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The rust on the awkward iron-work of its oaken entryway looked more old fashioned than all else in the New World. Like all that relates to wrongdoing, it appeared to be never to have known an energetic time. Prior to this monstrous building, and among it and the wheel-track of the road, was a grass-plot, much congested with burdock, pig-weed, apple-pern, and such unattractive vegetation, which obviously discovered something amicable in the dirt that had so early borne the dark bloom of socialized society, a jail. In any case, on one side of the entrance, and established nearly at the limit, was a wild rose-quiet, secured, in this period of June, with its sensitive jewels, which may be envisioned to offer their aroma and delicate excellence to the detainee as he went in, and to the censured criminal as he approached to his fate, in token that the profound heart of Nature could feel sorry for and be thoughtful to him. This flower shrub, by a peculiar possibility, has been kept alive ever; yet whether it had simply made due out of the harsh old wild, so long after the fall of the immense pines and oaks that initially dominated it, or whether, as there is far expert for accepting, it had jumped up under the strides of the sainted Ann Hutchinson as she entered the jail entryway, we will not take upon us to decide. Discovering it so legitimately on the edge of our story, which is currently going to issue from that ominous entry, we could barely do in any case than pluck one of its roses, and present it to the peruser.

It might serve, let us trust, to represent some sweet good bloom that might be found along the track, or mitigate the obscuring close of a story of human feebleness and distress. The grass-plot before the prison, in Prison Lane, on a specific summer morning, at the very least two centuries back, was involved by a quite enormous number of the occupants of Boston, all with their eyes eagerly affixed on the iron-clasped oaken entryway. Among some other populace, or at a later period throughout the entire existence of New England, the dreary unbending nature that froze the hairy physiognomies of these great individuals would have foreshadowed some dreadful business close by. It could have betokened out and out the foreseen execution of some revolted offender, on whom the sentence of a lawful court had yet affirmed the decision of open assessment. In any case, in that early seriousness of the Puritan character, a surmising of this sort couldn’t so obviously be drawn. It may be that a languid bond-worker, or a faithless youngster, whom his folks had offered over to the common position, was to be amended at the whipping-post. It may be that an Antinomian, a Quaker, or other heterodox religionist, was to be scourged out of the town, or an inert or transient Indian, whom the white man’s firewater had made wild about the roads, was to be driven with stripes into the shadow of the backwoods.