and had done its worst. And while Arthur Dimmesdale, cherished in the arms of that

society which he had outraged, glossing his life with a false coloring which made it beautiful to a

beholders, was dying of an inward anguish, Hester stood upon her true ground, denied by thisworld, and learning that true wisdom which comes through honesty and self-justification. In castin

her out, the world had torn from her all the support of its dogmatic teachings, with which it sustain

its disciples in their inevitable sufferings, and had compelled her to rely upon that great religious

truth which flows instinctively around a life of agony, with its daring freedom. How far behind he

in moral and religious excellence was the accredited religious teacher, who was her companion in

guilt! Each day which bound her closer and closer to that heaven which was now her only home,

drove him farther and farther from the spiritual world, whose glories he so fervently taught others

It is no pleasant matter to contemplate what is called the guilt of this woman; but it may beinstructive, nevertheless. We naturally shrink from any apparent violation of virtue and chastity, an

are very ready to forget, in our eager condemnation, how much that is beautiful and holy may be

involved in it. We forget that what society calls



Pag

chastity is often far the reverse, and that a violation of this perverted virtue may be a sad,

sorrowful, and tearful beauty, which we would silently and reverently contemplate, silently, lest a

harsh word of the law wound our hearts, reverently, as we would listen to the fervent prayer. Whi

we dread that moral hardness which would allow a human being to be wrecked in a storm of

passion, let us not be unmindful of the holy love which may long and pray for its development.

Man's heart recognizes this, whether society will or not. The struggle and the sacrifice which the

latter calls a crime, the former receives as an exhilarating air of virtue. . . .

Is there no violation of social law more radical and threatening than any wayward act of passion

can be? It may be necessary, perhaps, that the safety of associated man demands all the

compromises which the superficiality of social law creates, but the sorrow may be none the less

acute because the evil is necessary. We see in the lives of Arthur Dimmesdale and Hester Prynne,

that the severity of puritanic law and morals could not keep them from violation; and we see, too,

that this very severity drove them both into a state of moral insanity. And does any benefit arise

from such a sacrifice? Not a gentle word, or look, or thought, met those two erring mortals.

Revenge embittered the heart of the old outraged usurper. Severity blasting, and unforgiving, andsanctimonious was the social atmosphere which surrounded them. We doubt not that, to many mind

this severity constitutes the saving virtue of the book. But it is always with a fearful sacrifice of a

the gentler feelings of the breast, of all the most comprehensive humanity, of all the most delicate

affections and appreciations, that we thus rudely shut out the wanderer from us; especially when th

path of error leads through the land whence come our warmest and tenderest influences. We gain

nothing by this hardness, except a capability to sin without remorse. . . .

The father, the mother, and the child, in this picture, the holy trinity of love, what had the world

done for them? And so they waited for the divine developments of an hereafter. Can this be a trueand earnest assurance that we may hope for the best development there? This imaginary tale of

wrong, is but a shadow of the realities which daily occur around us. . . . But is it not most sad and

most instructive that Love, the great parent of all power and virtue and wis-



Pag

dom and faith, the guardian of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, the effulgence of all that is

rich and generous and luxuriant in nature, should rise up in society to be typified by the strange

features of ''The Scarlet Letter"?

[From Orestes Brownson, Brownson's Quarterly Review, October 1850, n.s., 5:528

religious conservative, Brownson was insensitive to the art of the romance, and

assified it as morally unhealthy in its voicing of what he believed were seductiveanscendentalist errors.]

Mr. Hawthorne is a writer endowed with a large share of genius, and in the species of literature h

cultivates has no rival in this country, unless it be Washington Irving. His "Twice-told Tales," his

"Mosses from an Old Manse," and other contributions to the periodical press, have made him

familiarly known, and endeared him to a large circle of readers. The work before us is the largest

and most elaborate of the romances he has as yet published, and no one can read half a dozen page

of it without feeling that none but a man of true genius and a highly cultivated mind could have

written it. It is a work of rare, we may say of fearful power, and to the great body of our countrymwho have no well defined religious belief, and no fixed principles of virtue, it will be deeply

interesting and highly pleasing.

We have neither the space nor the inclination to attempt an analysis of Mr. Hawthorne's genius, aft

the manner of the fashionable criticism of the day. Mere literature for its own sake we do not priz

and we are more disposed to analyze an author's work than the author himself. Men are not for us

mere psychological phenomena, to be studied, classed, and labelled. They are moral and

accountable beings, and we look only to the moral and religious effect of their works. Genius

perverted, or employed in perverting others, has no charms for us, and we turn away from it withsorrow and disgust. We are not among those who join in the worship of passion, or even of

intellect. God gave us our faculties to be employed in his service and in that of our fellow-creatur

for his sake, and our only legitimate office as critics is to inquire, when a book is sent us for

review, if its author in producing it has so employed them.



