Under the appellation of Roger Chillingworth, the reader willremember, was hidden another name, which its former wearer hadresolved should never more be spoken. It has been related, how,in the crowd that witnessed Hester Prynne's ignominiousexposure, stood a man, elderly, travel-worn, who, just emergingfrom the perilous wilderness, beheld the woman, in whom he hopedto find embodied the warmth and cheerfulness of home, set up asa type of sin before the people. Her matronly fame was troddenunder all men's feet. Infamy was babbling around her in thepublic market-place. For her kindred, should the tidings everreach them, and for the companions of her unspotted life, thereremained nothing but the contagion of her dishonour; which wouldnot fail to be distributed in strict accordance and proportionwith the intimacy and sacredness of their previous relationship.Then why--since the choice was with himself--should theindividual, whose connexion with the fallen woman had been themost intimate and sacred of them all, come forward to vindicatehis claim to an inheritance so little desirable? He resolved notto be pilloried beside her on her pedestal of shame. Unknown toall but Hester Prynne, and possessing the lock and key of hersilence, he chose to withdraw his name from the roll of mankind,and, as regarded his former ties and interest, to vanish out oflife as completely as if he indeed lay at the bottom of theocean, whither rumour had long ago consigned him. This purposeonce effected, new interests would immediately spring up, andlikewise a new purpose; dark, it is true, if not guilty, but offorce enough to engage the full strength of his faculties.

In pursuance of this resolve, he took up his residence in thePuritan town as Roger Chillingworth, without other introductionthan the learning and intelligence of which he possessed morethan a common measure. As his studies, at a previous period ofhis life, had made him extensively acquainted with the medicalscience of the day, it was as a physician that he presentedhimself and as such was cordially received. Skilful men, of themedical and chirurgical profession, were of rare occurrence inthe colony. They seldom, it would appear, partook of thereligious zeal that brought other emigrants across the Atlantic.In their researches into the human frame, it may be that thehigher and more subtle faculties of such men were materialised,and that they lost the spiritual view of existence amid theintricacies of that wondrous mechanism, which seemed to involveart enough to comprise all of life within itself. At all events,the health of the good town of Boston, so far as medicine hadaught to do with it, had hitherto lain in the guardianship of anaged deacon and apothecary, whose piety and godly deportmentwere stronger testimonials in his favour than any that he couldhave produced in the shape of a diploma. The only surgeon wasone who combined the occasional exercise of that noble art withthe daily and habitual flourish of a razor. To such aprofessional body Roger Chillingworth was a brilliantacquisition. He soon manifested his familiarity with theponderous and imposing machinery of antique physic; in whichevery remedy contained a multitude of far-fetched andheterogeneous ingredients, as elaborately compounded as if theproposed result had been the Elixir of Life. In his Indiancaptivity, moreover, he had gained much knowledge of theproperties of native herbs and roots; nor did he conceal fromhis patients that these simple medicines, Nature's boon to theuntutored savage, had quite as large a share of his ownconfidence as the European Pharmacopoeia, which so many learneddoctors had spent centuries in elaborating.

This learned stranger was exemplary as regarded at least theoutward forms of a religious life; and early after his arrival,had chosen for his spiritual guide the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale.The young divine, whose scholar-like renown still lived inOxford, was considered by his more fervent admirers as littleless than a heavenly ordained apostle, destined, should he liveand labour for the ordinary term of life, to do as great deeds,for the now feeble New England Church, as the early Fathers hadachieved for the infancy of the Christian faith. About thisperiod, however, the health of Mr. Dimmesdale had evidentlybegun to fail. By those best acquainted with his habits, thepaleness of the young minister's cheek was accounted for by histoo earnest devotion to study, his scrupulous fulfilment ofparochial duty, and more than all, to the fasts and vigils ofwhich he made a frequent practice, in order to keep thegrossness of this earthly state from clogging and obscuring hisspiritual lamp. Some declared, that if Mr. Dimmesdale werereally going to die, it was cause enough that the world was notworthy to be any longer trodden by his feet. He himself, on theother hand, with characteristic humility, avowed his belief thatif Providence should see fit to remove him, it would be becauseof his own unworthiness to perform its humblest mission here onearth. With all this difference of opinion as to the cause ofhis decline, there could be no question of the fact. His formgrew emaciated; his voice, though still rich and sweet, had acertain melancholy prophecy of decay in it; he was oftenobserved, on any slight alarm or other sudden accident, to puthis hand over his heart with first a flush and then a paleness,indicative of pain.

