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who will do it for us? It is certain that neither Lamb, nor any other modern Prose Writer has ever walked more critically that difficult and narrow line between the Natural and Supernatural. This is a most perilous place to tread ; and Hawthorne's clear eye and calm nerve does it with a steadiness and skill scarcely equaled. Take the first story in the Legends of the Province House, for example, in his earlier book, "Twice-told Tales." We defy anybody, after reading "Howe's Masquerade," to decide at once whether the mysterious pageant" with ⚫ which the entertainment of the last Royal Governor of Massachusetts is interrupted, comes really from the Shadow-Land, or is merely a skillfully devised Masque of the rebellious Citizens! We are ourselves, to this very day, somewhat doubtful, though we have read it many times. When one comes to really analyze the Story in soberness, he finds himself a little puzzled in spite of his common sense; for though there can be no question as to the character of that strange figure, from a view of the face of which Sir William Howe recoils in horror and amazementdropping his sword, which he had been about to use in his wrath-and though there can be as little room for mistake when, "last of all, comes a figure shrouded in a military cloak, tossing his clenched hands into the Air, and stamping his iron-shod boots upon the broad freestone steps with a semblance of feverish despair, but without the sound of a foottramp!"-yet this sentence concludes the Story; and the Real and Unreal have been mingled throughout with so many consummate touches-such as when Colonel Joliff and his grand-daughter, who are both stout Rebels, leave," it was supposed that the Colonel and the young Lady possessed some secret intelligence in relation to the mysterious pageant of that night." Now this passage is thrown in with a most admirable skill for the purpose of the Author; which is to continue a half-defined illusion in the reader's mind to the last, as to the true character of the scene he is perusing whether these figures be of earth, or "goblin damned!" This is the highest accomplishment of a peculiar skill which all imaginative writers have emulated. Its perfect type is found in the Old Ballads. Walter Scott and Fouque have been masters; while in Poetry Coleridge has triumphed supremely in Christabel. Hawthorne equals either of them

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in skill-but his subjects do not possess the breadth or Histrionic Grandeur of Scott's. His style and treatment have not equaled, though they have approached, the airy grace and tenderness of Undine" or attained to the mysterious dread which creeps through music in unequaled Christabel. Yet we think his story of "Young Goodman Brown" will bear to be contrasted with anything of this kind that has been done. The subject of course wants many imposing elements-for it is merely an Allegory of simple New England Village Life-but as a Tale of the Supernatural it certainly is more exquisitely managed than anything we have seen in American Literature, at least! He wins our confidence at once, by his directness and perfect simplicity. We have no puerile announcement to begin with of A Tale of the Supernatural”—like the Painter's "This is a Cow," over his picture of that animal. We are left to find this out for ourselves in the due and proper time. In the meanwhile we are kept in a most titillating condition of uncertainty. We see that

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Young Goodman Brown came forth, at sunset, into the street of Salem village, but put his head back, after crossing the threshold, to exchange a parting kiss with his young wife. And Faith, as the wife head into the street, letting the wind play was aptly named, thrust her own pretty with the pink ribbons of her cap, while she called to Goodman Brown.

"Dearest heart,' whispered she, softly and rather sadly, when her lips were close to his ear, pr'ythee, put off your journey until sunrise, and sleep in your own bed tonight. A lone woman is troubled with such dreams and such thoughts, that she 's afeard of herself, sometimes. Pray, tarry with me this night, dear husband, of all nights in the year!'

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My love and my Faith,' replied young Goodman Brown, of all nights in the year, this one night must I tarry away from thee. My journey as thou callest it, forth and back again, must needs be done 'twixt now and sunrise. What, my sweet, pretty wife, dost thou doubt me already,

and we but three months married!'

with the pink ribbons, and may you find all well, when you come back.'

"Then God bless you!' said Faith,

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"Amen!' cried Goodman Brown. Say thy prayers, dear Faith, and go to bed at dusk, and no harm will come to thee.'

"So they parted; and the young man pursued his way, until, being about to turn the corner by the meeting-house, he looked

back and saw the head of Faith still peeping after him, with a melancholy air, in spite of her pink ribbons.

"Poor little Faith!' thought he, for his

heart smote him. What a wretch am I,

to leave her on such an errand! She talks of dreams, too. Methought, as she spoke, there was trouble in her face, as if a dream

had warned her what work is to be done to-night. But, no, no! 'twould kill her to think it. Well; she's a blessed angel on earth; and after this one night, I'll cling to her skirts and follow her to Heaven!"

