Tag Archives: Nathaniel Hawthorne

Alternate Histories

I don’t really like to engage in “what if” history with my students or read alternative histories, but I like the visual images associated with the genre, ostensibly very current but actually quite historical itself.  Renaissance artists inserted anachronistic imagery in their works all the time, partly because they were so immersed in the classical era and could not help drawing comparisons to that time and their own. For example, the northern Renaissance painting The Martyrdom of St. Ursula and the 11,000 Virgins depicts contemporary Turkish soldiers slaying the virgins rather than the legendary Huns.  The Turks had conquered Constantinople in 1453 and were now poised to expand into Europe, whereas the Huns occupied a similar position a millennium before.

The Martyrdom of St. Ursula and the 11,000 Virgins, Master of the St. Ursula Legend, Cologne c. 1492. Victoria and Albert Museum, London.

Invasion seems to be the most popular premise for alternate histories:  the Turks in the Early Modern Era, Napoleon in the nineteenth century, Kaiser Wilhelm and Hitler in the twentieth.  Widely acknowledged to be the first book in an emerging genre of alternate history, Louis Geoffroy’s Histoire de la Monarchie universelle: Napoleon et la conquête du Monde (1836) envisioned a world pacified and modernized under the benevolent dictator Napoleon.  Between the reimagined Napoleonic worlds of the nineteenth century and the reimagined Germanic worlds of the twentieth century is a peculiar little story by Salem’s own Nathaniel Hawthorne, “P’s Correspondence” from Mosses from an Old Manse Volume II, in which the author’s deranged friend P recounts his encounters with Romantic poets of an earlier era in 1845 London.  Hawthorne’s version of Midnight in Paris!  Somehow Napoleon appears here too, completely feeble but still under guard, along with an even more incapacitated Sir Walter Scott.

A beautiful first edition of Geoffroy’s Histoire, a Currier & Ives print of the iconic Napoleon Crossing the Alps by JacquesLouis David (Library of Congress) , and a modern mash-up on a tee-shirt.

The twentieth century, with its succession of invasions and conquests and technology, created a natural environment for alternative histories, increasingly recognized as a genre with a special name:  uchronia (which seems to accommodate both “what if” speculations and constructed worlds).  The classic example is J.C. Squire’s If it Had Happened Otherwise:  Lapses into Imaginary History (1931; also published under a variant title:  If:  Or History Rewritten).  The quality of Squire’s contributors (including Winston Churchill) must have gone some way towards legitimizing the relatively new genre.

The late twentieth-century invention of photoshop brought about a whole new realm of visual alternative histories, and the most charming examples I could find were, of course, on Etsy, in the alternatehistories shop. So here, in sort-of chronological order, are slightly altered images of the signing of the Declaration of Independence in 1776, Chicago during the Columbian Exposition of 1893, and the Green Monster in Boston, just in time for opening day at Fenway next week.


Utopia, not Dystopia

Last week was a bit unnerving, unsettling, disconcerting.  Not only because of the unseasonably warm weather, but also because of a word (or two):  dystopia or dystopian.  The opposite of utopia, not a perfect, elusive place, often in the future, but rather a repressive and hostile place, definitely in the future, where individual freedoms are subjected to some all-powerful system. Whenever I was near a radio or a television,  I kept hearing that word, at least 20 times, more than I have ever heard that word in my life.  The primary contexts for the word were reviews of the Hunger Games film, set in a decidedly dystopian future, and related stories about the popularity of dystopian themes in young adult fiction, which is itself disconcerting.

As is always the case when things are not just quite right for me, I retreat to the past.  What better way to counter dystopia in the present than with some utopias of the past?  I really don’t know that much about ancient history, so I skipped the Garden of Eden, the Isles of the Blessed and Elysian Fields and went back to the Renaissance Utopia, Thomas More’s 1516 book, and then moved forward, more happily, toward the present.

Early Modern Utopias:  More’s Utopia, Tommaso Campanella’s City of the Sun (1602), Bartolomea del Bene’s City of Truth (1609), and Francis Bacon’s New Atlantis (1624).