Pag

Mr. Hawthorne, according to the popular standard of morals in this age and this community, can

hardly be said to pervert God's gifts, or to exert an immoral influence. Yet his work is far from

being unobjectionable. The story is told with great naturalness, ease, grace, and delicacy, but it is

story that should not have been told. It is a story of crime, of an adulteress and her accomplice, a

meek and gifted and highly popular Puritan minister in our early colonial days, a purely imaginary

story, though not altogether improbable. Crimes like the one imagined were not unknown even in t

golden days of Puritanism, and are perhaps more common among the descendants of the Puritansthan it is at all pleasant to believe; but they are not fit subjects for popular literature, and moral

health is not promoted by leading the imagination to dwell on them. There is an unsound state of

public morals when the novelist is permitted, without a scorching rebuke, to select such crimes, a

invest them with all the fascinations of genius, and all the charms of a highly polished style. In a

moral community such crimes are spoken of as rarely as possible, and when spoken of at all, it is

always in terms which render them loathsome, and repel the imagination.

Nor is the conduct of the story better than the story itself. The author makes the guilty parties suffe

and suffer intensely, but he nowhere manages so as to make their sufferings excite the horror of hisreaders for their crime. The adulteress suffers not from remorse, but from regret and, from the

disgrace to which her crime has exposed her, in her being condemned to wear emblazoned on her

dress the Scarlet Letter which proclaims to all the deed she has committed. The minister, her

accomplice, suffers also, horribly, and feels all his life after the same terrible letter branded on hi

heart, but not from the fact of the crime itself, but from the consciousness of not being what he seem

to the world, from his having permitted the partner in his guilt to be disgraced, to be punished,

without his having the manliness to avow his share in the guilt, and to bear his share of the

punishment. Neither ever really repents of the criminal deed; nay, neither ever regards it as really

criminal, and both seem to hold it to have been laudable, because they loved one another, as if thelove itself were not illicit, and highly criminal. No man has the right to love another man's wife, a

no married woman has the right to love any man but her



Pag

husband. Mr. Hawthorne, in the present case seeks to excuse Hester Prynne, a married woman, for

loving the Puritan minister, on the ground that she had no love for her husband, and it is hard that a

woman should not have some one to love; but this only aggravated her guilt, because she was not

only forbidden to love the minister, but commanded to love her husband, whom she had vowed to

love, honor, cherish, and obey. The modern doctrine that represents the affections as fatal, and

wholly withdrawn from voluntary control, and then allows us to plead them in justification of

neglect of duty and breach of the most positive precepts of both the natural and the revealed law,cannot be too severely reprobated.

Human nature is frail, and it is necessary for every one who standeth to take heed lest he fall.

Compassion for the fallen is a duty which we all owe, in consideration of our own failings, and

especially in consideration of the infinite mercy our God has manifested to her erring and sinful

children. But however binding may be this duty, we are never to forget that sin is sin, and that it is

pardonable only through the great mercy of God, on condition of the sincere repentance of the

sinner. But in the present case neither of the guilty parties repents of the sin. . . . They hug their

illicit love; they cherish their sin; and after the lapse of seven years are ready, and actually agree, depart into a foreign country, where they may indulge it without disguise and without restraint. Ev

to the last, even when the minister, driven by his agony, goes so far as to throw off the mask of

hypocrisy, and openly confess his crime, he shows no sign of repentance, or that he regarded his

deed as criminal.

The Christian who reads The Scarlet Letter cannot fail to perceive that the author is wholly ignora

of Christian asceticism, and that the highest principle of action he recognizes is pride. In both the

criminals, the long and intense agony they are represented as suffering springs not from remorse,

from the consciousness of having offended God, but mainly from the feeling, especially on the parof the minister, that they have failed to maintain the integrity of their character. They have lowered

themselves in their own estimation, and cannot longer hold up their heads in society as honest

people. It is not their conscience that is wounded, but their pride. He cannot bear to think that he

wears a disguise, that he cannot be the open, frank, stainless



Pag

character he had from his youth aspired to be, and she, that she is driven from society, lives a

solitary outcast, and has nothing to console her but her fidelity to her paramour. There is nothing

Christian, nothing really moral, here. The very pride itself is a sin; and pride often a greater sin th

that which it restrains us from committing. There are thousands of men and women too proud to

commit carnal sins, and to the indomitable pride of our Puritan ancestors we may attribute no sma

share of their external morality and decorum. It may almost be said, that, if they had less of that

external morality and decorum, their case would be less desperate; and often the violation of themor failure to maintain them, by which their pride receives a shock, and their self-complacency is

shaken, becomes the occasion, under the grace of God, of their conversion to truth and holiness. A

long as they maintain their self-complacency, are satisfied with themselves, and feel that they hav

outraged none of the decencies of life, no argument can reach them, no admonition can startle them

no exhortation can move them. Proud of their supposed virtue, free from all self-reproach, they ar

as placid as a summer morning, pass through life without a cloud to mar their serenity, and die as

gently and as sweetly as the infant falling asleep in its mother's arms. We have met with these

people, and after laboring in vain to waken them to a sense of their actual condition, till complete

discouraged, we have been tempted to say, Would that you might commit some overt act, that shou

startle you from your sleep, and make you feel how far pride is from being either a virtue, or the

safeguard of virtue, or convince you of your own insufficiency for yourselves, and your absolute

need of Divine grace. Mr. Hawthorne seems never to have learned that pride is not only sin, but th