What does this mean, Goodman? Are you gone forth to some pledged revel with the young friends of your Bachelorhood-concerning which you have not dared to speak to your Faith? Ah, Goodman, these are dangerous vows to keep, and we are sure when it is all over this will be the last!-no, the Goodman belongs to a staid generation, and lives in pious Salem village. It is not because he goes forth to such sinful doings that his conscience is smitten-that his "Amen" startles us with its deep, sad tone! ah no! The Goodman is a young Bridegroom- but three months married," and his heart yearns in tenderness towards his fair, young Bride, thus to be left alone through "the silent watches" for the first time. It is only some business of deep moment which would have called him forth-but it is an honest business, and we will go with him in confidence down the dreary road through the gloomiest part of the forest. When he suddenly beholds "the figure of a man in grave and decent attire seated at the foot of an old tree," who arose and walked onward with him as if he had been expecting him, our vague apprehensions are relieved at once and we feel gratified that our sagacious appreciation is sustained by the decorous and unquestionable character of his companion. Even when we see that strange staff of his, which "bore the likeness of a great black snake SO curiously wrought that it might be seen to twist and wriggle itself like a living serpent," our faith in his grave and evidently acute friend is only slightly shocked. And when as they talk on, he claims to have been an old friend of the Puritan Grandfather and Father of the Goodman, and to be on terms of intimacy with the deacons and selectmen, and even with the Governor and Council, we absolutely take him into our confidence for how could he be intimate with such peo

ple and not be trustworthy? Nay, although he seems to have something of a bitter tongue in his head, we have become so propitiated that we absolutely feel indignant at the Goodman's perverse hesitation to accompany so proper a person. To what evil could the old friend of his Fathers lead him-and why should you distrust him, Goodman? When we see before them in the path the form of Goody Cloyse," who had taught him his catechism in youth, and was still his moral and spiritual adviser jointly with the minister and Deacon Gookin," we are surprised, as the Goodman was, that she should be so far in the wilderness at night-fall-but we feel hurt for him that he should be so cowardly as to turn out from the path into the woods to avoid meeting his old and honored instructress. Conscience-smitten Goodman! what can it mean? and then to be so suspicious of your venerable companion as to shabbily play the eavesdropper upon him! But the scene which follows begins to enlighten us somewhat:

"Accordingly, the young man turned aside, but took care to watch his companion, who advanced softly along the road, until he had come within a staff's length of the old dame. She, meanwhile, was making the best of her way, with singular speed for so aged a woman, and mumbling some indistinct words, a prayer, doubtless, staff, and touched her withered neck with as she went. The traveller put forth his what seemed the serpent's tail.

"The devil!' screamed the pious lady. "Then Goody Cloyse knows her old friend?' observed the traveller, confronting her, leaning on his writhing stick.

"Ah, forsooth, and is it your worship, indeed ? cried the good dame. Yea, truly is it, and in the very image of my old gossip, Goodman Brown, the grandfather of

the silly fellow that now is. But, would your worship believe it? my broomstick hath strangely disappeared; stolen, as I suspect, by that unhanged witch, Goody Cory, and that, too, whan I was all anointed with the juice of smallage, and cinque-foil, and wolf's bane'—

"Mingled with fine wheat and the fat of a new-born babe,' said the shape of old Goodman Brown.

"Ah, your worship knows the recipe,' cried the old lady, cackling aloud. So, as I was saying, being all ready for the meeting, and no horse to ride on, I made up my mind to foot it; for they tell me there is a nice young man to be taken into communion to-night. But now your good worship will lend me your arm, and we shall be there in a twinkling.'

"That can hardly be,' answered her friend. I may not spare you my arm, Goody Cloyse, but here is my staff, if you will.''

"So saying, he threw it down at her feet, where, perhaps, it assumed life, being one of the rods which its owner had formerly lent to 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 cate chism said the young man; and there was a world of meaning in this simple com

ment."

ny!

Ah, Goodman! Goodman! now we begin to tremble for thee. Didst thou see those green twigs wet with the evening dew wilt up beneath the touch of his finger? Thou art in awful compaHow we tremble for him when he says stubbornly, "Friend, my mind is made up; not another step will I budge on this errand." God help thee to stand up to that resolve! His Tempter disappears. But then all the air and forest is filled with his delusions. The voices of Deacon Gookin and the old minister go by. They are jogging quietly on the same road. "Where can these holy men be journeying so deep in the heathen wilderness?" The young Goodman nearly drops with faintness! All going-but yet there is hope. "With Heaven above and Faith below I will yet stand firm against the devil,' he cries. Stoutly said, thou brave Goodman! Then the accents of many of his town's-people both godly and ungodly are heard going by-still the Goodman would have been firm-but alas! the voice of a young woman uttering lamentations, and a bit of "pink ribbon" flutters lightly down the silent air! ah, it is terrible. "Faith! Faith Faith!" the strong man screams, and what wonder that now he is maddened and rushes on. 66 My Faith is gone"-come, devil! for to thee is this world given!" He speeds through the forest which was peopled with frightful sounds but there was no horror like that in his own breast-until he saw a red light before him and that weird altar of rock" surrounded by four blazing pines-their tops a flame, their stems untouched, like candles at an evening meeting" rose in view-and the great concourse "a grave and dark-clad company" of those who had collected there to the Saturnalia of Hell.

