might expect lay in
the larger and warmer heart of the multitude;
for, as she lifted her eyes towards the balcony,
the unhappy woman grew pale, and trembled.
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 hadlonger 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