root of all sin, and that humility is not only a virtue, but the root of all virtue. No genuine contrition

or repentance ever springs from pride, and the sorrow for sin because it mortifies our pride, or

lessens us in our own eyes, is nothing but the effect of pride. All true remorse, all genuine

repentance, springs from humility, and is sorrow for having offended God, not sorrow for having

offended ourselves.Mr. Hawthorne also mistakes entirely the effect of Christian pardon upon the interior state of the

sinner. He seems entirely ignorant of the religion that can restore peace to the sinner, true, inward

peace, we mean. He would persuade us, that Hester had found par-



Pag

don, and yet he shows us that she had found no inward peace. Something like this is common amon

popular Protestant writers, who, in speaking of great sinners among Catholics that have made

themselves monks or hermits to expiate their sins by devoting themselves to prayer, and

mortification, and the duties of religion, represent them as always devoured by remorse, and

suffering in their interior agony almost the pains of the damned. . . .

Again, Mr. Hawthorne mistakes the character of confession. He does well to recognize and insist its necessity; but he is wrong in supposing that its office is simply to disburden the mind by

communicating its secrets to another, to restore the sinner to his self-complacency, and to relieve

him from the charge of cowardice and hypocrisy. Confession is a duty we owe to God, and a mean

not of restoring us to our self-complacency, but of restoring us to the favor of God, and

reëstablishing us in his friendship. The work before us is full of mistakes of this sort, in those

portions where the author really means to speak like a Christian, and therefore we are obliged to

condemn it, where we acquaint him of all unchristian intention.

As a picture of the old Puritans, taken from the position of a moderate transcendentalist and libera

of the modern school, the work has its merits; but as little as we sympathize with those stern old

Popery-haters, we do not regard the picture as at all just. We should commend where the author

condemns, and condemn where he commends. Their treatment of the adulteress was far more

Christian than his ridicule of it. But enough of fault-finding, and as we have no praise, except wha

we have given, to offer, we here close this brief notice.

. [From Arthur Cleveland Coxe, "The Writings of Hawthorne," Church Review, Jan

51, 3: 489-511. An Episcopal bishop, Coxe supported the Catholic Brownson in his

sition that American literature should be unique in serving morality; he particularlysliked the way that Hawthorne's art induced a reader to appreciate the characterizati

the sinful Reverend Dimmesdale in the manner of recent French novels.]



Pag

Current Literature, in America, has generally been forced to depend, for criticism, upon personal

partiality or personal spleen. We have had very little reviewing on principle; almost none with th

pure motive of building up a sound and healthful literature for our country, by cultivating merit,

correcting erratic genius, abasing assumption and imposture, and insisting on the fundamental

importance of certain great elements, without which no literature can be either beneficial or

enduring. Our reviews have, accordingly, exercised very little influence over public taste. They

have been rather tolerated than approved; and, for the most part, have led a very precariousexistence, rather as attempts than as achievements; creditable make-believes; tolerable domestic

imitations of the imported article; well enough in their way, but untrustworthy for opinion, and

worthless for taste. Their reviewals of contemporary authors have too commonly been a mere

daubing of untempered mortar, or else a deliberate assault, with intent to kill. In either case the

reviewer has betrayed himself, as writing, not for the public, but for the satisfaction or the irritatio

of the author; and the game of mock reviewing has become as notorious as that of mock auctions.

The intelligent public hears the hammering and the outcry, but has got used to it, and passes by.

Nobody's opinion of a book is the more or less favorable for anything that can be said in this or th

periodical. . . .

We make no apology, therefore, for becoming reviewers, when we acknowledge our earnest hope

not only that we may do something to assist the literary and theological studies of Anglo-America

Churchmen, but that we may make the voice of the Church more audible to the American public in

general, and thus may exercise, for the benefit of popular authors, some salutary influence upon

public taste. Our mission to borrow a little cant from the times is, indeed, rather religious than

literary; yet, in an age when literature makes very free with religion, we must be pardoned for

supposing that religion owes some attention to literature. We grant that we have little taste for

popular criticism, and if anybody chooses to assert that we are not qualified critics, we concede ientirely. . . . We know not the literary world, except from a distant view, and have nothing in

common with its aims or its occupations; but we think it high time that the literary world should

learn that Churchmen are, in a very large proportion,



Pag

their readers and book-buyers, and that the tastes and principles of Churchmen have as good a righ

to be respected as those of Puritans and Socialists. It is in this relation to our subject that we have

taken up the clever and popular writings of Hawthorne; and we propose to consider them, withou

any attempt to give them a formal review, just in the free and conversational manner which is

permitted to table-talk or social intercourse. . . .

