young goodman brown

Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1835

YOUNG GOODMAN BROWN came forth at

sunset, into the street of Salem village, but

put his head back, after crossing the

threshold, to exchange a parting kiss with his

young wife. And Faith, as the wife was aptly

named, thrust her own pretty head into the

street, letting the wind play with the pink

ribbons of her cap, while she called to

Goodman Brown.

"Dearest heart," whispered she, softly and

rather sadly, when her lips were close to his

ear, "pr'ythee, put off your journey until

sunrise, and sleep in your own bed tonight. A

lone woman is troubled with such dreams and

such thoughts, that she's afeard of herself,

sometimes. Pray, tarry with me this night,

dear husband, of all nights in the year!"

"My love and my Faith," replied young

Goodman Brown, "of all nights in the year,

this one night must I tarry away from thee.

My journey, as thou callest it, forth and back

again, must needs be done 'twixt now and

sunrise. What, my sweet, pretty wife, dost

thou doubt me already, and we but three

months married!"

"Then God bless you!" said Faith, with

the pink ribbons, "and may you find all well,

when you come back."

"Amen!" cried Goodman Brown. "Say thy

prayers, dear Faith, and go to bed at dusk,

and no harm will come to thee."

So they parted; and the young man

pursued his way, until, being about to

turn the corner by the meeting-house, he

looked back and saw the head of Faith still

peeping after him, with a melancholy air, in

spite of her pink ribbons.

"Poor little Faith!" thought he, for his

heart smote him. "What a wretch am I, to

leave her on such an errand! She talks of

dreams, too. Methought, as she spoke, there

was trouble in her face, as if a dream had

warned her what work is to be done tonight.

But, no, no! 'twould kill her to think it. Well;

she's a blessed angel on earth; and after

this one night, I'll cling to her skirts and

follow her to Heaven."

With this excellent resolve for the future,

Goodman Brown felt himself justified in

making more haste on his present evil

purpose. He had taken a dreary road,

darkened by all the gloomiest trees of the

forest, which barely stood aside to let the

narrow path creep through, and closed

immediately behind. It was all as lonely as

could be; and there is this peculiarity in such

a solitude, that the traveller knows not who

may be concealed by the innumerable trunks

and the thick boughs overhead; so that, with

lonely footsteps, he may yet be passing

through an unseen multitude.

"There may be a devilish Indian behind

every tree," said Goodman Brown to himself;

and he glanced fearfully behind him, as he

added, "What if the devil himself should be at

my very elbow!"

His head being turned back, he passed a

crook of the road, and looking forward again,

beheld the figure of a man, in grave and

decent attire, seated at the foot of an old tree.

He arose, at Goodman Brown's approach, and

walked onward, side by side with him.

"You are late, Goodman Brown," said he.

"The clock of the Old South was striking, as I

came through Boston; and that is full fifteen

minutes agone."

"Faith kept me back awhile," replied the

young man, with a tremor in his voice, caused

by the sudden appearance of his companion,

though not wholly unexpected. It was now

deep dusk in the forest, and deepest in that

part of it where these two were journeying.

As nearly as could be discerned, the second

traveller was about fifty years old, apparently

in the same rank of life as Goodman Brown,

and bearing a considerable resemblance to

him, though perhaps more in expression than

features. Still, they might have been taken

for father and son. And yet, though the elder

person was as simply clad as the younger,

and as simple in manner too, he had an

indescribable air of one who knew the world,

and would not have felt abashed at the

governor's dinner-table, or in King William's

court, were it possible that his affairs should

call him thither. But the only thing about

him, that could be fixed upon as remarkable,

was his staff, which bore the likeness of a

great black snake, so curiously wrought, that

it might almost be seen to twist and wriggle

itself like a living serpent. This, of course,

must have been an ocular deception, assisted

by the uncertain light.

"Come, Goodman Brown!" cried his

fellow-traveller, "this is a dull pace for the

beginning of a journey. Take my staff, if you

are so soon weary.

"Friend," said the other, exchanging his

slow pace for a full stop, "having kept

covenant by meeting thee here, it is my

purpose now to return whence I came. I have

scruples, touching the matter thou wot'st

of."

"Sayest thou so?" replied he of the

serpent, smiling apart. "Let us walk on,

nevertheless, reasoning as we go, and if I

convince thee not, thou shalt turn back. We

are but a little way in the forest, yet."

