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"Dickon," cried Mother Rigby, "a coal for my pipe!"
The pipe was in the old dame's mouth when she said these words. She had
thrust it there after filling it with tobacco, but without stooping to
light it at the hearth, where indeed there was no appearance of a fire
having been kindled that morning. Forthwith, however, as soon as the order
was given, there was an intense red glow out of the bowl of the pipe, and
a whiff of smoke came from Mother Rigby's lips. Whence the coal came, and
how brought thither by an invisible hand, I have never been able to
discover.
"Good!" quoth Mother Rigby, with a nod of her head.
"Thank ye, Dickon! And now for making this scarecrow. Be within call,
Dickon, in case I need you again."
The good woman had risen thus early (for as yet it was scarcely
sunrise) in order to set about making a scarecrow, which she intended to
put in the middle of her corn-patch. It was now the latter week of May,
and the crows and blackbirds had already discovered the little, green,
rolledup leaf of the Indian corn just peeping out of the soil. She was
determined, therefore, to contrive as lifelike a scarecrow as ever was
seen, and to finish it immediately, from top to toe, so that it should
begin its sentinel's duty that very morning. Now Mother Rigby (as
everybody must have heard) was one of the most cunning and potent witches
in New England, and might, with very little trouble, have made a scarecrow
ugly enough to frighten the minister himself. But on this occasion, as she
had awakened in an uncommonly pleasant humor, and was further dulcified by
her pipe tobacco, she resolved to produce something fine, beautiful, and
splendid, rather than hideous and horrible.
"I don't want to set up a hobgoblin in my own corn-patch, and
almost at my own doorstep," said Mother Rigby to herself, puffing out
a whiff of smoke; "I could do it if I pleased, but I'm tired of doing
marvellous things, and so I'll keep within the bounds of every-day
business just for variety's sake. Besides, there is no use in scaring the
little children for a mile roundabout, though 't is true I'm a
witch."
It was settled, therefore, in her own mind, that the scarecrow should
represent a fine gentleman of the period, so far as the materials at hand
would allow. Perhaps it may be as well to enumerate the chief of the
articles that went to the composition of this figure.
The most important item of all, probably, although it made so little
show, was a certain broomstick, on which Mother Rigby had taken many an
airy gallop at midnight, and which now served the scarecrow by way of a
spinal column, or, as the unlearned phrase it, a backbone. One of its arms
was a disabled flail which used to be wielded by Goodman Rigby, before his
spouse worried him out of this troublesome world; the other, if I mistake
not, was composed of the pudding stick and a broken rung of a chair, tied
loosely together at the elbow. As for its legs, the right was a hoe
handle, and the left an undistinguished and miscellaneous stick from the
woodpile. Its lungs, stomach, and other affairs of that kind were nothing
better than a meal bag stuffed with straw. Thus we have made out the
skeleton and entire corporosity of the scarecrow, with the exception of
its head; and this was admirably supplied by a somewhat withered and
shrivelled pumpkin, in which Mother Rigby cut two holes for the eyes and a
slit for the mouth, leaving a bluish-colored knob in the middle to pass
for a nose. It was really quite a respectable face.
"I've seen worse ones on human shoulders, at any rate," said
Mother Rigby. "And many a fine gentleman has a pumpkin head, as well
as my scarecrow."
But the clothes, in this case, were to be the making of the man. So the
good old woman took down from a peg an ancient plum-colored coat of London
make, and with relics of embroidery on its seams, cuffs, pocket-flaps, and
button-holes, but lamentably worn and faded, patched at the elbows,
tattered at the skirts, and threadbare all over. On the left breast was a
round hole, whence either a star of nobility had been rent away, or else
the hot heart of some former wearer had scorched it through and through.
The neighbors said that this rich garment belonged to the Black Man's
wardrobe, and that he kept it at Mother Rigby's cottage for the
convenience of slipping it on whenever he wished to make a grand
appearance at the governor's table. To match the coat there was a velvet
waistcoat of very ample size, and formerly embroidered with foliage that
had been as brightly golden as the maple leaves in October, but which had
now quite vanished out of the substance of the velvet. Next came a pair of
scarlet breeches, once worn by the French governor of Louisbourg, and the
knees of which had touched the lower step of the throne of Louis le Grand.
The Frenchman had given these small-clothes to an Indian powwow, who
parted with them to the old witch for a gill of strong waters, at one of
their dances in the forest. Furthermore, Mother Rigby produced a pair of
silk stockings and put them on the figure's legs, where they showed as
unsubstantial as a dream, with the wooden reality of the two sticks making
itself miserably apparent through the holes. Lastly, she put her dead
husband's wig on the bare scalp of the pumpkin, and surmounted the whole
with a dusty three-cornered hat, in which was stuck the longest tail
feather of a rooster.