[Hawthorne] is a writer, who, under other influences, might have contributed to our literature avariety of sterling and valuable works, admitting of no dispute as to their merit, or who would hav

made even popular tales the vehicle of deep and earnest suggestion to the young, as well as of pur

amusement to all classes. We would exhort him against becoming a trifler, as one who must give

account for gifts that might be prolific of good to the world. If, even now, he would resolve to mak

his future career one of high moral principle, and to use his talents not so much for "making himse

a rank among the world's dignitaries," as for doing good in his day and generation, we know of no

one more likely to succeed in becoming one of the world's benefactors, and gaining quite enough o

its empty admiration beside. Not that we would have him change his songs into sermons, or his ta

and romances into moral essays. We are not of those who question the utility of fairy fiction as thecostume of severe and homely truth. Parable and allegory have been the vehicle of wisdom, amon

all cultivated nations; yes, of inspired wisdom, too; of Nathan's rebuke, when he pointed the arrow

of the Law at the sinner's conscience, and of the love of JESUS CHRIST, when he opened to the

sick and needy the healing waters of the Gospel. The principle thus established leaves nothing for

the casuist to prescribe, but that stories should be always of moral benefit to those whole faculties

of soul, and mind, and heart, with which GOD claims to be loved and served. Here is the standard

therefore, by which we are to estimate the tale-writer. In the one case, he may be justly regarded a

a preceptor who has mastered the difficult art of imparting instruction, with impressions of pastim

and who has managed to make even the recreations of the mind, subservient to its most laboriousexercises: in the other he is, in short, a nuisance in society, which it becomes the duty of good

citizens to abate. . . .



Pag

The success which seems to have attended this bold advance of Hawthorne, and the encouragemen

which has been dealt out by some professed critics, to its worst symptoms of malice prepense, ma

very naturally lead, if unbalanced by a moderate dissent, to his further compromise of his literary

character. We are glad, therefore, that "The Scarlet Letter" is, after all, little more than an

experiment, and need not be regarded as a step necessarily fatal. It is an attempt to rise from the

composition of petty tales, to the historical novel; and we use the expression an attempt, with no

disparaging significance, for it is confessedly a trial of strength only just beyond some former efforts, and was designed as part of a series. It may properly be called a novel, because it has all

the ground-work, and might have been very easily elaborated into the details, usually included in

the term; and we call it historical, because its scene-painting is in a great degree true to a period o

our Colonial history, which ought to be more fully delineated. We wish Mr. Hawthorne would

devote the powers which he only partly discloses in this book, to a large and truthful portraiture o

that period, with the patriotic purpose of making us better acquainted with the stern old worthies,

and all the dramatis personæ of those times, with their yet surviving habits, recollections, and

yearnings, derived from maternal England. Here is, in fact, a rich and even yet an unexplored field

for historic imagination; and touches are given in "The Scarlet Letter," to secret springs of romant

thought, which opened unexpected and delightful episodes to our fancy, as we were borne along b

the tale. . . .

There is a provoking concealment of the author's motive, from the beginning to the end of the story

we wonder what he would be at; whether he is making fun of all religion, or only giving a fair hin

of the essential sensualism of enthusiasm. But, in short, we are astonished at the kind of incident

which he has selected for romance. It may be such incidents were too common, to be wholly out o

the question, in a history of the times, but it seems to us that good taste might be pardoned for not

giving them prominence in fiction. . . .

And this brings inquiry to its point. Why has our author selected such a theme? Why, amid all the

suggestive incidents of life in a wilderness; of a retreat from civilization to which, in every

individual case, a thousand circumstances must have concurred to reconcile hu-



Pag

man nature with estrangement from home and country; or amid the historical connections of our

history with Jesuit adventure, savage invasion, regicide outlawry, and French aggression, should t

taste of Mr. Hawthorne have preferred as the proper material for romance, the nauseous amour of

Puritan pastor, with a frail creature of his charge, whose mind is represented as far more debauch

than her body? Is it, in short, because a running undertide of filth has become as requisite to a

romance, as death in the fifth act to a tragedy? Is the French era actually begun in our literature?

And is the flesh, as well as the world and the devil, to be henceforth dished up in fashionablenovels, and discussed at parties, by spinsters and their beaux, with as unconcealed a relish as they

give to the vanilla in their ice cream? We would be slow to believe it, and we hope our author

would not willingly have it so, yet we honestly believe that "The Scarlet Letter" has already done

not a little to degrade our literature, and to encourage social licentiousness: it has started other pe

on like enterprises, and has loosed the restraint of many tongues, that have made it an apology for

"the evil communications which corrupt good manners." We are painfully tempted to believe that i

is a book made for the market, and that the market has made it merchantable, as they do game, by

letting everybody understand that the commodity is in high condition, and smells strongly of

incipient putrefaction.

We shall entirely mislead our reader if we give him to suppose that "The Scarlet Letter" is coarse

its details, or indecent in its phraseology. This very article of our own, is far less suited to ears

polite, than any page of the romance before us; and the reason is, we call things by their right nam

while the romance never hints the shocking words that belong to its things, but, like Mephistophile

insinuates that the archfiend himself is a very tolerable sort of person, if nobody would call him M

Devil. . . . We are not sure we speak quite strong enough, when we say, that we would much rathe

listen to the coarsest scene of Goldsmith's "Vicar," read aloud by a sister or daughter, than to hear

from such lips, the perfectly chaste language of a scene in "The Scarlet Letter,'' in which a marriedwife and her reverend paramour, with their unfortunate offspring, are introduced as the actors, and

in which the whole tendency of the conversation is to suggest a sympathy for their sin, and an

anxiety that they may be able to accom-



Pag

plish a successful escape beyond the seas, to some country where their shameful commerce may b

perpetuated. Now, in Goldsmith's story there are very coarse words, but we do not remember

anything that saps the foundations of the moral sense, or that goes to create unavoidable sympathy

with unrepenting sorrow, and deliberate, premeditated sin. The "Vicar of Wakefield" is sometime

coarsely virtuous, but "The Scarlet Letter" is delicately immoral. . . .

