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diff --git a/9236-0.txt b/9236-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..230ee90 --- /dev/null +++ b/9236-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1415 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Main Street, by Nathaniel Hawthorne + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Main Street + +Author: Nathaniel Hawthorne + +Release Date: September 18, 2003 [eBook #9236] +[Most recently updated: May 18, 2022] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: David Widger + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAIN STREET *** + + + + +Main Street + +by Nathaniel Hawthorne + + + + +A respectable-looking individual makes his bow and addresses the +public. In my daily walks along the principal street of my native town, +it has often occurred to me, that, if its growth from infancy upward, +and the vicissitude of characteristic scenes that have passed along +this thoroughfare during the more than two centuries of its existence, +could be presented to the eye in a shifting panorama, it would be an +exceedingly effective method of illustrating the march of time. Acting +on this idea, I have contrived a certain pictorial exhibition, somewhat +in the nature of a puppet-show, by means of which I propose to call up +the multiform and many-colored Past before the spectator, and show him +the ghosts of his forefathers, amid a succession of historic incidents, +with no greater trouble than the turning of a crank. Be pleased, +therefore, my indulgent patrons, to walk into the show-room, and take +your seats before yonder mysterious curtain. The little wheels and +springs of my machinery have been well oiled; a multitude of puppets +are dressed in character, representing all varieties of fashion, from +the Puritan cloak and jerkin to the latest Oak Hall coat; the lamps are +trimmed, and shall brighten into noontide sunshine, or fade away in +moonlight, or muffle their brilliancy in a November cloud, as the +nature of the scene may require; and, in short, the exhibition is just +ready to commence. Unless something should go wrong,—as, for instance, +the misplacing of a picture, whereby the people and events of one +century might be thrust into the middle of another; or the breaking of +a wire, which would bring the course of time to a sudden +period,—barring, I say, the casualties to which such a complicated +piece of mechanism is liable,—I flatter myself, ladies and +gentlemen,—that the performance will elicit your generous approbation. + +Ting-a-ting-ting! goes the bell; the curtain rises; and we behold—not, +indeed, the Main Street—but the track of leaf-strewn forest-land over +which its dusty pavement is hereafter to extend. + +You perceive, at a glance, that this is the ancient and primitive +wood,—the ever-youthful and venerably old,—verdant with new twigs, yet +hoary, as it were, with the snowfall of innumerable years, that have +accumulated upon its intermingled branches. The white man’s axe has +never smitten a single tree; his footstep has never crumpled a single +one of the withered leaves, which all the autumns since the flood have +been harvesting beneath. Yet, see! along through the vista of impending +boughs, there is already a faintly traced path, running nearly east and +west, as if a prophecy or foreboding of the future street had stolen +into the heart of the solemn old wood. Onward goes this hardly +perceptible track, now ascending over a natural swell of land, now +subsiding gently into a hollow; traversed here by a little streamlet, +which glitters like a snake through the gleam of sunshine, and quickly +hides itself among the underbrush, in its quest for the neighboring +cove; and impeded there by the massy corpse of a giant of the forest, +which had lived out its incalculable term of life, and been overthrown +by mere old age, and lies buried in the new vegetation that is born of +its decay. What footsteps can have worn this half-seen path? Hark! Do +we not hear them now rustling softly over the leaves? We discern an +Indian woman,—a majestic and queenly woman, or else her spectral image +does not represent her truly,—for this is the great Squaw Sachem, whose +rule, with that of her sons, extends from Mystic to Agawam. That red +chief, who stalks by her side, is Wappacowet, her second husband, the +priest and magician, whose incantations shall hereafter affright the +pale-faced settlers with grisly phantoms, dancing and shrieking in the +woods, at midnight. But greater would be the affright of the Indian +necromancer, if, mirrored in the pool of water at his feet, he could +catch a prophetic glimpse of the noonday marvels which the white man is +destined to achieve; if he could see, as in a dream, the stone front of +the stately hall, which will cast its shadow over this very spot; if he +could be aware that the future edifice will contain a noble Museum, +where, among countless curiosities of earth and sea, a few Indian +arrow-heads shall be treasured up as memorials of a vanished race! + +No such forebodings disturb the Squaw Sachem and Wappacowet. They pass +on, beneath the tangled shade, holding high talk on matters of state +and religion, and imagine, doubtless, that their own system of affairs +will endure forever. Meanwhile, how full of its own proper life is the +scene that lies around them! The gray squirrel runs up the trees, and +rustles among the upper branches. Was not that the leap of a deer? And +there is the whirr of a partridge! Methinks, too, I catch the cruel and +stealthy eye of a wolf, as he draws back into yonder impervious density +of underbrush. So, there, amid the murmur of boughs, go the Indian +queen and the Indian priest; while the gloom of the broad wilderness +impends over them, and its sombre mystery invests them as with +something preternatural; and only momentary streaks of quivering +sunlight, once in a great while, find their way down, and glimmer among +the feathers in their dusky hair. Can it be that the thronged street of +a city will ever pass into this twilight solitude,—over those soft +heaps of the decaying tree-trunks, and through the swampy places, green +with water-moss, and penetrate that hopeless entanglement of great +trees, which have been uprooted and tossed together by a whirlwind? It +has been a wilderness from the creation. Must it not be a wilderness +forever? + +Here an acidulous-looking gentleman in blue glasses, with bows of +Berlin steel, who has taken a seat at the extremity of the front row, +begins, at this early stage of the exhibition, to criticise. + +“The whole affair is a manifest catchpenny!” observes he, scarcely +under his breath. “The trees look more like weeds in a garden than a +primitive forest; the Squaw Sachem and Wappacowet are stiff in their +pasteboard joints; and the squirrels, the deer, and the wolf move with +all the grace of a child’s wooden monkey, sliding up and down a stick.” + +“I am obliged to you, sir, for the candor of your remarks,” replies the +showman, with a bow. “Perhaps they are just. Human art has its limits, +and we must now and then ask a little aid from the spectator’s +imagination.” + +“You will get no such aid from mine,” responds the critic. “I make it a +point to see things precisely as they are. But come! go ahead! the +stage is waiting!” + +The showman proceeds. + +Casting our eyes again over the scene, we perceive that strangers have +found their way into the solitary place. In more than one spot, among +the trees, an upheaved axe is glittering in the sunshine. Roger Conant, +the first settler in Naumkeag, has built his dwelling, months ago, on +the border of the forest-path; and at this moment he comes eastward +through the vista of woods, with his gun over his shoulder, bringing +home the choice portions of a deer. His stalwart figure, clad in a +leathern jerkin and breeches of the same, strides sturdily onward, with +such an air of physical force and energy that we might almost expect +the very trees to stand aside, and give him room to pass. And so, +indeed, they must; for, humble as is his name in history, Roger Conant +still is of that class of men who do not merely find, but make, their +place in the system of human affairs; a man of