Do ODLE

Yankee Doodle went to town

A-riding on a pony,
Stuck a reathcr in his cap
And called it tnacaroni'.
Chorus:
Yankee Doodle keep it up,
Yankee Doodle dandy,
Mind the music and the step,
And with the girls be handy.
Fath er and I went down to camp,
Along with'Captain Gooding,
And there we saw the men and boys
As thick as hasty pudding.
Chorus
And there we saw a thousand men
As rich as Squire David,
And what they wasted every day,
I wish it could be saved.
Chorus
The 'lasses they eat it every day,
Would keep a house a winter;
They have so much, that I'll be bound,
They eat it when they've mind ter.
Chorus
And there I see a swamping gun
Large as a log of maple,
Upon a deuced little cart,
A load for father's cattle.
Chorus
And every time they shoot it off,
It takes a horn of powder,
and makes a noise like father'sgun,
Only a nation louder.
Chorus
I went as nigh to one myself
As 'Siah's inderpinning;
And father went as nigh again,
I thought the deuce was in him.
Chorus
Cousin Simon grew so bold,
I thought he would have cocked it;
It scared me so I shrinked it off
And hung by father'spocket.
Chorus
t
And Cap n Davis had a gun,
He kind of clapt his hand on't
And stuck a crooked stabbing iron
Upon the little end on't
Chorus
And there I sce puntpkinshell
As big as tnother's bason,
And every titne they touched it off
scanipered like the nation.
Chorus
I see a little barrel too,
The heads were made of leather;
They knocked on it with little clubs
And called the folks together.
Chorus
And there was Cap'n Washington,
And gentle folks about him;
They say he's grown so 'tamal proud
He will not ride without em'.
Chorus
He got him on his meetingclothes,
Upon a slapping stallion;
He sat the world along in rows,
In hundreds and in millions.
Chorus
The flaming ribbons in his hat,
They looked so tearing fine, ah,
I wanted dreadfully to get
To give to my Jemima.
Chorus
I see another snarl of men
A digging graves they told me,
So 'tarnal long, so 'tarnal deep,
They 'tended they should hold me.
Chorus
It scared me so, I hooked it off,
Nor stopped, as I remember,
Nor turned about till I got home,
Locked up in mother'schamber.
Chorus
 „irorh
Nature
Become a Transparent Eyeball
crossing a bare common, in snow puddles,
at twilight, under a clouded sky, without having in my
thoughts any occurrence of special good
fortune, I have enjoyed a perfect exhilaration.
I am glad to the brink of fear.
In the woods, too, a man casts off his
years, as the snake his slough, and at what period soever of
life isalways a child.
[n the woods is perpetual youth.
M'ithinthese plantations of God. a
decorum and sanctity reign. a perennial fesuval ts dressed, and
the guest sees not h0\V he should
tire of them in a thousand vears.
In the wood, "'e return to reason and faith.
There feel that nothing can befall me
in life,—no disgrace, no calamity (leaving me my eyes),
which nature cannot repair.
Standingon the bare ground,—my head
bathed by the blithe air and uplifted into infinite space.—all
mean egotism vanishes.

I becomea transparent eyeball;

I am nothing;
1 see all:
the currents of the Uruversal Being circulate through me;
I am part or parcel of God.
The name of thc nearest friend sounds then foreign and accidental: be
to brothers,to be
acquaintances. master or servant, is then a trifle and a disturbance.
am the lover of uncontained and immortal beauty.
In the wilderness, I find something more dear and connate than in streets or villages.
In the tranquil landscape, and especially in the distant line of the horizon, man
beholds somewhat as
beautiful as his own nature.

-anscussion
notes and comrnellte
I. The first sentence in the
selection gives the background
Emerson's Notebooks or the circumstances under
which the author becomes
"glad to the brink of fear.'
Throughout his life Emerson the new text. The above selec- %.Vhatare the sources of this
recorded his daily thoughts and tion, though part of the essay "perfect exhilaration"?
experiencesin a series of note- "Nature," was originally a 2. According to Emerson,
books.He referred to these journal entry. The other selec- where is one most likely to
journals when preparing a lec- tions also contain many ideas have the experience being de-
ture or writing a poem or • first recorded in the notebooks. scribed? Why?
essay. often incorporating nai numan quality must
wholepassages from them into onr give up before becoming a
••transparenteyeball"? What
helps a person reach this state'

RALPH WALDO EMERSON 225

 Washington 11 R'P Van hr I cp,ctulor Slccpy
I ( 'IdSS'CSShelt of I non

nn {Ill, h. Posthutnous \V'ritingor l)iedlicll Knickcrbocker

Wodcu, (Godof Saxons.

"henec cotnes Wcnsday, that is Wodcnsday.
Tilith a thing that cvcr I will kccp
t.}ntothylkc day in which I creep into
My scpulchre—
CARTWRIGHT.

[The following Talc was found among the papers of the latc Diedrich
Knickcrbocker, an old gentlcman of New York, who was very curious in the Dutch
history of the province, and the mannersof the descendants from its primitive
settlers. His historical researches, however,did not lie so much among books as
a:nong men; for the fonner are lamentably scanty on his favorite topics; whereas
he found the old burghers, and still more their wives, rich in that legendary lore. so
invaluable to t:ue history. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch
fatnily, snugly shut up in its low-roofed farmhouse, under a spreading sycamore,
he looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it with the
zeal of a book-wonn.
The result of all these researches was a history o? the province during the reign of
the Dutch governors, which hc published sonte •,tearssince. There have been
various opinions as to the literary character of his work, and, to tell the truth, it is
not a whit better than it should be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which
indeed was a little questioned on its first appearance, but has since been
completely established; and it is now admitted into all historical collections, as a
book of unquestionableauthority.
The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of bis work, and now that he
is dead and gone, it cannot do much ham to his memory to say that his time might
have been better employed in weightier labors. He, however, was apt to ride his
hobby his own way; and though it did now and then kick up the dust a little in the
eyes of his neighbors, and grieve the spirit of some friends, for whom he felt the
ttuest deference and affection; yet his errors and follies are remembered "more in
sorrow than in anger," and it begins to be suspected, that he never intended to
injure or offend. But however his memory may be appreciated by critics, it is still
held dear by many folks, whose good opinion is well worth having; particularly by
certain biscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on their
new-year cakes; and have thus given him a chance for immortality, almost equal to
the being stamped on a Waterloo Medal, or a Queen Anne's Farthing.]
WHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Kaatskill mountains. 3
They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to
 the west or the nvcr. swclling up to n noble hcighte and It OVCtlhc surrounding
country. Every changc ot scaq)n. change of tndccd, cvcty hour of Ihc
day, produces sotnc change •n thc illagtcal hucs and shapcs 01 thcqc •nourumnq. and they
are rcgan'cd by nil thc good far and ncnr, as pctfect barotnctcrs Whcn lhc
wcathcr is titr and sctticd, thcy ate clothcd bluc and purptc, and psInt lhCirbold
outlines on Ihc clear cning sky. but, sotnctimcs. when rest or thc landscapc
cloudless, thcy Willgathcr a hood of gray vapors about their sutnnuts, which, In thc last
rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up likc n crown of glory.
At the foot of thesc raity Inountains. the voyagcr may havc (lcscried thc light smoke
curling up from a village, whose shingle-roofs gleam among thc trccs, just where thc
bluc tints of thc upland tnclt away into the fresh green of the ncarcr landscape. It is a
littlc village of great antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch coloriists, in
the early timcs of thc province, just about the beginning of the government of thc good
Peter Stuyvesant, (may he rest in peace!) and there were some of the houses of the
original settlers standing within a few years, built of small yellow bricks brought from
Holland, having latticed windows and gable fronts, surmountedwith weather-cocks.
In that samc village, and in one of these very houses (which, to tell the precise truth,
was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), there lived many years since, while the
country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple good-natured fellow of the name of
Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant ofthe_Van Winkles_whQfigured_sogallantly-in
a companied hünßQ_che-siege-Q.f-EarL
Chtisii.na._He inherited, however, but little of the martial character of his ancestors. I
havc observed that he was a simple good-natured man; he was, moreover, a kind
neighbor, and an obedient hQ-pecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might
be owing that meekness of spirit-which gailiéd him such universal popularity; for those
men are most apt to be obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are under the discipline
of shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the
fiery furnace of domestic tribulation; and a curtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the
world for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may,
therefore, in some respects, be considered a tolerable blessing; and if so, Rip Van Winkle
was thrice blessed.
Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the good wives of the village, who,
as usual, with the amiable sex, took his part in all family squabbles; and never failed,
whenever they talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame
on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever
he approached. He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites
and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever
he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his
skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity; and
not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighborhood.
7
The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aversion to all kinds of
profitable labor. It could not be from the want of assiduity or perseverance; for he would
sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day
without a murmur, even though he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He
would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods
 and swatnps, and up hill and down dale. (o shoot
u rcw squutcls or wild pigeons. Ile
would ncvcr refusc to assu.,t a neti!llbor cvcn in thc
roughest toil, nnd was a foremost man
at all country tiolics colt), or building stonc fcnccs•. the worncn or the
village. too. used to ctnploy to Itin thejr errands, und do such littlc odd jobs as
their less obli[tung husbands would not do for thC1n.In a word Rip
was rcady to u!tcnd to
anybody's business but his own; kccjnng his farm in