In Hawthorne's tale, the lady's frailty is philosophized into a natural and necessary result of theScriptural law of marriage, which, by holding her irrevocably to her vows, as plighted to a dried

old bookworm, in her silly girlhood, is viewed as making her heart an easy victim to the adulterer

The sin of her seducer too, seems to be considered as lying not so much in the deed itself, as in hi

long concealment of it, and, in fact, the whole moral of the tale is given in the words "Be true be

true," as if sincerity in sin were virtue, and as if "Be clean be clean," were not the more fitting

conclusion. "The untrue man'' is, in short, the hang-dog of the narrative, and the unclean one is mad

a very interesting sort of a person, and as the two qualities are united in the hero, their compositio

creates the interest of his character. . . .

We assure Mr. Hawthorne, in conclusion, that nothing less than an earnest wish that his future care

may redeem this misstep, and prove a blessing to his country, has tempted us to enter upon a

criticism so little suited to our tastes, as that of his late production.



Pag

PPENDIX J

LUSTRATIONS

1.

The opening letters of The New England Primer (edition of Boston: 1762).

"'But dost thou know, my child, what this letter means which thy mother is

doomed to wear?' 'Yes, mother,' said the child. 'It is the great letter A. Thou has taught

it me in the horn-book'" (Chapter XV). The "horn book" was a speller with erasable horn

sheet over a Primer for children to practice their spelling and to learn the Bible. In theseventeenth-century Primer, the letter "A" betokened Adam's "original sin" of disobedience,

reminding humans of their need for salvation; but in Hawthorne's day, the "lessons'' of the

Primer had already been diluted by non-biblical rimes (reflecting the new spirit of scepticism

and secularity) and new "popular" spellers were being developed.



Pag

2.

Salem Custom-House, from a sketch in The Century Magazine (May 1884) to accompany

Julian Hawthorne's "The Salem of Hawthorne." Hawthorne's office was at the left-side

of the front door. Note the bench at the top of the stairs, on which Hawthorne's colleagues

and visitors could congregate and while away time during mild weather.



Pag

3.

Darby Wharf from Hawthorne's Window in the Custom-House, from a sketch in The Century

Magazine (May 1884). The view presents the dilapidated Derby Wharf as a vision correspondin

to Hawthorne's struggle at the Custom-House between intellectual lassitude and imaginative rever



Pag

WORKS CITED AND RECOMMENDED READING

Works by Hawthorne

awthorne, Nathaniel. The Centenary Edition of the Works of Nathaniel Hawthorne.

illiam Charvat, Roy Harvey Pearce, Claude M. Simpson, et al. 20 vols. Columbus: O

ate UP, 1962-88.

The American Notebooks of Nathaniel Hawthorne. Ed. Randall Stewart. New Haven

ale UP, 1932.

The English Notebooks by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Ed. Randall Stewart. New York:

ussell & Russell, 1962.

bbreviation:

E = The Centenary Edition of the Works of Nathaniel Hawthorne. (See complete en

ove.)

ibliographic Checklists of Works of Hawthorne

oswell, Jeanetta. Nathaniel Hawthorne and the Critics: A Checklist of Criticism, 19

78. Metuchen, N.J. & London: Scarecrow Press, 1982.

nes, Buford. A Checklist of Hawthorne Criticism, 1951-1966. Hartford, Conn.:

anscendental Books, 1967.

cks, Beatrice, Joseph D. Adams, and Jack O. Hazlerig, eds. Nathaniel Hawthorne: ference Bibliography, 1900-1971. Boston: G.K. Hall, 1972.

harnhorst, Gary. Nathaniel Hawthorne: An Annotated Bibliography of Comment a

riticism Before 1900. Scarecrow Author Bibliographies, No. 82. Metuchen, N.J. &

ondon: The Scarecrow Press, 1988.



Works on Hawthorne

bbott, Anne W.] Review of The Scarlet Letter. North American Review 71 (July 18

5-48.

bel, Darrel. "Hawthorne's Hester." College English 13 (1952): 303-09.

dams, Timothy Dow. "To Prepare a Preface to Meet the Faces that You Meet:

utobiographical Rhetoric in Hawthorne's Prefaces." ESQ: A Journal of the America

naissance 23.2 (1977): 89-98.

vin, Newton. Hawthorne. 1929. New York: Russell & Russell, 1961.