Then the old dame stood the figure up in a corner of her cottage and
chuckled to behold its yellow semblance of a visage, with its nobby little
nose thrust into the air. It had a strangely self-satisfied aspect, and
seemed to say, "Come look at me!"
"And you are well worth looking at, that's a fact!" quoth
Mother Rigby, in admiration at her own handiwork. "I've made many a
puppet since I've been a witch, but methinks this is the finest of them
all. 'Tis almost too good for a scarecrow. And, by the by, I'll just fill
a fresh pipe of tobacco and then take him out to the corn-patch."
While filling her pipe the old woman continued to gaze with almost
motherly affection at the figure in the corner. To say the truth, whether
it were chance, or skill, or downright witchcraft, there was something
wonderfully human in this ridiculous shape, bedizened with its tattered
finery; and as for the countenance, it appeared to shrivel its yellow
surface into a grin--a funny kind of expression betwixt scorn and
merriment, as if it understood itself to be a jest at mankind. The more
Mother Rigby looked the better she was pleased.
"Dickon," cried she sharply, "another coal for my
pipe!"
Hardly had she spoken, than, just as before, there was a red-glowing
coal on the top of the tobacco. She drew in a long whiff and puffed it
forth again into the bar of morning sunshine which struggled through the
one dusty pane of her cottage window. Mother Rigby always liked to flavor
her pipe with a coal of fire from the particular chimney corner whence
this had been brought. But where that chimney corner might be, or who
brought the coal from it,--further than that the invisible messenger
seemed to respond to the name of Dickon,--I cannot tell.
"That puppet yonder," thought Mother Rigby, still with her
eyes fixed on the scarecrow, "is too good a piece of work to stand
all summer in a corn-patch, frightening away the crows and blackbirds.
He's capable of better things. Why, I've danced with a worse one, when
partners happened to be scarce, at our witch meetings in the forest! What
if I should let him take his chance among the other men of straw and empty
fellows who go bustling about the world?"
The old witch took three or four more whiffs of her pipe and smiled.
"He'll meet plenty of his brethren at every street corner!"
continued she. "Well; I didn't mean to dabble in witchcraft to-day,
further than the lighting of my pipe, but a witch I am, and a witch I'm
likely to be, and there's no use trying to shirk it. I'll make a man of my
scarecrow, were it only for the joke's sake!"
While muttering these words, Mother Rigby took the pipe from her own
mouth and thrust it into the crevice which represented the same feature in
the pumpkin visage of the scarecrow.
"Puff, darling, puff!" said she. "Puff away, my fine
fellow! your life depends on it!"
This was a strange exhortation, undoubtedly, to be addressed to a mere
thing of sticks, straw, and old clothes, with nothing better than a
shrivelled pumpkin for a head,--as we know to have been the scarecrow's
case. Nevertheless, as we must carefully hold in remembrance, Mother Rigby
was a witch of singular power and dexterity; and, keeping this fact duly
before our minds, we shall see nothing beyond credibility in the
remarkable incidents of our story. Indeed, the great difficulty will be at
once got over, if we can only bring ourselves to believe that, as soon as
the old dame bade him puff, there came a whiff of smoke from the
scarecrow's mouth. It was the very feeblest of whiffs, to be sure; but it
was followed by another and another, each more decided than the preceding
one.
"Puff away, my pet! puff away, my pretty one!" Mother Rigby
kept repeating, with her pleasantest smile. "It is the breath of life
to ye; and that you may take my word for."
Beyond all question the pipe was bewitched. There must have been a
spell either in the tobacco or in the fiercely-glowing coal that so
mysteriously burned on top of it, or in the pungently-aromatic smoke which
exhaled from the kindled weed. The figure, after a few doubtful attempts
at length blew forth a volley of smoke extending all the way from the
obscure corner into the bar of sunshine. There it eddied and melted away
among the motes of dust. It seemed a convulsive effort; for the two or
three next whiffs were fainter, although the coal still glowed and threw a
gleam over the scarecrow's visage. The old witch clapped her skinny hands
together, and smiled encouragingly upon her handiwork. She saw that the
charm worked well. The shrivelled, yellow face, which heretofore had been
no face at all, had already a thin, fantastic haze, as it were of human
likeness, shifting to and fro across it; sometimes vanishing entirely, but
growing more perceptible than ever with the next whiff from the pipe. The
whole figure, in like manner, assumed a show of life, such as we impart to
ill-defined shapes among the clouds, and half deceive ourselves with the
pastime of our own fancy.
If we must needs pry closely into the matter, it may be doubted whether
there was any real change, after all, in the sordid, wornout worthless,
and ill-jointed substance of the scarecrow; but merely a spectral
illusion, and a cunning effect of light and shade so colored and contrived
as to delude the eyes of most men. The miracles of witchcraft seem always
to have had a very shallow subtlety; and, at least, if the above
explanation do not hit the truth of the process, I can suggest no better.