In Cact. hc declared it was of no use to work on his fann; it was thc most pcsulcnt little
piecc of ground in the whole country; cvery thing about it went wrong, and would go
wrong, in spitc of blis fences wcrc continually falling to picccs; his cow would
cither go astray, or get atnong (he cabbages; weeds wcrc sure (o grow quickcr in his
fields than anywhere else; the rain always madc a point of selling in just as he had some
out-door work to do; so that though his patrimonial estatehad dwindled away under his
inanagemcnt, acre by acre, until there was little more left than a merc patch of Indian
corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst conditioned farm in the neighborhood.
His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip,
an urchin begotten in his own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with the old
clothes of his father. He was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother's heels,
equipped in a pair of his father's cast-off galligaskins*which he had much ado to hold up
with one hand, as a fine lady does her trainÄädGeather.
Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled 10
dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got
with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound.
[f left to himself, he would have whistled life away in perfect contentment; but his wife
kept continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he
was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly going,
and everything he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip
had but one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had
grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said
nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from his wife; so that he was
fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the house—the only side which, in
truth, belongs to a hen-pecked husband.
11
Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much hen-pecked as his
master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and even
looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his master's going so often astray.
True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous an
animal as ever scoured the woods—but what courage can withstand the ever-during and
all-besetting terrors of a woman's tongue? The moment Wolf entered the house his crest
fell, his tail drooped to the ground, or curled between his legs, he sneaked about with a
gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least
flourish of a broom-stick or ladle, he would fly to the door with yelping precipitation.
12
Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on; a
tan temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows
keener with constant use. For a long while he used to console himself,when driven from
home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and other idle
 personages of thc village; "hich held its sessions on n bcnch bcforc a srnall inn,
designated by a tubtcund polltait of il.s Nlajcs!y(icorgc (he 'Ictc thcy uscd to
in lhc sh8dc thmugh a long lazy sununcr•sday, talking listlessly over villagc gossip, or
telling cndlcss slccpy stotics about nothing. But it would hat.c bcen worth any
statesman's tnoncy to have heard thc profound discussions that sonucurncs took place.
•.vhcnby chance an old ncwspapcr fcll into their hands frmn scunc passtng (ravcllcr. How
solcnlnly they would listcn to thc contents, as drawled out by I)crnck Van Bummcl. the
schoolmastcr, a dapper Icamcd little Inan, who was not to bc daunted by thc most
gigantic word in the dictionary; and how sagcly they would deliberate upon public
events somc months after they had taken place.
opinions of this junco were completely controlled by Nicholas Vcdder, a patriarch
of thc village, and landlord of the inn, at the door of which he took his scat from morning
till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun and keep in the shade of a largc tree;
so that the neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as accurately as by a sundial.
It is tme he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents,
however (for every great man has his adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew
how to gather his opinions. When anything that was read or related displeased him, he
was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send fonh short, frequent and angry
puffs; but when pleased, he would inhale the smokc slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in
light and placid clouds; and sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the
fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head in token of perfect
approbation,
From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length routed by his termagant wife,
who would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage and call the
members all to naught; nor was that august personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred
from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who charged him outright with
encouraging her husband in habits of idleness.
Poor Rip was at last reduced al.tPQiLtQdespair; and his only alternative, to escape from
the labor of the farm and clamor of his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into
the woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the
contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in
persecution. "Poor Wolf," he would say, "thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it; but
never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shag never want a friend to stand by thec!" Wolf
would wag his tail, look wistfuly in his master's face, and if dogs can feel pity I verily
believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart,
In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled 16
to one of the highest parts of the Kaatskill mountains. He was after his favorite sport of
squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with the reports of
his
gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll,
covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an
opening
between the trees he could overlook all the lower country for many a mile
of rich
woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him,
moving on its
silent but majestic course, with the reflection of a purple cloud, or
the sail of a lagging
bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing
itself in the blue
highlands.
 (he bott0111lillcd the illtpcndtng and scat"'ly lightcd by thc
tellcctcd Iays ol' the selling sun 101 sonne titnc l{tp lay tnus•ng on sccnc, cvcmng
•vas adually anctnt:, (he tnountaunsbcgan to throw thctr long bluc shadows over the
valleys. he saxvthat It would bc dark long bcforc hc could rcach thc village, and hc
heaved a heavy sigh "'hen hc thought of cncountcring thc tcrrors of I)amc _Van.Wankle.
As he was about to dcsccnd, hc heard a voice fronua distance. hallooing, "RIP Van
Winkle' Rip Van Winkle!" I le looked round, but could scc nothing but a crow winging
its solitary flight acmss (he Inountain. Elc thought his fancy must havc dcccivcd turn. and
tutucd again to dcsccnd, when he heard thc same cry ring through the still evening atr:
"Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!" at the satnc time Wolf bristled up his back, and
giving a low growl, skulked to his master's side, looking fearfully down into the glen.
Rip now felt a vague apprehensionstealing over him; he looked anxiously in the same
direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under
the weight of something he carried on his back. He was surprised to see any human
being in this lonely and unfrequentedplace, but supposing it to be some one of the
neighborhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it.
On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singularity of the stranger's
appearance. He was a short square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled
beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion—a cloth jerkin strapped round the
waist—several pair of breeches, the outer one of amplc volume, decorated with ro»of
buttons down the sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout(keg)
that seeined full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and assist him withÄfi8
load. Thou h rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, Rip complied with his
usual@acrity and mutually relieving one another, they clambered up a narrow gully,
apparentvthe dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now and then
heard long rolling peals, like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or
rather cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path conducted. He paused
for an instant, but supposing it to be the muttering of one of those transient thunder-
sh wers which often take place in mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through the
ravine hey came to a hollow, like a small amphitheatre,surroundedby perpendicular
recipices over the brinks of which impending trees shot their branches, so that you only
g It glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During the whole time
Rip and his companion had labored on in silence; for though the former marvelled
greatly what could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet
there was something strange and incomprehensible about the unknown, that inspired awe
and checked familiarity.
20
On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder presented themselves. On a level
They
spot in the centre was a company of odd-looking personages playing at nine-pins.
were dressed in a quaint outlandish fashion; some wore shon doublets, others jerkins,
with long knives in their belts, and most of them had enormous breeches, of similar style
with that of the guide's. Their visages, too, were peculiar: one had a
face, and sm I pi ish ey s: the face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and
They all had
was surmounte y a white sugar-loaf hat set off with a little red cock's tail.
commander.
beards, of various shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be the
 He was a stout old gentlctnan, with a wcathcr•beatcn
countcnaucc; hc worc a laccd
rcd stockings, and high.
doublct, bmad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and rcathcr,
of thc figures in an old
hccled shoc.s.with mscs in thcrn. 'l'he wholc group rc:nindcd Rip
Flcnmishpainting, in thc parlor of Dotninic Van Shaick, thc village parson, and which
had bccn bmught ovcr ftont I lolland at the timc of thc scttlcmcnt,
What sectncd panicularly odd to Rip was, that though thcsc folks were evidently
amusing thcmsclvcs, yct they maintaincd the gravest faccs, thc most mysterious silence,
and were, withal, thc most melancholy party of plcasurc hc had cvcr witncsscd. Nothing
interrupted the stillness ofthc scene but the noise of the balls, which, whencvcr they
wcrc rolled, echoed along the mountainslike rumbling peals of thunder.
12
As Rip and his companion approachedthem, they suddenlydesisted from their.plan
and stared at him with such fixed statue-like gaze, and such strange,
countenances, that his heart turned within him, and his knees smote together. His
companion now emptied the contents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to
him to wait upon the company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed the
liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their game.
By degrees Rip's awe and apprehensionsubsided. He even ventured, when no eye was
fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of
excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the
draught. ptastc provoked another; and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often
that at length his senses Wereöv&powered, his eyes swam in his head, his head
gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep.
24
On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first seen the old man
of the glen. He rubbed his eyes—it was a bright sunny morning. The birds were hopping
and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the
pure mountain breeze. "Surely," thought Rip, "I have not slept here all night." He
recalled the occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of liquor—the
mountain ravine—the wild retreat among the rocks—the woe-begone party at ninepins—
the flagon—"Oh! that flagon! that wicked flagon!" thought Rip—"what excuse shall I
make to Dame Van Winkle!"
He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean well-oiled fowling-piece, he
found an old firelockßying by him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and
the stock worm-eatén. He now suspected that the grave roysterers of the mountain had
put a trick upon him, and having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun.
Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge.
He whistled after him and shouted his name, but all in vain; the echoes repeated his
whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen.
He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's gambol, and if he met with any 26