Such was the young clergyman's condition, and so imminent theprospect that his dawning light would be extinguished, alluntimely, when Roger Chillingworth made his advent to the town.His first entry on the scene, few people could tell whence,dropping down as it were out of the sky or starting from thenether earth, had an aspect of mystery, which was easilyheightened to the miraculous. He was now known to be a man ofskill; it was observed that he gathered herbs and the blossomsof wild-flowers, and dug up roots and plucked off twigs from theforest-trees like one acquainted with hidden virtues in what wasvalueless to common eyes. He was heard to speak of Sir KenelmDigby and other famous men--whose scientific attainments wereesteemed hardly less than supernatural--as having been hiscorrespondents or associates. Why, with such rank in the learnedworld, had he come hither? What, could he, whose sphere was ingreat cities, be seeking in the wilderness? In answer to thisquery, a rumour gained ground--and however absurd, wasentertained by some very sensible people--that Heaven hadwrought an absolute miracle, by transporting an eminent Doctorof Physic from a German university bodily through the air andsetting him down at the door of Mr. Dimmesdale's study!Individuals of wiser faith, indeed, who knew that Heavenpromotes its purposes without aiming at the stage-effect of whatis called miraculous interposition, were inclined to see aprovidential hand in Roger Chillingworth's so opportune arrival.

This idea was countenanced by the strong interest which thephysician ever manifested in the young clergyman; he attachedhimself to him as a parishioner, and sought to win a friendlyregard and confidence from his naturally reserved sensibility.He expressed great alarm at his pastor's state of health, butwas anxious to attempt the cure, and, if early undertaken,seemed not despondent of a favourable result. The elders, thedeacons, the motherly dames, and the young and fair maidens ofMr. Dimmesdale's flock, were alike importunate that he shouldmake trial of the physician's frankly offered skill. Mr.Dimmesdale gently repelled their entreaties.

"I need no medicine," said he.

But how could the young minister say so, when, with everysuccessive Sabbath, his cheek was paler and thinner, and hisvoice more tremulous than before--when it had now become aconstant habit, rather than a casual gesture, to press his handover his heart? Was he weary of his labours? Did he wish to die?These questions were solemnly propounded to Mr. Dimmesdale bythe elder ministers of Boston, and the deacons of his church,who, to use their own phrase, "dealt with him," on the sin ofrejecting the aid which Providence so manifestly held out. Helistened in silence, and finally promised to confer with thephysician.

"Were it God's will," said the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, when, infulfilment of this pledge, he requested old RogerChillingworth's professional advice, "I could be well contentthat my labours, and my sorrows, and my sins, and my pains,should shortly end with me, and what is earthly of them beburied in my grave, and the spiritual go with me to my eternalstate, rather than that you should put your skill to the proofin my behalf."

"Ah," replied Roger Chillingworth, with that quietness, which,whether imposed or natural, marked all his deportment, "it isthus that a young clergyman is apt to speak. Youthful men, nothaving taken a deep root, give up their hold of life so easily!And saintly men, who walk with God on earth, would fain be away,to walk with him on the golden pavements of the New Jerusalem."

"Nay," rejoined the young minister, putting his hand to hisheart, with a flush of pain flitting over his brow, "were Iworthier to walk there, I could be better content to toil here."

"Good men ever interpret themselves too meanly," said thephysician.