"Well puffed, my pretty lad!" still cried old Mother Rigby.
"Come, another good stout whiff, and let it be with might and main.
Puff for thy life, I tell thee! Puff out of the very bottom of thy heart,
if any heart thou hast, or any bottom to it! Well done, again! Thou didst
suck in that mouthful as if for the pure love of it."
And then the witch beckoned to the scarecrow, throwing so much magnetic
potency into her gesture that it seemed as if it must inevitably be
obeyed, like the mystic call of the loadstone when it summons the iron.
"Why lurkest thou in the corner, lazy one?" said she.
"Step forth! Thou hast the world before thee!"
Upon my word, if the legend were not one which I heard on my
grandmother's knee, and which had established its place among things
credible before my childish judgment could analyze its probability, I
question whether I should have the face to tell it now.
In obedience to Mother Rigby's word, and extending its arm as if to
reach her outstretched hand, the figure made a step forward--a kind of
hitch and jerk, however, rather than a step--then tottered and almost lost
its balance. What could the witch expect? It was nothing, after all, but a
scarecrow stuck upon two sticks. But the strong-willed old beldam scowled,
and beckoned, and flung the energy of her purpose so forcibly at this poor
combination of rotten wood, and musty straw, and ragged garments, that it
was compelled to show itself a man, in spite of the reality of things. So
it stepped into the bar of sunshine. There it stood, poor devil of a
contrivance that it was!--with only the thinnest vesture of human
similitude about it, through which was evident the stiff, rickety,
incongruous, faded, tattered, good-for-nothing patchwork of its substance,
ready to sink in a heap upon the floor, as conscious of its own
unworthiness to be erect. Shall I confess the truth? At its present point
of vivification, the scarecrow reminds me of some of the lukewarm and
abortive characters, composed of heterogeneous materials, used for the
thousandth time, and never worth using, with which romance writers (and
myself, no doubt, among the rest) have so overpeopled the world of
fiction.
But the fierce old hag began to get angry and show a glimpse of her
diabolic nature (like a snake's head, peeping with a hiss out of her
bosom), at this pusillanimous behavior of the thing which she had taken
the trouble to put together.
"Puff away, wretch!" cried she, wrathfully. "Puff, puff,
puff, thou thing of straw and emptiness! thou rag or two! thou meal bag!
thou pumpkin head! thou nothing! Where shall I find a name vile enough to
call thee by? Puff, I say, and suck in thy fantastic life with the smoke!
else I snatch the pipe from thy mouth and hurl thee where that red coal
came from."
Thus threatened, the unhappy scarecrow had nothing for it but to puff
away for dear life. As need was, therefore, it applied itself lustily to
the pipe, and sent forth such abundant volleys of tobacco smoke that the
small cottage kitchen became all vaporous. The one sunbeam struggled
mistily through, and could but imperfectly define the image of the cracked
and dusty window pane on the opposite wall. Mother Rigby, meanwhile, with
one brown arm akimbo and the other stretched towards the figure, loomed
grimly amid the obscurity with such port and expression as when she was
wont to heave a ponderous nightmare on her victims and stand at the
bedside to enjoy their agony. In fear and trembling did this poor
scarecrow puff. But its efforts, it must be acknowledged, served an
excellent purpose; for, with each successive whiff, the figure lost more
and more of its dizzy and perplexing tenuity and seemed to take denser
substance. Its very garments, moreover, partook of the magical change, and
shone with the gloss of novelty and glistened with the skilfully
embroidered gold that had long ago been rent away. And, half revealed
among the smoke, a yellow visage bent its lustreless eyes on Mother Rigby.
At last the old witch clinched her fist and shook it at the figure. Not
that she was positively angry, but merely acting on the principle--perhaps
untrue, or not the only truth, though as high a one as Mother Rigby could
be expected to attain--that feeble and torpid natures, being incapable of
better inspiration, must be stirred up by fear. But here was the crisis.
Should she fail in what she now sought to effect, it was her ruthless
purpose to scatter the miserable simulacre into its original elements.
"Thou hast a man's aspect," said she, sternly. "Have
also the echo and mockery of a voice! I bid thee speak!"
The scarecrow gasped, struggled, and at length emitted a murmur, which
was so incorporated with its smoky breath that you could scarcely tell
whether it were indeed a voice or only a whiff of tobacco. Some narrators
of this legend hold the opinion that Mother Rigby's conjurations and the
fierceness of her will had compelled a familiar spirit into the figure,
and that the voice was his.
"Mother," mumbled the poor stifled voice, "be not so
awful with me! I would fain speak; but being without wits, what can I
say?"
