 a new-born infant's. Neither, by their report, had his dying words
acknowledged, nor even remotely implied, any, the slightest connection, on his
part, with the guilt for which Hester Prynne had so long worn the scarlet
letter. According to these highly respectable witnesses, the minister, conscious
that he was dying, - conscious, also, that the reverence of the multitude placed
him already among saints and angels, - had desired, by yielding up his breath in
the arms of that fallen woman, to express to the world how utterly nugatory is
the choicest of man's own righteousness. After exhausting life in his efforts
for mankind's spiritual good, he had made the manner of his death a parable, in
order to impress on his admirers the mighty and mournful lesson, that, in the
view of Infinite Purity, we are sinners all alike. It was to teach them, that
the holiest among us has but attained so far above his fellows as to discern
more clearly the Mercy which looks down, and repudiate more utterly the phantom
of human merit, which would look aspiringly upward. Without disputing a truth so
momentous, we must be allowed to consider this version of Mr. Dimmesdale's story
as only an instance of that stubborn fidelity with which a man's friends - and
especially a clergyman's - will sometimes uphold his character; when proofs,
clear as the mid-day sunshine on the scarlet letter, establish him a false and
sin-stained creature of the dust.
    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