thoughtful strength, he +has planted the germ of a city. There stands his habitation, showing in +its rough architecture some features of the Indian wigwam, and some of +the log-cabin, and somewhat, too, of the straw-thatched cottage in Old +England, where this good yeoman had his birth and breeding. The +dwelling is surrounded by a cleared space of a few acres, where Indian +corn grows thrivingly among the stumps of the trees; while the dark +forest hems it in, and scenes to gaze silently and solemnly, as if +wondering at the breadth of sunshine which the white man spreads around +him. An Indian, half hidden in the dusky shade, is gazing and wondering +too. + +Within the door of the cottage you discern the wife, with her ruddy +English cheek. She is singing, doubtless, a psalm tune, at her +household work; or, perhaps she sighs at the remembrance of the +cheerful gossip, and all the merry social life, of her native village +beyond the vast and melancholy sea. Yet the next moment she laughs, +with sympathetic glee, at the sports of her little tribe of children; +and soon turns round, with the home-look in her face, as her husband’s +foot is heard approaching the rough-hewn threshold. How sweet must it +be for those who have an Eden in their hearts, like Roger Conant and +his wife, to find a new world to project it into, as they have, instead +of dwelling among old haunts of men, where so many household fires have +been kindled and burnt out, that the very glow of happiness has +something dreary in it! Not that this pair are alone in their wild +Eden, for here comes Goodwife Massey, the young spouse of Jeffrey +Massey, from her home hard by, with an infant at her breast. Dame +Conant has another of like age; and it shall hereafter be one of the +disputed points of history which of these two babies was the first +town-born child. + +But see! Roger Conant has other neighbors within view. Peter Palfrey +likewise has built himself a house, and so has Balch, and Norman, and +Woodbury. Their dwellings, indeed,—such is the ingenious contrivance of +this piece of pictorial mechanism,—seem to have arisen, at various +points of the scene, even while we have been looking at it. The +forest-track, trodden more and more by the hobnailed shoes of these +sturdy and ponderous Englishmen, has now a distinctness which it never +could have acquired from the light tread of a hundred times as many +Indian moccasins. It will be a street, anon! As we observe it now, it +goes onward from one clearing to another, here plunging into a shadowy +strip of woods, there open to the sunshine, but everywhere showing a +decided line, along which human interests have begun to hold their +career. Over yonder swampy spot, two trees have been felled, and laid +side by side to make a causeway. In another place, the axe has cleared +away a confused intricacy of fallen trees and clustered boughs, which +had been tossed together by a hurricane. So now the little children, +just beginning to run alone, may trip along the path, and not often +stumble over an impediment, unless they stray from it to gather +wood-berries beneath the trees. And, besides the feet of grown people +and children, there are the cloven hoofs of a small herd of cows, who +seek their subsistence from the native grasses, and help to deepen the +track of the future thoroughfare. Goats also browse along it, and +nibble at the twigs that thrust themselves across the way. Not seldom, +in its more secluded portions, where the black shadow of the forest +strives to hide the trace of human-footsteps, stalks a gaunt wolf, on +the watch for a kid or a young calf; or fixes his hungry gaze on the +group of children gathering berries, and can hardly forbear to rush +upon them. And the Indians, coming from their distant wigwams to view +the white man’s settlement, marvel at the deep track which he makes, +and perhaps are saddened by a flitting presentiment that this heavy +tread will find its way over all the land; and that the wild-woods, the +wild wolf, and the wild Indian will alike be trampled beneath it. Even +so shall it be. The pavements of the Main Street must be laid over the +red man’s grave. + +Behold! here is a spectacle which should be ushered in by the peal of +trumpets, if Naumkeag had ever yet heard that cheery music, and by the +roar of cannon, echoing among the woods. A procession,—for, by its +dignity, as marking an epoch in the history of the street, it deserves +that name,—a procession advances along the pathway. The good ship +Abigail has arrived from England, bringing wares and merchandise, for +the comfort of the inhabitants, and traffic with the Indians; bringing +passengers too, and, more important than all, a governor for the new +settlement. Roger Conant and Peter Palfrey, with their companions, have +been to the shore to welcome him; and now, with such honor and triumph +as their rude way of life permits, are escorting the sea-flushed +voyagers to their habitations. At the point where Endicott enters upon +the scene, two venerable trees unite their branches high above his +head; thus forming a triumphal arch of living verdure, beneath which he +pauses, with his wife leaning on his arm, to catch the first impression +of their new-found home. The old settlers gaze not less earnestly at +him, than he at the hoary woods and the rough surface of the clearings. +They like his bearded face, under the shadow of the broad-brimmed and +steeple-crowned Puritan hat;—a visage resolute, grave, and thoughtful, +yet apt to kindle with that glow of a cheerful spirit by which men of +strong character are enabled to go joyfully on their proper tasks. His +form, too, as you see it, in a doublet and hose of sad-colored cloth, +is of a manly make, fit for toil and hardship, and fit to wield the +heavy sword that hangs from his leathern belt. His aspect is a better +warrant for the ruler’s office than the parchment commission which he +bears, however fortified it may be with the broad seal of the London +council. Peter Palfrey nods to Roger Conant. “The worshipful Court of +Assistants have done wisely,” say they between themselves. “They have +chosen for our governor a man out of a thousand.” Then they toss up +their hats,—they, and all the uncouth figures of their company, most of +whom are clad in skins, inasmuch as their old kersey and linsey-woolsey +garments have been torn and tattered by many a long month’s wear,—they +all toss up their hats, and salute their new governor and captain with +a hearty English shout of welcome. We seem to hear it with our own +ears, so perfectly is the action represented in this life-like, this +almost magic picture! + +But have you observed the lady who leans upon the arm of Endicott?—-a +rose of beauty from an English garden, now to be transplanted to a +fresher soil. It may be that, long years—centuries indeed—after this +fair flower shall have decayed, other flowers of the same race will +appear in the same soil, and gladden other generations with hereditary +beauty. Does not the vision haunt us yet? Has not Nature kept the mould +unbroken, deeming it a pity that the idea should vanish from mortal +sight forever, after only once assuming earthly substance? Do we not +recognize, in that fair woman’s face, a model of features which still +beam, at happy moments, on what was then the woodland pathway, but has +long since grown into a busy street? + +“This is too ridiculous!