"Thou canst speak, darling, canst thou?" cried Mother Rigby,
relaxing her grim countenance into a smile. "And what shalt thou say,
quoth-a! Say, indeed! Art thou of the brotherhood of the empty skull, and
demandest of me what thou shalt say? Thou shalt say a thousand things, and
saying them a thousand times over, thou shalt still have said nothing! Be
not afraid, I tell thee! When thou comest into the world (whither I
purpose sending thee forthwith) thou shalt not lack the wherewithal to
talk. Talk! Why, thou shall babble like a mill-stream, if thou wilt. Thou
hast brains enough for that, I trow!"
"At your service, mother," responded the figure.
"And that was well said, my pretty one," answered Mother
Rigby. "Then thou speakest like thyself, and meant nothing. Thou
shalt have a hundred such set phrases, and five hundred to the boot of
them. And now, darling, I have taken so much pains with thee and thou art
so beautiful, that, by my troth, I love thee better than any witch's
puppet in the world; and I've made them of all sorts--clay, wax, straw,
sticks, night fog, morning mist, sea foam, and chimney smoke. But thou art
the very best. So give heed to what I say."
"Yes, kind mother," said the figure, "with all my
heart!"
"With all thy heart!" cried the old witch, setting her hands
to her sides and laughing loudly. "Thou hast such a pretty way of
speaking. With all thy heart! And thou didst put thy hand to the left side
of thy waistcoat as if thou really hadst one!"
So now, in high good humor with this fantastic contrivance of hers,
Mother Rigby told the scarecrow that it must go and play its part in the
great world, where not one man in a hundred, she affirmed, was gifted with
more real substance than itself. And, that he might hold up his head with
the best of them, she endowed him, on the spot, with an unreckonable
amount of wealth. It consisted partly of a gold mine in Eldorado, and of
ten thousand shares in a broken bubble, and of half a million acres of
vineyard at the North Pole, and of a castle in the air, and a chateau in
Spain, together with all the rents and income therefrom accruing. She
further made over to him the cargo of a certain ship, laden with salt of
Cadiz, which she herself, by her necromantic arts, had caused to founder,
ten years before, in the deepest part of mid-ocean. If the salt were not
dissolved, and could be brought to market, it would fetch a pretty penny
among the fishermen. That he might not lack ready money, she gave him a
copper farthing of Birmingham manufacture, being all the coin she had
about her, and likewise a great deal of brass, which she applied to his
forehead, thus making it yellower than ever.
"With that brass alone," quoth Mother Rigby, "thou canst
pay thy way all over the earth. Kiss me, pretty darling! I have done my
best for thee."
Furthermore, that the adventurer might lack no possible advantage
towards a fair start in life, this excellent old dame gave him a token by
which he was to introduce himself to a certain magistrate, member of the
council, merchant, and elder of the church (the four capacities
constituting but one man), who stood at the head of society in the
neighboring metropolis. The token was neither more nor less than a single
word, which Mother Rigby whispered to the scarecrow, and which the
scarecrow was to whisper to the merchant.
"Gouty as the old fellow is, he'll run thy errands for thee, when
once thou hast given him that word in his ear," said the old witch.
"Mother Rigby knows the worshipful Justice Gookin, and the worshipful
Justice knows Mother Rigby!"
Here the witch thrust her wrinkled face close to the puppet's,
chuckling irrepressibly, and fidgeting all through her system, with
delight at the idea which she meant to communicate.
"The worshipful Master Gookin," whispered she, "hath a
comely maiden to his daughter. And hark ye, my pet! Thou hast a fair
outside, and a pretty wit enough of thine own. Yea, a pretty wit enough!
Thou wilt think better of it when thou hast seen more of other people's
wits. Now, with thy outside and thy inside, thou art the very man to win a
young girl's heart. Never doubt it! I tell thee it shall be so. Put but a
bold face on the matter, sigh, smile, flourish thy hat, thrust forth thy
leg like a dancing-master, put thy right hand to the left side of thy
waistcoat, and pretty Polly Gookin is thine own!"
All this while the new creature had been sucking in and exhaling the
vapory fragrance of his pipe, and seemed now to continue this occupation
as much for the enjoyment it afforded as because it was an essential
condition of his existence. It was wonderful to see how exceedingly like a
human being it behaved. Its eyes (for it appeared to possess a pair) were
bent on Mother Rigby, and at suitable junctures it nodded or shook its
head. Neither did it lack words proper for the occasion: "Really!
Indeed! Pray tell me! Is it possible! Upon my word! By no means! Oh! Ah!
Hem!" and other such weighty utterances as imply attention, inquiry,
acquiescence, or dissent on the part of the auditor. Even had you stood by
and seen the scarecrow made, you could scarcely have resisted the
conviction that it perfectly understood the cunning counsels which the old
witch poured into its counterfeit of an ear. The more earnestly it applied
its lips to the pipe, the more distinctly was its human likeness stamped
among visible realities, the more sagacious grew its expression, the more
lifelike its gestures and movements, and the more intelligibly audible its
voice. Its garments, too, glistened so much the brighter with an illusory
magnificence. The very pipe, in which burned the spell of all this
wonderwork, ceased to appear as a smoke-blackened earthen stump, and
became a meerschaum, with painted bowl and amber mouthpiece.