"Too far, too far!" exclaimed the goodman,

unconsciously resuming his walk. "My father

never went into the woods on such an errand,

nor his father before him. We have been a

race of honest men and good Christians, since

the days of the martyrs. And shall I be the

first of the name of Brown, that ever took

this path and kept --"

"Such company, thou wouldst say,"

observed the elder person, interrupting his

pause. "Well said, Goodman Brown! I have

been as well acquainted with your family as

with ever a one among the Puritans; and

that's no trifle to say. I helped your

grandfather, the constable, when he lashed

the Quaker woman so smartly through the

streets of Salem. And it was I that brought

your father a pitch-pine knot, kindled at my

own hearth, to set fire to an Indian village, in

King Philip's War. They were my good

friends, both; and many a pleasant walk have

we had along this path, and returned merrily

after midnight. I would fain be friends with

you, for their sake."

"If it be as thou sayest," replied Goodman

Brown, "I marvel they never spoke of these

matters. Or, verily, I marvel not, seeing that

the least rumor of the sort would have driven

them from New England. We are a people of

prayer, and good works to boot, and abide no

such wickedness."

"Wickedness or not," said the traveller

with the twisted staff, have a very general

acquaintance here in New England. The

deacons of many a church have drunk the

communion wine with me; the selectmen, of

divers towns, make me their chairman; and a

majority of the Great and General Court are

firm supporters of my interest. The governor

and I, too- but these are state-secrets."

"Can this be so!" cried Goodman Brown,

with a stare of amazement at his undisturbed

companion. "Howbeit, I have nothing to do

with the governor and council; they have

their own ways, and are no rule for a simple

husbandman like me. But, were I to go on

with thee, how should I meet the eye of that

good old man, our minister, at Salem village?

Oh, his voice would make me tremble, both

Sabbath-day and lecture-day!"

Thus far, the elder traveller had listened

with due gravity, but now burst into a fit of

irrepressible mirth, shaking himself so

violently that his snake-like staff actually

seemed to wriggle in sympathy.

"Ha! ha! ha!" shouted he, again and again;

then composing himself, "Well, go on,

Goodman Brown, go on; but, prithee, don't

kill me with laughing!"

"Well, then, to end the matter at once,"

said Goodman Brown, considerably nettled,

"there is my wife, Faith. It would break her

dear little heart; and I'd rather break my

own!"

"Nay, if that be the case," answered the

other, "e'en go thy ways, Goodman Brown. I

would not, for twenty old women like the one

hobbling before us, that Faith should come to

any harm."

As he spoke, he pointed his staff at a

female figure on the path, in whom Goodman

Brown recognized a very pious and exemplary

dame, who had taught him his catechism in

youth, and was still his moral and spiritual

adviser, jointly with the minister and Deacon

Gookin.

"A marvel, truly, that Goody Cloyse

should be so far in the wilderness, at

night-fall!" said he. "But, with your leave,

friend, I shall take a cut through the woods,

until we have left this Christian woman

behind. Being a stranger to you, she might

ask whom I was consorting with, and

whither I was going."

"Be it so," said his fellow-traveller.

"Betake you to the woods, and let me keep

the path."

Accordingly, the young man turned aside,

but took care to watch his companion, who

advanced softly along the road, until he had

come within a staff's length of the old dame.

She, meanwhile, was making the best of

her way, with singular speed for so aged a

woman, and mumbling some indistinct words,

a prayer, doubtless, as she went. The

traveller put forth his staff, and touched her

withered neck with what seemed the

serpent's tail.

"The devil!" screamed the pious old lady.

"Then Goody Cloyse knows her old

friend?" observed the traveller, confronting

her, and leaning on his writhing stick.

"Ah, forsooth, and is it your worship,

indeed?" cried the good dame. "Yea, truly is

it, and in the very image of my old gossip,

Goodman Brown, the grandfather of the silly

fellow that now is. But, would your worship

believe it? my broomstick hath strangely

disappeared, stolen, as I suspect, by that

unhanged witch, Goody Cory, and that, too,

when I was all anointed with the juice of

smallage and cinque-foil and wolf's-bane--"

"Mingled with fine wheat and the fat of a

new-born babe," said the shape of old

Goodman Brown.

"Ah, your worship knows the recipe,"

cried the old lady, cackling aloud. "So, as I

was saying, being all ready for the meeting,

and no horse to ride on, I made up my mind

to foot it; for they tell me, there is a nice

young man to be taken into communion

tonight. But now your good worship will lend

me your arm, and we shall be there in a

twinkling."

