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A throng of bearded men，in sad-colored garments and gray steeple-crowned hats，intermixed with women，some wearing hoods and others bareheaded，was assembled in front of a wooden edifice，the door of which was heavily timbered with oak and studded with iron spikes.
The founders of a new colony，whatever Utopia of human virtue and happiness they might originally project，have invariably recognized it among their earliest practical necessities to allot a portion of the virgin soil as a cemetery，and another portion as the site of a prison.In accordance with this rule，it may safely be assumed that the forefathers of Boston had built the fast prison-house somewhere in the vicinity of Cornhill，almost as seasonably as they marked out the first burial-ground，on Isaac Johnson’s lot，and round about his grave，which subsequently became the nucleus of all the congregated sepulchres in the old churchyard of King’s Chapel.Certain it is that，some fifteen or twenty years after the settlement of the town，the wooden jail was already marked with weatherstains and other indications of age，which gave a yet darker aspect to its beetle-browed and gloomy front.The rust on the ponderous iron-work of its oaken door looked more antique than anything else in the New World.Like all that pertains to crime，it seemed，never to have known a youthful era.Before this ugly edifice，and between it and the wheel-track of the street，was a grassplot，much overgrown with burdock，pigweed，apple-peru，and such unsightly vegetation，winch evidently found something congenial in the soil that had so early borne the black flower of civilized society a prison.But on one side of the portal，and rooted almost at the threshold，was a wild rose-bush，covered，in this month of June，with its delicate gems，which might be imagined to offer their fragrance and fragile beauty to the prisoner as he went in，and to the condemned criminal as he came forth to his doom，in token that the deep heart of Nature could pity and be kind to him.
This ruse-bush，by a strange chance，has been kept alive in history；but whether it had merely survived out of the stem old wilderness，so long after the fall of the gigantic pines and oaks that originally overshadowed it，or whether，as there is fair authority for believing，it had sprung up under the footsteps of the sainted Ann Hutchinson as she entered the prison-door，we shall not take upon us to determine.Finding it so directly on the threshold of our narrative，which is now about to issue from that inauspicious portal，we could hardly do otherwise than pluck one of its flowers and present it to the reader.It may serve，let us hope，to symbolize some sweet moral blossom that may be found along the track，or relieve the darkening close of a tale of human frailty and sorrow.

1Fred Cooke of Salford turned 90two days ago and the world has been beating a path to his door.If you haven’t noticed，the backstreet boy educated at Blackpool grammar styles himself more grandly as Alastair Cooke，broadcaster extraordinaire.An honorable KBE，he would be Sir Alastair if he had not taken American citizenship more than half a century ago.
2If it sounds snobbish to draw attention to his humble origins，it should be reflected that the real snob is Cooke himself，who has spent a lifetime disguising them.But the fact that he opted to renounce his British passport in 1941--just when his country needed all the wartime help it could get --is hardly a matter for congratulation.
3Cooke has made a fortune out of his love affair with America，entrancing listeners with a weekly monologue that has won Radio 4many devoted adherents.Part of the pull is the developed drawl.This is the man who gave the world ’midatlantic’，the language of the disc jockey and public relations man.
4He sounds American to us and English to them，while in reality he has for decades belonged to neither.Cooke’s world is an America that exists largely in the imagination.He took ages to acknowledge the disaster that was Vietnam and even longer to wake up to Watergate.His politics have drifted to the right with age，and most of his opinions have been acquired on the golf course with fellow celebrities.
5He chased after stars on arrival in America，fixing up an interview with Charlie Chaplin and briefly becoming his friend.He told Cooke he could turn him into a fine light comedian；instead he is an impressionist’s dream.
6Cooke liked the sound of his first wife’s name almost as much as he admired her good looks.But he found bringing up baby difficult and left her for the wife of his landlord.
7Women listeners were unimpressed when，in 1996，he declared on air that the fact that 4%of women in the American armed forces were raped showed remarkable self-restraint on the part of Uncle Sam’s soldiers.His arrogance in not allowing BBC editors to see his script.in advance worked，not for the first time，to his detriment.His defenders said he could not help living with the 1930s values he had acquired and somewhat dubiously went on to cite ’gallantry’as chief among them.Cooke’s raconteur style.encouraged a whole generation of BBC men to think of themselves as more important than the story.His treacly tones were the model for the regular World Service reports From Our Own Correspondent，known as FOOCs in the business.They may yet be his epitaph.