LEONORA TO TASSO.

Ashburner opened the conversation by saying that he supposed Miss Edwards was a resident of the country, and inquiring how she liked it. She answered that she far preferred it to the city, and a little argument ensued, in the course of which she assured Ashburner that the country was always the pleasantest—one always had so many little things to be interested in, and so much more time for reading. "There was nothing," she said, "of the formality and coldness of city life, nor of its frivolities." It amused Ashburner to hear this philosophy from a girl of eighteen, one who was pretty enough to command more than her share of attention, and who was evidently not of those young ladies who, sincerely desiring to pursue the strict path of duty, make the great mistake of deriding gayety or pleasure whereever they may happen to find it. In the meanwhile the other gentlemen became engrossed in the probable profits of the railroad which was to adorn the other side of the river, and occasional allusions to the tariff, and chances of the various candidates for the presidency, in all of which the Bensons joined as warmly, and laid down their positions as dogmatically (their contempt for their country, its laws, and affairs, to the contrary notwithstanding), as though they had not been expressing, an hour or two before, the most entire ignorance and thorough disdain of and for railroads, politics, and politicians, and particularly the railroad just mentioned, and the politics and politicians of the United States. If Ashburner had listened to this, he would have learned that it is very often the custom among American gentlemen to sneer at and contemn political measures, among strangers (no matter whether foreigners or not), as though the elective franchise, and every thing connected with it, was an immoral sort of vulgarity that no gentleman was expected to know any thing about; a thing to be abandoned to thecanailleand an interesting set of patriots known as the Hemispherical Club, who varied their patriotic duties by breaking their opponents' heads and their country's ballot-boxes, and who, moreover, were so modest that they never could be induced to exercise the glorious right of depositing their suffrages, until the candidates on their side had "planked up"for the benefit of the Club; whilst among their friends and neighbors, these same gentlemen talk politics in the most furious and excited manner, each person insisting that he knows all about them, and that every body else will see he's right before the year's out. But unfortunately Ashburner had got so deeply engrossed with the lessons in philosophy he was receiving that he entirely forgot all about his friends. He had discovered that Miss Edwards had been among the "Upper Ten" of New-York, and knew many of the acquaintances he had made. She spoke of them with so much correctness that he was convinced of her excellent judgment in character, while the artlessness with which she spoke, and the almost amusing simplicity of some of her remarks, indicated that she had not studied human nature, as too many of us do, by experience. Ashburner, like most young men, thought himself a shrewd observer, particularly female character (which, by the bye, is what young men know least about), but the subject he was studying puzzled him; Miss Edwards evinced such a mixture of penetration and simplicity that he could not understand how both could exist together. This sort of character has baffled many wiser persons than Mr. Ashburner, who have investigated it with the same interest. The study of young ladies is dangerous at all times to a young man, and most particularly when he does it from philosophical motives; and if any caste of character is more dangerous than another, it is that which blends penetration and simplicity; the one interests while the other charms. Not knowing these truths, Mr. Ashburner had mentally resolved to enter upon this field of philosophical research. The simplicity, the humor, the acuteness of observation, the intelligence, and perhaps the pretty face of his companion, tended to interest him in an unusual manner. And she, too, seemed attracted by the young Englishman, whose education and intelligence rendered him an agreeable companion to any educated and intelligent person. It was pleasant for Ashburner to find a young lady who could talk about something else than the polka or the last party,—who, in short, had read his favorite authors, and could join in admiring them without affectation; and he felt quite annoyed when Karl Benson interrupted thetête-à-tête. As they all rose, the Judge approached Ashburner and said, "I shall be happy to see you again, Mr. Ashburner; if you stay at Mr. Benson's, and have nothing better to do, come over whenever you please; you must excuse my calling on you, for we old fellows are privileged, you know." Ashburner said he would be very happy to do so, and was "desirous of learning something more about American jurisprudence, if Judge Edwards would allow the trouble it would occasion him." The Judge of course said he would bestow all the information in his power, and added, that he had a high regard for England and Englishmen. "I like a great many of your customs," said the Judge, "much better than I do our own. Your girls have a physical education which preserves their health and freshness, while ours sit still and waste their time and ruin their health. Now here's Mary, who is a country girl, and yet hardly exercises from one week's end to another." The Judge said this in a reproving sort of way, but he looked down on his daughter with a smile as he said it; and she smiled back in the same way as she said, "Oh no, father, you forget thatnowI ride to the post-office every day." It was plain that such reproofs as this was all that Mary ever knew (and as Ashburner marked the affectionate look that passed between father and daughter, he thought all that she ever needed). "How pretty she looks (he thought to himself) standing there by her rough old father, looking up to him with that pleased, confiding look; how much prettier than a fashionable belle who is ashamed of her father because he is plain, and shows it whenever there is some one by, I think"—

"It is time we were over the river," said Karl, interrupting Mr. Ashburner in his contemplations.