"That can hardly be," answered her

friend. "I may not spare you my arm, Goody

Cloyse, but here is my staff, if you will."

So saying, he threw it down at her feet,

where, perhaps, it assumed life, being one of

the rods which its owner had formerly lent to

Egyptian Magi. Of this fact, however,

Goodman Brown could not take cognizance.

He had cast up his eyes in astonishment, and

looking down again, beheld neither Goody

Cloyse nor the serpentine staff, but his

fellow-traveller alone, who waited for him as

calmly as if nothing had happened.

"That old woman taught me my

catechism!" said the young man; and there

was a world of meaning in this simple

comment.

They continued to walk onward, while the

elder traveller exhorted his companion to

make good speed and persevere in the path,

discoursing so aptly, that his arguments

seemed rather to spring up in the bosom of

his auditor, than to be suggested by himself.

As they went, he plucked a branch of maple,

to serve for a walking-stick, and began to

strip it of the twigs and little boughs, which

were wet with evening dew. The moment

his fingers touched them, they became

strangely withered and dried up, as with a

week's sunshine. Thus the pair proceeded, at

a good free pace, until suddenly, in a gloomy

hollow of the road, Goodman Brown sat

himself down on the stump of a tree, and

refused to go any farther.

"Friend," said he, stubbornly, "my mind is

made up. Not another step will I budge on

this errand. What if a wretched old woman

do choose to go to the devil, when I thought

she was going to Heaven! Is that any reason

why I should quit my dear Faith, and go after

her?"

"You will think better of this by-and-by,"

said his acquaintance, composedly. "Sit here

and rest yourself awhile; and when you feel

like moving again, there is my staff to help

you along."

Without more words, he threw his

companion the maple stick, and was as

speedily out of sight as if he had vanished

into the deepening gloom. The young man sat

a few moments by the road-side, applauding

himself greatly, and thinking with how clear

a conscience he should meet the minister, in

his morning-walk, nor shrink from the eye of

good old Deacon Gookin. And what calm sleep

would be his, that very night, which was to

have been spent so wickedly, but purely and

sweetly now, in the arms of Faith! Amidst

these pleasant and praiseworthy meditations,

Goodman Brown heard the tramp of horses

along the road, and deemed it advisable to

conceal himself within the verge of the forest,

conscious of the guilty purpose that had

brought him thither, though now so happily

turned from it.

On came the hoof-tramps and the voices

of the riders, two grave old voices, conversing

soberly as they drew near. These mingled

sounds appeared to pass along the road,

within a few yards of the young man's

hiding-place; but owing, doubtless, to the

depth of the gloom, at that particular spot,

neither the travellers nor their steeds were

visible. Though their figures brushed the

small boughs by the way-side, it could not be

seen that they intercepted, even for a

moment, the faint gleam from the strip of

bright sky, athwart which they must have

passed. Goodman Brown alternately crouched

and stood on tip-toe, pulling aside the

branches, and thrusting forth his head as far

as he durst, without discerning so much as a

shadow. It vexed him the more, because he

could have sworn, were such a thing possible,

that he recognized the voices of the minister

and Deacon Gookin, jogging along quietly, as

they were wont to do, when bound to some

ordination or ecclesiastical council. While

yet within hearing, one of the riders stopped

to pluck a switch.

"Of the two, reverend Sir," said the voice

like the deacon's, I had rather miss an

ordination-dinner than tonight's meeting.

They tell me that some of our community are

to be here from Falmouth and beyond, and

others from Connecticut and Rhode Island;

besides several of the Indian powows, who,

after their fashion, know almost as much

deviltry as the best of us. Moreover, there is

a goodly young woman to be taken into

communion."

"Mighty well, Deacon Gookin!" replied the

solemn old tones of the minister. "Spur up, or

we shall be late. Nothing can be done, you

know, until I get on the ground."

The hoofs clattered again, and the voices,

talking so strangely in the empty air, passed

on through the forest, where no church had

ever been gathered, nor solitary Christian

prayed. Whither, then, could these holy men

be journeying, so deep into the heathen

wilderness? Young Goodman Brown caught

hold of a tree, for support, being ready to sink

down on the ground, faint and overburthened

with the heavy sickness of his heart. He

looked up to the sky, doubting whether there

really was a Heaven above him. Yet, there

was the blue arch, and the stars brightening

in it.

"With Heaven above, and Faith below, I

will yet stand firm against the devil!" cried

Goodman Brown.