—positively insufferable!” mutters the same +critic who had before expressed his disapprobation. “Here is a +pasteboard figure, such as a child would cut out of a card, with a pair +of very dull scissors; and the fellow modestly requests us to see in it +the prototype of hereditary beauty!” + +“But, sir, you have not the proper point of view,” remarks the showman. +“You sit altogether too near to get the best effect of my pictorial +exhibition. Pray, oblige me by removing to this other bench, and I +venture to assure you the proper light and shadow will transform the +spectacle into quite another thing.” + +“Pshaw!” replies the critic; “I want no other light and shade. I have +already told you that it is my business to see things just as they +are.” + +“I would suggest to the author of this ingenious exhibition,” observes +a gentlemanly person, who has shown signs of being much interested,—“I +would suggest that Anna Gower, the first wife of Governor Endicott, and +who came with him from England, left no posterity; and that, +consequently, we cannot be indebted to that honorable lady for any +specimens of feminine loveliness now extant among us.” + +Having nothing to allege against this genealogical objection, the +showman points again to the scene. + +During this little interruption, you perceive that the Anglo-Saxon +energy—as the phrase now goes—has been at work in the spectacle before +us. So many chimneys now send up their smoke, that it begins to have +the aspect of a village street; although everything is so inartificial +and inceptive, that it seems as if one returning wave of the wild +nature might overwhelm it all. But the one edifice which gives the +pledge of permanence to this bold enterprise is seen at the central +point of the picture. There stands the meeting-house, a small +structure, low-roofed, without a spire, and built of rough timber, +newly hewn, with the sap still in the logs, and here and there a strip +of bark adhering to them. A meaner temple was never consecrated to the +worship of the Deity. With the alternative of kneeling beneath the +awful vault of the firmament, it is strange that men should creep into +this pent-up nook, and expect God’s presence there. Such, at least, one +would imagine, might be the feeling of these forest-settlers, +accustomed, as they had been, to stand under the dim arches of vast +cathedrals, and to offer up their hereditary worship in the old +ivy-covered churches of rural England, around which lay the bones of +many generations of their forefathers. How could they dispense with the +carved altar-work?—how, with the pictured windows, where the light of +common day was hallowed by being transmitted through the glorified +figures of saints?—how, with the lofty roof, imbued, as it must have +been, with the prayers that had gone upward for centuries?—how, with +the rich peal of the solemn organ, rolling along the aisles, pervading +the whole church, and sweeping the soul away on a flood of audible +religion? They needed nothing of all this. Their house of worship, like +their ceremonial, was naked, simple, and severe. But the zeal of a +recovered faith burned like a lamp within their hearts, enriching +everything around them with its radiance; making of these new walls, +and this narrow compass, its own cathedral; and being, in itself, that +spiritual mystery and experience, of which sacred architecture, +pictured windows, and the organ’s grand solemnity are remote and +imperfect symbols. All was well, so long as their lamps were freshly +kindled at heavenly flame. After a while, however, whether in their +time or their children’s, these lamps began to burn more dimly, or with +a less genuine lustre; and then it might be seen how hard, cold, and +confined was their system,—how like an iron cage was that which they +called Liberty. + +Too much of this. Look again at the picture, and observe how the +aforesaid Anglo-Saxon energy is now trampling along the street, and +raising a positive cloud of dust beneath its sturdy footsteps. For +there the carpenters are building a new house, the frame of which was +hewn and fitted in England, of English oak, and sent hither on +shipboard; and here a blacksmith makes huge slang and clatter on his +anvil, shaping out tools and weapons; and yonder a wheelwright, who +boasts himself a London workman, regularly bred to his handicraft, is +fashioning a set of wagon-wheels, the track of which shall soon be +visible. The wild forest is shrinking back; the street has lost the +aromatic odor of the pine-trees, and of the sweet-fern that grew +beneath them. The tender and modest wild-flowers, those gentle children +of savage nature that grew pale beneath the ever-brooding shade, have +shrank away and disappeared, like stars that vanish in the breadth of +light. Gardens are fenced in, and display pumpkin-beds and rows of +cabbages and beans; and, though the governor and the minister both view +them with a disapproving eye, plants of broad-leaved tobacco, which the +cultivators are enjoined to use privily, or not at all. No wolf, for a +year past, has been heard to bark, or known to range among the +dwellings, except that single one, whose grisly head, with a plash of +blood beneath it, is now affixed to the portal of the meeting-house. +The partridge has ceased to run across the too-frequented path. Of all +the wild life that used to throng here, only the Indians still come +into the settlement, bringing the skins of beaver and otter, bear and +elk, which they sell to Endicott for the wares of England. And there is +little John Massey, the son of Jeffrey Massey and first-born of +Naumkeag, playing beside his father’s threshold, a child of six or +seven years old. Which is the better-grown infant,—the town or the boy? + +The red men have become aware that the street is no longer free to +them, save by the sufferance and permission of the settlers. Often, to +impress them with an awe of English power, there is a muster and +training of the town-forces, and a stately march of the mail-clad band, +like this which we now see advancing up the street. There they come, +fifty of them, or more; all with their iron breastplates and steel caps +well burnished, and glimmering bravely against the sun; their ponderous +muskets on their shoulders, their bandaliers about their waists, their +lighted matches in their hands, and the drum and fife playing cheerily +before them. See! do they not step like martial men? Do they not +manœuvre like soldiers who have seen stricken fields? And well they +may; for this band is composed of precisely such materials as those +with which Cromwell is preparing to beat down the strength of a +kingdom; and his famous regiment of Ironsides might be recruited from +just such men. In everything, at this period, New England was the +essential spirit and flower of that which was about to become uppermost +in the mother-country. Many a bold and wise man lost the fame which +would have accrued to him in English history, by crossing the Atlantic +with our forefathers. Many a valiant captain, who might have been +foremost at Marston Moor or Naseby, exhausted his martial ardor in the +command of a log-built fortress, like that which you observe on the +gently rising ground at the right of the pathway,—its banner fluttering +in the breeze, and the culverins and sakers showing their deadly +muzzles over the rampart. + +A multitude of people were now thronging to New England: some, because +the ancient and ponderous framework of Church and State threatened to +crumble down upon their heads; others, because they despaired of such a +downfall. Among those who came to Naumkeag were men of history and +legend, whose feet leave a track of brightness along any pathway which +they have trodden. You shall behold their life-like images—their +spectres, if you choose so to call them—passing, encountering with a +familiar nod, stopping to converse together, praying, bearing weapons, +laboring or resting from their labors, in the Main Street. Here, now, +comes Hugh Peters, an earnest, restless man, walking swiftly, as being +impelled by that fiery activity of nature which shall hereafter thrust +him into the conflict of dangerous affairs, make him the chaplain and +counsellor of Cromwell, and finally bring him to a bloody end. He +pauses, by the meetinghouse, to exchange a greeting with Roger +Williams, whose face indicates, methinks, a gentler spirit, kinder and +more expansive, than that of Peters; yet not less active for what he +discerns to be the will of God, or the welfare of mankind. And look! +here is a guest for Endicott, coming forth out of the forest, through +which he has been journeying from Boston, and which, with its rude +branches, has caught hold of his attire, and has wet his feet with its +swamps and streams. Still there is something in his mild and venerable, +though not aged presence—a propriety, an equilibrium, in Governor +Winthrop’s nature—that causes the disarray of his costume to be +unnoticed, and gives us the same impression as if he were clad in such +rave and rich attire as we may suppose him to