Pag

askett, Sam S. "The (Complete) Scarlet Letter." College English 22 (1961): 321-28.

ughman, Ernest W. "Public Confession and The Scarlet Letter." The New England

uarterly 40.4 (Dec. 1967): 532-50.

yer, John G. "Narrative Technique and the Oral Tradition in The Scarlet Letter."

merican Literature 52 (1980): 250-63.

aym, Nina. "The Scarlet Letter": A Reading. Twayne Masterwork Studies, 1. [Bosto

wayne, 1986.

The Shape of Hawthorne's Career. Ithaca & London: Cornell UP, 1976.

Thwarted Nature: Nathaniel Hawthorne as Feminist." American Novelists Revisited

says in Feminist Criticism. Boston: Hall, 1982. 58-77.

ecker, John E. Hawthorne's Historical Allegory: An Examination of the Americanonscience. Port Washington, N.Y: Kennikat Press, 1971.

ll, Michael Davitt. "Arts of Deception: Hawthorne, 'Romance,' and The Scarlet Lett

olacurcio, New Essays 29-56.

Hawthorne and the Historical Romance of New England. Princeton: Princeton UP,

71.

ell, Millicent. "The Obliquity of Signs: The Scarlet Letter." Massachusetts Review 2982): 9-26.

ensick, Carol M. "Dimmesdale and His Bachelorhood: 'Priestly Celibacy' in The Sca

tter." Studies in American Fiction 21.1 (1993): 103-10.

ercovitch, Sacvan. The Office of the Scarlet Letter. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 19

oewe, Charles, and Murray G. Murphy. "Hester Prynne in History." American Litera

(1960): 202-04.

owers, Fredson. A Preface to the Text. The Scarlet Letter. By Nathaniel Hawthorne.

illiam Charvat. The Centenary Edition of the Works of Nathaniel Hawthorne, I.

olumbus]: Ohio State UP, 1962. xxix-xlvii.

Textual Introduction. The Scarlet Letter. By Nathaniel Hawthorne. Ed. William Char

e Centenary Edition of the Works of Nathaniel Hawthorne, I. [Columbus]: Ohio S

P, 1962. xlix-xlv.

odhead, Richard H. "Hawthorne by Moonlight." Hawthorne, Melville, and the Novhicago: Chicago UP, 1976.



ownson, Orestes. Review: "Literary Notices and Criticisms." Brownson's Quarterly

Oct. 1850): 528-32.

arpenter, Frederic I. "Scarlet A Minus." College English 5 (1944): 173-80.

harvat, William. Introduction. The Scarlet Letter. By Nathaniel Hawthorne. Ed. Will

harvat. The Centenary Edition of the Works of Nathaniel Hawthorne, I. [Columbus

hio State UP, 1962. xv-x



Pag

horley, Henry F.] [Review of] The Scarlet Letter. Athenæum, (June 1850): 634.

ark, Michael. "Another Look at the Scaffold Scenes in Hawthorne's The Scarlet Le

merican Transcendental Quarterly 1.2 (June 1987): 135-44.

olacurcio, Michael J., ed. New Essays on The Scarlet Letter. Cambridge: Cambridge

85.

Footsteps of Ann Hutchinson: The Context of The Scarlet Letter." English Literary

story 39.3 (Sept. 1972): 459-94.

The Woman's Own Choice': Sex, Metaphor, and the Puritan 'Sources' of The Scarl

tter." Colacurcio, New Essays, 1985, 101-35.

ox, James M. "The Scarlet Letter : Through the Old Manse and the Custom House."

rginia Quarterly Review 51 (1975): 432-47.

oxe, Arthur Cleveland.] "The Writings of Hawthorne." Church Review 3.4 (Jan. 185

9-511.

ews, Frederick C. The Sins of the Fathers: Hawthorne's Psychological Themes. N

ork: Oxford UP, 1966. 136-53.

auber, Kenneth. Rediscovering Hawthorne. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1977.

avis, Sarah I. "Another View of Hester and the Antinomians." Studies in Americanction 12.2 (Autumn 1984): 189-98.

e Jong, Mary Grosselink. "The Making of a 'Gentle Reader': Narrator and Reader in

awthorne's Romances." Studies in the Novel 16.4 (1984): 359-77.

llingham, William B. "Arthur Dimmesdale's Confession." Studies in the Literary

agination 2.1 (1969): 21-6.

olis, John. "Hawthorne's Letter," Notebooks in Cultural Analysis: An Annual Review

d. Norman F. Catnor. Durham: Duke UP, 1984. 103-23

onohue, Agnes M. Hawthorne: Calvin's Ironic Stepchild. Kent: Kent State UP, 1985

oubleday, Neal F. "Hawthorne's Estimate of His Early Work." American Literature 3

966): 403-09.

owning, David B. "The Swelling Waves: Visuality, Metaphor, and Bodily Reality in

arlet Letter." Studies in American Fiction 12.1 (1984): 13-28.

yden, Edgar A. Nathaniel Hawthorne: The Poetics of Enchantment. Ithaca: Corne



P, 1977.

uyckinck, Evert A.] Review, "Nathaniel Hawthorne." Literary World 6 (30 March

50): 323-25.

kin, Paul H. "Hawthorne's Imagination and the Structure of 'The Custom-House.,"


gell, John. "Hawthorne and Two Types of Early American Romance." South Atlant

view 57.1 (1992): 33-51.