As you can see (you’ll have to take my word on the cropped Bacon image), all of these utopias are self-contained islands or cities, apart from the corrupt world, and their very existence is a commentary on that world.  It’s also very interesting to me that in these four works, two written by Englishmen and two by Italians, a distinct nationalistic vision of utopia has emerged:  More and Bacon have located their utopias on islands and Campanella’s and del Bene’s utopias are walled cities.  The Italians seem to think they can find utopia through urban planning, which was both an artistic and a logistical enterprise. Not only did the Italian Renaissance inspire and create paintings like Piero della Francesca’s Ideal City (c. 1470) but also the Venetian “development” of Palmanova in 1593, a real “ideal city”.

With the coming of industrialization in the modern era, cities could not possibly be utopian.  The ideal life/world could now only be found in a long-lost Arcadian past or a pastoral enclave in the present.  American utopianism in the nineteenth-century seems to be best represented by the romantic landscapes of the Hudson River Valley school, like Thomas Cole’s Dream of Arcadia below, and social experiments like Brook Farm here in Massachusetts, where Nathaniel Hawthorne spent a few (apparently miserable) months in 1841.  A young and struggling writer at the time, Nathaniel clearly did not find his utopia at Brook Farm:  too much manure.

Thomas Cole, Dream of Arcadia, 1838. Denver Art Museum.

Joseph Wolcott, Brook Farm with Rainbow, 1845. Massachusetts Historical Society.

I’m not sure how the quest for utopia has fared in the twentieth century, and into the twenty-first.  Have we given up on it?  Are utopian ideas and ideals so personal that we don’t have a collective cultural vision?  Is is all about dystopia?  At least in the first part of the century, and despite the dreadful First World War, the Bauhaus movement was definitely driven by utopian ideals as well as the passion for modernism and the desire to integrate art, design and technology.  All of these goals are exemplified by the title and the typography of their publications from the early twenties:  the volumes of  Utopia:  Dokumente der Wirklichkeit (Utopia: Documents of Reality) were designed by Oskar Schlemmer in a style that still looks modern today.

An etching by the American artist Peter Larsen from just about the same time as the beginning of the Bauhaus School shows a decidedly more inaccessible Utopia, like that of Thomas More.  So we’re right back where we began, with those who believe that Utopia is within reach, or at least worth striving for, and those that believe it’s just a fantasy.

Peter Larsen, Utopia,1919. Smithsonian American Art Museum.


Scarlet Letters

A is for…adultery, or Athenaeum?  I was at a meeting of the trustees of the Salem Athenaeum the other night at which we were discussing a new logo for this venerable library.  The design which we were considering featured a very prominent red capital letter A, and all I could think of was The Scarlet Letter.  My concern was that we were tying ourselves too exclusively to Hawthorne, but our discussion quickly revealed that my fellow trustees just didn’t connect the A to the book (or adultery); it was a literary Rorschach test, and all they saw was a letter, not a Scarlet Letter.

Scarlet letters were etched in my mind, so I went in search of some more; I thought it would be interesting to see how an assortment of book illustrators took this simple letter and ran with it.  Surely the illustrations for The Scarlet Letter—most especially the cover—would be a lot more interesting than those for The House of the Seven Gables or any other Hawthorne title.  I was not disappointed, and it was a red letter afternoon.

My very favorite Scarlet Letter cover is that of the Vintage Classics edition published by Random House UK in 2008; it is simple, clever and textured.  Below that cover is the Ruben Toledo illustration for a Penguin edition from the following year.  I like the relatively recent (1994) Dover Thrift Edition as well; this one got me wondering about a field of A’s so I made my own “fabric” via Spoonflower with a cropped image of a seventeenth-century commonplace book.

Earlier editions of The Scarlet Letter are a bit less overt with their A’s.  The first edition was published in 1850, and an illustrated edition was not published until a generation later, with a discreet A on the title pages.  Rather than a badge of shame, the A of the 1878 James R. Osgood edition looks rather heraldic, while those of the editions of 1905 (Grosset & Dunlap), 1920 (Methuen Press, London), 1931 (Cheshire House), and 1941 (my spoonflowered version of the Limited Editions Club cover) look a bit more creative, and also reflect their eras.

I’m afraid to even look for the A in my version of The Scarlet Letter, one of the 22 volumes in the Houghton Mifflin/Riverside Press Complete Writings of Nathaniel Hawthorne (1900), because I fear it might fall apart if I do so!  I found the complete set in a box in a Maine antique shop several years ago and bought it very cheaply because of the books’ deteriorated condition; they had been in a basement for many years, and their leather bindings were (and still are) cracked and their pages mildewed.  I’d like to restore them, but that goal is pretty low on my priority list for now, so I’ve tied them up with ribbons and put them on the bookshelf.  The cloth covers and endpapers are still very beautiful, as you can see.