have worn in the Council +Chamber of the colony. Is not this characteristic wonderfully +perceptible in our spectral representative of his person? But what +dignitary is this crossing from the other side to greet the governor? A +stately personage, in a dark velvet cloak, with a hoary beard, and a +gold chain across his breast; he has the authoritative port of one who +has filled the highest civic station in the first of cities. Of all men +in the world, we should least expect to meet the Lord Mayor of +London—as Sir Richard Saltonstall has been, once and again—in a +forest-bordered settlement of the western wilderness. + +Farther down the street, we see Emanuel Downing, a grave and worthy +citizen, with his son George, a stripling who has a career before him; +his shrewd and quick capacity and pliant conscience shall not only +exalt him high, but secure him from a downfall. Here is another figure, +on whose characteristic make and expressive action I will stake the +credit of my pictorial puppet-show. + +Have you not already detected a quaint, sly humor in that face,—an +eccentricity in the manner,—a certain indescribable waywardness,—all +the marks, in short, of an original man, unmistakably impressed, yet +kept down by a sense of clerical restraint? That is Nathaniel Ward, the +minister of Ipswich, but better remembered as the simple cobbler of +Agawam. He hammered his sole so faithfully, and stitched his +upper-leather so well, that the shoe is hardly yet worn out, though +thrown aside for some two centuries past. And next, among these +Puritans and Roundheads, we observe the very model of a Cavalier, with +the curling lovelock, the fantastically trimmed beard, the embroidery, +the ornamented rapier, the gilded dagger, and all other foppishnesses +that distinguished the wild gallants who rode headlong to their +overthrow in the cause of King Charles. This is Morton of Merry Mount, +who has come hither to hold a council with Endicott, but will shortly +be his prisoner. Yonder pale, decaying figure of a white-robed woman, +who glides slowly along the street, is the Lady Arabella, looking for +her own grave in the virgin soil. That other female form, who seems to +be talking—we might almost say preaching or expounding—in the centre of +a group of profoundly attentive auditors, is Ann Hutchinson. And here +comes Vane— + +“But, my dear sir,” interrupts the same gentleman who before questioned +the showman’s genealogical accuracy, “allow me to observe that these +historical personages could not possibly have met together in the Main +Street. They might, and probably did, all visit our old town, at one +time or another, but not simultaneously; and you have fallen into +anachronisms that I positively shudder to think of!” + +“The fellow,” adds the scarcely civil critic, “has learned a bead-roll +of historic names, whom he lugs into his pictorial puppet-show, as he +calls it, helter-skelter, without caring whether they were +contemporaries or not,—and sets them all by the ears together. But was +there ever such a fund of impudence? To hear his running commentary, +you would suppose that these miserable slips of painted pasteboard, +with hardly the remotest outlines of the human figure, had all the +character and expression of Michael Angelo’s pictures. Well! go on, +sir!” + +“Sir, you break the illusion of the scene,” mildly remonstrates the +showman. + +“Illusion! What illusion?” rejoins the critic, with a contemptuous +snort. “On the word of a gentleman, I see nothing illusive in the +wretchedly bedaubed sheet of canvas that forms your background, or in +these pasteboard slips that hitch and jerk along the front. The only +illusion, permit me to say, is in the puppet-showman’s tongue,—and that +but a wretched one, into the bargain!” + +“We public men,” replies the showman, meekly, “must lay our account, +sometimes, to meet an uncandid severity of criticism. But—merely for +your own pleasure, sir—let me entreat you to take another point of +view. Sit farther back, by that young lady, in whose face I have +watched the reflection of every changing scene; only oblige me by +sitting there; and, take my word for it, the slips of pasteboard shall +assume spiritual life, and the bedaubed canvas become an airy and +changeable reflex of what it purports to represent.” + +“I know better,” retorts the critic, settling himself in his seat, with +sullen but self-complacent immovableness. “And, as for my own pleasure, +I shall best consult it by remaining precisely where I am.” + +The showman bows, and waves his hand; and, at the signal, as if time +and vicissitude had been awaiting his permission to move onward, the +mimic street becomes alive again. + +Years have rolled over our scene, and converted the forest-track into a +dusty thoroughfare, which, being intersected with lanes and +cross-paths, may fairly be designated as the Main Street. On the +ground-sites of many of the log-built sheds, into which the first +settlers crept for shelter, houses of quaint architecture have now +risen. These later edifices are built, as you see, in one generally +accordant style, though with such subordinate variety as keeps the +beholder’s curiosity excited, and causes each structure, like its +owner’s character, to produce its own peculiar impression. Most of them +have a huge chimney in the centre, with flues so vast that it must have +been easy for the witches to fly out of them as they were wont to do, +when bound on an aerial visit to the Black Man in the forest. Around +this great chimney the wooden house clusters itself, in a whole +community of gable-ends, each ascending into its own separate peak; the +second story, with its lattice-windows, projecting over the first; and +the door, which is perhaps arched, provided on the outside with an iron +hammer, wherewith the visitor’s hand may give a thundering rat-a-tat. + +The timber framework of these houses, as compared with those of recent +date, is like the skeleton of an old giant, beside the frail bones of a +modern man of fashion. Many of them, by the vast strength and soundness +of their oaken substance, have been preserved through a length of time +which would have tried the stability of brick and stone; so that, in +all the progressive decay and continual reconstruction of the street, +to down our own days, we shall still behold these old edifices +occupying their long-accustomed sites. For instance, on the upper +corner of that green lane which shall hereafter be North Street, we see +the Curwen House, newly built, with the carpenters still at work on the +roof nailing down the last sheaf of shingles. On the lower corner +stands another dwelling,—destined, at some period of its existence, to +be the abode of an unsuccessful alchemist,—which shall likewise survive +to our own generation, and perhaps long outlive it. Thus, through the +medium of these patriarchal edifices, we have now established a sort of +kindred and hereditary acquaintance with the Main Street.breakforth + +Great as is the transformation produced by a short term of years, each +single day creeps through the Puritan settlement sluggishly enough. It +shall pass before your eyes, condensed into the space of a few moments. +The gray light of early morning is slowly diffusing itself over the +scene; and the bellman, whose office it is to cry the hour at the +street-corners, rings the last peal upon his hand bell, and goes +wearily homewards, with the owls, the bats, and other creatures of the +night. Lattices are thrust back on their hinges, as if the town were +opening its eyes, in the summer morning. Forth stumbles the still +drowsy cowherd, with his horn; putting which to his lips, it emits a +bellowing bray, impossible to be represented in the picture, but which +reaches the pricked-up ears of every cow in the settlement, and tells +her that the dewy pasture-hour is come. House after house awakes, and +sends the smoke up curling from its chimney, like frosty breath from +living nostrils; and as those white wreaths of smoke, though +impregnated with earthy admixtures, climb skyward, so, from each +dwelling, does the morning worship—its spiritual essence, bearing up +its human imperfection—find its way to the heavenly Father’s throne. + +The breakfast-hour being