of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the
joints, and wanting in his usual activity. "These mountain beds do not agree with me,'
thought Rip; "and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have
a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle." With some difficulty he got down into the glen:
he found the gully up which he and his companion had ascended the preceding evening;
but to his astonishment a mountain stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock
to rock, and filling the glen with bubbling Inurrnurs. He, however, tn hitt to scramble
up its sides, working his toilsotne way tluough thickets of birch, ssafras and witch-
hazel, and sonwtitnes tripped up or entangled by thc wild grapevines t lat twisted their
coils or tendrils fronl tree to tree. and spread a kind of network in his path.
At length he reached to where the ravinc had opencd Ihrough the cliffs to the 27
anil)hithcatre•,but no traces of such opening rcmaincd. The rocks prcscntcd a high
ilnpenetrable wall over which the ton•ent came tunibling in a shcct of feathery foam, and
fell into a broad deep basin, black the shadows of the surrounding forcst. Here,
then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog; he was
only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry
tree that overhung a sunny and who, secure in their elevation, seemed to look
down and scoff at the poor Inan s perplexities. What was to be done? the morning was
passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his
dog and gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do to starve among the
tnountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with a heart full of
trouble and anxiety, tumed his steps homeward.
28
As he approached the village he met a number of people, but none whom he knew,
which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought himself acquainted with every one in
the country round. Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to which he was
accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast
their eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this
gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when to his astonishment, he found
his bear&hadgrown a foot long!
29
He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange children ran at his heels,
hooting after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he
recognized for an old acquaintance,barked at him as he passed. The very village was
altered; it was larger and more populous. There were rows of houses which he had never
seen before, and those which had been his familiarhaunts had disappeared.Strange
names were over the doors—strangefaces at the windows—everything was strange. His
mind now misgave him; he doubt whether both he and the world around him
were not bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which he had left but the day
before. There stood the Kaatskill mountains—there ran the silver Hudson at a distance—
there was every hill and dale precisely as it had always been—Rip was sorely
flagon last night," thought he, "has addled my poor head sadly!"
30
It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house, which he
approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame
Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay—the roof fallen in, the windows
shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half-starved dog that looked like Wolf was
skulking about it. Rip called him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and
passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed—"My very dog," sighed poor Rip, "has
forgotten me!"
3
He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle had always kept in
overcalTie
neat order.. It was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This desolateness
all his connubial fears—he called loudly for his wife and children—the lonely
chambers
rang for a moment with his voice, and then all again was silence.
 inn - but it too was
HCnow hurried forth, and hastened to his old tesotl, thc village
gaping windows,
gone. A large rickety woodcn building stood in its placc, with great
was
sornc ofthcnt bmkcn and Inendcd with old hats and pctticoats, and over the door
painted, "the Union Ilotcl, by Jonathan Doolittle," Instcad of thc grcat tree that used to
shcltcr thc quiet littlc I)utch inn of yore, lhcrc now was rcarcd a tall nakcd pole. With
sotncthing on thc top that looked likc a red night-cap, and frotn it was fluttering a nag,
on which was a singular nsscrnblagc of stars and stripes—all this was strangc and
incotnprchcnsiblc. Ile rccognizcd on (he sign, however, thc ruby face of King Gcorgc,
under which he had smoked so Inany a pcoccful pipe; but cvcn this was singularly
mctamomhoscd. 1he red coat was changed for onc of bluc and buff, a sword was held tn
the hand instead of a sccptre, thc head was dccoratcd with a cocked hat, and underneath
was painted in large characters, GENERALWASHINGTON.
There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip recollected. The
very character of the people seemedchanged. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious
tone about it, instead of the accustomedphlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in
vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe,
uttering clouds of tobacco-smoke instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the
schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper, In place of these, a lean,
bilious-looking fellow, with his pocketsfull of handbills, was haranguing vehemently
about rights of citizens—elections—members of congress—liberty—Bunker's Hill—
heroes of seventy-six—and other words, which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the
bewildered Van Winkle.
The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his rusty fowling-piece, his
uncouth dress, and an army of women and children at his heels, soon attracted the
attention of the tavern politicians. They crowded round him, eyeing him from head to
foot with great curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside,
inquired "on which side he voted?" Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but
busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear,
"Whether he was Federal or Democrat?" Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend the
question; when a knowing, self-importantold gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his
way through the crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows as he passed,
and planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his
cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in
an austere tone, "what brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob
at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village?"—"Alas! gentlemen,
cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal
subject of the king, God bless him!"
Herc a general shout burst from the by-standers—"A tory! a tory! a spy! a refugee!
hustle him! away with him!" It was with great difficulty that the self-important man in
the cocked hat restored order; and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow,
demanded again of the unknown culprit, what he came there for, and whom he
was
seeking? The poor man humbly assured him that
he meant no harin, but merely came
there in search of some of his
neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern.
"Well—who are they?—name them." 36
Rip bethought himself a
moment, and inquired, "Where's Nicholas Vedder?" 37
 There was a silence a little while, when an old Inan rcplicd, In a
"Nicholas Vedder! why, he ts dcad and gone these {hinpiping voice.
ctghtccn ycats! here was a woodcn
(0111bstoncIn the chuteh-yalll tiSC(lto tell nil about but that's rot!cn and gone
too,"
•'Where's Dutehcr?"
"Oh, he cnt onsto the anny in the beginning of the war; say hc was killed at the
Of say he was drowned in n squall at the foot of Antony's
Nose. I don't know—he never carnc back again."
Q'Wherc•s Van Bununcl, the schoohnaslcr?"
*'He went off to the wars too, was a grcatJ.niliKiQgeneral, and is now in congress."
Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and fricnds, and
finding hitnselfthus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him too, by treatingof
such enonnous lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand: war—
congress—Stony Point;—he had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out
in despair, "Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?"
'Oh. Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three, "Oh, to be sure! that's Rip Van Winkle
yonder, leaning against the tree."
Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he went up the mountain:
apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now completely
confounded. He doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another man.
In the Inidst of his bewildennent, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and
what was his name?
"God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end; "I'm not myself—I'm somebody else—
that's me yonder—no—that's somebody else got into my shoes—I was myself last night,
but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've changed my gun, and every thing's
changed, and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's my name, or who I am!"
47
The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their
fingers against their foreheads. There was a whisper also, about securing the gun, and
keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the self-
important man in the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment
a fresh comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man.
She had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. "Hush,
Rip," cried she, "hush, you little fool; the old man won't hurt you." The name of the
recollections in
child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of
his tnind. "What is your nanle, uny good woman?" asked he.
"Judith Gardenier." 49
"And your father's name?" 50
name, but it's twenty years since he went
"Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his
has been heard of since—his dog came home
away from home with his gun, and never
or was carried away by the Indians, nobody
without him; but whether he shot himself,
can tell. I was then but a little girl." 51
ask; but he put it with a faltering voice:
Rip had but one question more to
 t'
"Where's your tnothcl? in a fit of passion
' 'Oh, she too had died but a short sincc; ghc broke a blood•veqsel
at a New-Fngland peddler
honcs! man could contain
Thee was a ol' cotnfotl, at Icast, in this intclligcncc. Thc
in Ins arms. '21om your rather!"
hintsclfno longer. llc cnugh! his daughtcr and her child Docs nobody
cried hc•- "Young Rip Van SVinklc once—oldRip Van Winklc
know poor RIP Van Winklc?" 33
crowd, put her
All stood atnazcd, until an old woman, totteringout froni among the
exclaitncd, "Surc
hand to he. bmw, and pccring under it in his facc for a molncnt,
neighbor—Why,
cnough!it is Rip Van Winkle—it is hitnsclfi Welcomehome again, old
where have you been these twenty long years?" 56
onc night.
Rip's story was soon told, for thc whole twenty years had been to him but as
and put
The neighbors stared when they heard it; some were seen to wink at each other,
who, when
their tongues in their cheeks: and the self-important man in the cocked hat,
the alarm was over, had returned to thc field, screwed down the corners of his mouth,
the
and shook his head—upon which there was a general shaking of the head throughout
assemblage.
It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen
slowly advancing up the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that name, who
wrote one of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant
of the village, and well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the
neighborhood. He recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his story in the most
satisfactory manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, handed down from his
ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill mountains had always been haunted by strange
beings. That it was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the
river and country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the
Half-moon; being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a
guardian eye upon the river, and the great city called by his name. That his father had
once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at nine-pins in a hollow of the
mountain; and that he himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls,
like distant peals of thunder.
To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned to the more imponant
concerns of the election. Rip's daughtertook him home to live with her; she had a snug,
well-furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for
one of the urchins that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was
the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the farm;
but evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to anything else but his business.
Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found many of his former cronies,
though all rather the worse for the wear and tear of time; and preferred making friends
among the rising generation, with whom he soon grew into great favor.
Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy age when a man can be
idle with impunity, he took his place once more on the bench at the inn door, and was
reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old times
"before the war." It was some time before he could get into the regular track of gossip, or