Hester Prynne bears badges of various designs in the various editions of The Scarlet Letter, but let’s face it, the A has to be pretty prominent.  One of the earliest and most illustrious illustrators, George Henry Boughton, gives the demure Hester a large A patch in 1881, but it is not scarlet. Hugh Thomson’s more romantic Hester, from 1920, wears her scarlet A with nurse-like calm, as does Lillian Gish in the film version from a few years later.

There’s a lot of places that I could go from here because The Scarlet Letter has become so allegorical and the striking scarlet A so…….adaptable, for lack of a better word:  political cartoons (anti-American!), the Atheists‘ Speak Out campaign, Emma Stone in Easy A.  But I think I’ll stick to the scarlet letter, and end with another textual image, from the New Orleans artist Scott Campbell.


Church on Sunday; or, Lions and Tigers and Bears, oh my!

No, this is not a religious post, but rather a brief look at some of the works of the American artist and illustrator Frederick Stuart Church (1842-1924), not to be confused with his better-known, near-contemporary Frederic Edwin Church (1826-1900) of the Hudson River School and Olana fame.  During a brief dusting stint this weekend, I found myself admiring one of my F.S. Church etchings, bought in my early 20s, and it occurred to me that there are very few things I purchased over 20 years ago that I still like, must less admire.  This particular etching, entitled Hop-Frog, is not exactly representative of Church’s work as it is the accompanying illustration to a rather dark story by Edgar Allen Poe.  Nevertheless, it immediately charmed me then and continues to do so now.

Church was a Michigan-born artist who came to New York City in 1873 and seldom left afterwards. Over his long career he published more than a thousand illustrations in popular periodicals like Harper’s Weekly, Century Magazine, and Scribner’s, along with illustrations for several editions of classic children’s books like Aesop’s Fables  and Nathaniel Hawthorne’s Wonder Book for Boys and Girls.  From his Carnegie Hall studio, he ventured out to the Bronx Zoo, the Central Park Menagerie, and performances of Barnum and Bailey’s Circus, inspiration for the whimsical animals that adorn his etchings, prints, letters and notebooks.  My other two Church etchings are The Mermaid (with a seahorse) and Tiger and Bird (the former gazing longingly–but not hungrily–at the latter); these creatures appear often in his works, along with lions, bears (lots of polar bears), owls, and all manner of fauna—sometimes depicted anthropomorphically but always fancifully.


The Lion in Love, 1883. Harvard University Museums

Church’s whimsy is continued in the twentieth century, and in his paintings, including my favorite Tiger Having Eaten the Professor (1905) and the popular Rites of Spring (1908) with its dancing polar bears.

Animals appear in nearly all his works, and Church himself wrote a reflective piece in Scribner’s Magazine entitled “An Artist among Animals” (1893), but there is also a strong feminine presence in his art, though his romantic young women are generally interacting with members of the animal kingdom.  You can see Church’s sylphs above, and below, in print and painting versions of  The Witch’s Daughter (1881, Library of Congress and Smithsonian Institution of American Art), as well as in The Dreamers, Girl with Rabbits (etching and watercolor, both 1886, Smithsonian Institution), and another one of my favorites, The Mirror (1891).

The Mirror (1891, 1898 Print), New York Public Library Digital Gallery.

Over his lifetime, Church seems to have bridged the gap between the fine arts and the commercial arts quite gracefully.  He had his artist friends (including William Merritt Chase, who painted his portrait), and his prominent patrons (to whom he wrote illustrated letters) but also steady publishing work.  He was that rare creature:  a popular artist.  As I began with a Church illustration of a Poe composition, so I will end:  with The Devil in the Belfry, the title page to Volume IV of the collected Works of Edgar Allen Poe, published in 1884 by A.C. Armstrong & Sons.


A Secretive Salem House

There is an old abandoned house in Salem situated alongside the Old Burying Point on Charter Street which almost seems like it is part of the graveyard.  This is the so-called “Grimshawe House”, named for a posthumously-published story by Nathaniel Hawthorne, Dr. Grimshawe’s Secret.  The Hawthorne connection to the house began in the 1830s, as it was then presumably a lively place as the residence of Dr. Peabody and his three daughters, Elizabeth, Mary, and Sophia–Nathaniel’s future wife.  And so it also became known, in the words of several popular early twentieth-century postcards, as “Hawthorne’s Courting House”.  Given its abandonment and present state of disrepair (as well as its site), I think that the romantic associations of the house are now largely forgotten; every time I pass by I see tourists having their pictures taken in front of what they perceive as a ghostly, perhaps haunted house.