It might be apprehended, however, that as the life of the illusion
seemed identical with the vapor of the pipe, it would terminate
simultaneously with the reduction of the tobacco to ashes. But the beldam
foresaw the difficulty.
"Hold thou the pipe, my precious one," said she, "while
I fill it for thee again.
It was sorrowful to behold how the fine gentleman began to fade back
into a scarecrow while Mother Rigby shook the ashes out of the pipe and
proceeded to replenish it from her tobacco-box.
"Dickon," cried she, in her high, sharp tone, "another
coal for this pipe!"
No sooner said than the intensely red speck of fire was glowing within
the pipe-bowl; and the scarecrow, without waiting for the witch's bidding,
applied the tube to his lips and drew in a few short, convulsive whiffs,
which soon, however, became regular and equable.
"Now, mine own heart's darling," quoth Mother Rigby,
"whatever may happen to thee, thou must stick to thy pipe. Thy life
is in it; and that, at least, thou knowest well, if thou knowest nought
besides. Stick to thy pipe, I say! Smoke, puff, blow thy cloud; and tell
the people, if any question be made, that it is for thy health, and that
so the physician orders thee to do. And, sweet one, when thou shalt find
thy pipe getting low, go apart into some corner, and (first filling
thyself with smoke) cry sharply, 'Dickon, a fresh pipe of tobacco!' and, 'Dickon,
another coal for my pipe!' and have it into thy pretty mouth as speedily
as may be. Else, instead of a gallant gentleman in a gold-laced coat, thou
wilt be but a jumble of sticks and tattered clothes, and a bag of straw,
and a withered pumpkin! Now depart, my treasure, and good luck go with
thee!"
"Never fear, mother!" said the figure, in a stout voice, and
sending forth a courageous whiff of smoke, "I will thrive, if an
honest man and a gentleman may!"
"Oh, thou wilt be the death of me!" cried the old witch,
convulsed with laughter. "That was well said. If an honest man and a
gentleman may! Thou playest thy part to perfection. Get along with thee
for a smart fellow; and I will wager on thy head, as a man of pith and
substance, with a brain and what they call a heart, and all else that a
man should have, against any other thing on two legs. I hold myself a
better witch than yesterday, for thy sake. Did not I make thee? And I defy
any witch in New England to make such another! Here; take my staff along
with thee!"
The staff, though it was but a plain oaken stick, immediately took the
aspect of a gold-headed cane.
"That gold head has as much sense in it as thine own," said
Mother Rigby, "and it will guide thee straight to worshipful Master
Gookin's door. Get thee gone, my pretty pet, my darling, my precious one,
my treasure; and if any ask thy name, it is Feathertop. For thou hast a
feather in thy hat, and I have thrust a handful of feathers into the
hollow of thy head, and thy wig, too, is of the fashion they call
Feathertop,--so be Feathertop thy name!"
And, issuing from the cottage, Feathertop strode manfully towards town.
Mother Rigby stood at the threshold, well pleased to see how the sunbeams
glistened on him, as if all his magnificence were real, and how diligently
and lovingly he smoked his pipe, and how handsomely he walked, in spite of
a little stiffness of his legs. She watched him until out of sight, and
threw a witch benediction after her darling, when a turn of the road
snatched him from her view.
Betimes in the forenoon, when the principal street of the neighboring
town was just at its acme of life and bustle, a stranger of very
distinguished figure was seen on the sidewalk. His port as well as his
garments betokened nothing short of nobility. He wore a richly-embroidered
plum-colored coat, a waistcoat of costly velvet, magnificently adorned
with golden foliage, a pair of splendid scarlet breeches, and the finest
and glossiest of white silk stockings. His head was covered with a peruke,
so daintily powdered and adjusted that it would have been sacrilege to
disorder it with a hat; which, therefore (and it was a gold-laced hat, set
off with a snowy feather), he carried beneath his arm. On the breast of
his coat glistened a star. He managed his gold-headed cane with an airy
grace, peculiar to the fine gentlemen of the period; and, to give the
highest possible finish to his equipment, he had lace ruffles at his
wrist, of a most ethereal delicacy, sufficiently avouching how idle and
aristocratic must be the hands which they half concealed.
It was a remarkable point in the accoutrement of this brilliant
personage that he held in his left hand a fantastic kind of a pipe, with
an exquisitely painted bowl and an amber mouthpiece. This he applied to
his lips as often as every five or six paces, and inhaled a deep whiff of
smoke, which, after being retained a moment in his lungs, might be seen to
eddy gracefully from his mouth and nostrils.
As may well be supposed, the street was all astir to find out the
stranger's name.
"It is some great nobleman, beyond question," said one of the
townspeople. "Do you see the star at his breast?"