30
 could bc inadc to cotnprchend thc strange events that had taken place during his torpor
How that thear had been a 'evolutionary war- -that the country had thrown off the yoke
Ofold England - -and that. instead of being n subject of his Mojcsty Gcorgc the Third. bc
was now a (tec citizen of' (he United Statcs. Rip, in fact, was no politician; thc changes of
states and cinpite.s tuadc but little intprcssion on him; but thcrc was one species of
dcspotisuu under which he had long groaned, and that was—petticoat government.
Happily that was at an cnd; he had got his neck out of thc yokc of matrimony, and could
go in and out whcnevcr he pleased, without dreading the tyrannyof Dame Van Winkle.
Whenever her natne was tnentioncd, however, he shook his head, shrugged his
shoulders, and cast up his eyes; which might pass either for an expression of resignation
to his fate, or joy at his deliverance.
He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was
observed, at first, to vary on some points every time he told it, which was, doubtless,
owing to his having so recently awaked. It at last settled down precisely to the tale I have
related, and not a man, woman, or child in the neighborhood, but knew it by heart. Some
always pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his head,
and that this was one point on which he always remained flighty. The old Dutch
inhabitants, however,almost universally gave it full credit. Even to this day they never
hear a thunderstorm of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick
Hudson and his crew are at their game of nine-pins; and it is a common wish of all hen-
pecked husbands in the neighborhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they
'night have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon.

