lves so rugged in their infirmity, believed that he would go
heavenward before them, and enjoined it upon their children, that
their old bones should be buried close to their young pastor's holy
grave. And, all this time, perchance, when poor Mr. Dimmesdale was
thinking of his grave, he questioned with himself whether the grass
would ever grow on it, because an accursed thing must there be buried!

It is inconceivable, the agony with which this public veneration
tortured him! It was his genuine impulse to adore the truth, and to
reckon all things shadow-like, and utterly devoid of weight or value,
that had not its divine essence as the life within their life. Then,
what was he?--a substance?--or the dimmest of all shadows? He longed
to speak out, from his own pulpit, at the full height of his voice,
and tell the people what he was. "I, whom you behold in these black
garments of the priesthood,--I, who ascend the sacred desk, and turn
my pale face heavenward, taking upon myself to hold communion, in your
behalf, with the Most High Omniscience,--I, in whose daily life you
discern the sanctity of Enoch,--I, whose footsteps, as you suppose,
leave a gleam along my earthly track, whereby the pilgrims that shall
come after me may be guided to the regions of the blest,--I, who have
laid the hand of baptism upon your children,--I, who have breathed the
parting prayer over your dying friends, to whom the Amen sounded
faintly from a world which they had quitted,--I, your pastor, whom you
so reverence and trust, am utterly a pollution and a lie!"

More than once, Mr. Dimmesdale had gone into the pulpit, with a
purpose never to come down its steps, until he should have spoken
words like the above. More than once, he had cleared his throat, and
drawn in the long, deep, and tremulous breath, which, when sent forth
again, would come burdened with the black secret of his soul. More
than once--nay, more than a hundred times--he had actually spoken!
Spoken! But how? He had told his hearers that he was altogether vile,
a viler companion of the vilest, the worst of sinners, an abomination,
a thing of unimaginable iniquity; and that the only wonder was, that
they did not see his wretched body shrivelled up before their eyes, by
the burning wrath of the Almighty! Could there be plainer speech than
this? Would not the people start up in their seats, by a simultaneous
impulse, and tear him down out of the pulpit which he defiled? Not so,
indee