The Scarlet Letter

I. THE PRISON-DOOR 51

II. THE MARKET-PLACE 54

III. THE RECOGNITION 68

IV. THE INTERVIEW 80

V. HESTER AT HER NEEDLE 90

VI. PEARL 104

VII. THE GOVERNOR’S HALL 118

VIII. THE ELF-CHILD AND THE MINISTER 129

IX. THE LEECH 142

X. THE LEECH AND HIS PATIENT 155

XI. THE INTERIOR OF A HEART 168

XII. THE MINISTER’S VIGIL 177

XIII. ANOTHER VIEW OF HESTER 193

XIV. HESTER AND THE PHYSICIAN 204

XV. HESTER AND PEARL 212

XVI. A FOREST WALK 223

XVII. THE PASTOR AND HIS PARISHIONER 231

XVIII. A FLOOD OF SUNSHINE 245

XIX. THE CHILD AT THE BROOK-SIDE 253

XX. THE MINISTER IN A MAZE 264

XXI. THE NEW ENGLAND HOLIDAY 277

XXII. THE PROCESSION 288

XXIII. THE REVELATION OF THE SCARLET LETTER 302

XXIV. CONCLUSION 315

[Illustration]

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

Drawn by MARY HALLOCK FOOTE and Engraved by A. V. S. ANTHONY. The ornamental head-pieces are by L. S. IPSEN.

PAGE

THE CUSTOM-HOUSE 1

THE PRISON DOOR 49

VIGNETTE,—WILD ROSE 51

THE GOSSIPS 57

“STANDING ON THE MISERABLE EMINENCE” 65

“SHE WAS LED BACK TO PRISON” 78

“THE EYES OF THE WRINKLED SCHOLAR GLOWED” 87

THE LONESOME DWELLING 93

LONELY FOOTSTEPS 99

VIGNETTE 104

A TOUCH OF PEARL’S BABY-HAND 113

VIGNETTE 118

THE GOVERNOR’S BREASTPLATE 125

“LOOK THOU TO IT! I WILL NOT LOSE THE CHILD!” 135

THE MINISTER AND LEECH 148

THE LEECH AND HIS PATIENT 165

THE VIRGINS OF THE CHURCH 172

“THEY STOOD IN THE NOON OF THAT STRANGE SPLENDOR” 185

HESTER IN THE HOUSE OF MOURNING 195

MANDRAKE 211

“HE GATHERED HERBS HERE AND THERE” 213

PEARL ON THE SEA-SHORE 217

“WILT THOU YET FORGIVE ME?” 237

A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE 249

THE CHILD AT THE BROOK-SIDE 257

CHILLINGWORTH,—“SMILE WITH A SINISTER MEANING” 287

NEW ENGLAND WORTHIES 289

“SHALL WE NOT MEET AGAIN?” 311

HESTER’S RETURN 320

THE CUSTOM-HOUSE.

[Illustration: The Custom-House]

THE CUSTOM-HOUSE.

INTRODUCTORY TO “THE SCARLET LETTER.”

It is a little remarkable, that—though disinclined to talk overmuch of myself and my affairs at the fireside, and to my personal friends—an autobiographical impulse should twice in my life have taken possession of me, in addressing the public. The first time was three or four years since, when I favored the reader—inexcusably, and for no earthly reason, that either the indulgent reader or the intrusive author could imagine—with a description of my way of life in the deep quietude of an Old Manse. And now—because, beyond my deserts, I was happy enough to find a listener or two on the former occasion—I again seize the public by the button, and talk of my three years’ experience in a Custom-House. The example of the famous “P. P., Clerk of this Parish,” was never more faithfully followed. The truth seems to be, however, that, when he casts his leaves forth upon the wind, the author addresses, not the many who will fling aside his volume, or never take it up, but the few who will understand him, better than most of his schoolmates or lifemates. Some authors, indeed, do far more than this, and indulge themselves in such confidential depths of revelation as could fittingly be addressed, only and exclusively, to the one heart and mind of perfect sympathy; as if the printed book, thrown at large on the wide world, were certain to find out the divided segment of the writer’s own nature, and complete his circle of existence by bringing him into communion with it. It is scarcely decorous, however, to speak all, even where we speak impersonally. But, as thoughts are frozen and utterance benumbed, unless the speaker stand in some true relation with his audience, it may be pardonable to imagine that a friend, a kind and apprehensive, though not the closest friend, is listening to our talk; and then, a native reserve being thawed by this genial consciousness, we may prate of the circumstances that lie around us, and even of ourself, but still keep the inmost Me behind its veil. To this extent, and within these limits, an author, methinks, may be autobiographical, without violating either the reader’s rights or his own.