NOTE

The foregoing Tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr. Knickerbocker by a
little Gennan superstition about the Emperor Frederick der Rothbart, and the Kyffhäuser
mountain: the subjoinednote, however,which he had appendedto the tale, shows that it is
an absolute fact, narratedwith his usual fidelity:
"The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredi€le to many, but nevertheless I give it
my full belief, for I know the vicinity of our old Dutch settlements to have been very
subject to marvellous events and appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories
than this, in the villages along the Hudson; all of which were too well authenticated to
admit of.a doubt. I have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself who, when last I saw
him, was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly rational and consistent on every other
point, that I think no conscientious person could refuse to take this into the bargain; nay, I
have seen a certificate on the subject taken before a country justice and signed with a
cross, in thejustice's own handwriting.The story, therefore, is beyond the possibility of
doubt.
 Lilacs

by Kntc Chopin
(1851-1904)

Mme. Adrienne Farival never announced her coming; but the good nuns knew very well when to
look for her. When the scent of the lilac blossoms began to permeate the air, Sister Agathe would
turn many times during the day to the window; upon her face the happy, beatific expression with
which pure and simple souls watch for the coming of those they love.

But it was not Sister Agathe; it was Sister Marceline who first espied her crossing•the beautiful
lawn that sloped up to the convent. Her arms were filled with great bunches of lilacs which she
had gathered along her path. She was clad all in brown; like one of the birds that come with the
spring, the nuns used to say. Her figure was rounded and graceful, and she walked with a happy,
buoyant step. The cabriolet which had conveyed her to the convent moved slowly up the gravel
drive that led to the imposing entrance. Beside the driver was her modest little, black trunk, with
her name and address printed in white letters upon it: "Mme. A. Farival, Paris." It was the
crunching of the gravel which had attracted Sister Marceline's attention. And then the
commotion began.

White-capped heads appeared suddenly at the windows; she waved her parasol and her bunch of
lilacs at them. Sister Marceline and Sister Marie Anne appeared, fluttered and expectant at the
doorway. But Sister Agathe, more daring and impulsive than all, descended the steps and flew
across the grass to meet her. What embraces, in which the Lilacswere crushed beiween them!
What ardent kisses! What pink flushes of happiness mounting the cheeks of the two women!

Once within the convent Adrienne's soft brown eyes moistened with tenderness as they dwelt
caressingly upon the familiar objects about her, and noted the most trifling details. The white,
bare boards of the floor had lost nothing of their luster. The stiff, wooden chairs, standing in
rows against the walls of hall and parlor, seemed to have taken oman_extra polish since she had
seen them, last lilac time. And there was a new picture of the Sacré-Coeur hanging over the hall
table. What had they done with Ste. Catherine de Sienne, who had occupied that position of
honor for so many years? In the chapel-it was no use trying to deceive her-she saw at a glance
that St. Joseph's mantle had been embellished with a new coat of blue, and the aureole about his
head freshly gilded. And the Blessed Virgin there neglected! Still wearing her garb of last spring,
which looked almost dingy by contrast. It was not just-such partiality! The Holy Mother had
reason to be jealous and to complain.

But Adrienne did not delay to pay her respects to the Mother Superior, whose dignity would
not
permit her to so much as step outside the door of her private apartments to welcome this
old
pupil. Indeed, she was dignity in person; large, uncompromising, unbending She kissed Adrienne
without warmth, and discussed conventional themes learnedly and prosaically during the
quaner
of an hour which the young woman remained in her company.
 It was then that Adrienne's latest gift was brought in for inspection. For Adrienne always brought
a handsolnc present for the chapel in her little black trunk. Last year it was a necklace of gems
for the Blessed Virgin, which the Good Mother was only permittcd to wear on extra occasions,
such as great feast days of obligation, The year before it had been a precious crucifix-an ivory
figure of Christ suspended from an ebony cross, whose extremities were tipped with wrought
silver. This tinw it was a linen embroidered altar cloth of such rare and delicate workmanship
that the Mother Superior, who knew the value of such things, chided Adrienne for the
extravagance.

"But, dear Mother, you know it is the greatest pleasure I have in life-to be with you all once a
year, and to bring some such trifling token of my regard. "

The Mother Superior dismissed her with the rejoinder: "Make yourself at home, my child. Sister
Thérése will see to your wants. You will occupy Sister Marceline's bed in the end room, over the
chapel. You will share the room with Sister Agathe.l'

There was always one of the nuns detailed to keep Adrienne company during her fortnight's stay
at the convent. This had become almost a fixed regulation. It was only during the hours of
recreation that she found herself with them all together. Those were hours of much harmless
merry-making under the trees or in the nuns' refectory.

This time it was Sister Agathe who waited for her outside of the Mother Superior's door. She was
taller and slenderer than Adrienne, and perhaps ten years older. Her fair blond face flushed and
paled with every passing emotion that visited her soul. The two women linked arms and went
together out into the open air.

There was so much which Sister Agathe felt that Adrienne must see. To begin with, the enlarged
poultry yard, with its dozens upon dozens of new inmates. It took now all the time of one of the
lay sisters to attend to them. There had been no change made in the vegetable garden, but-yes
there had; Adrienne's quick eye at once detected it. Last year old Philippe had planted his
cabbages in a large square to the right. This year they were set out in an oblong bed to the left.
How it made Sister Agathe laugh to think Adrienne should have noticed such a trifle! And old
about it.
Philippe, who was nailing a broken trellis not far off, was called forward to be told
looked, and how she was growing younger each
He never failed to tell Adrienne how well she
youthful and mischievous escapades. Never
year. And it was his delight to recall certain of her
and the whole convent in a hubbub about it! And how
would he forget that day she disappeared;
among the tallest branches of•the highest tree on the
at last it was he who discovered her perched
a glimpse of Paris! And her punishment
grounds, where she had climbed to see if she could get
afterwards!-halfof the Gospel of Palm Sunday to learn by heart!
must remember that Madame is older and wiser
We may laugh over it, my good Philippe, but we
now."

33
 "1 know well, Sister Agathe, that one ceases to commit follies after the first days of youth." And
Adrienne seemed greatly impressed by the wisdom of Sister Agathe and old Philippe, the
convent gardener.

A little later when they sat upon a rastic bench which overlooked the smiling landscape about
them, Adrienne was saying to Sister Agathe, who held her hand and stroked it fondly:

"Do you remember my first visit, four years ago, Sister Agathe? and what a surprise it was to
you all!"

"As if I could forget it, dear child!"

"And I! Always shall I remember that morning as I walked along the boulevard with a heaviness
of heart-oh, a heaviness which I hate to recall. Suddenly there was wafted to me the sweet odor
of lilac blossoms. A young girl had passed me by, carrying a great bunch of them. Did you ever
know, Sister Agathe, that there is nothing which so keenly revives a memory as a perfume-an

"I believe you are right, Adrienne. For now that you speak of it, I can feel how the odor of fresh
bread-when Sister Jeanne bakes-always makes me think of the great kitchen of ma tante de
Sierge, and crippled Julie, who sat always knitting at the sunny window. And I never smell the
sweet scented honeysuckle without living again through the blessed day of my first communion. "

"Well, that is how it was with me, Sister Agathe, when the scent of the lilacs at once changed the
whole cunent of my thoughts and my despondency. The boulevard, its noises, its passing
throng., vanished from before my senses as completely as if they had been spirited away. I was
standing here with my feet sunk in the green sward as they are now. I could see the sunlight
glancing from that old white stone wall, could hear the notes of birds, just as we hear them now,
and the humming of insects in the air. And through all I could see and could smell the lilac
blossoms, nodding invitingly to me from their thick-leaved branches. It seems to me they are
richer than ever this year, Sister Agathe. And do you know, I became like an enragée; nothing
could have kept me back. I do not remember now where I was going; but [ tumed and retraced
my steps homeward in a perfect fever of agitation: 'Sophie! My little trunk-quick-the black one!
A mere handful of clothes! I am going away. Don't ask me any questions. I shall be back in a
fortnight.' And every year since then it is the same. .At the very first whiff of a lilac I
am gone! There is no holding me back."