While he still gazed upward, into the deep

arch of the firmament, and had lifted his

hands to pray, a cloud, though no wind was

stirring, hurried across the zenith, and hid

the brightening stars. The blue sky was still

visible, except directly overhead, where this

black mass of cloud was sweeping swiftly

northward. Aloft in the air, as if from the

depths of the cloud, came a confused and

doubtful sound of voices. Once, the listener

fancied that he could distinguish the accent

of townspeople of his own, men and women,

both pious and ungodly, many of whom he

had met at the communion-table, and had

seen others rioting at the tavern. The next

moment, so indistinct were the sounds, he

doubted whether he had heard aught but the

murmur of the old forest, whispering without

a wind. Then came a stronger swell of those

familiar tones, heard daily in the sunshine, at

Salem village, but never, until now, from a

cloud of night. There was one voice, of a

young woman, uttering lamentations, yet with

an uncertain sorrow, and entreating for some

favor, which, perhaps, it would grieve her to

obtain. And all the unseen multitude, both

saints and sinners, seemed to encourage her

onward.

"Faith!" shouted Goodman Brown, in a

voice of agony and desperation; and the

echoes of the forest mocked him, crying-

"Faith! Faith!" as if bewildered wretches were

seeking her, all through the wilderness.

The cry of grief, rage, and terror, was yet

piercing the night, when the unhappy

husband held his breath for a response.

There was a scream, drowned immediately in

a louder murmur of voices, fading into far-off

laughter, as the dark cloud swept away,

leaving the clear and silent sky above

Goodman Brown. But something fluttered

lightly down through the air, and caught on

the branch of a tree. The young man seized it,

and beheld a pink ribbon.

"My Faith is gone!" cried he, after one

stupefied moment. "There is no good on earth;

and sin is but a name. Come, devil! for to

thee is this world given."

And maddened with despair, so that he

laughed loud and long, did Goodman Brown

grasp his staff and set forth again, at such a

rate, that he seemed to fly along the

forest-path, rather than to walk or run. The

road grew wilder and drearier, and more

faintly traced, and vanished at length,

leaving him in the heart of the dark

wilderness, still rushing onward, with the

instinct that guides mortal man to evil. The

whole forest was peopled with frightful

sounds; the creaking of the trees, the howling

of wild beasts, and the yell of Indians; while,

sometimes the wind tolled like a distant

church-bell, and sometimes gave a broad roar

around the traveller, as if all Nature were

laughing him to scorn. But he was himself

the chief horror of the scene, and shrank not

from its other horrors.

"Ha! ha! ha!" roared Goodman Brown,

when the wind laughed at him. "Let us hear

which will laugh loudest! Think not to

frighten me with your deviltry! Come witch,

come wizard, come Indian powow, come devil

himself! and here comes Goodman Brown.

You may as well fear him as he fear you!"

In truth, all through the haunted forest,

there could be nothing more frightful than

the figure of Goodman Brown. On he flew,

among the black pines, brandishing his staff

with frenzied gestures, now giving vent to

an inspiration of horrid blasphemy, and now

shouting forth such laughter, as set all the

echoes of the forest laughing like demons

around him. The fiend in his own shape is

less hideous, than when he rages in the

breast of man. Thus sped the demoniac on his

course, until, quivering among the trees, he

saw a red light before him, as when the

felled trunks and branches of a clearing have

been set on fire, and throw up their lurid

blaze against the sky, at the hour of

midnight. He paused, in a lull of the tempest

that had driven him onward, and heard

the swell of what seemed a hymn, rolling

solemnly from a distance, with the weight of

many voices. He knew the tune; it was a

familiar one in the choir of the village

meetinghouse. The verse died heavily away,

and was lengthened by a chorus, not of

human voices, but of all the sounds of the

benighted wilderness, pealing in awful

harmony together. Goodman Brown cried out;

and his cry was lost to his own ear, by its

unison with the cry of the desert.

In the interval of silence, he stole

forward, until the light glared full upon his

eyes. At one extremity of an open space,

hemmed in by the dark wall of the forest,

arose a rock, bearing some rude, natural

resemblance either to an altar or a pulpit,

and surrounded by four blazing pines, their

tops aflame, their stems untouched, like

candles at an evening meeting. The mass of

foliage, that had overgrown the summit

of the rock, was all on fire, blazing high into

the night, and fitfully illuminating the whole

field. Each pendant twig and leafy festoon

was in a blaze. As the red light arose and fell,

a numerous congregation alternately shone

forth, then disappeared in shadow, and again

grew, as it were, out of the darkness, peopling

the heart of the solitary woods at once.