passed, the inhabitants do not, as usual, go +to their fields or workshops, but remain within doors; or perhaps walk +the street, with a grave sobriety, yet a disengaged and unburdened +aspect, that belongs neither to a holiday nor a Sabbath. And, indeed, +this passing day is neither, nor is it a common week-day, although +partaking of all the three. It is the Thursday Lecture; an institution +which New England has long ago relinquished, and almost forgotten, yet +which it would have been better to retain, as bearing relations to both +the spiritual and ordinary life, and bringing each acquainted with the +other. The tokens of its observance, however, which here meet our eyes, +are of rather a questionable cast. It is, in one sense, a day of public +shame; the day on which transgressors, who have made themselves liable +to the minor severities of the Puritan law receive their reward of +ignominy. At this very moment, this constable has bound an idle fellow +to the whipping-post, and is giving him his deserts with a cat-o’-nine +tails. Ever since sunrise, Daniel Fairfield has been standing on the +steps of the meeting-house, with a halter about his neck, which he is +condemned to wear visibly throughout his lifetime; Dorothy Talby is +chained to a post at the corner of Prison Lane, with the hot sun +blazing on her matronly face, and all for no other offence than lifting +her hand against her husband; while, through the bars of that great +wooden cage, in the centre of the scene, we discern either a human +being or a wild beast, or both in one, whom this public infamy causes +to roar, and gnash his teeth, and shake the strong oaken bars, as if he +would break forth, and tear in pieces the little children who have been +peeping at him. Such are the profitable sights that serve the good +people to while away the earlier part of lecture-day. Betimes in the +forenoon, a traveller—the first traveller that has come hitherward this +morning—rides slowly into the street on his patient steed. He seems a +clergyman; and, as he draws near, we recognize the minister of Lynn, +who was pre-engaged to lecture here, and has been revolving his +discourse, as he rode through the hoary wilderness. Behold, now, the +whole town thronging into the meeting-house, mostly with such sombre +visages that the sunshine becomes little better than a shadow when it +falls upon them. There go the Thirteen Men, grim rulers of a grim +community! There goes John Massey, the first town-born child, now a +youth of twenty, whose eye wanders with peculiar interest towards that +buxom damsel who comes up the steps at the same instant. There hobbles +Goody Foster, a sour and bitter old beldam, looking as if she went to +curse, and not to pray, and whom many of her neighbors suspect of +taking an occasional airing on a broomstick. There, too, slinking +shamefacedly in, you observe that same poor do-nothing and +good-for-nothing whom we saw castigated just now at the whipping-post. +Last of all, there goes the tithing-man, lugging in a couple of small +boys, whom he has caught at play beneath God’s blessed sunshine, in a +back lane. What native of Naumkeag, whose recollections go back more +than thirty years, does not still shudder at that dark ogre of his +infancy, who perhaps had long ceased to have an actual existence, but +still lived in his childish belief, in a horrible idea, and in the +nurse’s threat, as the Tidy Man! + +It will be hardly worth our while to wait two, or it may be three, +turnings of the hour-glass, for the conclusion of the lecture. +Therefore, by my control over light and darkness, I cause the dusk, and +then the starless night, to brood over the street; and summon forth +again the bellman, with his lantern casting a gleam about his +footsteps, to pace wearily from corner to corner, and shout drowsily +the hour to drowsy or dreaming ears. Happy are we, if for nothing else, +yet because we did not live in those days. In truth, when the first +novelty and stir of spirit had subsided,—when the new settlement, +between the forest-border and the sea, had become actually a little +town,—its daily life must have trudged onward with hardly anything to +diversify and enliven it, while also its rigidity could not fail to +cause miserable distortions of the moral nature. Such a life was +sinister to the intellect, and sinister to the heart; especially when +one generation had bequeathed its religious gloom, and the counterfeit +of its religious ardor, to the next; for these characteristics, as was +inevitable, assumed the form both of hypocrisy and exaggeration, by +being inherited from the example and precept of other human beings, and +not from an original and spiritual source. The sons and grandchildren +of the first settlers were a race of lower and narrower souls than +their progenitors had been. The latter were stern, severe, intolerant, +but not superstitious, not even fanatical; and endowed, if any men of +that age were, with a far-seeing worldly sagacity. But it was +impossible for the succeeding race to grow up, in heaven’s freedom, +beneath the discipline which their gloomy energy of character had +established; nor, it may be, have we even yet thrown off all the +unfavorable influences which, among many good ones, were bequeathed to +us by our Puritan forefathers. Let us thank God for having given us +such ancestors; and let each successive generation thank him, not less +fervently, for being one step further from them in the march of ages. + +“What is all this?” cries the critic. “A sermon? If so, it is not in +the bill.” + +“Very true,” replies the showman; “and I ask pardon of the audience.” + +Look now at the street, and observe a strange people entering it. Their +garments are torn and disordered, their faces haggard, their figures +emaciated; for they have made their way hither through pathless +deserts, suffering hunger and hardship, with no other shelter thin a +hollow tree, the lair of a wild beast, or an Indian wigwam. Nor, in the +most inhospitable and dangerous of such lodging-places, was there half +the peril that awaits them in this thoroughfare of Christian men, with +those secure dwellings and warm hearths on either side of it, and +yonder meeting-house as the central object of the scene. These +wanderers have received from Heaven a gift that, in all epochs of the +world, has brought with it the penalties of mortal suffering and +persecution, scorn, enmity, and death itself;—a gift that, thus +terrible to its possessors, has ever been most hateful to all other +men, since its very existence seems to threaten the overthrow of +whatever else the toilsome ages have built up;—the gift of a new idea. +You can discern it in them, illuminating their faces—their whole +persons, indeed, however earthly and cloddish—with a light that +inevitably shines through, and makes the startled community aware that +these men are not as they themselves are,—not brethren nor neighbors of +their thought. Forthwith, it is as if an earthquake rumbled through the +town, making its vibrations felt at every hearthstone, and especially +causing the spire of the meeting-house to totter. The Quakers have +come. We are in peril! See! they trample upon our wise and +well-established laws in the person of our chief magistrate; for +Governor Endicott is passing, now an aged man, and dignified with long +habits of authority,—and not one of the irreverent vagabonds has moved +his hat. Did you note the ominous frown of the white-bearded Puritan +governor, as he turned himself about, and, in his anger, half uplifted +the staff that has become a needful support to his old age? Here comes +old Mr. Norris, our venerable minister. Will they doff their hats, and +pay reverence to him? No: their hats stick fast to their ungracious +heads, as if they grew there; and—impious varlets that they are, and +worse than the heathen Indians!