Pag

ust, Bertha. Hawthorne's Contemporaneous Reputation: A Study of Literary Opini

America and England, 1828-1864. New York: Octagon Books, 1968.

idelson, Charles, Jr. "The Scarlet Letter." Hawthorne Centenary Essays. Ed. Roy

arvey Pearce. Columbus: Ohio State UP, 1964. 31-77.

elds, James T. Yesterdays with Authors. Boston: James R. Osgood, 1872.

lsom, James K. Man's Accidents and God's Purposes: Multiplicity in Hawthorne's

ction. New Haven: College and University Press, 1966.

anzosa, John. "'The Custom-House,' The Scarlet Letter , and Hawthorne's Separatio

om Salem." ESQ 24 (1978): 57-71.

ederick, John T. "Hawthorne's 'Scribbling Women.'" The New England Quarterly 4

975): 231-40.

erber, John C. "Form and Content in The Scarlet Letter." The New England Quarte

(1944): 25-55.

oss, Seymour. "'Solitude, and Love, and Anguish': The Tragic Design of The Scarl

tter." CLA Journal 3 (1968): 154-65.

ansen, Elaine T. "Ambiguity and the Narrator in The Scarlet Letter." Journal of

arrative Technique 5 (1975): 147-63.

awthorne, Julian. "The Salem of Hawthorne." The Century Magazine 28.1 (May 188

17.

oeltje, Hubert H. "The Writing of The Scarlet Letter." New England Quarterly 27.3

954): 326-46.

offman, Elizabeth Aycock. "Political Power in The Scarlet Letter." American

anscendental Quarterly 4.1 (1990): 12-39.

uffman, Clifford C. "History in Hawthorne's 'Custom-House.'" Clio 2 (1973): 161-69

mes, Henry. Hawthorne. 1879. London: Macmillan, 1967.

aul, A. N. The American Vision: Actual and Ideal Society in Nineteenth-Century

ction. New Haven: Yale UP, 1963.

esselring, Marion L. Hawthorne's Reading, 1828-1850: A Transcription and

entification of Titles Recorded in the Charge-Books of the Salem Athenæum. New

ork: New York Public Library, 1949.



nkead-Weekes, Mark. "The Letter, the Picture, and the Mirror: Hawthorne's Framin

e Scarlet Letter." Lee, Nathaniel Hawthorne 68-87.

e, A. Robert, ed. Nathaniel Hawthorne: New Critical Essays. London & Totowa, N

sion and Barnes and Noble Books, 1982.

Like a Dream Behind Me': Hawthorne's 'The Custom-House' and The Scarlet Lette

e, Nathaniel Hawthorne 48-67.

verenz, David. "Mrs. Hawthorne's Headache: Reading The Scarlet Letter." Nineteen

entury Fiction 37.4 (1983): 552-75.

vy, Leo B. "The Landscape Modes of The Scarlet Letter." Nineteenth-Century Fict

(1969): 377-92.



Pag

oring, George Bailey.] [Review of] The Scarlet Letter. Massachusetts Quarterly Re

12 (Sept. 1850): 484-500.

aclean, Hugh A. "Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter : The Dark Problem of this Life."


artin, Robert K. "Hester Prynne, C'est Moi: Nathaniel Hawthorne and the Anxieties ender." Engendering Men: The Question of Male Feminist Criticism. Ed. Joseph A

oone and Michael Cadden. New York: Routledge, 1990. 122-39.

artin, Terence. "Dimmesdale's Ultimate Sermon." Arizona Quarterly 27 (1971): 230

cCall, Dan. "The Design of Hawthorne's 'Custom-House.'" Nineteenth-Century Fict

(1967): 349-58.

iller, Edwin Haviland. Salem is My Dwelling Place: A Life of Nathaniel Hawthorne

wa City: Iowa UP, 1991.

mple, Kenneth D. "'Subtle, But Remorseful Hypocrite': Dimmesdale's Moral Charac

udies in the Novel 25.3 (1993): 257-71.

rte, Joel. The Romance in America. Middletown, Conn: Wesleyan UP, 1969. 98-114

eid, Alfred S. The Yellow Ruff & The Scarlet Letter. Gainesville: Florida UP, 1955.

eview, "The New Romance." Boston Transcript, 15 March 1850, 4: 1.eview of The Scarlet Letter. Salem Register , 21 March 1850, 2: 1-2.

nge, Donald A. "Romantic Iconology in The Scarlet Letter and The Blithedale

omance." Ruined Eden of the Present. Ed. G. R. Thompson and Virgil L. Lokke. We

fayette: Purdue UP, 1981. 93-107.

ipley, George.] Review of The Scarlet Letter. New York Tribune Supplement 9 (1 A

50): 2.

owe, John Carlos. "The Internal Conflict of Romantic Narrative: Hegel's

enomenology and Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter." Modern Language Notes 95

980): 1203-31.

ozakis, Laurie N. "Another Possible Source of Hawthorne's Hester Prynne." America

anscendental Quarterly 1.1 (1986): 63-71.

yskamp, Charles. "The New England Sources of The Scarlet Letter." American

terature 31.3 (1959): 258-72.



ndeen, Ernest. "The Scarlet Letter as a Love Story." PMLA 77 (1962): 425-35.

hwab, Gabriele, "Seduced by Witches: Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter in

ontext of New England Witchcraft Fictions." Seduction and Theory: Reading of Gen

presentation and Rhetoric. Ed. Dianne Hunter. Champaign. Urbana: Illinois UP, 19

0-191.

mpson, Claude. Explanatory Notes and Editorial Appendices. The American Notebo

d. Claude Simpson, Vol. VIII., The Centenary Edition of the Works of Nathaniel awthorne, [Columbus]: Ohio State UP, 1972. 559-673, 677-817.