"A grave and dark-clad company!" quoth

Goodman Brown.

In truth, they were such. Among them,

quivering to and fro, between gloom and

splendor, appeared faces that would be seen,

next day, at the council-board of the province,

and others which, Sabbath after Sabbath,

looked devoutly heavenward, and benignantly

over the crowded pews, from the holiest

pulpits in the land. Some affirm, that the

lady of the governor was there. At least,

there were high dames well known to her,

and wives of honored husbands, and widows,

a great multitude, and ancient maidens, all of

excellent repute, and fair young girls, who

trembled lest their mothers should espy

them. Either the sudden gleams of light,

flashing over the obscure field, bedazzled

Goodman Brown, or he recognized a score of

the church-members of Salem village, famous

for their especial sanctity. Good old Deacon

Gookin had arrived, and waited at the skirts

of that venerable saint, his reverend pastor.

But, irreverently consorting with these grave,

reputable, and pious people, these elders of

the church, these chaste dames and dewy

virgins, there were men of dissolute lives and

women of spotted fame, wretches given over

to all mean and filthy vice, and suspected

even of horrid crimes. It was strange to see,

that the good shrank not from the wicked,

nor were the sinners abashed by the saints.

Scattered, also, among their palefaced

enemies, were the Indian priests, or powows,

who had often scared their native forest with

more hideous incantations than any known to

English witchcraft.

"But, where is Faith?" thought Goodman

Brown; and, as hope came into his heart, he

trembled.

Another verse of the hymn arose, a slow

and mournful strain, such as the pious love,

but joined to words which expressed all that

our nature can conceive of sin, and darkly

hinted at far more. Unfathomable to mere

mortals is the lore of fiends. Verse after verse

was sung, and still the chorus of the desert

swelled between, like the deepest tone of a

mighty organ. And, with the final peal of that

dreadful anthem, there came a sound, as if

the roaring wind, the rushing streams, the

howling beasts, and every other voice of the

unconverted wilderness, were mingling and

according with the voice of guilty man, in

homage to the prince of all. The four blazing

pines threw up a loftier flame, and obscurely

discovered shapes and visages of horror on

the smoke-wreaths, above the impious

assembly. At the same moment, the fire on

the rock shot redly forth, and formed a

glowing arch above its base, where now

appeared a figure. With reverence be it

spoken, the apparition bore no slight

similitude, both in garb and manner, to some

grave divine of the New England churches.

"Bring forth the converts!" cried a voice,

that echoed through the field and rolled into

the forest.

At the word, Goodman Brown stepped

forth from the shadow of the trees, and

approached the congregation, with whom he

felt a loathful brotherhood, by the sympathy

of all that was wicked in his heart. He could

have well nigh sworn, that the shape of his

own dead father beckoned him to advance,

looking downward from a smoke-wreath,

while a woman, with dim features of despair,

threw out her hand to warn him back. Was it

his mother? But he had no power to retreat

one step, nor to resist, even in thought, when

the minister and good old Deacon Gookin

seized his arms, and led him to the blazing

rock. Thither came also the slender form of a

veiled female, led between Goody Cloyse, that

pious teacher of the catechism, and Martha

Carrier, who had received the devil's promise

to be queen of hell. A rampant hag was she!

And there stood the proselytes, beneath the

canopy of fire.

"Welcome, my children," said the dark

figure, "to the communion of your race! Ye

have found, thus young, your nature and your

destiny. My children, look behind you!"

They turned; and flashing forth, as it

were, in a sheet of flame, the

fiend-worshippers were seen; the smile of

welcome gleamed darkly on every visage.

"There," resumed the sable form, "are all

whom ye have reverenced from youth. Ye

deemed them holier than yourselves, and

shrank from your own sin, contrasting it with

their lives of righteousness, and prayerful

aspirations heavenward. Yet, here are they

all, in my worshipping assembly! This night it

shall be granted you to know their secret

deeds; how hoary-bearded elders of the

church have whispered wanton words to

the young maids of their households; how

many a woman, eager for widow's weeds, has

given her husband a drink at bed-time, and

let him sleep his last sleep in her bosom; how

beardless youth have made haste to inherit

their father's wealth; and how fair damsels-

blush not, sweet ones- have dug little graves

in the garden, and bidden me, the sole guest,

to an infant's funeral. By the sympathy of

your human hearts for sin, ye shall scent out

all the places-whether in church,

bed-chamber, street, field, or forest- where

crime has been committed, and shall exult to

behold the whole earth one stain of guilt, one

mighty blood-spot. Far more than this! It

shall be yours to penetrate, in every bosom,

the deep mystery of sin, the fountain of all

wicked arts, and which inexhaustibly supplies

more evil impulses than human power- than

my power at its utmost- can make manifest in

deeds. And now, my children, look upon each

other."

