Literary Writing Assignment

Young Goodman Brown

By Nathaniel Hawthorne

Edited by Jack Lynch

The text comes from the 1846 edition of Mosses from an Old Manse, vol. 1.

I've added paragraph numbers for easy reference.

Young Goodman Brown

[1] 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.

[2] “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 to-

night. 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!”

[3] “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!”

[4] “Then God bless you!” said Faith, with the pink ribbons, “and may you find all

well, when you come back.”

[5] “Amen!” cried Goodman Brown. “Say thy prayers, dear Faith, and go to bed at

dusk, and no harm will come to thee.”

[6] 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.

[7] “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 to-night.

But, no, no! 't would 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.”

[8] 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 overheard; so that, with

lonely footsteps, he may yet be passing through an unseen multitude.

[9] “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!”

[10] 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.

[11] “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.”

[12] “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.

[13] 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.

[14] “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.”

[15] “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.”

[16] “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.”

[17] “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” —

[18] “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.”

[19] “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.”

[20] “Wickedness or not,” said the traveller with the twisted staff, “I 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.”

[21] “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!”

[22] 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.

[23] “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!”

[24] “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!”

[25] “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.”

[26] 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.

[27] “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.”

[28] “Be it so,” said his fellow-traveller. “Betake you to the woods, and let me keep the

path.”

[29] 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.

[30] “The devil!” screamed the pious old lady.

[31] “Then Goody Cloyse knows her old friend?” observed the traveller, confronting

her, and leaning on his writhing stick.

[32] “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” —

[33] “Mingled with fine wheat and the fat of a new-born babe,” said the shape of old

Goodman Brown.

[34] “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

to-night. But now your good worship will lend me your arm, and we shall be there in

a twinkling.”

[35] “That can hardly be,” answered her friend. “I may not spare you my arm, Goody

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

[36] 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 the 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.

[37] “That old woman taught me my catechism!” said the young man; and there was a

world of meaning in this simple comment.

[38] 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.

[39] “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?”

[40] “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.”

[41] 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.

[42] 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.

[43] “Of the two, reverend Sir,” said the voice like the deacon's, “I had rather miss an

ordination-dinner than to-night'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.”

[44] “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.”

[45] 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 over-burthened 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.

[46] “With Heaven above, and Faith below, I will yet stand firm against the devil!”

cried Goodman Brown.

[47] 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 accents of town's-people 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.

[48] “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.

[49] 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.

[50] “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.”

[51] 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.

[52] “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!”

[53] 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 meeting-house. 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.

[54] 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 a flame, 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.

[55] “A grave and dark-clad company!” quoth Goodman Brown.

[56] 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

pale-faced enemies, were the Indian priests, or powows, who had often scared their

native forest with more hideous incantations than any known to English witchcraft.

[57] “But, where is Faith?” thought Goodman Brown; and, as hope came into his heart,

he trembled.

[58] 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.

[59] “Bring forth the converts!” cried a voice, that echoed through the field and rolled

into the forest.

[60] 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.

[61] “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!”

[62] 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.

[63] “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 youths 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.”

[64] 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.

[65] “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!”

[66] “Welcome!” repeated the fiend-worshippers, in one cry of despair and triumph.

[67] 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!

[68] “Faith! Faith!” cried the husband. “Look up to Heaven, and resist the Wicked

One!”

[69] 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.

[70] 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.

[71] Had Goodman Brown fallen asleep in the forest, and only dreamed a wild dream

of a witch-meeting?

[72] 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 grey 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 grand-children, a goodly procession, besides neighbors, not a few,

they carved no hopeful verse upon his tombstone; for his dying hour was gloom.