The Scarlet Letter

The authority which we have chiefly followed--a manuscript of

old date, drawn up from the verbal testimony of individuals,

some of whom had known Hester Prynne, while others had heard the

tale from contemporary witnesses fully confirms the view taken

in the foregoing pages. Among many morals which press upon us

from the poor minister's miserable experience, we put only this

into a sentence:--"Be true! Be true! Be true! Show freely to the

world, if not your worst, yet some trait whereby the worst may

be inferred!"

Nothing was more remarkable than the change which took place,

almost immediately after Mr. Dimmesdale's death, in the

appearance and demeanour of the old man known as Roger

Chillingworth. All his strength and energy--all his vital and

intellectual force--seemed at once to desert him, insomuch that

he positively withered up, shrivelled away and almost vanished

from mortal sight, like an uprooted weed that lies wilting in

the sun. This unhappy man had made the very principle of his

life to consist in the pursuit and systematic exercise of

revenge; and when, by its completest triumph consummation that

evil principle was left with no further material to support

it--when, in short, there was no more Devil's work on earth for

him to do, it only remained for the unhumanised mortal to betake

himself whither his master would find him tasks enough, and pay

him his wages duly. But, to all these shadowy beings, so long

our near acquaintances--as well Roger Chillingworth as his

companions we would fain be merciful. It is a curious subject of

observation and inquiry, whether hatred and love be not the same

thing at bottom. Each, in its utmost development, supposes a

high degree of intimacy and heart-knowledge; each renders one

individual dependent for the food of his affections and

spiritual fife upon another: each leaves the passionate lover,

or the no less passionate hater, forlorn and desolate by the

withdrawal of his subject. Philosophically considered,

therefore, the two passions seem essentially the same, except

that one happens to be seen in a celestial radiance, and the

other in a dusky and lurid glow. In the spiritual world, the old

physician and the minister--mutual victims as they have

been--may, unawares, have found their earthly stock of hatred

and antipathy transmuted into golden love.

Leaving this discussion apart, we have a matter of business to

communicate to the reader. At old Roger Chillingworth's decease,

(which took place within the year), and by his last will and

testament, of which Governor Bellingham and the Reverend Mr.

Wilson were executors, he bequeathed a very considerable amount

of property, both here and in England to little Pearl, the

daughter of Hester Prynne.

So Pearl--the elf child--the demon offspring, as some people up

to that epoch persisted in considering her--became the richest

heiress of her day in the New World. Not improbably this

circumstance wrought a very material change in the public

estimation; and had the mother and child remained here, little

Pearl at a marriageable period of life might have mingled her

wild blood with the lineage of the devoutest Puritan among them

all. But, in no long time after the physician's death, the

wearer of the scarlet letter disappeared, and Pearl along with

her. For many years, though a vague report would now and then

find its way across the sea--like a shapeless piece of driftwood

tossed ashore with the initials of a name upon it--yet no

tidings of them unquestionably authentic were received. The

story of the scarlet letter grew into a legend. Its spell,

however, was still potent, and kept the scaffold awful where the

poor minister had died, and likewise the cottage by the

sea-shore where Hester Prynne had dwelt. Near this latter spot,

one afternoon some children were at play, when they beheld a

tall woman in a gray robe approach the cottage-door. In all

those years it had never once been opened; but either she

unlocked it or the decaying wood and iron yielded to her hand,

or she glided shadow-like through these impediments--and, at all

events, went in.