In this manner, the mysterious old Roger Chillingworth becamethe medical adviser of the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale. As not onlythe disease interested the physician, but he was strongly movedto look into the character and qualities of the patient, thesetwo men, so different in age, came gradually to spend much timetogether. For the sake of the minister's health, and to enablethe leech to gather plants with healing balm in them, they tooklong walks on the sea-shore, or in the forest; mingling variouswalks with the splash and murmur of the waves, and the solemnwind-anthem among the tree-tops. Often, likewise, one was theguest of the other in his place of study and retirement. Therewas a fascination for the minister in the company of the man ofscience, in whom he recognised an intellectual cultivation of nomoderate depth or scope; together with a range and freedom ofideas, that he would have vainly looked for among the members ofhis own profession. In truth, he was startled, if not shocked,to find this attribute in the physician. Mr. Dimmesdale was atrue priest, a true religionist, with the reverential sentimentlargely developed, and an order of mind that impelled itselfpowerfully along the track of a creed, and wore its passagecontinually deeper with the lapse of time. In no state ofsociety would he have been what is called a man of liberalviews; it would always be essential to his peace to feel thepressure of a faith about him, supporting, while it confined himwithin its iron framework. Not the less, however, though with atremulous enjoyment, did he feel the occasional relief oflooking at the universe through the medium of another kind ofintellect than those with which he habitually held converse. Itwas as if a window were thrown open, admitting a freeratmosphere into the close and stifled study, where his life waswasting itself away, amid lamp-light, or obstructed day-beams,and the musty fragrance, be it sensual or moral, that exhalesfrom books. But the air was too fresh and chill to be longbreathed with comfort. So the minister, and the physician withhim, withdrew again within the limits of what their Churchdefined as orthodox.

Thus Roger Chillingworth scrutinised his patient carefully, bothas he saw him in his ordinary life, keeping an accustomedpathway in the range of thoughts familiar to him, and as heappeared when thrown amidst other moral scenery, the novelty ofwhich might call out something new to the surface of hischaracter. He deemed it essential, it would seem, to know theman, before attempting to do him good. Wherever there is a heartand an intellect, the diseases of the physical frame are tingedwith the peculiarities of these. In Arthur Dimmesdale, thoughtand imagination were so active, and sensibility so intense, thatthe bodily infirmity would be likely to have its groundworkthere. So Roger Chillingworth--the man of skill, the kind andfriendly physician--strove to go deep into his patient's bosom,delving among his principles, prying into his recollections, andprobing everything with a cautious touch, like a treasure-seekerin a dark cavern. Few secrets can escape an investigator, whohas opportunity and licence to undertake such a quest, and skillto follow it up. A man burdened with a secret should especiallyavoid the intimacy of his physician. If the latter possessnative sagacity, and a nameless something more,--let us call itintuition; if he show no intrusive egotism, nor disagreeableprominent characteristics of his own; if he have the power,which must be born with him, to bring his mind into suchaffinity with his patient's, that this last shall unawares havespoken what he imagines himself only to have thought; if suchrevelations be received without tumult, and acknowledged not sooften by an uttered sympathy as by silence, an inarticulatebreath, and here and there a word to indicate that all isunderstood; if to these qualifications of a confidant be joinedthe advantages afforded by his recognised character as aphysician;--then, at some inevitable moment, will the soul ofthe sufferer be dissolved, and flow forth in a dark buttransparent stream, bringing all its mysteries into thedaylight.

Roger Chillingworth possessed all, or most, of the attributesabove enumerated. Nevertheless, time went on; a kind ofintimacy, as we have said, grew up between these two cultivatedminds, which had as wide a field as the whole sphere of humanthought and study to meet upon; they discussed every topic ofethics and religion, of public affairs, and private character;they talked much, on both sides, of matters that seemed personalto themselves; and yet no secret, such as the physician fanciedmust exist there, ever stole out of the minister's consciousnessinto his companion's ear. The latter had his suspicions, indeed,that even the nature of Mr. Dimmesdale's bodily disease hadnever fairly been revealed to him. It was a strange reserve!

After a time, at a hint from Roger Chillingworth, the friends ofMr. Dimmesdale effected an arrangement by which the two werelodged in the same house; so that every ebb and flow of theminister's life-tide might pass under the eye of his anxious andattached physician. There was much joy throughout the town whenthis greatly desirable object was attained. It was held to bethe best possible measure for the young clergyman's welfare;unless, indeed, as often urged by such as felt authorised to doso, he had selected some one of the many blooming damsels,spiritually devoted to him, to become his devoted wife. Thislatter step, however, there was no present prospect that ArthurDimmesdale would be prevailed upon to take; he rejected allsuggestions of the kind, as if priestly celibacy were one of hisarticles of Church discipline. Doomed by his own choice,therefore, as Mr. Dimmesdale so evidently was, to eat hisunsavoury morsel always at another's board, and endure thelife-long chill which must be his lot who seeks to warm himselfonly at another's fireside, it truly seemed that this sagacious,experienced, benevolent old physician, with his concord ofpaternal and reverential love for the young pastor, was the veryman, of all mankind, to be constantly within reach of his voice.

