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company ofcondemned prisoners from the jail to their place of execution on GallowsHill. The witches! There is no mistaking them! The witches! As theyapproach up Prison Lane, and turn into the Main Street, let us watchtheir faces, as if we made a part of the pale crowd that presses soeagerly about them, yet shrinks back with such shuddering dread, leavingan open passage betwixt a dense throng on either side. Listen to whatthe people say.

  There is old George Jacobs, known hereabouts, these sixty years, as a manwhom 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 thatblessed woman went to heaven, George Jacobs's heart was empty, his hearthlonely, his life broken tip; his children were married, and betookthemselves to habitations of their own; and Satan, in his wanderings upand down, beheld this forlorn old man, to whom life was a sameness and aweariness, and found the way to tempt him. So the miserable sinner wasprevailed with to mount into the air, and career among the clouds; and heis 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 hisrheumatic 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 littleplace of trade, where he bartered English goods for Indian corn and allkinds of country produce! How could such a man find time, or what couldput 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 ofgold. See that aged couple,--a sad sight, truly,--John Proctor, and hiswife Elizabeth. If there were two old people in all the county of Essexwho seemed to have led a true Christian life, and to be treadinghopefully the little remnant of their earthly path, it was this verypair. Yet have we heard it sworn, to the satisfaction of the worshipfulChief-Justice Sewell, and all the court and jury, that Proctor and hiswife have shown their withered faces at children's bedsides, mocking,making mouths, and affrighting the poor little innocents in thenight-time. They, or their spectral appearances, have stuck pins into theAfflicted 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 theBible to his old wife,--she meanwhile knitting in the chimney-corner,--thepair of hoary reprobates have whisked up the chimney, both on onebroomstick, and flown away to a witch-communion, far into the depths ofthe chill, dark forest. How foolish! Were it only for fear of rheumaticpains in their old bones, they had better have stayed at home. But awaythey went; and the laughter of their decayed, cackling voices has beenheard at midnight, aloft in the air. Now, in the sunny noontide, as theygo tottering to the gallows, it is the Devil's turn to laugh.

  Behind these two,--who help another along, and seem to be comforting andencouraging each other, in a manner truly pitiful, if it were not a sinto pity the old witch and wizard,--behind them comes a woman, with a darkproud 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 humblecottage, and looked into her discontented heart, and saw pride there, andtempted 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 herunquenchable pride, transforms this escort of shame into a triumphalprocession, that shall attend her to the gates of her infernal palace,and seat her upon the fiery throne. Within this hour, she shall assumeher royal dignity.

  Last of the miserable train comes a man clad in black, of small statureand 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 thepulpit of the East Meeting-House, when the Rev. Mr. Burroughs seemed toworship God. What!--he? The holy man!--the learned!--the wise! How hasthe Devil tempted him? His fellow-criminals, for the most part, areobtuse, uncultivated creatures, some of them scarcely half-witted bynature, and others greatly decayed in their intellects through age. Theywere 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 andhaggardness of long imprisonment,--in spite of the heavy shadow that mustfall on him, while death is walking by his side. What bribe could Satanoffer, rich enough to tempt and overcome this mail? Alas! it may havebeen in the very strength of his high and searching intellect, that theTempter found the weakness which betrayed him. He yearned for knowledgehe went groping onward into a world of mystery; at first, as thewitnesses have sworn, he summoned up the ghosts of his two dead wives,and talked with them of matters beyond the grave; and, when theirresponses 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 hadnot known the proof, could believe him guilty? Who would not say, whilewe see him offering comfort to the weak and aged partners of his horriblecrime,--while we hear his ejaculations of prayer, that seem to bubble upout of the depths of his heart, and fly heavenward, unawares,--while webehold 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 dustytrack of the Main Street, a Christian saint is now going to a martyr'sdeath? May not the Arch-Fiend have been too subtle for the court andjury, and betrayed them--laughing in his sleeve, the while--into theawful error of pouring out sanctified blood as an acceptable sacrificeupon God's altar? Ah! no; for listen to wise Cotton Mather, who, as hesits there on his horse, speaks comfortably to the perplexed multitude,and tells them that all has been religiously and justly done, and thatSatan'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 poorcreatures to their death! Do you see that group of children andhalf-grown girls, and, among them, an old, hag-like Indian woman, Tituba byme? Those are the Afflicted Ones. Behold, at this very instant, a proofof Satan's power and malice! Mercy Parris, the minister's daughter, hasbeen smitten by a flash of Martha Carrier's eye, and falls down in thestreet, writhing with horrible spasms and foaming at the mouth, like thepossessed one spoken of in Scripture. Hurry on the accursed witches tothe gallows, ere they do more mischief!--ere they fling out theirwithered aims, and scatter pestilence by handfuls among the crowd!--ere,as their parting legacy, they cast a blight over the land, so thathenceforth it may bear no fruit nor blade of grass, and be fit fornothing but a sepulchre for their unhallowed carcasses! So, on they go;and old George Jacobs has stumbled, by reason of his infirmity; butGoodman Proctor and his wife lean on one another, and walk at areasonably steady pace, considering their age. Mr. Burroughs seems toadminister counsel to Martha Carrier, whose face and mien, methinks, aremilder and humbler than they were. Among the multitude, meanwhile, thereis horror, fear, and distrust; and friend looks askance at friend, andthe husband at his wife, and the wife at him, and even the mother at herlittle child; as if, in every creature that God has made, they suspecteda witch, or dreaded an accuser. Never, never again, whether in this orany other shape, may Universal Madness riot in the Main Street!

  I perceive in your eyes, my indulgent spectators, the criticism which youare 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 ourforefathers, who wove their web of life with hardly a single thread ofrose-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 somuch. That you may believe me, I will exhibit one of the only class ofscenes, so far as my investigation has taught me, in which our ancestorswere wont to steep their tough old hearts in wine and strong drink, andindulge an outbreak of grisly jollity.

  Here it comes, out of the same house whence we saw brave Captain Gardnergo forth to the wars. What! A coffin, borne on men's shoulders, and sixaged gentlemen as pall-bearers, and a long train of mourners, withblack gloves
and black hat-bands, and everything black, save a whitehandkerchief 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; butlook back through all the social customs of New England, in the firstcentury of her existence, and read all her traits of character; and ifyou find one occasion, other than a funeral feast, where jollity wassanctioned by universal practice, I will set fire to my puppet-showwithout another word. These are the obsequies of old GovernorBradstreet, the patriarch and survivor of the first settlers, who, havingintermarried with the Widow Gardner, is now resting from his labors, atthe great age of ninety-four. The white-bearded corpse, which was hisspirit's earthly garniture, now lies beneath yonder coffin-lid. Many acask of ale and cider is on tap, and many a draught of spiced wine andaqua-vitae has