"And how I wait for you, and watch those lilac bushes, Adrienne! If you should once fail to
come, it would be like the spring coming without the sunshine or the song of birds.

"But do you know, dear child, I have sometimes feared that in moments of despondency such as
you have just described, I fear that you do not turn as you might to our Blessed Mother in
heaven, who is ever ready to comfort and solace an afflicted heart with the precious balm of her
sympathy and love."
 "Perhaps I do not, dear Sister Agathe. But you cannot picturc the annoyances which I am
constantly submitted to. That Sophie alone, with her detestable ways! I assure you she of herself
is enough to drive me to St. Lazarc."

"Indeed, I do understand that (he trials of one living in the world must be very great, Adrienne;
particularly for you, my poor child, who have to bear them alone, since Almighty God was
pleased to call to himself your dear husband. But on the other hand, to live one's life along the
lines which our dear Lord traces for each one of us, must bring with it resignation and even a
certain confort. You have your household duties, Adrienne, and your music, to which, you say,
you continue to devote yourself. And then, there are always good works-the poor-who are always
with us-to be relieved; the afflicted to be comforted.

"But, Sister Agathe! Will you listen! Is it not La Rose that I hear moving down there at the edge
of the pasture? I fancy she is reproaching me with being an ingrate, not to have pressed a kiss yet
on that white forehead of hers. Come, let us go."

The two women arose and walked again, hand in hand this time, over the tufted grass down the
gentle decline where it sloped toward the broad, flat meadow, and the limpid stream that flowed
cool and fresh from the woods- Sister Agathe walked with her composed, nunlike tread;
Adrienne with a balancing motion, a bounding step, as though the earth responded to her light
footfall with some subtle impulse all its own.

They lingered long upon the foot-bridge that spanned the narrow stream which divided the
convent grounds from the meadow beyond. It was to Adrienne indescribably sweet to rest there
in soft, low converse with this gentle-faced nun, watching the approach of evening. The gurgle of
the running water beneath them; the lowing of cattle approaching in the distance, were the only
sounds that broke upon the stillness, until the clear tones of Cheangelus bell pealed out from the
convent tower. At the sound both women instinctively sank io their knees, signing themselves
with the sign of the cross. And Sister Agathe repeated the customary invocation, Adrienne
responding in musical tones:

"The Angel of the Lord declared unto Mary,

And she conceived by the Holy Ghost-"

and so forth, to the end of the brief prayer, after which they arose and retraced their steps toward
the convent.

It was with subtle and naive pleasure that Adrienne prepared herself that night for bed. The room
which she shared with Sister Agathe was immaculately white. The walls were a dead white,
relieved only by one florid print depicting Jacob's dream at the foot of the ladder, upon which
angels mounted and. descended. The bare floors, a soft yellow-white, with two little patches of
gray carpet beside each spotless bed. At the head of the white-draped beds were two bénitiers
containing holy water absorbed in sponges.

Sister Agathe disrobed noiselessly behind her curtains and glided into bed without having
the
revealed, in the faint candlelight, as much as a shadow of herself. Adrienne pattered about
 het dog

Inn Adncnnc ncq She dul Ft'Mty den'*

•Are ON aocq. A&ienne7"

*No, Sanct Avmhe know It aiway• the first rush' Tbe or tm art"
mc •wake.•
•Say your 'Intl, Muy.• dcu
child. over and ovct.• 'I have dot* Stitet Agathe; It
belp

-1hen "c quitc Mill oa »our sidc and think of mthing your own respiration. I have tward chat
such inducement to sleep scldom fails.'

"I will try. Good night. Sister Agathe.

*Good ni#lt. dear child. May the Holy Virgin guardyou."

An hour later Adrienne was still lying with wide, wakeful eyes, listening to thc regular breathing
Of Sister Agathc. The trailing of thc passing wind through the treetops, the ceaseless babble of
the rivulet wcrc some of the sounds that came to her faintly through the night.

The days of the fortnight which followed were in character much like the first peaceful,
uneventful day of her arrival, with the cxccption only that she devoutly heard mass every
moming at an early hour in the convcnt chapcl, and on Sundays sang in the choir in her
agreeable, cultivated voice, which was heard with dclight and the warmest appreciation.

When the day of her departure came, Sister Aguthe was not satisfied to say good-bye at the
portal as the others did. She walked doy en the drive beside the creeping old cabriolet. chattering
her pleasant last words. And then shc stood-it was as far as she might go-at the edge of the road,
waving good-bye in response to the fluttering of Adrienne's handkerchief. Four hours later Sister
Agathe, who was instructing a class of little girls for their first communion, looked up at the
classroom clock and murmured: "Adrienne is at home now.""

Yes, Adrienne was at home. Paris had engulfed her.

At the very hour when Sister Agathe looked up at the clock, Adrienne, clad in a charming
negligee, was reclining indolently in the depths of a luxurious armchair. The bright room was in
its accustomed state of picturesque disorder. Musical scores were scattered upon the open piano.
Thrown carelessly over the backs of chairs were puzzling and astonishing-looking garments.
 In a large gilded cagc near the window petrhed a
clutnsy gtccn parrot. blinked stupidly at a
young girl in strect dress who •,vascxcrting hcrsclfto
tnakc him talk.
In the center of the rootn stood Sophie, that
thorn in her mistress s side. With hands plunged in
the deep pockets of her apron, her Whitcstarched
cap quivering with each emphatic motion Of
her grizzled head, she was holding forth, to the cvidcnt ennui
saying: of thc two young womcn„She was

nHeaven knows have stood enough in

the six years I have becn with Madcmoiselle; but ncvcr
such indignities as I have had to endure in the
past two weeks at the hands of that man who calls
himself a Inanager! The very first day-and I, good enough to notify him at once of
Mademoiselle's flight-he arrives like a lion; I tell you, like a lion. He insists upon knowing
Mademoiselle's whereabouts. How can I tell him any more than the statue out there in the
square? He calls me a liar! Me, me-a liar! He declares he is ruined. The public will not stand La
Petite Gilberta in the role which Mademoisellehas made so fam6us-LaPetite Gilberta, who
dances like a jointed wooden figure and sings like a trainée of a café chantant. If I were to tell La
Gilberta that, as I easily might, I guarantee it would not be well for the few straggling hairs
which he has left on that miserable head of his!

"What could he do? He was obliged to inform the public that Mademoiselle was ill; and then
began Iny real torment! Answering this one and that one with their cards, their flowers, their
dainties in covered dishes! which, I must admit, saved Florine and me much cooking. And all the
while having to tell them that the physician had advised for Mademoiselle a rest of two weeks at
some watering-place, the name of which I had forgotten!"

Adrienne had been contemplating old Sophie with quizzical, half-closed eyes, and pelting her
with hot-house roses which lay in her lap, and which she nipped off short from their graceful
stems for that purpose. Each rose struck Sophie full in the face; but they did not disconcert her or
once stem the torrent of her talk.