—they eye our reverend pastor with a +peculiar scorn, distrust, unbelief, and utter denial of his sanctified +pretensions, of which he himself immediately becomes conscious; the +more bitterly conscious, as he never knew nor dreamed of the like +before. + +But look yonder! Can we believe our eyes? A Quaker woman, clad in +sackcloth, and with ashes on her head, has mounted the steps of the +meeting-house. She addresses the people in a wild, shrill voice,—wild +and shrill it must be to suit such a figure,—which makes them tremble +and turn pale, although they crowd open-mouthed to hear her. She is +bold against established authority; she denounces the priest and his +steeple-house. Many of her hearers are appalled; some weep; and others +listen with a rapt attention, as if a living truth had now, for the +first time, forced its way through the crust of habit, reached their +hearts, and awakened them to life. This matter must be looked to; else +we have brought our faith across the seas with us in vain; and it had +been better that the old forest were still standing here, waving its +tangled boughs and murmuring to the sky out of its desolate recesses, +instead of this goodly street, if such blasphemies be spoken in it. + +So thought the old Puritans. What was their mode of action may be +partly judged from the spectacles which now pass before your eyes. +Joshua Buffum is standing in the pillory. Cassandra Southwick is led to +prison. And there a woman, it is Ann Coleman,—naked from the waist +upward, and bound to the tail of a cart, is dragged through the Main +Street at the pace of a brisk walk, while the constable follows with a +whip of knotted cords. A strong-armed fellow is that constable; and +each time that he flourishes his lash in the air, you see a frown +wrinkling and twisting his brow, and, at the same instant, a smile upon +his lips. He loves his business, faithful officer that he is, and puts +his soul into every stroke, zealous to fulfil the injunction of Major +Hawthorne’s warrant, in the spirit and to the letter. There came down a +stroke that has drawn blood! Ten such stripes are to be given in Salem, +ten in Boston, and ten in Dedham; and, with those thirty stripes of +blood upon her, she is to be driven into the forest. The crimson trail +goes wavering along the Main Street; but Heaven grant that, as the rain +of so many years has wept upon it, time after time, and washed it all +away, so there may have been a dew of mercy, to cleanse this cruel +blood-stain out of the record of the persecutor’s life! + +Pass on, thou spectral constable, and betake thee to thine own place of +torment. Meanwhile, by the silent operation of the mechanism behind the +scenes, a considerable space of time would seem to have lapsed over the +street. The older dwellings now begin to look weather-beaten, through +the effect of the many eastern storms that have moistened their +unpainted shingles and clapboards, for not less than forty years. Such +is the age we would assign to the town, judging by the aspect of John +Massey, the first town-born child, whom his neighbors now call Goodman +Massey, and whom we see yonder, a grave, almost autumnal-looking man, +with children of his own about him. To the patriarchs of the +settlement, no doubt, the Main Street is still but an affair of +yesterday, hardly more antique, even if destined to be more permanent, +than a path shovelled through the snow. But to the middle-aged and +elderly men who came hither in childhood or early youth, it presents +the aspect of a long and well-established work, on which they have +expended the strength and ardor of their life. And the younger people, +native to the street, whose earliest recollections are of creeping over +the paternal threshold, and rolling on the grassy margin of the track, +look at it as one of the perdurable things of our mortal state,—as old +as the hills of the great pasture, or the headland at the harbor’s +mouth. Their fathers and grandsires tell them how, within a few years +past, the forest stood here, with but a lonely track beneath its +tangled shade. Vain legend! They cannot make it true and real to their +conceptions. With them, moreover, the Main Street is a street indeed, +worthy to hold its way with the thronged and stately avenues of cities +beyond the sea. The old Puritans tell them of the crowds that hurry +along Cheapside and Fleet Street and the Strand, and of the rush of +tumultuous life at Temple Bar. They describe London Bridge, itself a +street, with a row of houses on each side. They speak of the vast +structure of the Tower, and the solemn grandeur of Westminster Abbey. +The children listen, and still inquire if the streets of London are +longer and broader than the one before their father’s door; if the +Tower is bigger than the jail in Prison Lane; if the old Abbey will +hold a larger congregation than our meeting-house. Nothing impresses +them, except their own experience. + +It seems all a fable, too, that wolves have ever prowled here; and not +less so, that the Squaw Sachem, and the Sagamore her son, once ruled +over this region, and treated as sovereign potentates with the English +settlers, then so few and storm-beaten, now so powerful. There stand +some school-boys, you observe, in a little group around a drunken +Indian, himself a prince of the Squaw Sachem’s lineage. He brought +hither some beaver-skins for sale, and has already swallowed the larger +portion of their price, in deadly draughts of firewater. Is there not a +touch of pathos in that picture? and does it not go far towards telling +the whole story of the vast growth and prosperity of one race, and the +fated decay of another?—the children of the stranger making game of the +great Squaw Sachem’s grandson! + +But the whole race of red men have not vanished with that wild princess +and her posterity. This march of soldiers along the street betokens the +breaking out of King Philip’s war; and these young men, the flower of +Essex, are on their way to defend the villages on the Connecticut; +where, at Bloody Brook, a terrible blow shall be smitten, and hardly +one of that gallant band be left alive. And there, at that stately +mansion, with its three peaks in front, and its two little peaked +towers, one on either side of the door, we see brave Captain Gardner +issuing forth, clad in his embroidered buff-coat, and his plumed cap +upon his head. His trusty sword, in its steel scabbard, strikes +clanking on the doorstep. See how the people throng to their doors and +windows, as the cavalier rides past, reining his mettled steed so +gallantly, and looking so like the very soul and emblem of martial +achievement,—destined, too, to meet a warrior’s fate, at the desperate +assault on the fortress of the Narragansetts! + +“The mettled steed looks like a pig,” interrupts the critic, “and +Captain Gardner himself like the Devil, though a very tame one, and on +a most diminutive scale.” + +“Sir, sir!” cries the persecuted showman, losing all patience,—for, +indeed, he had particularly prided himself on these figures of Captain +Gardner and his horse,—“I see that there is no hope of pleasing you. +Pray, sir, do me the favor to take back your money, and withdraw!” + +“Not I!” answers the unconscionable critic. “I am just beginning to get +interested in the matter. Come! turn your crank, and grind out a few +more of these fooleries!” + +The showman rubs his brow impulsively, whisks the little rod with which +he points out the notabilities of the scene, but, finally, with the +inevitable acquiescence of all public servants, resumes his composure +and goes on. + +Pass onward, onward, Time! Build up new houses here, and tear down thy +works of yesterday, that have already the rusty moss upon them! Summon +forth the minister to the abode of the young maiden, and bid him unite +her to the joyful bridegroom! Let the youthful parents carry their +first-born to the meeting-house, to receive the baptismal rite! Knock +at the door, whence the sable line of the funeral is next to issue! +Provide other successive generations of men, to trade, talk, quarrel, +or walk in friendly intercourse along the street, as their fathers did +before them! Do all thy daily and accustomed business, Father Time, in +this thoroughfare, which thy footsteps, for so many years, have now +made dusty! But here, at last, thou leadest along a procession which, +once witnessed, shall appear no more, and be remembered only as a +hideous dream of thine, or a frenzy of thy old brain. + +“Turn your crank, I say,” bellows the remorseless critic, “and grind it +out, whatever it be, without further preface!” + +The showman