They did so; and, by the blaze of the

hell-kindled torches, the wretched man

beheld his Faith, and the wife her husband,

trembling before that unhallowed altar.

"Lo! there ye stand, my children," said the

figure, in a deep and solemn tone, almost sad,

with its despairing awfulness, as if his once

angelic nature could yet mourn for our

miserable race. "Depending upon one

another's hearts, ye had still hoped that

virtue were not all a dream! Now are ye

undeceived! Evil is the nature of mankind.

Evil must be your only happiness. Welcome,

again, my children, to the communion of your

race!"

"Welcome!" repeated the

fiend-worshippers, in one cry of despair and

triumph.

And there they stood, the only pair, as it

seemed, who were yet hesitating on the verge

of wickedness, in this dark world. A basin

was hollowed, naturally, in the rock. Did it

contain water, reddened by the lurid light? or

was it blood? or, perchance, a liquid flame?

Herein did the Shape of Evil dip his hand,

and prepare to lay the mark of baptism upon

their foreheads, that they might be partakers

of the mystery of sin, more conscious of the

secret guilt of others, both in deed and

thought, than they could now be of their own.

The husband cast one look at his pale wife,

and Faith at him. What polluted wretches

would the next glance show them to each

other, shuddering alike at what they

disclosed and what they saw!

"Faith! Faith!" cried the husband. "Look

up to Heaven, and resist the Wicked One!"

Whether Faith obeyed, he knew not.

Hardly had he spoken, when he found

himself amid calm night and solitude,

listening to a roar of the wind, which died

heavily away through the forest. He

staggered against the rock, and felt it chill

and damp, while a hanging twig, that had

been all on fire, besprinkled his cheek with

the coldest dew.

The next morning, young Goodman

Brown came slowly into the street of

Salem village, staring around him like a

bewildered man. The good old minister was

taking a walk along the graveyard, to get an

appetite for breakfast and meditate his

sermon, and bestowed a blessing, as he

passed, on Goodman Brown. He shrank from

the venerable saint, as if to avoid an

anathema. Old Deacon Gookin was at

domestic worship, and the holy words of his

prayer were heard through the open window.

"What God doth the wizard pray to?" quoth

Goodman Brown. Goody Cloyse, that

excellent old Christian, stood in the early

sunshine, at her own lattice, catechising a

little girl, who had brought her a pint of

morning's milk. Goodman Brown snatched

away the child, as from the grasp of the fiend

himself. Turning the corner by the

meeting-house, he spied the head of Faith,

with the pink ribbons, gazing anxiously forth,

and bursting into such joy at sight of him,

that she skipt along the street, and almost

kissed her husband before the whole village.

But Goodman Brown looked sternly and sadly

into her face, and passed on without a

greeting.

Had Goodman Brown fallen asleep in the

forest, and only dreamed a wild dream of a

witch-meeting?

Be it so, if you will. But, alas! it was a

dream of evil omen for young Goodman

Brown. A stern, a sad, a darkly meditative, a

distrustful, if not a desperate man, did he

become, from the night of that fearful dream.

On the Sabbath-day, when the congregation

were singing a holy psalm, he could not

listen, because an anthem of sin rushed

loudly upon his ear, and drowned all the

blessed strain. When the minister spoke

from the pulpit, with power and fervid

eloquence, and with his hand on the open

Bible, of the sacred truths of our religion, and

of saint-like lives and triumphant deaths, and

of future bliss or misery unutterable, then did

Goodman Brown turn pale, dreading lest the

roof should thunder down upon the gray

blasphemer and his hearers. Often, awaking

suddenly at midnight, he shrank from the

bosom of Faith, and at morning or eventide,

when the family knelt down at prayer, he

scowled, and muttered to himself, and gazed

sternly at his wife, and turned away. And

when he had lived long, and was borne to his

grave, a hoary corpse, followed by Faith, an

aged woman, and children and grandchildren,

a goodly procession, besides neighbors, not a

few, they carved no hopeful verse upon his

tombstone; for his dying hour was gloom.