This is a modern-English version of "Browne's Folly": (From: "The Doliver Romance and Other Pieces: Tales and Sketches"), originally written by Hawthorne, Nathaniel. It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling, and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If you click on a paragraph, you will see the original text that we modified, and you can toggle between the two versions.

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      THE DOLIVER ROMANCE AND OTHER PIECES





      TALES AND SKETCHES





      By Nathaniel Hawthorne












      "BROWNE'S FOLLY."














      The Wayside, August 28, 1860.
    
The Wayside, August 28, 1860.



      MY DEAR COUSIN:—I should be very glad to write a story, as you
      request, for the benefit of the Essex Institute, or for any other purpose
      that might be deemed desirable by my native townspeople. But it is now
      many years since the epoch of the "Twice-Told Tales," and the "Mosses from
      an Old Manse"; and my mind seems to have lost the plan and measure of
      those little narratives, in which it was once so unprofitably fertile. I
      can write no story, therefore; but (rather than be entirely wanting to the
      occasion) I will endeavor to describe a spot near Salem, on which it was
      once my purpose to locate such a dreamy fiction as you now demand of me.
    
MY DEAR COUSIN:—I would be very happy to write a story, as you asked, for the Essex Institute's benefit or for any other purpose that my hometown might find valuable. However, it has been many years since the time of the "Twice-Told Tales" and "Mosses from an Old Manse," and my creativity seems to have lost the structure and inspiration of those little stories, in which I used to be so extravagantly imaginative. So, I can't write a story right now; but (rather than not contribute at all) I will try to describe a place near Salem, where I once intended to set a dreamy tale that you are now asking of me.



      It is no other than that conspicuous hill (I really know not whether it
      lies in Salem, Danvers, or Beverly) which used in my younger days to be
      known by the name of "Brown's Folly." This eminence is a long ridge rising
      out of the level country around, like a whale's back out of a calm sea,
      with the head and tail beneath the surface. Along its base ran a green and
      seldom-trodden lane, with which I was very familiar in my boyhood; and
      there was a little brook, which I remember to have dammed up till its
      overflow made a mimic ocean. When I last looked for this tiny streamlet,
      which was still rippling freshly through my memory, I found it strangely
      shrunken; a mere ditch indeed, and almost a dry one. But the green lane
      was still there, precisely as I remembered it; two wheel-tracks, and the
      beaten path of the horses' feet, and grassy strips between; the whole
      overshadowed by tall locust-trees, and the prevalent barberry-bushes,
      which are rooted so fondly into the recollections of every Essex man.
    
It’s none other than that noticeable hill (I honestly can’t say whether it’s in Salem, Danvers, or Beverly) that used to be called "Brown's Folly" when I was younger. This hill is a long ridge that rises out of the flat land around it, like a whale's back rising from a calm sea, with its head and tail below the surface. Along its base, there was a green, rarely-used path that I was very familiar with as a kid; and there was a small brook that I remember damming up until it overflowed and created a little ocean. When I looked for this tiny stream again, which I still remembered clearly, I found it oddly diminished; just a mere ditch, and almost dry. But the green path was still there, exactly as I recalled; two tire tracks and the trail made by horses' hooves, with grassy strips in between; all overshadowed by tall locust trees and the abundant barberry bushes, which are so deeply woven into the memories of every Essex resident.



      From this lane there is a steep ascent up the side of the hill, the ridge
      of which affords two views of very wide extent and variety. On one side is
      the ocean, and Salem and Beverly on its shores; on the other a rural
      scene, almost perfectly level, so that each man's metes and bounds can be
      traced out as on a map. The beholder takes in at a glance the estates on
      which different families have long been situated, and the houses where
      they have dwelt, and cherished their various interests, intermarrying,
      agreeing together, or quarrelling, going to live, annexing little bits of
      real estate, acting out their petty parts in life, and sleeping quietly
      under the sod at last. A man's individual affairs look not so very
      important, when we can climb high enough to get the idea of a complicated
      neighborhood.
    
From this path, there's a steep climb up the side of the hill, which offers two wide and varied views. One side overlooks the ocean, with Salem and Beverly along its shores; the other presents a nearly flat rural landscape, where you can see the outlines of each person's property as if it were on a map. You can take in the estates where different families have long settled, the homes they've lived in, and the interests they've nurtured—intermarrying, getting along, or having conflicts, moving in, adding small pieces of land, playing out their minor roles in life, and finally resting peacefully beneath the ground. Individual affairs don’t seem so significant when you can climb high enough to appreciate the complexity of a neighborhood.



      But what made the hill particularly interesting to me, were the traces of
      an old and long-vanished edifice, midway on the curving ridge, and at its
      highest point. A pre-revolutionary magnate, the representative of a famous
      old Salem family, had here built himself a pleasure house, on a scale of
      magnificence, which, combined with its airy site and difficult approach,
      obtained for it and for the entire hill on which it stood, the
      traditionary title of "Browne's Folly." Whether a folly or no, the house
      was certainly an unfortunate one. While still in its glory, it was so
      tremendously shaken by the earthquake of 1755 that the owner dared no
      longer reside in it; and practically acknowledging that its ambitious site
      rendered it indeed a Folly, he proceeded to locate it on—humbler
      ground. The great house actually took up its march along the declining
      ridge of the bill, and came safely to the bottom, where it stood till
      within the memory of men now alive.
    