"Oh, Adrienne!" entreated the young girl at the parrot's cage. "Make her hush; please do
something. How can you ever expect Zozo to talk'?A dozen times he has been on the point of
saying something! I tell you, she stupefies him with her chatter.

"My good Sophie," remarked Adrienne, not changing her attitude, "you see the roses are all used
up. But I assure you, anything at hand goes," carelessly picking up a book from the table beside
her. "What is this? Mons. Zola! Now I warn you„ Sophie, the weightiness, the heaviness of
Mons. Zola are such that they cannot fail to prostrate you; thankful you may be if they leave you
with energy to regain your feet."

"Mademoiselle's pleasantries are all very well; but if I am to be shown the door for it-if I am to
be crippled for it-I shall say that I think Mademoiselleis a woman without conscience and
without heart. To torture a man as she does! A man? No, an angel

"Each day he has come with sad visage and drooping mien. No news, Sophie?'
 Monsieur Henri.' 'Have you no idea where she has gone?' 'Not any more than the statue
in the square, Monsieur. 'Is it perhaps possible that she may not return at all?' with his face
blanchinglike that curtian.
have patience. He
"l assure him you will be back at the end of the fortnight. I entreat him to
drags himself, desole, about the room, picking up Mademoiselle's fan, her gloves, her music, and
took off to throw at
turningthem over and over in his hands. Mademoiselle's slipper, which she
fell on the
me in the impatience of her departure, and which I purposely left lying where it
chiffonier-he kissed it-I saw him do it-and thrust it into his pocket, thinking himself unobserved.

,tThesame song each day. I beg him to eat a little good soup which I have prepared. cannot eat,
my dear Sophie.' The other night he came and stood long gazing out of the window at the stars.
When he turned he was wiping his eyes; they were red. He said he had been riding in the dust,
Which had inflamed them. But I knew better; he had been crying.
myself.
"Ma foi! in his place I .wouldsnap my finger at such cruelty. I would go out and amuse
What is the use of being young!"
her till the
Adrienne arose with a laugh. She went and seizing old Sophie by the shoulders shook
white cap wobbled on her head.
forgotten
"What is the use of all this litany, my good Sophie? Year after year the same! Have you
thirst? Bring
that I have come a long, dusty journey by rail, and that lam perishing of hunger and
herself,
us a bottle ofChåteau Yquem and a biscuit and my box of cigarettes." Sophie had freed
him to
and was retreating toward the door. '"And, Sophie! If Monsieur Henri is still waiting, tell
come up."

It was precisely a year later. The spring had come again, and Paris was intoxicated.
trifling
Old Sophie sat in her kitchen discoursing to a neighbor who had come in to borrow some
kitchen utensil from the old bonne.
year. I
"You know, Rosalie, I begin to believe it is an attack of lunacy which seizes her once a
treated for
wouldn't say it to everyone, but with you I know it will go no further. She ought to be
things and let them run on.
it; a physician should be consulted; it is not well to neglect such
there had been no thought or
"It came this morning like a thunder clap. As I am sitting here,
know what a gallant he is-with
mention of a journey. The baker had come into the kitchen-you
upon the table and beside it a bunch of lilacs. I
always a girl in his eye. He laid the bread down
my regards,' he said with his
didn't know they had bloomed yet. 'For Mam'selle Florine, with
foolish simper.

"Now, you know I was not going to call Florine from her work in order to present her the baker's
flowers. All the same, it would not do to let them wither. I went with them in my hand into the
dining room to get a majolica pitcher which I had put away in the closet there, on an upper shelf,
because the handle was broken. Mademooiselle, who rises, early, had just come from her bath,
 and was crossing (he hall that opens into the dining room. just us shc was, in her white peignoir,
she thrust her head into the dining snuffling thc air and exclaiming, 'What do I smell?'

"She espied thc nowcts in Iny hand and pounccd upon them like o cat upon a mousc. She held
thetn up to her, burying her race in thctn for thc longest time, only uttcring a long 'Ah!'

'"Sophie, I mn going away-Gct out thc little black trunk; a few of the plainest garments I have;
my brown dress that I have not yet worn.'

R'But,Mademoiselle,' I protcstcd, 'you forget that you have ordered a breakfast of a hundred
francs for tomorrow.'

"'Shut up!' she cried, stamping her foot.

"You forget how the manager will rave,' I persisted, 'and vilify me. And you will go like that
without a word of adieu to Monsieur Paul, who is an angel if ever one trod the earth.'

"I tell you, Rosalie, her eyes flamed.

"'Do as I tell you this instant,' she exclaimed, 'or I will strangle you-with your Monsieur Paul and
your manager and your hundred francs!"'

"Yes," affirmed Rosalie, "it is insanity. I had a cousin seized in the same way one morning, when
she smelled calfs liver frying with onions. Before night it took two men to hold her."

"I could well see it was insanity, my dear Rosalie, and I uttered not another word as I feard for
my life. I simply obeyed her every command in silence. And now-whiff, she is gone! God knows
where. But between us, Rosalie-I wouldn't say it to Florine-but I believe it is for no good. I, in
Monsieur Paul's place, should have her watched. I would put a detective upon her track.

"Now I am going to close up; barricade the entire establishment. Monsieur Paul, the manager,
visitors, all-all may ring and knock and shout themselves hoarse. I am tired of it all. To be
vilified and called a liar-at my age, Rosaile!"

Adrienne left her trunk at the small railway station, as the old cabriolet was not at the moment
available; and she gladly walked the mile or two of pleasant roadway which led to the convent.
How infinitely calm, peaceful, penetrating was the charm of the verdant, undulating country
spreading out on all sides of her! She walked along the clear smooth road, twirling her parasol;
humming a gay tune; nipping here and there a bud or a waxlike leaf from the hedges along the
way; and all the while drinking deep draughts of complacency and content.

She stopped, as she had always done, to pluck lilacs in her path.

As she approached the convent she fancied that a whitecapped face had glanced fleetingly from a
window; but she must have been mistaken. Evidently she had not been seen, and this time would
take them by surprise. She smiled to think how Sister Agathe would utter a little joyous cry of
 amazement, and in fancy she already felt the warmth and tenderness of the nun's embrace. And
how Sister Marceline and the others would laugh, and make game of her puffed slccves! For
puffed sleeves had come into fashionsince last year; and the vagarics of fashion always afforded
infinite merriment to the nuns. No, they surely had not secn her.

She ascended lightly the stone steps and rang the bell. She could hear the sharp metallic sound
reverberate thmugh the halls. Before its last note had died away the door was opened very
slightly, very cautiously by a lay sister who stood there with downcast eyes and flaming cheeks.
Through the narrow opening she thrust forward toward Adrienne a package and a letter, saying,
in confused tones: "By order of our Mother Superior." After which she closed the door hastily
and turned the heavy key in the great lock.

Adrienne remained stunned. She could not gather her faculties to grasp the meaning of this
singular reception. The lilacs fell from her arms to the stone portico on which she was standing.
She turned the note and the parcel stupidly over in her hands, instinctively dreading what their
contents might disclose.

The outlines of the crucifix were plainly to be felt through the wrapper of the bundle, and she
guessed, without having courage to assureherself, that thejeweled necklace and the altar cloth
accompanied it.

