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The Prison-Door
THRONG of bearded men, in sad-colored garments and gray,
steeple-crowned hats, intermixed with women, some wearing hoods,
and others bareheaded, was assembled in front of a wooden
edifice, the door of which was heavily timbered with oak, and
studded with iron spiks.
The founders of a new colony, whatever Utopia of human
virtue and happiness they might originally project, have
invariably recognized it among their earliest practical
necessities to allot a portion of the virgin soil as a cemetery,
and another portion as the site of a prison. In accordance with
this rule, it may safely be assumed that the forefathers of
Boston had built the first prison-house, somewhere in the
vicinity of Cornhill, almost as seasonably as they marked out the
first burial-ground, on Isaac Johnson's lot, and round about his
grave, which subsequently became the nucleus of all the
congregated sepulchres in the old church-yard of King's Chapel.
Certain it is,that, some fifteen or twenty years after the
settlement of the town, the wooden jail was already marked with
weather-stains and other indications of age, which gave a yet
darker aspect to its beetle-browed and gloomy front. The rust on
the ponderous iron-work of its oaken door looked more antique than
anything else in the new world. Like all that pertains to crime,
it seemed never to have known a youthful era. Before this ugly
edifice, and between it and the wheel-track of the street, was a
grass-plot, much overgrown with burdock, pig-weed, apple-peru,
and such unsightly vegetation,which evidently found something
congenial in the soil that had so early borne the black flower of
civilized society, a prison. But, on one side of the portal, anti
rooted almost at the threshold, was a wild rose-bush, covered,
in this month of June, with its delicate gems, which might be
imagined to offer their fragrance and fragile beauty to the
prisoner as he went in, and to the condemned criminal as he came
forth to his doom,in token that the deep heart of Nature could
pity and be kind to him.
This rose-bush, by a strange chance, has been kept alive in
history; but whether it had merely survived out of the stern old
wilderness, so long after the fall of the gigantic pines and oaks
that originally overshadowed it--or whether, as there is fair
authority for believing, it had sprung up under the footsteps of
the sainted Ann Hutchinson, as she entered the prison-door--we
shall not take upon us to determine. Finding it so directly on the
threshold of our narrative, which is now about to issue from that
inauspicious portal, we could hardly do otherwise than pluck one
of its flowers and present it to the reader. It may serve, let us
hope, to symbolize some sweet moral blossom, that may be found
along the track, or relieve the darkening close of a tale of
human frailty and sorrow.
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