The Market–Place

           Thegrass-plotbeforethejail,inPrisonLane,onacertainsummermorning,notlessthantwocenturiesago,wasoccupiedbyaprettylargenumberoftheinhabitantsofBoston,allwiththeireyesintentlyfastenedontheiron-clampedoakendoor.Amongstanyotherpopulation,oratalaterperiodinthehistoryofNewEngland,thegrimrigiditythatpetrifiedthebeardedphysiognomiesofthesegoodpeoplewouldhaveauguredsomeawfulbusinessinhand.Itcouldhavebetokenednothingshortoftheanticipatedexecutionofsomeriotedculprit,onwhomthesentenceofalegaltribunalhadbutconfirmedtheverdictofpublicsentiment.But,inthatearlyseverityofthePuritancharacter,aninferenceofthiskindcouldnotsoindubitablybedrawn.Itmightbethatasluggishbond-servant,oranundutifulchild,whomhisparentshadgivenovertothecivilauthority,wastobecorrectedatthewhipping-post.ItmightbethatanAntinomian,aQuaker,orotherheterodoxreligionist,wastobescourgedoutofthetown,oranidleorvagrantIndian,whomthewhiteman’sfirewaterhadmaderiotousaboutthestreets,wastobedrivenwithstripesintotheshadowoftheforest.Itmightbe,too,thatawitch,likeoldMistressHibbins,thebitter-temperedwidowofthemagistrate,wastodieuponthegallows.