The showman rubs his brow impulsively, whisks the little rod with which
he points out the notabilities of the scene, but, finally, with the
inevitable acquiescence of all public servants, resumes his composure and
goes on.

Pass onward, onward, Time! Build up new houses here, and tear down thy
works of yesterday, that have already the rusty moss upon them! Summon
forth the minister to the abode of the young maiden, and bid him unite
her to the joyful bridegroom! Let the youthful parents carry their
first-born to the meeting-house, to receive the baptismal rite! Knock at
the door, whence the sable line of the funeral is next to issue! Provide
other successive generations of men, to trade, talk, quarrel, or walk in
friendly intercourse along the street, as their fathers did before them!
Do all thy daily and accustomed business, Father Time, in this
thoroughfare, which thy footsteps, for so many years, have now made
dusty! But here, at last, thou leadest along a procession which, once
witnessed, shall appear no more, and be remembered only as a hideous
dream of thine, or a frenzy of thy old brain.

"Turn your crank, I say," bellows the remorseless critic, "and grind it
out, whatever it be, without further preface!"

The showman deems it best to comply.

Then, here comes the worshipful Captain Curwen, sheriff of Essex, on
horseback, at the head of an armed guard, escorting a company of
condemned prisoners from the jail to their place of execution on Gallows
Hill. The witches! There is no mistaking them! The witches! As they
approach up Prison Lane, and turn into the Main Street, let us watch