But what made the hill particularly interesting to me were the remnants of an old, long-gone building, located midway on the curving ridge and at its highest point. A pre-revolutionary wealthy landowner, from a well-known old Salem family, had built a grand pleasure house here, which, along with its lofty location and hard-to-reach access, earned it and the entire hill the nickname "Browne's Folly." Whether it was a folly or not, the house was certainly unfortunate. Even at its peak, it was so severely shaken by the earthquake of 1755 that the owner could no longer live in it; and effectively admitting that its lofty location made it indeed a Folly, he decided to move it to—simpler ground. The great house actually made its way down the declining ridge of the hill and safely settled at the bottom, where it stood until within the memory of living people.



      The proprietor, meanwhile, had adhered to the Royalist side, and fled to
      England during the Revolution. The mansion was left under the care of
      Richard Derby (an ancestor of the present Derby family), who had a claim
      to the Browne property through his wife, but seems to have held the
      premises precisely as the refugee left them, for a long term of years, in
      the expectation of his eventual return. The house remained, with all its
      furniture in its spacious rooms and chambers, ready for the exile's
      occupancy, as soon as he should reappear. As time went on, however, it
      began to be neglected, and was accessible to whatever vagrant, or idle
      school-boy, or berrying party might choose to enter through its
      ill-secured windows.
    
The owner, meanwhile, had sided with the Royalists and fled to England during the Revolution. The mansion was left in the care of Richard Derby (an ancestor of the current Derby family), who had a claim to the Browne property through his wife. He seems to have maintained the property exactly as the refugee left it for many years, hoping for his eventual return. The house remained, with all its furniture in its spacious rooms and chambers, ready for the exile to move back in as soon as he reappeared. However, as time passed, it began to fall into disrepair and became accessible to any vagrant, idle schoolboy, or berry-picking group that wanted to enter through its poorly secured windows.



      But there was one closet in the house, which everybody was afraid to
      enter, it being supposed that an evil spirit—perhaps a domestic
      Demon of the Browne family—was confined in it. One day, three or
      four score years ago, some school-boys happened to be playing in the
      deserted chambers, and took it into their heads to develop the secrets of
      this mysterious closet. With great difficulty and tremor they succeeded in
      forcing the door. As it flew open, there was a vision of people in
      garments of antique magnificence,—gentlemen in curled wigs and
      tarnished gold-lace, and ladies in brocade and quaint head-dresses,
      rushing tumultuously forth and tumbling upon the floor. The urchins took
      to their heels, in huge dismay, but crept back, after a while, and
      discovered that the apparition was composed of a mighty pile of family
      portraits. I had the story, the better part of a hundred years afterwards,
      from the very school-boy who pried open the closet door.
    
But there was one closet in the house that everyone was afraid to enter, as it was believed that an evil spirit—maybe a household Demon of the Browne family—was trapped inside. One day, three or four score years ago, some schoolboys were playing in the empty rooms and decided to uncover the secrets of this mysterious closet. After much effort and trembling, they managed to force the door open. As it swung wide, they were met with a sight of people in clothes of old-time splendor—gentlemen in curled wigs and faded gold lace, and ladies in brocade with strange headpieces, rushing out and tumbling to the floor. The boys ran away in fright but crept back after a while and realized that the "ghosts" were just a large pile of family portraits. I heard the story a hundred years later from the very schoolboy who opened the closet door.



      After standing many years at the foot of the hill, the house was again
      removed in three portions, and was fashioned into three separate
      dwellings, which, for aught I know, are yet extant in Danvers.
    
After standing for many years at the bottom of the hill, the house was taken down again in three pieces and turned into three separate homes, which, for all I know, are still around in Danvers.



      The ancient site of this proud mansion may still be traced (or could have
      been ten years ago) upon the summit of the hill. It consisted of two
      spacious wings, connected by an intermediate hall of entrance, which
      fronted lengthwise upon the ridge. Two shallow and grass-grown cavities
      remain, of what were once the deep and richly stored cellars under the two
      wings; and between them is the outline of the connecting hall, about as
      deep as a plough furrow, and somewhat greener than the surrounding sod.
      The two cellars are still deep enough to shelter a visitor from the fresh
      breezes that haunt the summit of the hill; and barberry-hushes clustering
      within them offer the harsh acidity of their fruits, instead of the rich
      wines which the colonial magnate was wont to store there for his guests.
      There I have sometimes sat and tried to rebuild, in my imagination, the
      stately house, or to fancy what a splendid show it must have made even so
      far off as in the streets of Salem, when the old proprietor illuminated
      his many windows to celebrate the King's birthday.
    
The old site of this impressive mansion can still be found (or could have been ten years ago) at the top of the hill. It had two large wings connected by a central entrance hall that ran lengthwise along the ridge. Two shallow, grassy depressions remain where the deep, well-stocked cellars used to be under the wings, and between them is the outline of the connecting hall, as shallow as a plow furrow and somewhat greener than the grass around it. The two cellars are still deep enough to provide shelter from the fresh breezes that blow across the hilltop, and barberry bushes growing inside offer the sour taste of their fruits instead of the fine wines that the colonial owner once stored there for his guests. I sometimes sat there, trying to picture the grand house in my mind or imagining how splendid it must have looked from as far away as the streets of Salem when the old owner lit up all his windows to celebrate the King’s birthday.



      I have quite forgotten what story I once purposed writing about "Brown's
      Folly," and I freely offer the theme and site to any of my young townsmen,
      who may be addicted with the same tendency towards fanciful narratives
      which haunted me in my youth and long afterwards.
    
I completely forgot what story I intended to write about "Brown's Folly," and I happily give the idea and location to any of the young locals who might share my interest in imaginative tales that captured my imagination in my youth and long after.



      Truly yours,
    
Sincerely yours,



      NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
    
Nathanael Hawthorne.


















        
        
    

    
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