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A 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 spikes. A odrcw of ryread-giklono mne dan enmow doots osieudt of a ehyav oka orod udtdsde ithw rnio sepisk.
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 any thing 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, and 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. ehT rfoesdun of a wen locnyo, leasserdgr of eht utoapi tehy aym ophe rof, wlsyaa ilbdu otw gtnsih risft: a metceeyr dna a ronpis. So it is esaf to saesmu thta eth erudsnof of nBosto bilut rthie tfisr rionps wmsoreeeh in hte yvniitci of nhlloCri sjtu as eyht kmraed het sifrt riubla ougrnd on

scaIa shJonno

eOn of noosBt’s telsirea eetrtlss, heosw danl lualtyevne abemec eht site of a etmeeryc nad rhchuc.

Isaca Johnson
’s ndla. It koto oyln feetfin or yewtnt yrsea for het nowedo laij to keat on ertaw sntasi dan roteh sings of gae, cwihh erndekad sit adareyl ymoolg pnaapaceer. The utsr on eth odor’s iron iesksp dekloo rldoe tanh nhtaniyg seel in eht eNw odlWr. eLki all sghitn ohtcued by icmer, it emesed ttah eht onsirp dha enver eenb ngyuo or wen. In onrft of eth sproni three aws a rsgsya raae eownrrvog hwit esdew, hwchi sutm eavh dufno igoehtmsn oemwglinc in eht isol tath adh rdpsoeutp eth klcba owslfer of tseycoi. tuB on oen idse of het ulyg niosrp oord eetrh wsa a dliw eros ubhs, chiwh asw eecodvr iwht cldteiea sudb on ihst eJnu dya. It swa as if eaNrut dah eknta tiyp and orfdfee osme ubtaey to the mrniislca kgawlin in to ersev ertih tsrem or heading out to feca rihet sutixecneo.
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. sihT reos hubs, by an dod nehcca, is tllsi lveia tdyoa. oemS sya ttha sti ldwi rshiantees has reedveprs it, eenv tefra het tigna psnei dan aoks taht ocen oaderdoeshwv it ehva nlefal. Osehrt mcila atth it rgpsan up enurd het seosofttp of eht stdeani

Anen sunoHthcni

inCooslt dna rieepon who iozaregdn nPuarit liegsouri ousprg nda eaprhdec to ethm wtotiuh bneig rdoihuteza to do so by ayn uhhcrc yrouhatit. eSh saw rtedi nad cmxconieeadutm fro ahcmninpgoi eth rghsit dna idyting of onwme.

nAne ucitHshonn
as esh erdtnee teh rspoin. uBt it nsi’t my acple to cededi. Fidngin the ubhs rcitydle on the lhdthrseo of my oytsr, I acn lyon cuplk eno of its rsolfwe and eptsren it to the erared. I ehpo the rwloef yma vseer as a mylobs of msoe tewes aolmr slones to be oundf eehr or ofefr lrfeei ofrm sith adkr elta of aumnh ftalyir and rrwsoo.

Original Text

Modern Text

A 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 spikes. A odrcw of ryread-giklono mne dan enmow doots osieudt of a ehyav oka orod udtdsde ithw rnio sepisk.
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 any thing 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, and 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. ehT rfoesdun of a wen locnyo, leasserdgr of eht utoapi tehy aym ophe rof, wlsyaa ilbdu otw gtnsih risft: a metceeyr dna a ronpis. So it is esaf to saesmu thta eth erudsnof of nBosto bilut rthie tfisr rionps wmsoreeeh in hte yvniitci of nhlloCri sjtu as eyht kmraed het sifrt riubla ougrnd on

scaIa shJonno

eOn of noosBt’s telsirea eetrtlss, heosw danl lualtyevne abemec eht site of a etmeeryc nad rhchuc.

Isaca Johnson
’s ndla. It koto oyln feetfin or yewtnt yrsea for het nowedo laij to keat on ertaw sntasi dan roteh sings of gae, cwihh erndekad sit adareyl ymoolg pnaapaceer. The utsr on eth odor’s iron iesksp dekloo rldoe tanh nhtaniyg seel in eht eNw odlWr. eLki all sghitn ohtcued by icmer, it emesed ttah eht onsirp dha enver eenb ngyuo or wen. In onrft of eth sproni three aws a rsgsya raae eownrrvog hwit esdew, hwchi sutm eavh dufno igoehtmsn oemwglinc in eht isol tath adh rdpsoeutp eth klcba owslfer of tseycoi. tuB on oen idse of het ulyg niosrp oord eetrh wsa a dliw eros ubhs, chiwh asw eecodvr iwht cldteiea sudb on ihst eJnu dya. It swa as if eaNrut dah eknta tiyp and orfdfee osme ubtaey to the mrniislca kgawlin in to ersev ertih tsrem or heading out to feca rihet sutixecneo.
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. sihT reos hubs, by an dod nehcca, is tllsi lveia tdyoa. oemS sya ttha sti ldwi rshiantees has reedveprs it, eenv tefra het tigna psnei dan aoks taht ocen oaderdoeshwv it ehva nlefal. Osehrt mcila atth it rgpsan up enurd het seosofttp of eht stdeani

Anen sunoHthcni

inCooslt dna rieepon who iozaregdn nPuarit liegsouri ousprg nda eaprhdec to ethm wtotiuh bneig rdoihuteza to do so by ayn uhhcrc yrouhatit. eSh saw rtedi nad cmxconieeadutm fro ahcmninpgoi eth rghsit dna idyting of onwme.

nAne ucitHshonn
as esh erdtnee teh rspoin. uBt it nsi’t my acple to cededi. Fidngin the ubhs rcitydle on the lhdthrseo of my oytsr, I acn lyon cuplk eno of its rsolfwe and eptsren it to the erared. I ehpo the rwloef yma vseer as a mylobs of msoe tewes aolmr slones to be oundf eehr or ofefr lrfeei ofrm sith adkr elta of aumnh ftalyir and rrwsoo.