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diff --git a/9236-h/9236-h.htm b/9236-h/9236-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c7feed7 --- /dev/null +++ b/9236-h/9236-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1607 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Main Street, by Nathaniel Hawthorne</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Main Street, by Nathaniel Hawthorne</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. 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. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Main Street</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Nathaniel Hawthorne</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: September 18, 2003 [eBook #9236]<br /> +[Most recently updated: May 18, 2022]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Widger</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAIN STREET ***</div> + +<h1>Main Street</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Nathaniel Hawthorne</h2> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p> +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 bean 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +The showman proceeds. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Having nothing to allege against this genealogical objection, the showman +points again to the scene. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir, you break the illusion of the scene,” mildly remonstrates the +showman. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, down to 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is all this?” cries the critic. “A sermon? If so, it is +not in the bill.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very true,” replies the showman; “and I ask pardon of the +audience.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Turn your crank, I say,” bellows the remorseless critic, +“and grind it out, whatever it be, without further preface!” +</p> + +<p> +The showman deems it best to comply. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. 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