"I think," said Mr. Ashburner to himself, as they were crossing the water on their way home, "I think I will call to-morrow and see if she really is as artless as she seems;" and a moment after to his companions, "I believe I will practice rowing a few hours a day for the next few days; physicians say it's a capital exercise."

"I think," said Karl, "you had better not. Exercise on horseback."

Said Harry, "Its precious little rowing you'll do."

"Yes," Ashburner rejoined, "I will, and to convince you, I mean to go alone."

We will say with one Virgil—

"Felix qui protuit rerum cognoscere causas."

"Felix qui protuit rerum cognoscere causas."

Ah, bliss! I dreamed or thee last night!Thee, whom my heart so deifies—Again I met the thrilling lightOf thy serene and earnest eyes.I dreamed of thee! Ah, gracious boon,That gladdens thus my waking hours!Above us bent Italia's noon,Around us breathed the scent of flowers:My hand lay gently clasped in thine.No sound disturbed our joy's excess;And soft thine eyes poured down on mine,Their wildering rays of tenderness:"My Leonora!" 'Twas thy sameLow voice that o'er my memory broke;But even while thine accents cameI murmured "Tasso!" and awoke.Ah, me! awoke! Yet all the dayThy presence hath been round me still—The airs that through my lattice play,And toss the vines at their sweet will,Repeat thy tones—and every whereI meet thine eyes still bent on me—Ah, blessed dream! that gilds my care,And brightens this reality.

Ah, bliss! I dreamed or thee last night!Thee, whom my heart so deifies—Again I met the thrilling lightOf thy serene and earnest eyes.

I dreamed of thee! Ah, gracious boon,That gladdens thus my waking hours!Above us bent Italia's noon,Around us breathed the scent of flowers:

My hand lay gently clasped in thine.No sound disturbed our joy's excess;And soft thine eyes poured down on mine,Their wildering rays of tenderness:

"My Leonora!" 'Twas thy sameLow voice that o'er my memory broke;But even while thine accents cameI murmured "Tasso!" and awoke.

Ah, me! awoke! Yet all the dayThy presence hath been round me still—The airs that through my lattice play,And toss the vines at their sweet will,

Repeat thy tones—and every whereI meet thine eyes still bent on me—Ah, blessed dream! that gilds my care,And brightens this reality.