And who can blame them?  This is the characterization that Hawthorne gives the house in both Dr. Grimshawe’s Secret, and another unfinished work which was also published after his death (against his stated wishes, apparently), The Dolliver Romance.  Both stories feature old eccentric doctors rattling around in their gloomy house by the graveyard.  The narrator of  Dr. Grimshawe observes that  “….the old house itself, covering ground which else had been sown thickly with buried bodies, partook of [the graveyard’s] dreariness, because it seemed hardly possible that the dead people should not get up out of their graves and steal in to warm themselves at this convenient fireside.”  Of course, the dead people to which Hawthorne is referring to are his own Hathorne relatives, resting out there while he courted his future wife in the front parlor.  What a small world he lived in; no wonder he often seemed desperate to get out of Salem.

The House today (or yesterday):

The House a century ago:  a 1906 photograph published by the Detroit Publishing Company, and a pair of postcards from 1911 and 1923:

A Frank Cousins photograph of the doorway of the Grimshawe House, circa 1891, and the present doorway.

This house has been in this state for as long as I’ve lived in Salem, and I have no idea what the future holds for it, although (apart from the graveyard) its general neighborhood has improved quite a bit in the last decade or so, with the transformation of the old Police Station across the street into condominiums and the addition of the Peabody Essex Museum‘s eighteenth-century house, Yin Yu Tang.

Addendum:  SPIDERS play a big role in Dr. Grimshawe’s Secret, as evidenced by this title page illustration from the 1883 edition, below.  I really like the image, and I couldn’t help comparing it to the Halloween decorations (already!  It is Salem, after all) on a house several streets over from the Grimshawe House.


The Fourth in Salem: Horribles and Hawthorne

Actually, I’m not in Salem for this holiday weekend; I’m in southern Maine with my family.  But I’m very aware of what is going on (down) there, as July 4th is a day not only for commemorating the birth of the United States, but also of Salem’s own Nathaniel Hawthorne.  The day begins with two very different traditions:  a public reading of the Declaration of Independence on the Common and the Horribles parade in Salem Willows.  I’m sure that the reading will be very reverent (as well as relevant) and the parade will be very irreverent (but also relevant).  Horribles parades, which happen up and down the North Shore and I think in other areas of New England as well, feature often rather racy costumes, makeshift bands and floats, all adding up to political and social mockery.  I am sure that the reading of the Declaration on the Common, at about the same time, will be a more solemn occasion, but probably not as much fun.

a 1776 Declaration printed by Ezekiel Russell in Salem about July 15 or 16.

To mark Nathaniel’s birthday, the House of the Seven Gables will host a marathon reading of their namesake book, all day long from 9:30 to 6 pm.  Besides the House of the Seven Gables (the house, not the book, formally known as the Turner-Ingersoll Mansion) the Gables campus features a beautiful colonial garden and Hawthorne’s birthplace, moved from nearby Union Street in 1958.

a print of the dashing portrait of Hawthorne by George Osgood, 1840. The original painting is in the Peabody Essex Museum

Hawthorne's birthplace in its original location, HABS, Library of Congress

And of course fireworks at the end of the day, preceded by a concert on Derby Wharf.  Happy Fourth to everyone, everywhere.


Houses on the Move

There are countless ways that our ancestors were more environmental than us, though of course they didn’t see it that way:  they just didn’t like to waste.  Anything.  The whole idea of  “tear downs” would have been repellent to most people (maybe not nouveau riche millionaires) a century and more ago; if they wanted a bigger house or a house in another location, they just added on or moved the entire structure:  with horses, with oxen, by rail.  This still happens; the huge new courthouse project that is now coming to a close in Salem involved the moving of a huge brick Baptist Church and the preservationist practice of selling endangered houses for a dollar with the stipulation that they be moved is pretty standard.  But it is far less common than it was in the nineteenth century, when one gets the impression that there were many houses on the move.

The First Baptist Church on the move, January 2009 and the moving of the Peter Green house in Providence last year.

