med 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 very 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 toward 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 a
moment in the wildest dismay, and sank insensible upon the floor.
Feathertop, likewise, had looked toward 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 farther than any of his previous
manifestations toward vindicating his claims to be reckoned human. For
perchance the only