These days, apparently, October is the month to visit Salem, Massachussetts. This town, just a short thirty-minute train-ride northeast of Boston, owes its fame to the killing of twenty innocent men and women, plus an additional five who died in the town jail, back in 1692. Accused of witchcraft—although probably a likely excuse to acquire disputed land—in Puritan New England men and women, old and young, were hanged on Gallows Hill (one person, pressed to death, died in a manner more horribly than by the rope). Others were tortured in order to confess their sins, and this stain on the town of Salem has never really left it, even after more than 400 years. Harsh judges, steeped in religious superstition, handed down sentences of death based on dubious evidence. Locals later repented their actions, but for many it was far, far too late.
Today, the town of Salem (at least the economically minded side), makes a killing on its history of those killings. Stroll down Essex Street Mall, and you’ll find a Witch Mansion, Professor Spindlewink’s World of Wizardry, and various haunted house hawkers amid a multitude of touristy shops selling witch-related items short of Harry Potter knock-offs. In a nearby graveyard is the Salem Witch Trials Memorial, and a few blocks away the Salem Witch Museum. There’s even a torture museum, for those so inclined. I was happy to stroll along other places.
Salem’s also home to the massive Peabody Essex Museum (PEM), a venerable institution with wonderful (and mostly not witch-related) exhibits and notable paintings, well worth a visit for anyone interested in art and/or history (also, there is was an exhibit on the people who were accused of witchcraft and killed, which was illuminating). The city of Salem itself is notable for being the birthplace of America’s greatest 19th century writer, Nathaniel Hawthorne.
In Salem also sits the actual house of the seven gables, now a museum, but once the subject of Hawthorne’s second novel. Nathaniel Hawthorne, whose venerable ancestor was one of the harsh judges who condemned the so-called witches to death, wrote many tales set in and around Salem, notably The Scarlet Letter, an attack on Puritanism in its many forms. Hawthorne also left the city in disgust after being tossed from his job at the Custom House when a new administration came to power and replaced many individuals from a different political bent. Salem, today recognizes its most famous inhabitant with a street name, a hotel, and a statue in a central location (and probably other nods and recognitions).
In early September this year, rather than in the madness of the Halloween-related month of October, I took the commuter train from Boston to Salem. The atmosphere in North Station in Boston, while waiting for the signal to board the train, likely merits its own long essay. But, I will skip that effort, as I still bear the scars of the mad rush through the doors once the platform was announces, just 10 minutes prior to departure.
Years ago, as an English major in college, I’d read Hawthorne and many of his contemporaries. That middle 19th century period was perhaps my favorite when it came to American writers: Hawthorne, Herman Melville, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Edgar Allan Poe, Henry David Thoreau all made an indelible impression on me, and I read many of their books. Aside from Hawthorne, Salem is the center of early American superstition gone wild, and so a destination-place for anyone in the Boston area. Naive as I am regarding the present, I thought for some reason that Salem was still a somewhat small village, not the enterprising locale attracting visitors goggling at witchcraft and wizardry related stuff.
Leaving the train station, I was surprised at the large crowd rushing up Washington Street. I later found that their likely destination was the Essex Pedestrian Mall, unless it was the cemetery, or maybe Gallows Hill Park (now a baseball field and skate park, it appears). Instead, I took a left turn and walked down Bridge Street. I passed by the old Salem jail lot, made a right turn and ended up near the Salem Witch Museum. There was already a line, and booking were apparently only available online via a QR code. Upon learning it was mostly a video presentation, I skipped it, and walked toward the center of town. I spent an hour in the PEM, perusing various exhibits, then wandered about town, shuddering as I walked along the Essex Pedestrian Mall. Looking for lunch, a decision was made to find something near the wharf. A walk along Derby Street took me to Pickering Wharf, and then Finz Salem, a seafood restaurant, where I enjoyed a decent plate of fish and chips and local lager.
After lunch I walked passed the Historic Central Wharf, then along the length of the next wharf, where I passed the Friendship of Salem ship (now closed). I circled the Derby Wharf Light Station at the end, and returned the way I came, wondering how this area looked like back in the 1840s, and even the 1640s. It’s a city now choked with houses and businesses. Sure, some of the houses bear plaques as to when they were built, dating back to the seventeen or eighteen hundreds, but there are many new buildings. Salem, after all, is history, but history is fluid. Even though Hawthorne fled this city to Lenox in western Massachussetts, and later to Italy, he could never quite escape history, and remains connected to Salem more than any place today.
Nearby the Historic Central Wharf stood The House of the Seven Gables museum. As I didn’t care to spend another hour (and more money) to wander its rooms (and likely buy some Hawthorne edition of a book that I probably already owned), I simply walked around it, as much as was possible. Perhaps I’ll return to this strange town. if I do so, I hope it’s not during October, where all those witch-mad people storm the town, and also hawk their goods. Maybe, I’d even stay at a local hotel, drawn by the name of that notable scion of Salem. Then, I’ll check out this seven gables museum, perhaps in a more quiet moment, and also buy more books. After all, I do have a compulsion to buy books, and marking a book or more as “from Salem” might mean something to me, if only briefly.
On the way back to the train station, a sprinkling of rain fell, and I wondered about winter and Hawthorne’s dislike of the east wind that haunted this town. Did luck strike with an otherwise warm September day? Briefly, wandering the remote streets, I saw a rabbit in poke its head out a small yard and then disappear. I found this strange, as I was far from the countryside. Then again, I’ve spotted rabbits while in suburban Medford just outside Boston proper, so perhaps this sight was normal in New England, just as squirr. I paid homage to the Hawthorne statue, walked past the Hawthorne Hotel, and wondered what old Nathaniel would have thought had he witnessed Salem in 2026. Probably he would have shaken his head, made a disparaging remark or two, and disavowed any association with his birthplace, as he did back in 1849.
Having seen but a fraction of Salem, but also having become once more aware of Hawthorne as a person and writer, I’m now reading a biography of this person; it’s a book I bought years ago, but never touched, until I dug it out from behind a stack of books covering that time-period in American life and fiction. I’ve also gone ahead and arranged many of his books in order, and now plan to read or read them this Fall. I still remember a few of his stories from many decades ago when I read them in college, and look forward to revisiting them with the experience of having, at least, been to New England. Life is strange, indeed, as I never expected to visit that area of America. Now that I’ve been there, the lives of many of its writerly inhabitants suddenly has a greater meaning, and I feel the need to take another look at their lives and what they wrote.
I’ve even sketched out an itinerary to hike Katahdin, to walk in the footsteps of Henry David Thoreau, another of my literary (and personal) heroes. Perhaps that’s my own great awakening.