deems it best to comply. + +Then, here comes the worshipful Captain Curwen, sheriff of Essex, on +horseback, at the head of an armed guard, escorting a company of +condemned prisoners from the jail to their place of execution on +Gallows Hill. The witches! There is no mistaking them! The witches! As +they approach up Prison Lane, and turn into the Main Street, let us +watch their faces, as if we made a part of the pale crowd that presses +so eagerly about them, yet shrinks back with such shuddering dread, +leaving an open passage betwixt a dense throng on either side. Listen +to what the people say. + +There is old George Jacobs, known hereabouts, these sixty years, as a +man whom we thought upright in all his way of life, quiet, blameless, a +good husband before his pious wife was summoned from the evil to come, +and a good father to the children whom she left him. Ah! but when that +blessed woman went to heaven, George Jacobs’s heart was empty, his +hearth lonely, his life broken tip; his children were married, and +betook themselves to habitations of their own; and Satan, in his +wanderings up and down, beheld this forlorn old man, to whom life was a +sameness and a weariness, and found the way to tempt him. So the +miserable sinner was prevailed with to mount into the air, and career +among the clouds; and he is proved to have been present at a +witch-meeting as far off as Falmouth, on the very same night that his +next neighbors saw him, with his rheumatic stoop, going in at his own +door. There is John Willard, too; an honest man we thought him, and so +shrewd and active in his business, so practical, so intent on every-day +affairs, so constant at his little place of trade, where he bartered +English goods for Indian corn and all kinds of country produce! How +could such a man find time, or what could put it into his mind, to +leave his proper calling, and become a wizard? It is a mystery, unless +the Black Man tempted him with great heaps of gold. See that aged +couple,—a sad sight, truly,—John Proctor, and his wife Elizabeth. If +there were two old people in all the county of Essex who seemed to have +led a true Christian life, and to be treading hopefully the little +remnant of their earthly path, it was this very pair. Yet have we heard +it sworn, to the satisfaction of the worshipful Chief-Justice Sewell, +and all the court and jury, that Proctor and his wife have shown their +withered faces at children’s bedsides, mocking, making mouths, and +affrighting the poor little innocents in the night-time. They, or their +spectral appearances, have stuck pins into the Afflicted Ones, and +thrown them into deadly fainting-fits with a touch, or but a look. And, +while we supposed the old man to be reading the Bible to his old +wife,—she meanwhile knitting in the chimney-corner,—the pair of hoary +reprobates have whisked up the chimney, both on one broomstick, and +flown away to a witch-communion, far into the depths of the chill, dark +forest. How foolish! Were it only for fear of rheumatic pains in their +old bones, they had better have stayed at home. But away they went; and +the laughter of their decayed, cackling voices has been heard at +midnight, aloft in the air. Now, in the sunny noontide, as they go +tottering to the gallows, it is the Devil’s turn to laugh. + +Behind these two,—who help another along, and seem to be comforting and +encouraging each other, in a manner truly pitiful, if it were not a sin +to pity the old witch and wizard,—behind them comes a woman, with a +dark proud face that has been beautiful, and a figure that is still +majestic. Do you know her? It is Martha Carrier, whom the Devil found +in a humble cottage, and looked into her discontented heart, and saw +pride there, and tempted her with his promise that she should be Queen +of Hell. And now, with that lofty demeanor, she is passing to her +kingdom, and, by her unquenchable pride, transforms this escort of +shame into a triumphal procession, that shall attend her to the gates +of her infernal palace, and seat her upon the fiery throne. Within this +hour, she shall assume her royal dignity. + +Last of the miserable train comes a man clad in black, of small stature +and a dark complexion, with a clerical band about his neck. Many a +time, in the years gone by, that face has been uplifted heavenward from +the pulpit of the East Meeting-House, when the Rev. Mr. Burroughs +seemed to worship God. What!—he? The holy man!—the learned!—the wise! +How has the Devil tempted him? His fellow-criminals, for the most part, +are obtuse, uncultivated creatures, some of them scarcely half-witted +by nature, and others greatly decayed in their intellects through age. +They were an easy prey for the destroyer. Not so with this George +Burroughs, as we judge by the inward light which glows through his dark +countenance, and, we might almost say, glorifies his figure, in spite +of the soil and haggardness of long imprisonment,—in spite of the heavy +shadow that must fall on him, while death is walking by his side. What +bribe could Satan offer, rich enough to tempt and overcome this mail? +Alas! it may have been in the very strength of his high and searching +intellect, that the Tempter found the weakness which betrayed him. He +yearned for knowledge he went groping onward into a world of mystery; +at first, as the witnesses have sworn, he summoned up the ghosts of his +two dead wives, and talked with them of matters beyond the grave; and, +when their responses failed to satisfy the intense and sinful craving +of his spirit, he called on Satan, and was heard. Yet—to look at +him—who, that had not known the proof, could believe him guilty? Who +would not say, while we see him offering comfort to the weak and aged +partners of his horrible crime,—while we hear his ejaculations of +prayer, that seem to bubble up out of the depths of his heart, and fly +heavenward, unawares,—while we behold a radiance brightening on his +features as from the other world, which is but a few steps off,—who +would not say, that, over the dusty track of the Main Street, a +Christian saint is now going to a martyr’s death? May not the +Arch-Fiend have been too subtle for the court and jury, and betrayed +them—laughing in his sleeve, the while—into the awful error of pouring +out sanctified blood as an acceptable sacrifice upon God’s altar? Ah! +no; for listen to wise Cotton Mather, who, as he sits there on his +horse, speaks comfortably to the perplexed multitude, and tells them +that all has been religiously and justly done, and that Satan’s power +shall this day receive its death-blow in New England. + +Heaven grant it be so!—the great scholar must be right; so lead the +poor creatures to their death! Do you see that group of children and +half-grown girls, and, among them, an old, hag-like Indian woman, +Tituba by name? Those are the Afflicted Ones. Behold, at this very +instant, a proof of Satan’s power and malice! Mercy Parris, the +minister’s daughter, has been smitten by a flash of Martha Carrier’s +eye, and falls down in the street, writhing with horrible spasms and +foaming at the mouth, like the possessed one spoken of in Scripture. +Hurry on the accursed witches to the gallows, ere they do more +mischief!—ere they fling out their withered arms, and scatter +pestilence by handfuls among the crowd!