"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 erend pastor. But, irreverently consortat the skirts of that venerable saint, his reving with these grave, reputable and pious people, these elders of the Church, these chaste dames and dewy virgins, there were men of dissolute lives and women of spotted fame, wretches given over to all mean and filthy vice, and suspected even of horrid crimes. It was strange to see, that the good shrank not from the wicked, nor were the sinners abashed by the saints. Scattered, also, among their pale-faced enemies, had often scared their native forests with were the Indian priests, or powows, who 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." .

Terrible picture! Sad! sad night for thee, Goodman, when with thy young eyes thou lookedst upon it! Dark! all is dark with an unutterable gloom-for that lurid light upon it is only darkness heated white with the fierce glow of Hellhate. No delusion of a mooned melancholy hast thou now to cope with, Goodman ! They are all real-real to thee-and even we can feel the hot breath of the thick, infestious air, wrestling with our Souls. It shall not be, though. We will not believe it all! Goodman! Goodman! it is a delusion! Think of thy Faith! And he asks where she is, and trembles with the hope that she may not be there. And that "dreadful anthem" they were singing to "a slow and solemn 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 "--with its awful chorus of all the sounds of "the unconverted wilderness," which ushers in the coming of the Chief Priest, the

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master Fiend of all this multitude. The fire on the rock-altar forms an arch, and beneath it he appears, "bearing no slight similitude, both in garb and manners, to some grave divine of the New England Churches! Bring forth the converts," rolls out in the volumed solemnity of his tones. "At the word" the Goodman obeys-drawn-but with deep loathing in his heart. The shape of his father beckons him on from amidst a wreath of smoke, while a woman waves him back; "Is it his mother?" Beautiful question! But ah, that veiled and slender female led forward between Goody Cloyse and "that rampant hag," who is to be queen of hell, Martha Carrier! who is she, Goodman? Is this last terrible bolt to fall? Is it she? The Goodman is meek now-the doubt is enough! He no longer loathes "how can he loathe or feel anything? He is dumb and numb, and all his life lies still. He is turned into a machine, and looks round when the Orator requires-and the greeting of the Fiend-worshipers which grimed darkly upon him out of the sheet of flame-was like any other sort of greeting quite a formal thing! Now he listens to that measured discourse from him of " the sable form," in which the monstrous and maddening creed, that Evil is the only real actuality, while virtue, truth, all godliness and righteousness, are hollow sounding names-as a very proper sort of discourse! That they were all here whom he had reverenced from youth, he knew already-that it was a deception when he had deemed them holier than himself, he had seen-for they were all here in the worshiping assembly of the Devil. And that diabolical summary of secret crimes and promise of the gift to know and see all beings in their true life, this was all consequential and moved him not-but that veiled figure? What cared he that "the fountain of all wicked arts" should be opened up to him? he had not leaned so much upon those others; he had leaned upon the truth of his Fathers; but most upon his "Faith." The two converts are told by him, (The Evil One,) "my children, look upon each other!" They did so, and by the blaze of hell-kindled torches the wretched man beheld his Faith, and the wife her husband."

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ing upon one another's hearts, ye still hoped that virtue were not all a dream! now ye are undeceived!' Welcome! and welcome!" repeated the fiend-worshipers, in one cry of despair and triumph!" Thou stricken Goodman! out of the agony that doubt had stilled-this last dreadful consummation had almost quickened thy wrenched soul into one spasm of expiring strength, when that accursed baptism, "the Shape of Evil" was prepared to mark with the red fluid upon thy forehead, in token of thy initiation into the mysteries of Sin, startles thee up. The old Puritan in thee rouses

to the rescue at last! That ancient hatred of "the mark of the Beast" has stung thee! "Faith! Faith! look up to Heaven, and resist the Wicked One!" It has been spoken! You are saved Goodman ! And now, considered merely as an artistic effect, comes the most exquisitely perfect dream-waking we ever remember to have seen. "Hardly had he spoken, when he found himself amid calm night and solitude, listening to the 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!