This post is one of several that I could do on houses that have been moved in Salem.  Like many older cities in the east, both public and private motivations have resulted in lots of building relocations. I have excluded the houses that have been moved by the House of the Seven Gables and the Peabody Essex Museum, both of which created “museum neighborhoods” by moving historic structures.  The latter wins the award for the house that has moved the farthest distance:  its eighteenth-century Chinese house, Yin Yu Tang, came from halfway around the world!  But even excluding these institutions, there are lots of Salem houses that have been moved, in their entirety, or in pieces.

I’m starting out with one of my very favorite houses, the Robert Manning cottage on Dearborn Street in North Salem.  This adorable  Dutch Colonial cottage was built by Nathaniel Hawthorne’s maternal uncle Robert Manning for his widowed sister, and Nathaniel lived there with his mother after his graduation from Bowdoin College.  The cottage was then across and down the street from its present location, adjacent to Manning’s own house and famous nursery, orchard and garden.  After the house passed out of the Manning family in the 1850s  it was relocated, though its original ell remained behind.

Frank Cousins Photograph, 1901

A more challenging move, both in terms of bulk and distance,  involved the Mason-Roberts-Colby-Nichols House, which was transferred from the Common to Federal Street by 60 oxen in 1818.  The relocated house then underwent a Federal makeover and acquired several additions, including the “Beverly jog” seen below.

Relocation following redevelopment: many houses in Salem were moved because of street widening and other infrastructural modifications and larger institutional building projects.  The two Georgian colonial houses below were removed from St. Peter Street to nearby Kimball Court to make way for the St. John the Baptist Church complex at the turn of the last century.  The white house on Kimball Court (which acquired some interesting pillars after its move) is one of  several houses in Salem associated with the famed navigator Nathaniel Bowditch; the other Bowditch house (the present-day headquarters of Historic Salem, Inc.), where he lived for over a decade was moved (along with the Jonathan Corwin house) to make way for street-widening in 1944.

The Bowditch (Curwen) House in its original Essex Street location: a Frank Cousins photograph circa 1900

Bowdith house corrected

And here in its proper (past) situation–thanks to Mark Coughlin!

The Bowditch House today: around the corner on North Street

The sum of all their parts:  often houses were not moved in their entirety, but in pieces, and either reconfigured in a new enlarged house or attached to a pre-existing house in another location.  It is a quite a feat to figure out when and where and how precisely all this disassembling and reassembling happened in Salem, or any other similar town, but here are a few examples of  it:  another house with Bowditch connections, a portion of which was the Samuel Curwen house and store, an interesting house moved to a side street off Derby Street in 1856 which seems to consist of at least three, if not more, earlier houses, and the amazing Benjamin Punchard house on Federal Street, whose origins are somewhat shrouded in mystery but is believed to be a product of a colonial building moved to the site a decade before the American Revolution and later Federal-era additions.

The most interesting example of a partially relocated and reconstituted house is the Phillips House on Chestnut Street, now one of Historic New England‘s properties.  The house was erected (or assembled) in 1821 by Captain Nathaniel West, who moved part of  Oak Hill, the magnificent country estate of his deceased ex-wife (Elizabeth Derby West, daughter of Elias Hasket Derby, Salem’s wealthiest merchant and perhaps America’s first millionaire) in nearby South Danvers (now Peabody) to Chestnut Street and added additional rooms to create a new (late) Federal mansion.  Mrs. West had wanted the Captain to have nothing to do with Oak Hill, but after both her death and that of one of their daughters, he inherited a third of the estate and promptly removed his inheritance to Salem, creating a “spite house” of sorts just down the road!  A century later, the Phillips family commissioned architect William Rantoul to remodel the Chestnut Street house in the Colonial Revival style, and later still, sadly, Oak Hill was demolished to make way for the Northshore Mall.

The Phillips House in 1940, HABS, Library of Congress.  Frank O. Branzetti, Photographer.


The Hawthorne Diaries

The Morgan Museum & Library in New York City has a great exhibition (among several) on entitled The Diary:  Three Centuries of Private Lives which features a range of seemingly-private journals, from the first printed edition of St. Augustine’s Confessions to Bob Dylan’s record of his 1974 concert tour, with Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Queen Victoria, Albert Einstein and Tennessee Williams (among others) in between.  Taken together, the collection raises questions about the motivations behind diary-keeping in general and reveals lots of little personal details about public figures in particular.  Two nineteenth-century Massachusetts authors figure prominently in the exhibition:  Henry David Thoreau and Nathaniel Hawthorne.