—ere, as their parting legacy, +they cast a blight over the land, so that henceforth it may bear no +fruit nor blade of grass, and be fit for nothing but a sepulchre for +their unhallowed carcasses! So, on they go; and old George Jacobs has +stumbled, by reason of his infirmity; but Goodman Proctor and his wife +lean on one another, and walk at a reasonably steady pace, considering +their age. Mr. Burroughs seems to administer counsel to Martha Carrier, +whose face and mien, methinks, are milder and humbler than they were. +Among the multitude, meanwhile, there is horror, fear, and distrust; +and friend looks askance at friend, and the husband at his wife, and +the wife at him, and even the mother at her little child; as if, in +every creature that God has made, they suspected a witch, or dreaded an +accuser. Never, never again, whether in this or any other shape, may +Universal Madness riot in the Main Street! + +I perceive in your eyes, my indulgent spectators, the criticism which +you are too kind to utter. These scenes, you think, are all too sombre. +So, indeed, they are; but the blame must rest on the sombre spirit of +our forefathers, who wove their web of life with hardly a single thread +of rose-color or gold, and not on me, who have a tropic-love of +sunshine, and would gladly gild all the world with it, if I knew where +to find so much. That you may believe me, I will exhibit one of the +only class of scenes, so far as my investigation has taught me, in +which our ancestors were wont to steep their tough old hearts in wine +and strong drink, and indulge an outbreak of grisly jollity. + +Here it comes, out of the same house whence we saw brave Captain +Gardner go forth to the wars. What! A coffin, borne on men’s shoulders, +and six aged gentlemen as pall-bearers, and a long train of mourners, +with black gloves and black hat-bands, and everything black, save a +white handkerchief in each mourner’s hand, to wipe away his tears +withal. Now, my kind patrons, you are angry with me. You were bidden to +a bridal-dance, and find yourselves walking in a funeral procession. +Even so; but look back through all the social customs of New England, +in the first century of her existence, and read all her traits of +character; and if you find one occasion, other than a funeral feast, +where jollity was sanctioned by universal practice, I will set fire to +my puppet-show without another word. These are the obsequies of old +Governor Bradstreet, the patriarch and survivor of the first settlers, +who, having intermarried with the Widow Gardner, is now resting from +his labors, at the great age of ninety-four. The white-bearded corpse, +which was his spirit’s earthly garniture, now lies beneath yonder +coffin-lid. Many a cask of ale and cider is on tap, and many a draught +of spiced wine and aqua-vitæ has been quaffed. Else why should the +bearers stagger, as they tremulously uphold the coffin?—and the aged +pall-bearers, too, as they strive to walk solemnly beside it?—and +wherefore do the mourners tread on one another’s heels?—and why, if we +may ask without offence, should the nose of the Rev. Mr. Noyes, through +which he has just been delivering the funeral discourse, glow like a +ruddy coal of fire? Well, well, old friends! Pass on, with your burden +of mortality, And lay it in the tomb with jolly hearts. People should +be permitted to enjoy themselves in their own fashion; every man to his +taste; but New England must have been a dismal abode for the man of +pleasure, when the only boon-companion was Death! + +Under cover of a mist that has settled over the scene, a few years flit +by, and escape our notice. As the atmosphere becomes transparent, we +perceive a decrepit grandsire, hobbling along the street. Do you +recognize him? We saw him, first, as the baby in Goodwife Massey’s +arms, when the primeval trees were flinging their shadow over Roger +Conant’s cabin; we have seen him, as the boy, the youth, the man, +bearing his humble part in all the successive scenes, and forming the +index-figure whereby to note the age of his coeval town. And here he +is, old Goodman Massey, taking his last walk,—often pausing,—often +leaning over his staff,—and calling to mind whose dwelling stood at +such and such a spot, and whose field or garden occupied the site of +those more recent houses. He can render a reason for all the bends and +deviations of the thoroughfare, which, in its flexible and plastic +infancy, was made to swerve aside from a straight line, in order to +visit every settler’s door. The Main Street is still youthful; the +coeval man is in his latest age. Soon he will be gone, a patriarch of +fourscore, yet shall retain a sort of infantine life in our local +history, as the first town-born child. + +Behold here a change, wrought in the twinkling of an eye, like an +incident in a tale of magic, even while your observation has been fixed +upon the scene. The Main Street has vanished out of sight. In its stead +appears a wintry waste of snow, with the sun just peeping over it, cold +and bright, and tingeing the white expanse with the faintest and most +ethereal rose-color. This is the Great Snow of 1717, famous for the +mountain-drifts in which it buried the whole country. It would seem as +if the street, the growth of which we have noted so attentively, +following it from its first phase, as an Indian track, until it reached +the dignity of sidewalks, were all at once obliterated, and resolved +into a drearier pathlessness than when the forest covered it. The +gigantic swells and billows of the snow have swept over each man’s +metes and bounds, and annihilated all the visible distinctions of human +property. So that now the traces of former times and hitherto +accomplished deeds being done away, mankind should be at liberty to +enter on new paths, and guide themselves by other laws than heretofore; +if, indeed, the race be not extinct, and it be worth our while to go on +with the march of life, over the cold and desolate expanse that lies +before us. It may be, however, that matters are not so desperate as +they appear. That vast icicle, glittering so cheerlessly in the +sunshine, must be the spire of the meeting-house, incrusted with frozen +sleet. Those great heaps, too, which we mistook for drifts, are houses, +buried up to their eaves, and with their peaked roofs rounded by the +depth of snow upon them. There, now, comes a gush of smoke from what I +judge to be the chimney of the Ship Tavern;—and another—another—and +another—from the chimneys of other dwellings, where fireside comfort, +domestic peace, the sports of children, and the quietude of age are +living yet, in spite of the frozen crust above them. + +But it is time to change the scene. Its dreary monotony shall not test +your fortitude like one of our actual New England winters, which leaves +so large a blank—so melancholy a death-spot—in lives so brief that they +ought to be all summer-time. Here, at least, I may claim to be ruler of +the seasons. One turn of the crank shall melt away the snow from the +Main Street, and show the trees in their full foliage, the rose-bushes +in bloom, and a border of green grass along the sidewalk. There! But +what! How! The scene will not move. A wire is broken. The street +continues buried beneath the snow, and the fate of Herculaneum and +Pompeii has its parallel in this catastrophe. + +Alas! my kind and gentle audience, you know not the extent of your +misfortune. The scenes to come were far better than the past. The +street itself would have been more worthy of pictorial exhibition; the +deeds of its inhabitants not less so. And how would your interest have +deepened, as, passing out of the cold shadow of antiquity, in my long +and weary course, I should arrive within the limits of man’s memory, +and, leading you at last into the sunshine of the present, should give +a reflex of the very life that is flitting past us! Your own beauty, my +fair townswomen, would have beamed upon you, out of my scene. Not a +gentleman that walks the street but should have beheld his own face and +figure, his gait, the peculiar swing of his arm, and the coat that he +put on yesterday. Then, too,—and it is what I chiefly regret,—I had +expended a vast deal of light and brilliancy on a representation of the +street in its whole length, from Buffum’s Corner downward, on the night +of the grand illumination for General Taylor’s triumph. Lastly, I +should have given the crank one other turn, and have brought out the +future, showing you who shall walk the Main Street to-morrow, and, +perchance, whose funeral shall pass through it! + +But these, like most other human purposes, lie unaccomplished; and I +have only further to say, that any lady or gentlemen who may feel +dissatisfied with the evening’s entertainment shall receive back the +admission fee at the door. + +“Then give me mine,” cries the critic, stretching out his palm. “I said +that your exhibition would prove a humbug, and so it has turned out. +So, hand over my quarter!” + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAIN STREET *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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