"What has gone wrong?" demanded the witch. "Did yonder snifflinghypocrite thrust my darling from his door? The villain! I'll settwenty fiends to torment him till he offer thee his daughter on hisbended knees!""No, mother," said Feathertop despondingly; "it was not that.""Did the girl scorn my precious one?" asked Mother Rigby, herfierce eyes glowing like two coals of Tophet. "I'll cover her facewith pimples! Her nose shall be as red as the coal in thy pipe! Herfront teeth shall drop out! In a week hence she shall not be worth thyhaving!""Let her alone, mother," answered poor Feathertop; "the girl washalf won; and methinks a kiss from her sweet lips might have made mealtogether human. But," he added, after a brief pause and then ahowl of self-contempt, "I've seen myself, mother! I've seen myself forthe wretched, ragged, empty thing I am! I'll exist no longer!"Snatching the pipe from his mouth, he flung it with all his mightagainst the chimney, and at the same instant sank upon the floor, amedley of straw and tattered garments, with some sticks protrudingfrom the heap, and a shrivelled pumpkin in the midst. The eyeholeswere now lustreless; but the rudely-carved gap, that just before hadbeen a mouth, still seemed to twist itself into a despairing grin, andwas so far human.
"Poor fellow!" quoth Mother Rigby, with a rueful glance at therelics of her ill-fated contrivance. "My poor, dear, prettyFeathertop! There are thousands upon thousands of coxcombs andcharlatans 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 fairrepute, and never see themselves for what they are. And why shouldmy 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 thrustit into her own mouth or Feathertop's.
"Poor Feathertop!" she continued. "I could easily give himanother chance and send him forth again tomorrow. But no; his feelingsare too tender, his sensibilities too deep. He seems to have toomuch heart to bustle for his own advantage in such an empty andheartless 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 thebetter for mankind; and as for this pipe of tobacco, I need it morethan he."So saying, Mother Rigby put the stem between her lips. "Dickon!"cried she, in her high, sharp tone, "another coal for my pipe!"THE END.
1838
TWICE-TOLD TALES
LADY ELEANORE'S MANTLE
by Nathaniel Hawthorne
NOT LONG AFTER Colonel Shute had assumed the government ofMassachusetts Bay, now nearly a hundred and twenty years ago, ayoung lady of rank and fortune arrived from England, to claim hisprotection as her guardian. He was her distant relative, but thenearest who had survived the gradual extinction of her family; so thatno more eligible shelter could be found for the rich and high-bornLady Eleanore Rochcliffe than within the Province House of atransatlantic colony. The consort of Governor Shute, moreover, hadbeen as a mother to her childhood, and was now anxious to receive her,in the hope that a beautiful young woman would be exposed toinfinitely less peril from the primitive society of New England thanamid the artifices and corruptions of a court. If either theGovernor or his lady had especially consulted their own comfort,they would probably have sought to devolve the responsibility on otherhands; since, with some noble and splendid traits of character, LadyEleanore was remarkable for a harsh, unyielding pride, a haughtyconsciousness of her hereditary and personal advantages, which madeher almost incapable of control. Judging from many traditionaryanecdotes, this peculiar temper was hardly less than a monomania;or, if the acts which it inspired were those of a sane person, itseemed due from Providence that pride so sinful should be followedby as severe a retribution. That tinge of the marvellous, which isthrown over so many of these half-forgotten legends, has probablyimparted an additional wildness to the strange story of LadyEleanore Rochcliffe.
The ship in which she came passenger had arrived at Newport, whenceLady Eleanore was conveyed to Boston in the Governor's coach, attendedby a small escort of gentlemen on horseback. The ponderous equipage,with its four black horses, attracted much notice as it rumbledthrough Cornhill, surrounded by the prancing steeds of half a dozencavaliers, with swords dangling to their stirrups and pistols at theirholsters. Through the large glass windows of the coach, as it rolledalong, the people could discern the figure of Lady Eleanore, strangelycombining an almost queenly stateliness with the grace and beauty of amaiden in her teens. A singular tale had gone abroad among theladies of the province, that their fair rival was indebted for much ofthe irresistible charm of her appearance to a certain article ofdress- an embroidered mantle- which had been wrought by the mostskilful artist in London, and possessed even magical properties ofadornment. On the present occasion, however, she owed nothing to thewitchery of dress, being clad in a riding habit of velvet, which wouldhave appeared stiff and ungraceful on any other form.
The coachman reined in his four black steeds, and the wholecavalcade came to a pause in front of the contorted iron balustradethat fenced the Province House from the public street. It was anawkward coincidence that the bell of the Old South was just thentolling for a funeral; so that, instead of a gladsome peal withwhich it was customary to announce the arrival of distinguishedstrangers, Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe was ushered by a doleful clang, asif calamity had come embodied in her beautiful person.