The new abode of the two friends was with a pious widow, of goodsocial rank, who dwelt in a house covering pretty nearly thesite on which the venerable structure of King's Chapel has sincebeen built. It had the graveyard, originally Isaac Johnson'shome-field, on one side, and so was well adapted to call upserious reflections, suited to their respective employments, inboth minister and man of physic. The motherly care of the goodwidow assigned to Mr. Dimmesdale a front apartment, with a sunnyexposure, and heavy window-curtains, to create a noontide shadowwhen desirable. The walls were hung round with tapestry, said tobe from the Gobelin looms, and, at all events, representing theScriptural story of David and Bathsheba, and Nathan the Prophet,in colours still unfaded, but which made the fair woman of thescene almost as grimly picturesque as the woe-denouncing seer.Here the pale clergyman piled up his library, rich withparchment-bound folios of the Fathers, and the lore of Rabbis,and monkish erudition, of which the Protestant divines, evenwhile they vilified and decried that class of writers, were yetconstrained often to avail themselves. On the other side of thehouse, old Roger Chillingworth arranged his study andlaboratory: not such as a modern man of science would reckoneven tolerably complete, but provided with a distillingapparatus and the means of compounding drugs and chemicals,which the practised alchemist knew well how to turn to purpose.With such commodiousness of situation, these two learned personssat themselves down, each in his own domain, yet familiarlypassing from one apartment to the other, and bestowing a mutualand not incurious inspection into one another's business.

And the Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale's best discerning friends, aswe have intimated, very reasonably imagined that the hand ofProvidence had done all this for the purpose--besought in somany public and domestic and secret prayers--of restoring theyoung minister to health. But, it must now be said, anotherportion of the community had latterly begun to take its own viewof the relation betwixt Mr. Dimmesdale and the mysterious oldphysician. When an uninstructed multitude attempts to see withits eyes, it is exceedingly apt to be deceived. When, however,it forms its judgment, as it usually does, on the intuitions ofits great and warm heart, the conclusions thus attained areoften so profound and so unerring as to possess the character oftruth supernaturally revealed. The people, in the case of whichwe speak, could justify its prejudice against RogerChillingworth by no fact or argument worthy of seriousrefutation. There was an aged handicraftsman, it is true, whohad been a citizen of London at the period of Sir ThomasOverbury's murder, now some thirty years agone; he testified tohaving seen the physician, under some other name, which thenarrator of the story had now forgotten, in company with Dr.Forman, the famous old conjurer, who was implicated in theaffair of Overbury. Two or three individuals hinted that the manof skill, during his Indian captivity, had enlarged his medicalattainments by joining in the incantations of the savagepriests, who were universally acknowledged to be powerfulenchanters, often performing seemingly miraculous cures by theirskill in the black art. A large number--and many of these werepersons of such sober sense and practical observation that theiropinions would have been valuable in other matters--affirmedthat Roger Chillingworth's aspect had undergone a remarkablechange while he had dwelt in town, and especially since hisabode with Mr. Dimmesdale. At first, his expression had beencalm, meditative, scholar-like. Now there was something ugly andevil in his face, which they had not previously noticed, andwhich grew still the more obvious to sight the oftener theylooked upon him. According to the vulgar idea, the fire in hislaboratory had been brought from the lower regions, and was fedwith infernal fuel; and so, as might be expected, his visage wasgetting sooty with the smoke.

To sum up the matter, it grew to be a widely diffused opinionthat the Rev. Arthur Dimmesdale, like many other personages ofspecial sanctity, in all ages of the Christian world, washaunted either by Satan himself or Satan's emissary, in theguise of old Roger Chillingworth. This diabolical agent had theDivine permission, for a season, to burrow into the clergyman'sintimacy, and plot against his soul. No sensible man, it wasconfessed, could doubt on which side the victory would turn. Thepeople looked, with an unshaken hope, to see the minister comeforth out of the conflict transfigured with the glory which hewould unquestionably win. Meanwhile, nevertheless, it was sad tothink of the perchance mortal agony through which he muststruggle towards his triumph.

Alas! to judge from the gloom and terror in the depth of thepoor minister's eyes, the battle was a sore one, and the victoryanything but secure.