Leaning against the heavy oaken door for support, Adrienne opened the letter. She did not seem
to read the few bitter reproachful lines word by word-the lines that banished her forever from this
haven of peace, where her soul was wont to come and refresh itself. They imprinted themselves
as a whole upon her brain, in all their seeming cruelty-she did not dare to say injustice.

There was no anger in her heart; that would doubtless possess her later, when her nimble
intelligence would begin to seek out the origin of this teacherous turn. Now, there was only
room for tears. She leaned her foreheadagainst the heavy oaken panel of the door and wept with
the abandonment of a little child.

She descended the steps with a nerveless and dragging tread. Once as she was walking away, she
turned to look back at the imposing facade of the convent, hoping to see a familiar face, or a
hand, even, giving a faint token that she was still cherished by some one faithful heart. But she
saw only the polished windows looking down at her like so many cold and glittering and
reproachful eyes.

In the little white room above the chapel, a woman knelt beside the bed on which Adrienne had
slept. Her face was pressed deep in the pillow in her efforts to smother the sobs that convulsed
her frame. It was Sister Agathe.

After a short while, a lay sister came out of the door with a broom, and swept away the lilac
blossoms which Adrienne had let fall upon the portico.
 Young Goodman Brown Hawthorne
Nathaniel
Young Goodnmn Brown calllc forth at sunsct into the strcet at Salcm 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 thrust her own pretty head into the street, letting the Wind play with
lhc pink ribbons of her cap while she called to Goodman Brown,

*Dcarcst heart,• whispered she, softly and rather sadly, when her lips were close to his ear,
eprithcc 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 mc this night. dear husband, of all nights in the year."

"My lovc and my Faith," replied young Goodman Brown, "of all nights in the year, this one night
must I tan-y away from thce. My journey, as thou callest it, forth and back again. must needs be
done •twixt now and sunrisc. What, my sweet, pretty wife, dost thou doubt me already, and we
but thrcc months married?"

"Then God bless youe! 't said Faith, With the pink ribbons; "and may you find all well whn you
comc back."

"Amen!" cried Goodman Brown. "Say thy prayers, dear Faith, and go to bed at dusk. and no
harnl will cornc to thce."

So they parted; and the young man pursued his way until, being about to turn the corner by the
mccting-house. hc looked back and saw the head of Faith still peeping after him with a
melancholy air. in spite of her pink ribbons.
R
"Poor littlc Faith!" thought he, for his heart smote him. What a wretch am I to leave her on such
an crrand! She talks of dreams, too. Methought as she spoke there was trouble in her face, as if a
drcalll 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 angcl on earth; and after this onc night I'll cling to her skirteand follow her
to heaven."

With this excellent resolve for the future, Goodman Brown felt himself justified in making more
ha.ste 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
inuncdiatcly behind. It was all as lonely as could be; and there is this peculiarity in such a
solitudc. that thc travellcr 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 bc a devilish Indian behind every tree," said Goodman Brown to himself; and he
glanced tulrfully behind him as he added, "What if the devil himself should be at my very

41
 His head being turned back, he passcd 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 heu "The clock of thc Old South was striking as I came
through Boston, and that is full fifteen minutes agone.n

"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 vv'ould
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 tixcd 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 flop, "having kept covenant by
meeting thee here, it is my purpose now to return whence I came. f 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 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. nMy 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 bc as thou saycst," rcplied Goodman Brown, "1 marvel they
never spoke of these matters;
or. verily, I marvel not, sceing 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."

"Wickcdncss or not," said thc traveller with the twisted staff, "I have a very general acquaintance
hcre in New England. The deacons of many a church have drunk the communion wine with me;
thc sclcctmcn of divers towns make me their chairman; and a majority of the Great and General
Court arc firm supporters of my interest. The governor and I. tdo--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 mcct 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 thc 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."

aWcil, then, to end the matter at once," said Goodman Brown, considerably nettled, "there is my
wife, Faith. It would brcak her dear little heart; and I'd rather break my own."

"Nay, if that be the case." answered the other, "elen go thy ways, Goodman Brown. I would not
for twenty old women likc 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
rccognizcd 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 shouldbe 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-travcller. "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 staffs length of the old dame. She. meanwhile.
was making thc best of her way, with singular speed for so aged a woman, and mumbling some
indistinct words--a prayer, doubtlcss--as she went. The traveller put forth his staff and touched
hcr withered neck with what seemed the serpent'stail.

"Thc dcvil!" scrcamcd thc pious old lady.

43
 "Then Goody Cloyse knows her old friend?" observed thc travcller, confronting her and leaning
on his writhing stick.

"Ah, forsooth. and is it your worship indeed?n cried the good dame. 'tYea, truly is it, and in the
very image of my old gossip, Goodman Brown, thegrandfatherof the silly fellow that now is.
But--would your worship bclicvc it?--my broomstick hath strangely disappeared, stolen, as
suspect, by that unhangcd witch, Goody Cory, and that, too, when I was all anointed with the
juice of smallage, and cinquefoil, and wolfs bane"

"Mingled with fine wheat and the fat of a new-born babc,n said ihe shapc 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 Cloysc; but here
is my st?ff, 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, whilé 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, GoodmanBrown sat himself down on the stump
of a u•eeand 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 hcr?"

"You will think better of this by and by," said hi' acquaintance, composedly. "Sit herc 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

htt
 minister in his morning walk. nor shrink from the eye of good old Deacon Gookin. And what
calm slccp would be his that very night, which was to have been spent so wickedly, but so purely
and sweetly now, in the arrns of Faith! Amidst these pleasant and praiseworthy meditations,
Goodman Brown heard the tramp of horses along the road, and deemed it advisable to conceal
himsclf 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
Dcacon Gookin,jogging along quietly, as they were wont to do, when bound to some ordination
or ccclcsiastical 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 almosi 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 heant. 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
bluc 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-peopleof 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 camc a strongcr swell of those familiar tones, heard daily in the
sunshine at Salem village, but ncvcr until now from a cloud of night There was onc voice of a
young woman, uttering lamentations, yet with an uncertain sorrow, and entreating for somc
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 abovc
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.n

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."
frightful than the figure of
In truth, all through the haunted forest there could be nothing more
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
lurid blaze against the sky, at
and branches of a clearing have been set on fire, and throw up their
him onward, and heard
the hour of midnight. He paused, in a lull of the tempestthat had driven
with the weight of many
the swell of what seemed a hymn, rolling solemnly from a distance
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 fuli upon his eyes. At one
cxtrcmity 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. Flhe mass of foliage
that had overgrown thc summit of the rock was all on fire, blazing high into thc night and fitfully
illuminating the whole field. Each pendent twig and leafy festoon was in a blaze. As the rcd 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 womenof spottedfame, wretches given over to all
mcan 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
thcir pale-faced encmics were the Indian priests, or powwows,who had often scared their native
forcst 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
thrcw 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 trccs and approached the
congregation, with whom he felt a loathful brotherhood by the sympathy of all that was wicked
in his heart. HC could have well-nigh sworn that the shape of his own dead father beckoncd 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 forcst--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 watcr,
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, morc conscious
of the secret guilt of others, both in deed and
thought, than they could now be of their own. The
husband cast onc 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 thc 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 villäge, 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?n 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-
mccting?
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 desperateman 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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