The Scarlet Letter

Next in order to the magistrates came the young and eminently

distinguished divine, from whose lips the religious discourse of

the anniversary was expected. His was the profession at that era

in which intellectual ability displayed itself far more than in

political life; for--leaving a higher motive out of the question

it offered inducements powerful enough in the almost worshipping

respect of the community, to win the most aspiring ambition into

its service. Even political power--as in the case of Increase

Mather--was within the grasp of a successful priest.

It was the observation of those who beheld him now, that never,

since Mr. Dimmesdale first set his foot on the New England

shore, had he exhibited such energy as was seen in the gait and

air with which he kept his pace in the procession. There was no

feebleness of step as at other times; his frame was not bent,

nor did his hand rest ominously upon his heart. Yet, if the

clergyman were rightly viewed, his strength seemed not of the

body. It might be spiritual and imparted to him by angelical

ministrations. It might be the exhilaration of that potent

cordial which is distilled only in the furnace-glow of earnest

and long-continued thought. Or perchance his sensitive

temperament was invigorated by the loud and piercing music that

swelled heaven-ward, and uplifted him on its ascending wave.

Nevertheless, so abstracted was his look, it might be questioned

whether Mr. Dimmesdale even heard the music. There was his body,

moving onward, and with an unaccustomed force. But where was his

mind? Far and deep in its own region, busying itself, with

preternatural activity, to marshal a procession of stately

thoughts that were soon to issue thence; and so he saw nothing,

heard nothing, knew nothing of what was around him; but the

spiritual element took up the feeble frame and carried it along,

unconscious of the burden, and converting it to spirit like

itself. Men of uncommon intellect, who have grown morbid,

possess this occasional power of mighty effort, into which they

throw the life of many days and then are lifeless for as many

more.

Hester Prynne, gazing steadfastly at the clergyman, felt a

dreary influence come over her, but wherefore or whence she knew

not, unless that he seemed so remote from her own sphere, and

utterly beyond her reach. One glance of recognition she had

imagined must needs pass between them. She thought of the dim

forest, with its little dell of solitude, and love, and anguish,

and the mossy tree-trunk, where, sitting hand-in-hand, they had

mingled their sad and passionate talk with the melancholy murmur

of the brook. How deeply had they known each other then! And was

this the man? She hardly knew him now! He, moving proudly past,

enveloped as it were, in the rich music, with the procession of

majestic and venerable fathers; he, so unattainable in his

worldly position, and still more so in that far vista of his

unsympathizing thoughts, through which she now beheld him! Her

spirit sank with the idea that all must have been a delusion,

and that, vividly as she had dreamed it, there could be no real

bond betwixt the clergyman and herself. And thus much of woman

was there in Hester, that she could scarcely forgive him--least

of all now, when the heavy footstep of their approaching Fate

might be heard, nearer, nearer, nearer!--for being able so

completely to withdraw himself from their mutual world--while

she groped darkly, and stretched forth her cold hands, and found

him not.