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This effervescence made her flit with a bird-like movement, rather than walk
by her mother’s side. She broke continually into shouts of a wild, inarticulate,
and sometimes piercing music. When they reached the market-place, she became
still more restless, on perceiving the stir and bustle that enlivened the spot;
for it was usually more like the broad and lonesome green before a village
meeting-house, than the centre of a town’s business.
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Pearl’s bubbliness made her move like a bird, flitting along rather than
walking by her mother’s side. She kept breaking into shouts of wild,
inarticulate, and sometimes piercing music. When they reached the marketplace,
she became even more restless, sensing the energy of the crowd. The spot was
usually like a broad, lonely lawn in front of a meetinghouse. Today it was the
center of the town’s business.
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“Why, what is this, mother?” cried she. “Wherefore have all the people left
their work to-day? Is it a play-day for the whole world? See, there is the
blacksmith! He has washed his sooty face, and put on his Sabbath-day clothes,
and looks, as if he would gladly be merry, if any kind body would only teach him
how! And there is Master Brackett, the old jailer, nodding and smiling at me.
Why does he do so, mother?”
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“Why, what’s going on, mother?” Pearl cried. “Why have all these people left
work today? Is it a playday for the whole world? Look, there’s the blacksmith!
He has washed his dirty face and put on his Sunday best. He looks as though he
would be jolly, if someone could teach him how! And there’s Master Brackett, the
old jailer, nodding and smiling at me. Why is he doing that, mother?”
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“He remembers thee a little babe, my child,” answered Hester.
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“He remembers you as a little baby, my child,” answered Hester.
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“He should not nod and smile at me, for all that,—the black, grim, ugly-eyed
old man!” said Pearl. “He may nod at thee if he will; for thou art clad in gray,
and wearest the scarlet letter. But, see, mother, how many faces of strange
people, and Indians among them, and sailors! What have they all come to do here
in the market-place?”
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“He shouldn’t nod and smile at me, the mean, grim, ugly-eyed old man!” said
Pearl. “He can nod at you, if he likes, for you are dressed in gray and wearing
the scarlet letter. But see, mother, how many strange faces there are: even
Indians and sailors! What are they all doing here, in the marketplace?”
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“They wait to see the procession pass,” said Hester. “For the Governor and the
magistrates are to go by, and the ministers, and all the great people and good
people, with the music, and the soldiers marching before them.”
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“They are waiting to see the procession,” said Hester. “The Governor and the
magistrates will pass by, and the ministers and all the great people and good
people, with the band and the soldiers marching ahead of them.”
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“And will the minister be there?” asked Pearl. “And will he hold out both his
hands to me, as when thou ledst me to him from the brook-side?”
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“And will the minister be there?” asked Pearl. “And will he hold out his hands
to me, as he did when you led me to him in the forest?”
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“He will be there, child,” answered her mother. “But he will not greet thee
to-day; nor must thou greet him.”
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“He will be there, child,” answered her mother, “but he will not greet you
today. And you must not greet him.”
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“What a strange, sad man is he!” said the child, as if speaking partly to
herself. “In the dark night-time, he calls us to him, and holds thy hand and
mine, as when we stood with him on the scaffold yonder! And in the deep forest,
where only the old trees can hear, and the strip of sky see it, he talks with
thee, sitting on a heap of moss! And he kisses my forehead, too, so that the
little brook would hardly wash it off! But here in the sunny day, and among all
the people, he knows us not; nor must we know him! A strange, sad man is he,
with his hand always over his heart!”
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“What a strange, sad man he is!” said the child, as though speaking half to
herself. “At night he calls us to him, and holds our hands, like that time when
we stood on that platform over there! And in the deep forest, where only the old
trees can hear and the strip of sky can see, he sits on a heap of moss and talks
with you! And he kisses my forehead, too, so that the little brook would hardly
wash it off! But here, in the sunny day and among all the people, he doesn’t
know us—and we can’t know him! A strange, sad man he is, with his hand always
over his heart!”
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“Be quiet, Pearl! Thou understandest not these things,” said her mother.