It has been all unreal, Goodman, as that chill sprinkle from amidst thy dreamland flames has taught thee! but canst thou ever forget that awful Dream, thou granite man? It has been burned into the stern substance of thy hard life, with each particular line deepened like a furrow. Is there any caoutchouc in your nature, which can give up to the energy of hope and truth beneath, and smooth out those sharp cut seams? He shrank from the good minister's blessing as he came into the village, with a wild stare in his eye. He heard the Deacon Gookin at domestic worship, and he asked unconsciously, "What God doth the wizard pray to?" Goody Cloyse cathecised a little girl before her door, and he snatched her away as from the grasp of the fiend himself. He spies the head of Faith looking anxiously out of his own door, with the same "pink ribbons in her cap." Though she skips to meet him, in a fond ecstacy, and almost kisses him before the whole village, yet he looks even her in the face with a sad regard, and passes on without a greeting. Oh, Goodman! Goodman! for this last we could weep over thee, as one for whom there is no hopefor Hope died in thy soul last night; and

as for sweet, gentle Faith, she too is dead for thee, thou darkened man!

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"Had Goodman Brown fallen asleep in the forest, and only dreamed a wild dream of a witch meeting?" Be it so if you will. But, alas! it was a dream of evil omen for young Goodman Brown. A stern, a sad, a darkly-meditative and distrustful, if not a desperate, man did he become from the night of that fearful dream." He even "shrunk from the bosom of his Faith at midnight;" and how can we doubt that, though he lived to a good old age when he died-although he had “children and grand-children, a goodly procession," yet they "carved no hopeful verse upon his tombstone." Alas! Goodman, thou hadst seen too much; and if when thy Faith came to meet thee, with her chirruping joy, thy lips had only been unfrozen as they met her holy kiss, the dreadful Dream would have vanished, leaving no curse behind, and no doubt would have rested on thy cheerless grave. Ye men whose lives are shaded, who look out with a dulled, melancholic vision which cannot pierce the clouds to the blue heaven, with its stars beyond, take warning from the Goodman's Dream; for the same vision which cannot see to Heaven peoples the dull earth-mists around it with a Hell of Fiends!

This story is only one of many, which equal it in all the attributes of Artistic effect, but few of which approach it in power. The singular skill with which our sympathy is kept "halting between two opinions"-by which we are compelled throughout to recognize the flesh and blood reality of Goodman Brown; and necessarily, to enter into all the actual relations of the man, is only surpassed by the terrible elaboration with which this human embodiment of Doubt is compelled, through awe and madness, to struggle with the beings-almost equally human-of a self-created Hell. The effect, through all the sombre horror, is to keep our eyes" upon the brim" with tenderness for the stout, deep-hearted Puritan and his sweet, gentle Faith" -with "the pink ribbons in her cap!" But such effects are not, by any means, all that Hawthorne is capable of producing. We see through everything that he has done, the same faculty, not of Idealizing the Real-as it is called-but of Humanizing the Unreal-giving it thews, sinews and a life-blood! Nothing that is an image to us, or can be a subject of thought to us, is Unreal but

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through our own ignorance. They are all ours; and if we but possess the delicate intuition, may become familiars and the playmates of our moods! So Hawthorne, in his "Virtuoso's Collection," has given a real substance and entity to everything our childhood ever knew, from Aladdin's Lamp, and Cinderella's Slipper, [which he himself tried on,] to the skin of the " Vulture" which preyed upon the liver of Prometheus, and even Prospero's Magic Wand" and, indeed, to the " Magic Wand of Cornelius Agrippa," with the veritable Mask," corroded with rust! All these we accept at his hands-just as our Childhood accepted "Robinson Crusoe"

to "

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because we can't help it! So with all Hawthorne's stories-we never stop to ask whether they are "sure 'nough" or not-it is sufficient that he has made them Real, and beguiled us for a time into the belief, that we are as wise as our Childhood was! Ineffable wisdom of Simplicity! Why are there so many Infants among us, with foreheads in which "the big imagination" is swelled out as we may conceit it to have been in the matured Shakspeare, which yet are wilted up, as they progress towards manhood, into the narrow quilting of a monkey's brow? Will Infantine" Wisdom answer us-or will Hawthorne? Hawthorne might do it!-for we see "glimpses" in him that make him worthy.

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The noblest Philosophers, of course, are those who have kept the Old Adam youngest in their veins and necessarily such Philosophers must say the wisest and the gentlest things.

"And they shall be accounted Poet Kings Who simply say the most heart-easing things."

The true Poet is the highest Philosopher; and it is as the true Poet that we most profoundly respect Hawthorne! There is a better Poetry than that which affiances itself to Rhythm-though it may be questioned whether it is a higher! Poetry has wedded itself to Music; though it may be doubted whether it can get away from the measured and according harmony of "feet." Yet we say, as Poetry is something above "all rule or art," it is necessarily above all "metre," a pervading, uncontrollable Presence, which will stutter with a Human tongue the thoughts of Seraphim! and even in this imperfect speech work highest music out! Poetry is the music

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