Nathaniel Hawthorne
 


   Feathertop
    (A Moralized Legend)
    From Mosses from an Old Manse


    "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  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, rolled-up 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 of 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
door-step," 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 'tis 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 wood-pile. 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, worn-out, worthless, and ill-joined 
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 mouthfull, 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,  ricketty, 
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  over-peopled 
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 along 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 vollies 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 shalt 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, 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 mouth-piece.
    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 handfull 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 peruque, 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 mouth-piece. 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 a-stir to find out the  stranger's
name.
    "It is some great nobleman, beyond question," said one  of  the  towns-people.
"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  by-standers,  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 a-blaze."
    "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 at 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, fidgetty, 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, stript 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 a-light; 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 eye-holes 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 worn-out, 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  to-morrow.  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, 'twould 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!"

    1852

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