"Nay; it is too bright to be seen," said another. "Yes;
he must needs be a nobleman, as you say. But by what conveyance, think
you, can his lordship have voyaged or travelled hither? There has been no
vessel from the old country for a month past; and if he have arrived
overland from the southward, pray where are his attendants and
equipage?"
"He needs no equipage to set off his rank," remarked a third.
"If he came among us in rags, nobility would shine through a hole in
his elbow. I never saw such dignity of aspect. He has the old Norman blood
in his veins, I warrant him."
"I rather take him to be a Dutchman, or one of your high
Germans," said another citizen. "The men of those countries have
always the pipe at their mouths."
"And so has a Turk," answered his companion. "But, in my
judgment, this stranger hath been bred at the French court, and hath there
learned politeness and grace of manner, which none understand so well as
the nobility of France. That gait, now! A vulgar spectator might deem it
stiff--he might call it a hitch and jerk--but, to my eye, it hath an
unspeakable majesty, and must have been acquired by constant observation
of the deportment of the Grand Monarque. The stranger's character and
office are evident enough. He is a French ambassador, come to treat with
our rulers about the cession of Canada."
"More probably a Spaniard," said another, "and hence his
yellow complexion; or, most likely, he is from the Havana, or from some
port on the Spanish main, and comes to make investigation about the
piracies which our government is thought to connive at. Those settlers in
Peru and Mexico have skins as yellow as the gold which they dig out of
their mines."
"Yellow or not," cried a lady, "he is a beautiful
man!--so tall, so slender! such a fine, noble face, with so well-shaped a
nose, and all that delicacy of expression about the mouth! And, bless me,
how bright his star is! It positively shoots out flames!"
"So do your eyes, fair lady," said the stranger, with a bow
and a flourish of his pipe; for he was just passing at the instant.
"Upon my honor, they have quite dazzled me."
"Was ever so original and exquisite a compliment?" murmured
the lady, in an ecstasy of delight.
Amid the general admiration excited by the stranger's appearance, there
were only two dissenting voices. One was that of an impertinent cur,
which, after snuffing at the heels of the glistening figure, put its tail
between its legs and skulked into its master's back yard, vociferating an
execrable howl. The other dissentient was a young child, who squalled at
the fullest stretch of his lungs, and babbled some unintelligible nonsense
about a pumpkin.
Feathertop meanwhile pursued his way along the street. Except for the
few complimentary words to the lady, and now and then a slight inclination
of the head in requital of the profound reverences of the bystanders, he
seemed wholly absorbed in his pipe. There needed no other proof of his
rank and consequence than the perfect equanimity with which he comported
himself, while the curiosity and admiration of the town swelled almost
into clamor around him. With a crowd gathering behind his footsteps, he
finally reached the mansion-house of the worshipful Justice Gookin,
entered the gate, ascended the steps of the front door, and knocked. In
the interim, before his summons was answered, the stranger was observed to
shake the ashes out of his pipe.
"What did he say in that sharp voice?" inquired one of the
spectators.
"Nay, I know not," answered his friend. "But the sun
dazzles my eyes strangely. How dim and faded his lordship looks all of a
sudden! Bless my wits, what is the matter with me?"
"The wonder is," said the other, "that his pipe, which
was out only an instant ago, should be all alight again, and with the
reddest coal I ever saw. There is something mysterious about this
stranger. What a whiff of smoke was that! Dim and faded did you call him?
Why, as he turns about the star on his breast is all ablaze."
"It is, indeed," said his companion; "and it will go
near to dazzle pretty Polly Gookin, whom I see peeping at it out of the
chamber window."
The door being now opened, Feathertop turned to the crowd, made a
stately bend of his body like a great man acknowledging the reverence of
the meaner sort, and vanished into the house. There was a mysterious kind
of a smile, if it might not better be called a grin or grimace, upon his
visage; but, of all the throng that beheld him, not an individual appears
to have possessed insight enough to detect the illusive character of the
stranger except a little child and a cur dog.
Our legend here loses somewhat of its continuity, and, passing over the
preliminary explanation between Feathertop and the merchant, goes in quest
of the pretty Polly Gookin. She was a damsel of a soft, round figure, with
light hair and blue eyes, and a fair, rosy face, which seemed neither very
shrewd nor very simple. This young lady had caught a glimpse of the
glistening stranger while standing on the threshold, and had forthwith put
on a laced cap, a string of beads, her finest kerchief, and her stiffest
damask petticoat in preparation for the interview. Hurrying from her
chamber to the parlor, she had ever since been viewing herself in the
large looking-glass and practising pretty airs-now a smile, now a
ceremonious dignity of aspect, and now a softer smile than the former,
kissing her hand likewise, tossing her head, and managing her fan; while
within the mirror an unsubstantial little maid repeated every gesture and
did all the foolish things that Polly did, but without making her ashamed
of them. In short, it was the fault of pretty Polly's ability rather than
her will if she failed to be as complete an artifice as the illustrious
Feathertop himself; and, when she thus tampered with her own simplicity,
the witch's phantom might well hope to win her.
