Young Goodman Brown
Young Goodman Brown
by Nathaniel
Hawthorne
Young Goodman Brown came forth at
sunset into the street at 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,
"prithee 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."
"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; '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."
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 a while,"
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 who 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, interpreting 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, "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."
"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 nightfall," 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 cinquefoil,
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
to-night. 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 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.
"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 a while; 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
roadside, 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 so 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 wayside, 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 tiptoe, 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 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 powwows, 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 or 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 overburdened 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 accents of towns-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.
"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 powwow, 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 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.
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 alter 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 pendent 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 revered 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 powwows, 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 unconcerted 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 figure 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
widows' weeds, has given her husband a drink at bedtime and let him sleep his
last sleep in her bosom; how beardless youths have made haste to inherit their
fathers' 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, bedchamber, 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, catechizing 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 skipped
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, waking 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.
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