YOUNG GOODMAN BROWN
by Nathaniel Hawthorne
from Mosses from an Old Manse (1854)
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'y thee,
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
"Amen!" cried Goodman Brown. "Say thy prayers, dear
Faith, and go to bed at dusk, and no harm will come to
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 to-night. 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
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
"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
"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, pr'y thee, 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
"The devil!" screamed the pious old lady.
"Then Goody Cloyse knows her old friend?" observed the
traveller, confronting her, and leaning on his writhing
"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 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 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
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
"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
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 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
"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 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 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 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
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
"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 figure bore no slight similitude, both in
garb and manner, to some grave divine of the
"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
"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
"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 grand-children, a goodly
procession, besides neighbors, not a few, they carved
no hopeful verse upon his tombstone; for his dying hour
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