The Scarlet Letter

The voice which had called her attention was that of the

reverend and famous John Wilson, the eldest clergyman of Boston,

a great scholar, like most of his contemporaries in the

profession, and withal a man of kind and genial spirit. This

last attribute, however, had been less carefully developed than

his intellectual gifts, and was, in truth, rather a matter of

shame than self-congratulation with him. There he stood, with a

border of grizzled locks beneath his skull-cap, while his grey

eyes, accustomed to the shaded light of his study, were winking,

like those of Hester's infant, in the unadulterated sunshine. He

looked like the darkly engraved portraits which we see prefixed

to old volumes of sermons, and had no more right than one of

those portraits would have to step forth, as he now did, and

meddle with a question of human guilt, passion, and anguish.

"Hester Prynne," said the clergyman, "I have striven with my

young brother here, under whose preaching of the Word you have

been privileged to sit"--here Mr. Wilson laid his hand on the

shoulder of a pale young man beside him--"I have sought, I say,

to persuade this godly youth, that he should deal with you, here

in the face of Heaven, and before these wise and upright rulers,

and in hearing of all the people, as touching the vileness and

blackness of your sin. Knowing your natural temper better than

I, he could the better judge what arguments to use, whether of

tenderness or terror, such as might prevail over your hardness

and obstinacy, insomuch that you should no longer hide the name

of him who tempted you to this grievous fall. But he opposes to

me--with a young man's over-softness, albeit wise beyond his

years--that it were wronging the very nature of woman to force

her to lay open her heart's secrets in such broad daylight, and

in presence of so great a multitude. Truly, as I sought to

convince him, the shame lay in the commission of the sin, and

not in the showing of it forth. What say you to it, once again,

brother Dimmesdale? Must it be thou, or I, that shall deal with

this poor sinner's soul?"

There was a murmur among the dignified and reverend occupants of

the balcony; and Governor Bellingham gave expression to its

purport, speaking in an authoritative voice, although tempered

with respect towards the youthful clergyman whom he addressed: "Good Master Dimmesdale," said he, "the responsibility of this

woman's soul lies greatly with you. It behoves you; therefore,

to exhort her to repentance and to confession, as a proof and

consequence thereof."

The directness of this appeal drew the eyes of the whole crowd

upon the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale--young clergyman, who had come

from one of the great English universities, bringing all the

learning of the age into our wild forest land. His eloquence and

religious fervour had already given the earnest of high eminence

in his profession. He was a person of very striking aspect, with

a white, lofty, and impending brow; large, brown, melancholy

eyes, and a mouth which, unless when he forcibly compressed it,

was apt to be tremulous, expressing both nervous sensibility and

a vast power of self restraint. Notwithstanding his high native

gifts and scholar-like attainments, there was an air about this

young minister--an apprehensive, a startled, a half-frightened

look--as of a being who felt himself quite astray, and at a loss

in the pathway of human existence, and could only be at ease in

some seclusion of his own. Therefore, so far as his duties would

permit, he trod in the shadowy by-paths, and thus kept himself

simple and childlike, coming forth, when occasion was, with a

freshness, and fragrance, and dewy purity of thought, which, as

many people said, affected them like the speech of an angel.