# 2026-08-25 - Feathertop by Nathaniel Hawthorne
For in and out, above, about, below,
'Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show,
Played in a Box whose Candle is the Sun,
Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.
--Omar Khayyám
"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 '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 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, '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!"
author: Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 1804-1864
(TXT) detail: gopher://gopherpedia.com/0/Feathertop
(HTM) source: ftp://ftp.mirrorservice.org/sites/ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/5/1/512/
tags: fantasy,short story,witch
# Tags
(DIR) fantasy
(DIR) short story
(DIR) witch