“Think not now of the minister, but look about thee, and see how cheery is every
body’s face to-day. The children have come from their schools, and the grown
people from their workshops and their fields, on purpose to be happy. For,
to-day, a new man is beginning to rule over them; and so—as has been the custom
of mankind ever since a nation was first gathered—they make merry and rejoice;
as if a good and golden year were at length to pass over the poor old
world!”
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“Be quiet, Pearl—you do not understand these things,” said her mother. “Do not
think of the minister, but look around you and see how cheerful everyone’s face
is today. The children have left their schools. The adults have left their
workshops and fields. They have come here to be happy because a new man is
beginning to rule over them today. So they make merry and rejoice, as if the
coming year will be a good and golden one!”
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It was as Hester said, in regard to the unwonted jollity that brightened the
faces of the people. Into this festal season of the year—as it already was, and
continued to be during the greater part of two centuries—the Puritans compressed
whatever mirth and public joy they deemed allowable to human infirmity; thereby
so far dispelling the customary cloud, that, for the space of a single holiday,
they appeared scarcely more grave than most other communities at a period of
general affliction.
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The scene was as Hester described it: The faces of the people were unusually
bright and jolly. The Puritans compressed the small amount of permitted joy and
happiness into the holiday season, which this was. On those days, the usual
cloud was so completely dispelled that for one day the Puritans seemed no more
serious than a normal community faced with a plague.
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But we perhaps exaggerate the gray or sable tinge, which undoubtedly
characterized the mood and manners of the age. The persons now in the
market-place of Boston had not been born to an inheritance of Puritanic gloom.
They were native Englishmen, whose fathers had lived in the sunny richness of
the Elizabethan epoch; a time when the life of England, viewed as one great
mass, would appear to have been as stately, magnificent, and joyous, as the
world has ever witnessed. Had they followed their hereditary taste, the New
England settlers would have illustrated all events of public importance by
bonfires, banquets, pageantries, and processions. Nor would it have been
impracticable, in the observance of majestic ceremonies, to combine mirthful
recreation with solemnity, and give, as it were, a grotesque and brilliant
embroidery to the great robe of state, which a nation, at such festivals, puts
on. There was some shadow of an attempt of this kind in the mode of celebrating
the day on which the political year of the colony commenced. The dim reflection
of a remembered splendor, a colorless and manifold diluted repetition of what
they had beheld in proud old London,—we will not say at a royal coronation, but
at a Lord Mayor’s show,—might be traced in the customs which our forefathers
instituted, with reference to the annual installation of magistrates. The
fathers and founders of the commonwealth—the statesman, the priest, and the
soldier—deemed it a duty then to assume the outward state and majesty, which, in
accordance with antique style, was looked upon as the proper garb of public or
social eminence. All came forth, to move in procession before the people’s eye,
and thus impart a needed dignity to the single framework of a government so
newly constructed.
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And then again, perhaps I’m exaggerating the darkness of the moods and manners
of the day. The people who filled Boston’s marketplace were not born to inherit
the Puritan gloom. They were native Englishmen, whose fathers had lived in the
sunny richness of Queen Elizabeth’s reign. At that time, the life of England,
viewed as a whole, seems to have been as grand, magnificent, and joyous as
anything the world has ever witnessed. Had they followed in the steps of their
ancestors, the New England settlers would have celebrated all events of public
importance with bonfires, banquets, pageants, and processions. And it would have
been possible, in performing these ceremonies, to combine joyful play with
solemnity and give an eccentric, brilliant embroidery to the great robe of state
that a nation puts on at such festivals. There was a hint of an attempt at this
playfulness in the celebration of political inaugurations. A dim reflection of a
half-remembered splendor, a gray and diluted version of what these settlers had
seen in proud old London, could be observed in our forefathers’ celebration of
the annual installation of magistrates. The leaders of the community—politician,
priest, and soldier—felt it was their duty to put on the older style of dress.
They all moved in a procession before the eyes of the people, giving a needed
dignity to a government so recently formed.
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