Pag

mith, Evans Lansing. "Re-Figuring Revelations: Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet

tter." American Transcendental Quarterly 4.2 (June 1990): 91-104.

molinski, Reiner. "Covenant Theology and Arthur Dimmesdale's Pelagianism."

merican Transcendental Quarterly 1.3 (1987): 211-31.

ouck, David. "The Surveyor of 'The Custom-House': A Narrator for The Scarlet tter." The Centennial Review 15 (1971): 309-29.

ubbs, John Caldwell. The Pursuit of Form: A Study of Hawthorne and the Romanc

bana: Illinois UP, 1970. 81-102.

an Deusen, Marshall. "Narrative Tone in 'The Custom-House' and The Scarlet Letter

neteenth-Century Fiction 21 (1966): 61-71.

an Leer, David. "Hester's Labyrinth: Transcendental Rhetoric in Puritan Boston."

olacurcio, New Essays (1985) 57-100.

allace, James D. "Hawthorne and the Scribbling Women Reconsidered." American

terature 62.2 (June 1990): 201-22.

arren, Austin. Introduction. The Scarlet Letter. 1947. New York: Holt, Rinehart, and

inston, 1963. v-xi.

arren, Robert Penn. "Hawthorne Revisited: Some Remarks on Hellfiredness." Sewa

view 81.2 (Jan-Mar 1973): 95-111.

eber, Alfred. "The Framing Functions of Hawthorne's 'The Custom-House' Sketch."

athaniel Hawthorne Review 18.1 (1992): 5-8.

helen, Robert Emmet, Jr. "Hester Prynne's Little Pearl: Sacred and Profane Love."

merican Literature 39.4 (1968): 488-505.

Whipple, E. P.] Review of The Scarlet Letter. Graham's Magazine 36 (May 1850): 3

.hite, Paula K. "'Original Signification': Post-structuralism and The Scarlet Letter."

entucky Philological Association Bulletin (1982): 41-54.

oodson, Thomas. "Introduction: Hawthorne's Letters, 1813-1853." The Letters, 181

43. Ed. Thomas Woodson, L. Neal Smith, and Norman Holmes Pearson. Vol. XV,

entenary Edition of the Works of Nathaniel Hawthorne. [Columbus]: Ohio State UP

84. 3-89.

oodson, Thomas., L. Neal Smith, and Norman Holmes Pearson. Textual Notes. The



tters, 1843-1853. Ed. Thomas Woodson, L. Neal Smith, Norman Holmes Pearson.

VI, The Centenary Edition of the Works of Nathaniel Hawthorne. [Columbus]: Ohi

ate UP, 1985. 705-55.

V

econdary Sources on Backgrounds

attis, Emery. Saints and Sectaries: Anne Hutchinson and the Antinomian Controver

the Massachusetts Bay Colony. Chapel Hill: North Carolina UP, 1962.



Pag

ownson, Orestes A. "Transcendentalism." The Works of Orestes A. Brownson. Ed.

enry F. Brownson. 20 vols. Detroit, 1898-1900. VI: 1-113.

emer, Francis J. The Puritan Experiment: New England Society from Bradford to

dwards. London: St. James Press, 1976.

oleridge, Samuel Taylor. Biographia Literaria, or Biographical Sketches of My Litefe and Opinions. Ed. James Engell and W. Jackson Bate. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1

ol. 7 of The Collected Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Bollingen Series 75. 14 v

69-90.

merson, Ralph Waldo. Emerson in His Journals, ed. Joel Porte. Cambridge: The

elknap Press of Harvard UP, 1982.

Nature." Nature, Addresses and Essays. 1876, 1883. Concord ed. Boston and New

ork: Houghton Mifflin, 1903. 1-77.

lt, Joseph B. Annals of Salem, from Its First Settlement. Salem: W. & S. B. Ives, 18

othingham, Octavius B. George Ripley. 1882. Boston, 1899.

ller, Margaret. The Letters of Margaret Fuller. Ed. Robert N. Hudspeth. 3 vols. Itha

d London: Cornell UP, 1983.

Margaret Fuller, American Romantic: A Selection from Her Writings and

orrespondence. Ed. Perry Miller. Garden City: Doubleday, 1963.

ay, Peter. A Loss of Mastery: Puritan Historians in Colonial America. Berkeley:

alifornia UP, 1966.

th J li Th M i f J li H h Ed Edith G i H th

nathaniel hawthorne john stephen martin the scarle

Documents