Actually it’s the Hawthorne family who are featured in the Morgan exhibition.  Nathaniel Hawthorne and his wife, Sophia Peabody Hawthorne, together kept  journals which were not so private; they shared them with each other, made responsive comments, and later their children added illustrations.  The end results were Hawthorne marriage and family  journals.  Both the Hawthornes were great diarists, giving us insights into his years toiling as a public servant in Boston and Liverpool and her views of Civil War-era Concord, but the diaries in the Morgan exhibition are unique because of their collective nature.  The first joint Hawthorne diary is also available in published form, as Ordinary Mysteries.  The Common Journal of Nathaniel and Sophia Hawthorne, 1842-43, edited by Nicholas R. Lawrence and Marta L. Werner.

Diary of Nathaniel and Sophia Hawthorne, Purchased by Pierpoint Morgan, 1909. Morgan Museum & Library

Despite their focus on the family, the Morgan diaries do reveal insights into  Hawthorne’s creative process, including his idea for a story about “the life of a woman, who, by the old colony law, was condemned always to wear the letter A sewed on her garment, in token of her having committed adultery”.  Notes for A Scarlet Letter, published this very week in 1850.  Below are two daguerreotypes taken of Hawthorne and two of  his children at just about that time,  and a postcard of t 14 Mall Street, the Hawthorne’s last Salem house, where he wrote his first bestseller.

Nathaniel Hawthorne, c. 1848-1850, Library of Congress

Julian and Una Hawthorne, c. 1850. Boston Athenaeum


“Great Snows” of 1717 and 2010

Very snowy day in Salem, though hardly as dramatic as the “Great Snow of 1717” which buried New England under five feet of snow and drifts of 25 feet or more for several weeks.  This big event is recorded by many Massachusetts notables, including contemporaries Cotton Mather and Samuel Sewall and Salem’s own Nathaniel Hawthorne—over a century later.  Hawthorne had a complicated relationship with his native city, which is evident not only by the addition of the “w” in his name to differentiate himself from his witch trial judge ancestor John Hathorne, but also by many of his works.  Nevertheless, the city also furnished him with lots of material and he remains inextricably tied to it.  From my perspective as a historian, one of Hawthorne’s best Salem works is his short story Main Street, published in 1852 in a collection entitled The Snow Image and Other Twice-Told Tales.  This little story presents its readers with Salem’s colonial history from a very Hawthornian perspective:  the author takes on his witch-hunting and privateering ancestors and Cotton Mather as well.  He also gives us a nice description of snowy Salem in 1717, but not quite today: 

     The Main Street has vanished out of sight.  In its stead appears a wintry waste of snow, with the sun just peeping over it, cold and bright, and tingeing the white expanse with the faintest and most ethereal rose-color.  This is the Great Snow of 1717, famous for the mountain drifts in which is buried the whole country.  It would seem as if the street, the growth of which we have noted so attentively, following it from its first phase, as an Indian track, until it reached the dignity of sidewalks, were all at once obliterated, and resolved into a drearier pathlessness than when the forest covered it.  The gigantic swells and billows of the snow have swept over each man’s metes and bounds, and annihilated all the visible distinctions of human property.  So that now the traces of former times and hitherto accomplished deeds being done away, mankind should be at liberty to enter on new paths, and guide themselves by other laws then heretofore; if, indeed, the race be not extinct, and it be worth our while to go on with the march of life, over the cold and desolate expanse that lies before us.  It may be, however, that matters are not so desperate as they appear.  That vast icicle, glittering so cheerlessly in the sunshire, must be the spire of the meeting-house, incrusted with frozen sleet.  Those great heaps, too, which we mistook for drifts, are houses, buried up to their eaves, and with their peaked roofs rounded by the depth of snow upon them.  There, now, comes a gush of smoke from what I judge to be the chimney of the Ship Tavern; and another—another—and another—from the chimneys of the other dwellings, where fireside comfort, domestic peace, the sports of children, and the quietude of age are living yet, in spite of the frozen crust above them.

Pictures from my little corner of Salem today:  lower Chesnut Street and Samuel McIntire’s Hamilton Hall (1805).  Clearly, “all the visible distinctions of human property” survived the storm.