A portion of his facts, by-the-by, did me good service in the preparation of the article entitled “Main street,” included in the present volume.  The remainder may perhaps be applied to purposes equally valuable hereafter, or not impossibly may be worked up, so far as they go, into a regular history of Salem, should my veneration for the natal soil ever impel me to so pious a task.  Meanwhile, they shall be at the command of any gentleman, inclined and competent, to take the unprofitable labour off my hands.  As a final disposition I contemplate depositing them with the Essex Historical Society.  But the object that most drew my attention to the mysterious package was a certain affair of fine red cloth, much worn and faded, There were traces about it of gold embroidery, which, however, was greatly frayed and defaced, so that none, or very little, of the glitter was left.  It had been wrought, as was easy to perceive, with wonderful skill of needlework; and the stitch (as I am assured by ladies conversant with such mysteries) gives evidence of a now forgotten art, not to be discovered even by the process of picking out the threads.  This rag of scarlet cloth—­for time, and wear, and a sacrilegious moth had reduced it to little other than a rag—­on careful examination, assumed the shape of a letter.

It was the capital letter A. By an accurate measurement, each limb proved to be precisely three inches and a quarter in length.  It had been intended, there could be no doubt, as an ornamental article of dress; but how it was to be worn, or what rank, honour, and dignity, in by-past times, were signified by it, was a riddle which (so evanescent are the fashions of the world in these particulars) I saw little hope of solving.  And yet it strangely interested me.  My eyes fastened themselves upon the old scarlet letter, and would not be turned aside.  Certainly there was some deep meaning in it most worthy of interpretation, and which, as it were, streamed forth from the mystic symbol, subtly communicating itself to my sensibilities, but evading the analysis of my mind.

When thus perplexed—­and cogitating, among other hypotheses, whether the letter might not have been one of those decorations which the white men used to contrive in order to take the eyes of Indians—­I happened to place it on my breast.  It seemed to me—­the reader may smile, but must not doubt my word—­it seemed to me, then, that I experienced a sensation not altogether physical, yet almost so, as of burning heat, and as if the letter were not of red cloth, but red-hot iron.  I shuddered, and involuntarily let it fall upon the floor.