I.Szeretlek, galambom.Better far I love theeThan a dove the barley;Ever dreaming of thee,Night and morning early.Of no woman born,Such fays spring from the Rose;When on Whitsun morn,Her dewy breasts unclose!II.Kocsmárosné, gyuijts világot!Hostess, quick! the light goes out,Have you no pretty girl about?But if no pretty girl there beThe light may soon so out, for meWhy should the candle burn and beamUnless bright eyes reflect its gleam?And if no pretty girl there be,The light may soon go out for me!And if you have a maiden fair,Then be its light extinguished there!For when its gleaming rays we miss,'Tis easier far, a girl to kiss.III.Duna, duna, szeles duna!Gladly will they make me think,They who of the Danube drink;That in its tide the pickerel swims,And maidens bathe their snowy limbs.Great and Small-Comorn afar!Oh how sweet three maidens are!To the one I'll wedded be,And the fairest of the three!IV.Széles a dunaviz.The Danube's stream is broad,The bridge is weak I know;Take heed my own dear love,Or else thou fall'st below!I shall not fall below,No fear my soul alarms;But soon my love I'll fall,Into thy burning arms!V.Gólya, gólya, de messze mégy!Far, far the Stork now flies!—ah me!And far am I, true love from thee!My captive chains me and I cannot move,That he may win from me my love.Deep in the grave my parents lie,My land's a broad heath waste and dry;Great suffering and sorrow still are mine,Yet I can drown them all in wine!VI.Micsoda csárdaez? be csinos?What inn is this which here I see?Therein a pretty girl may be!And if no lovely damsel,Be in the tavern now;Then let us hang its landlord,Upon the nearest bough.But see! a goat is grazing nigh,A dark-brown maiden is standing by.Then hey my jolly comrade!There's milk I trow for both;The maiden too will kiss us.She shall, I'll take my oath!VII.Cserebogár, sárga cserebogár.May-beetle—gay little bird—fly near!I ask not if summer will soon by here,And I ask not if long my life shall be;I ask—if I'm loved by my Rosalie?And I ask thee not by a song or sign,If another summer may yet be mine;One summer has worn me with many a smart,Since Rosa—fair Rosa—has won my heart.Thou flittest away from flower to flower,And thy wifie flies after through forest and bower;I seek in them too for my Rosalie,But never find her—she loves not me!Thou drinkest from flowers their honey dew,And callest with joy to thy wifie true!But joy afar from my soul hath flown,No love with its pleasure my heart hath known.VIII.Nincsen nekem semmi bajorn.Naught in the wide-world troubles me,Save this alone—my poverty;A merry companion too am I,Though my coat be ragged, my throat a-dry.Bread I have none, but tatters enough,And Fortune gives me many a cuff;When I reckon together the money I've got,There's never a farthing in all the lot.So naught in the wide world troubles me,Save this alone—my poverty;And a merry companion too am I,Though my coat be ragged, my throat a-dry.IX.A faluban muzikálnak.Let the sergeant sing or drum—Soldier I will ne'er become;He whose heart a maiden charms,Is a fool to carry arms.Swords may dazzle with their beam,But—the devil take the gleam!By my true love's eyes so bright,Sword gleams seem as dark as night.X.Most élem gyöngyéletem.I'm a hussar so free from care,A cap of blood-red silk I wear;And wreath with ribbons flut'ring free;Which once my true love wove for me.And for the garland which she woveI gave a kiss to her my love.Oh weave another!—for thy painI'll kiss a hundred times again!XI.Falu mogött van egy malom.Behind our hamlet stands a millWhere pain is ground, they sayAnd to that mill in haste will ITo grind my grief away!Oh miller's maiden ask no more!Disturb me not too soon,Through all the morn I think with joyUpon the afternoon!

I.

Szeretlek, galambom.

Better far I love theeThan a dove the barley;Ever dreaming of thee,Night and morning early.

Of no woman born,Such fays spring from the Rose;When on Whitsun morn,Her dewy breasts unclose!

II.

Kocsmárosné, gyuijts világot!

Hostess, quick! the light goes out,Have you no pretty girl about?But if no pretty girl there beThe light may soon so out, for meWhy should the candle burn and beamUnless bright eyes reflect its gleam?

And if no pretty girl there be,The light may soon go out for me!And if you have a maiden fair,Then be its light extinguished there!For when its gleaming rays we miss,'Tis easier far, a girl to kiss.

III.

Duna, duna, szeles duna!

Gladly will they make me think,They who of the Danube drink;That in its tide the pickerel swims,And maidens bathe their snowy limbs.

Great and Small-Comorn afar!Oh how sweet three maidens are!To the one I'll wedded be,And the fairest of the three!

IV.

Széles a dunaviz.

The Danube's stream is broad,The bridge is weak I know;Take heed my own dear love,Or else thou fall'st below!

I shall not fall below,No fear my soul alarms;But soon my love I'll fall,Into thy burning arms!

V.

Gólya, gólya, de messze mégy!

Far, far the Stork now flies!—ah me!And far am I, true love from thee!My captive chains me and I cannot move,That he may win from me my love.

Deep in the grave my parents lie,My land's a broad heath waste and dry;Great suffering and sorrow still are mine,Yet I can drown them all in wine!

VI.

Micsoda csárdaez? be csinos?

What inn is this which here I see?Therein a pretty girl may be!And if no lovely damsel,Be in the tavern now;Then let us hang its landlord,Upon the nearest bough.

But see! a goat is grazing nigh,A dark-brown maiden is standing by.Then hey my jolly comrade!There's milk I trow for both;The maiden too will kiss us.She shall, I'll take my oath!

VII.

