Before Hester could gather her thoughts and consider what she ought to do with this new and startling information, the sound of military music approached along a nearby street. It signaled the procession of magistrates and citizens on its way toward the meetinghouse. According to a custom established early and observed ever since, the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale would there deliver an Election Sermon.
The front of the procession soon arrived with a slow and stately march. It turned a corner and made its way across the marketplace. The band came first. It contained a variety of instruments, poorly selected and badly played. Yet they achieved their objective, giving a higher and more heroic impression to the scene. Little Pearl clapped her hands at first but then for a moment lost the energy that had kept her in continual motion all morning. She gazed silently, seemingly carried on the waves of sound and as a seabird is carried on the wind. She was brought back to earth by the gleam of the sunshine on the weapons and bright armor of the military company. The soldiers followed the band as an honorary escort for the procession. The company, which still exists today, contained no mercenaries. Its ranks were filled with gentlemen who wished to be soldiers and sought to establish a sort of College of Arms where they might learn the theory and, as far as peaceful exercises could teach, practice of war. The pride each member of the company carried himself with testified to the great value placed on military character at that time. Some of them had served in European wars and could rightly claim the title and stature of a soldier. The entire company, dressed in polished steel with feathers topping their shining helmets, had a brilliant effect that no modern display can hope to equal.
Still, it is the eminent statesmen following immediately after the military escort who deserve a more thoughtful observation. Even outwardly, they showed the mark of majesty that made the soldier's proud stride look cheap, if not absurd. This was an age when talent carried less weight than it does today. The burdensome materials that produce stability and dignity of character were much more important to the people. Our ancestors were more inclined to revere their superiors than we are in this day and age. Reverence is neither earned nor given today as it was then, and therefore it plays a much smaller role in political life. The change may be for good or ill—perhaps a bit of both. But in those bygone days the English settler on those uncultured shores, having left behind the king, noblemen, and all sorts of social hierarchy, still felt the urge to employ his sense of reverence. So he bestowed that reverence upon those whose white hair and wrinkled brow signified age, whose integrity had been tested and passed, who possess solid wisdom and sober experience, whose grave and stately attitude gives the impression of permanence, and generally passes for respectability. The early leaders elected to power by their people were rarely brilliant. They distinguished themselves by a thoughtful seriousness rather than an active intellect. They were strong and self-reliant. In difficult or dangerous times, they stood up for the good of the state like a line of cliffs against a stormy tide. These qualities were well represented in the square faces and large forms of the colonial magistrates taking office on that day. As far as the appearance of natural authority was concerned, these democratically elected leaders would have fit in perfectly at England's House of Lords or the king's Privy Council.
Following the magistrates came the young, distinguished minister expected to give a sermon that day. In that era, clergymen displayed more intellectual ability than politicians. Putting spiritual motivations aside, the ministry offered to an ambitious man many attractive incentives, notably the almost worshipping respect of the community. Even political power was within the grasp of a successful minister.
Those who saw him felt that Mr. Dimmesdale had never walked with such energy as he did on that day. There was no feebleness in his step, as there had been at other times. His body was not stooped, nor did his hand rest ominously upon his heart. And yet, when properly observed, the minister's strength did not seem physical. Perhaps it was spiritual, a gift of the angels. Perhaps he was fortified by the liquor of the mind, distilled over a slow fire of serious thought. Or maybe his sensitive temperament was enlivened by the loud, piercing music that lifted him toward Heaven on its rising wave. Yet he wore a look so distant and removed that it was not clear that Mr. Dimmesdale even heard the music. His body was there, moving forward with an uncharacteristic force. But where was his mind? Deep within itself. His mind busied itself with otherworldly activity as it directed a procession of grand thoughts that would soon be marching out. He saw nothing, heard nothing, and was aware of nothing around him. But his spirit carried his feeble body along, unaware of the burden as it converted the body to spirit like itself. On occasion, men of great intellect who have grown sick can muster up a mighty effort. They throw several days' energies into that effort and then are left lifeless for several days after.