No sooner did Polly hear her father's gouty footsteps approaching the
parlor door, accompanied with the stiff clatter of Feathertop's
high-heeled shoes, than she seated herself bolt upright and innocently
began warbling a song.
"Polly! daughter Polly!" cried the old merchant. "Come
hither, child."
Master Gookin's aspect, as he opened the door, was doubtful and
troubled.
"This gentleman," continued he, presenting the stranger,
"is the Chevalier Feathertop,--nay, I beg his pardon, my Lord
Feathertop, --who hath brought me a token of remembrance from an ancient
friend of mine. Pay your duty to his lordship, child, and honor him as his
quality deserves."
After these few words of introduction, the worshipful magistrate
immediately quitted the room. But, even in that brief moment, had the fair
Polly glanced aside at her father instead of devoting herself wholly to
the brilliant guest, she might have taken warning of some mischief nigh at
hand. The old man was nervous, fidgety, and very pale. Purposing a smile
of courtesy, he had deformed his face with a sort of galvanic grin, which,
when Feathertop's back was turned, he exchanged for a scowl, at the same
time shaking his fist and stamping his gouty foot--an incivility which
brought its retribution along with it. The truth appears to have been that
Mother Rigby's word of introduction, whatever it might be, had operated
far more on the rich merchant's fears than on his good will. Moreover,
being a man of wonderfully acute observation, he had noticed that these
painted figures on the bowl of Feathertop's pipe were in motion. Looking
more closely he became convinced that these figures were a party of little
demons, each duly provided with horns and a tail, and dancing hand in
hand, with gestures of diabolical merriment, round the circumference of
the pipe bowl. As if to confirm his suspicions, while Master Gookin
ushered his guest along a dusky passage from his private room to the
parlor, the star on Feathertop's breast had scintillated actual flames,
and threw a flickering gleam upon the wall, the ceiling, and the floor.
With such sinister prognostics manifesting themselves on all hands, it
is not to be marvelled at that the merchant should have felt that he was
committing his daughter to a very questionable acquaintance. He cursed, in
his secret soul, the insinuating elegance of Feathertop's manners, as this
brilliant personage bowed, smiled, put his hand on his heart, inhaled a
long whiff from his pipe, and enriched the atmosphere with the smoky vapor
of a fragrant and visible sigh. Gladly would poor Master Gookin have
thrust his dangerous guest into the street; but there was a constraint and
terror within him. This respectable old gentleman, we fear, at an earlier
period of life, had given some pledge or other to the evil principle, and
perhaps was now to redeem it by the sacrifice of his daughter.
It so happened that the parlor door was partly of glass, shaded by a
silken curtain, the folds of which hung a little awry. So strong was the
merchant's interest in witnessing what was to ensue between the fair Polly
and the gallant Feathertop that, after quitting the room, he could by no
means refrain from peeping through the crevice of the curtain.
But there was nothing very miraculous to be seen; nothing--except the
trifles previously noticed--to confirm the idea of a supernatural peril
environing the pretty Polly. The stranger it is true was evidently a
thorough and practised man of the world, systematic and self-possessed,
and therefore the sort of a person to whom a parent ought not to confide a
simple, young girl without due watchfulness for the result. The worthy
magistrate who had been conversant with all degrees and qualities of
mankind, could not but perceive every motion and gesture of the
distinguished Feathertop came in its proper place; nothing had been left
rude or native in him; a well-digested conventionalism had incorporated
itself thoroughly with his substance and transformed him into a work of
art. Perhaps it was this peculiarity that invested him with a species of
ghastliness and awe. It is the effect of anything completely and
consummately artificial, in human shape, that the person impresses us as
an unreality and as having hardly pith enough to cast a shadow upon the
floor. As regarded Feathertop, all this resulted in a wild, extravagant,
and fantastical impression, as if his life and being were akin to the
smoke that curled upward from his pipe.
But pretty Polly Gookin felt not thus. The pair were now promenading
the room: Feathertop with his dainty stride and no less dainty grimace,
the girl with a native maidenly grace, just touched, not spoiled, by a
slightly affected manner, which seemed caught from the perfect artifice of
her companion. The longer the interview continued, the more charmed was
pretty Polly, until, within the first quarter of an hour (as the old
magistrate noted by his watch), she was evidently beginning to be in love.
Nor need it have been witchcraft that subdued her in such a hurry; the
poor child's heart, it may be, was so very fervent that it melted her with
its own warmth as reflected from the hollow semblance of a lover. No
matter what Feathertop said, his words found depth and reverberation in
her ear; no matter what he did, his action was heroic to her eye. And by
this time it is to be supposed there was a blush on Polly's cheek, a
tender smile about her mouth and a liquid softness in her glance; while
the star kept coruscating on Feathertop's breast, and the little demons
careered with more frantic merriment than ever about the circumference of
his pipe bowl. O pretty Polly Gookin, why should these imps rejoice so
madly that a silly maiden's heart was about to be given to a shadow! Is it
so unusual a misfortune, so rare a triumph?