Cserebogár, sárga cserebogár.

May-beetle—gay little bird—fly near!I ask not if summer will soon by here,And I ask not if long my life shall be;I ask—if I'm loved by my Rosalie?

And I ask thee not by a song or sign,If another summer may yet be mine;One summer has worn me with many a smart,Since Rosa—fair Rosa—has won my heart.

Thou flittest away from flower to flower,And thy wifie flies after through forest and bower;I seek in them too for my Rosalie,But never find her—she loves not me!

Thou drinkest from flowers their honey dew,And callest with joy to thy wifie true!But joy afar from my soul hath flown,No love with its pleasure my heart hath known.

VIII.

Nincsen nekem semmi bajorn.

Naught in the wide-world troubles me,Save this alone—my poverty;A merry companion too am I,Though my coat be ragged, my throat a-dry.

Bread I have none, but tatters enough,And Fortune gives me many a cuff;When I reckon together the money I've got,There's never a farthing in all the lot.

So naught in the wide world troubles me,Save this alone—my poverty;And a merry companion too am I,Though my coat be ragged, my throat a-dry.

IX.

A faluban muzikálnak.

Let the sergeant sing or drum—Soldier I will ne'er become;He whose heart a maiden charms,Is a fool to carry arms.

Swords may dazzle with their beam,But—the devil take the gleam!By my true love's eyes so bright,Sword gleams seem as dark as night.

X.

Most élem gyöngyéletem.

I'm a hussar so free from care,A cap of blood-red silk I wear;And wreath with ribbons flut'ring free;Which once my true love wove for me.

And for the garland which she woveI gave a kiss to her my love.Oh weave another!—for thy painI'll kiss a hundred times again!

XI.

Falu mogött van egy malom.

Behind our hamlet stands a millWhere pain is ground, they sayAnd to that mill in haste will ITo grind my grief away!

Oh miller's maiden ask no more!Disturb me not too soon,Through all the morn I think with joyUpon the afternoon!

Come, let us be merry!The day's growing fair—And drooping-eyed PatienceLooks up from despair.Truth, like the gloryOf old times, in story,Mellows the shadows that darken the land,Wrongs, grim and hoary,Crimes, black and gory,Naked and scoffed in the market-place stand.Come, let us be merry!The sundown is near—And Error is shiveringAnd shrinking with fear.Power unmolestedFor centuries, vestedIn impotent sinew and imbecile brain,Altars that restedOn mummeries ilested,Tatters to ruin and not in the rain.Come, let us be merry!The sun shines at last—The light fills the valleys—The darkness has passed.Names are neglected,Blood is rejected,Men bow no more to the accident Birth,Mind, long dejected,Her temple erected,Waits from the Nations the homage of Worth.Come, let us be merry!All hearts that with scoffAnd derision have waitedThis day afar off;Abuses are shakingOld Errors are quaking,That cramped the free life of our manhood so long,Hail to the waking!The daylight is breakingFor Truths that are mighty and men that are strong.

Come, let us be merry!The day's growing fair—And drooping-eyed PatienceLooks up from despair.Truth, like the gloryOf old times, in story,Mellows the shadows that darken the land,Wrongs, grim and hoary,Crimes, black and gory,Naked and scoffed in the market-place stand.

Come, let us be merry!The sundown is near—And Error is shiveringAnd shrinking with fear.Power unmolestedFor centuries, vestedIn impotent sinew and imbecile brain,Altars that restedOn mummeries ilested,Tatters to ruin and not in the rain.

Come, let us be merry!The sun shines at last—The light fills the valleys—The darkness has passed.Names are neglected,Blood is rejected,Men bow no more to the accident Birth,Mind, long dejected,Her temple erected,Waits from the Nations the homage of Worth.

Come, let us be merry!All hearts that with scoffAnd derision have waitedThis day afar off;Abuses are shakingOld Errors are quaking,That cramped the free life of our manhood so long,Hail to the waking!The daylight is breakingFor Truths that are mighty and men that are strong.

"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 naught 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 aman 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 side-walk. 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 gentleman 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 a-stir to find out the stranger's name.

"It is some great nobleman, beyond question," said one of the town's 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 department 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 Governor 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'sback-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 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, 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 the 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 marvelledat 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 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 any thing 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. Oh, 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 farther 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 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 a 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!"


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