By and by Feathertop paused, and throwing himself into an imposing
attitude, seemed to summon the fair girl to survey his figure and resist
him longer if she could. His star, his embroidery, his buckles glowed at
that instant with unutterable splendor; the picturesque hues of his attire
took a richer depth of coloring; there was a gleam and polish over his
whole presence betokening the perfect witchery of well-ordered manners.
The maiden raised her eyes and suffered them to linger upon her companion
with a bashful and admiring gaze. Then, as if desirous of judging what
value her own simple comeliness might have side by side with so much
brilliancy, she cast a glance towards the full-length looking-glass in
front of which they happened to be standing. It was one of the truest
plates in the world and incapable of flattery. No sooner did the images
therein reflected meet Polly's eye than she shrieked, shrank from the
stranger's side, gazed at him for a moment in the wildest dismay, and sank
insensible upon the floor. Feathertop likewise had looked towards the
mirror, and there beheld, not the glittering mockery of his outside show,
but a picture of the sordid patchwork of his real composition stripped of
all witchcraft.
The wretched simulacrum! We almost pity him. He threw up his arms with
an expression of despair that went further than any of his previous
manifestations towards vindicating his claims to be reckoned human, for
perchance the only time since this so often empty and deceptive life of
mortals began its course, an illusion had seen and fully recognized
itself.
Mother Rigby was seated by her kitchen hearth in the twilight of this
eventful day, and had just shaken the ashes out of a new pipe, when she
heard a hurried tramp along the road. Yet it did not seem so much the
tramp of human footsteps as the clatter of sticks or the rattling of dry
bones.
"Ha!" thought the old witch, "what step is that? Whose
skeleton is out of its grave now, I wonder?"
A figure burst headlong into the cottage door. It was Feathertop! His
pipe was still alight; the star still flamed upon his breast; the
embroidery still glowed upon his garments; nor had he lost, in any degree
or manner that could be estimated, the aspect that assimilated him with
our mortal brotherhood. But yet, in some indescribable way (as is the case
with all that has deluded us when once found out), the poor reality was
felt beneath the cunning artifice.
"What has gone wrong?" demanded the witch. "Did yonder
sniffling hypocrite thrust my darling from his door? The villain! I'll set
twenty fiends to torment him till he offer thee his daughter on his bended
knees!"
"No, mother," said Feathertop despondingly; "it was not
that."
"Did the girl scorn my precious one?" asked Mother Rigby, her
fierce eyes glowing like two coals of Tophet. "I'll cover her face
with pimples! Her nose shall be as red as the coal in thy pipe! Her front
teeth shall drop out! In a week hence she shall not be worth thy
having!"
"Let her alone, mother," answered poor Feathertop; "the
girl was half won; and methinks a kiss from her sweet lips might have made
me altogether human. But," he added, after a brief pause and then a
howl of self-contempt, "I've seen myself, mother! I've seen myself
for the wretched, ragged, empty thing I am! I'll exist no longer!"
Snatching the pipe from his mouth, he flung it with all his might
against the chimney, and at the same instant sank upon the floor, a medley
of straw and tattered garments, with some sticks protruding from the heap,
and a shrivelled pumpkin in the midst. The eyeholes were now lustreless;
but the rudely-carved gap, that just before had been a mouth still seemed
to twist itself into a despairing grin, and was so far human.
"Poor fellow!" quoth Mother Rigby, with a rueful glance at
the relics of her ill-fated contrivance. "My poor, dear, pretty
Feathertop! There are thousands upon thousands of coxcombs and charlatans
in the world, made up of just such a jumble of wornout, forgotten, and
good-for-nothing trash as he was! Yet they live in fair repute, and never
see themselves for what they are. And why should my poor puppet be the
only one to know himself and perish for it?"
While thus muttering, the witch had filled a fresh pipe of tobacco, and
held the stem between her fingers, as doubtful whether to thrust it into
her own mouth or Feathertop's.
"Poor Feathertop!" she continued. "I could easily give
him another chance and send him forth again tomorrow. But no; his feelings
are too tender, his sensibilities too deep. He seems to have too much
heart to bustle for his own advantage in such an empty and heartless
world. Well! well! I'll make a scarecrow of him after all. 'Tis an
innocent and useful vocation, and will suit my darling well; and, if each
of his human brethren had as fit a one, 't would be the better for
mankind; and as for this pipe of tobacco, I need it more than he."
So saying Mother Rigby put the stem between her lips. "Dickon!"
cried she, in her high, sharp tone, "another coal for my pipe!"
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