University of Virginia Library

THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLACK FISHERMAN.

Every body knows Black Sam, the
old negro fisherman, or, as he is commonly
called, Mud Sam, who has fished
about the Sound for the last half century.
It is now many years since Sam, who
was then as active a young negro as any
in the province, and worked on the farm
of Killian Suydam, on Long Island,
having finished his day's work at an
early hour, was fishing, one still summer
evening, just about the neighbourhood of
Hell-gate.

He was in a light skiff, and being well
acquainted with the currents and eddies,
he had shifted his station according to the
shifting of the tide, from the Hen and
Chickens to the Hog's Back, from the
Hog's Back to the Pot, and from the Pot
to the Frying-pan; but in the eagerness
of his sport he did not see that the tide
was rapidly ebbing, until the roaring of
the whirlpools and eddies warned him of
his danger; and he had some difficulty in
shooting his skiff from among the rocks
and breakers, and getting to the point of
Blackwell's Island. Here he cast anchor
for some time, waiting the turn of the
tide to enable him to return homewards.
As the night set in, it grew blustering
and gusty. Dark clouds came bundling
up in the west, and now and then a
growl of thunder, or a flash of lightning,
told that a summer storm was at
hand. Sam pulled over, therefore, under
the lee of Manhattan Island, and coasting
along, came to a snug nook, just under a
steep beetling rock, where he fastened
his skiff to the root of a tree that shot out
from a cleft in the rock, and spread its
broad branches, like a canopy, over the
water. The gust came scouring along;
the wind threw up the river in white
surges; the rain rattled among the leaves;
the thunder bellowed worse than that
which is now bellowing; the lightning
seemed to lick up the surges of the
stream; but Sam, snugly sheltered under
rock and tree, lay crouched in his skiff,
rocking upon the billows until he fell
asleep.

When he awoke, all was quiet. The
gust had passed away, and only now and
then a faint gleam of lightning in the
cast showed which way it had gone.
The night was dark and moonless; and
from the state of the tide Sam concluded
it was near midnight. He was on the
point of making loose his skiff to return
homewards, when he saw a light gleaming
along the water from a distance,
which seemed rapidly approaching. As
it drew near, he perceived it came from
a lantern in the bow of a boat, which
was gliding along under shadow of the
land. It pulled up in a small cove, close
to where he was. A man jumped on
shore, and searching about with the lantern,
exclaimed, "This is the place—
here's the iron ring." The boat was
then made fast, and the man returning on
board, assisted his comrades in conveying
something heavy on shore. As the
light gleamed among them, Sam saw that
they were five desperate-looking fellows,
in red woollen caps, with a leader in a
three-cornered hat, and that some of them
were armed with dirks, or long knives,
and pistols. They talked low to one
another, and occasionally in some outlandish
tongue which he could not understand.

On landing they made their way among
the bushes, taking turns to relieve each
other in lugging their burthen up the
rocky bank. Sam's curiosity was now
fully aroused; so, leaving his skiff, he
clambered silently up a ridge that overlooked
their path. They had stopped to
rest for a moment; and the leader was
looking about among the bushes with
his lantern. "Have you brought the
spades?" said one. "They are here,"
replied another, who had them on his
shoulder.

"We must dig deep, where there will
be no risk of discovery," said a third.

A cold chill ran through Sam's veins.
He fancied he saw before him a gang of
murderers about to bury their victim.
His knees smote together. In his agitation
he shook the branch of a tree with
which he was supporting himself, as he
looked over the edge of the cliff.

"What's that?" cried one of the
gang. "Some one stirs among the
bushes!"

The lantern was held up in the direction
of the noise. One of the red-caps
cocked a pistol and pointed it towards the
very place where Sam was standing.
He stood motionless—breathless—expecting
the next moment to be his last.
Fortunately, his dingy complexion was
in his favour, and made no glare among
the leaves.

"'Tis no one," said the man with the
lantern. "What a plague! you would
not fire off your pistol and alarm the
country?"

The pistol was uncocked, the burthen
was resumed, and the party slowly toiled
along the bank. Sam watched them as
they went, the light sending back fitful
gleams through the dripping bushes; and
it was not till they were fairly out of
sight that he ventured to draw breath
freely. He now thought of getting back
to his boat, and making his escape out of
the reach of such dangerous neighbours;
but curiosity was all powerful. He hesitated,
and lingered and listened. By
and by he heard the strokes of spades.
"They are digging the grave!" said he
to himself, and the cold sweat started
upon his forehead. Every stroke of a
spade, as it sounded through the silent
groves, went to his heart. It was evident
there was as little noise made as possible;
every thing had an air of terrible mystery
and secrecy. Sam had a great relish
for the horrible—a tale of murder was a
treat for him, and he was a constant
attendant at executions. He could not resist
an impulse, in spite of every danger,
to steal nearer to the scene of mystery,
and overlook the midnight fellows at
their work. He crawled along cautiously,
therefore, inch by inch, stepping with the
utmost care among the dry leaves lest
their rustling should betray him. He
came at length to where a steep rock intervened
between him and the gang; for
he saw the light of the lantern shining up
against the branches of the trees on the
other side. Sam slowly and silently
clambered up the surface of the rock, and
raising his head above its naked edge,
beheld the villains immediately below him,
and so near that though he dreaded discovery
he dared not withdraw, lest the
least movement should be heard. In this
way he remained, with his round black

face peering above the edge of the rock,
like the sun just emerging above the edge
of the horizon, or the round-cheeked
moon on the dial of a clock.

The red-caps had nearly finished their
work; the grave was filled up and they
were carefully replacing the turf. This
done, they scattered dry leaves over the
place; "And now," said the leader, "I
defy the devil himself to find it out!"

"The murderers!" exclaimed Sam,
involuntarily. The whole gang started,
and looking up, beheld the round black
head of Sam just above them; his white
eyes strained half out of their orbits, his
white teeth chattering, and his whole
visage shining with cold perspiration.

"We're discovered!" cried one.

"Down with him," cried another.

Sam heard the cocking of a pistol, but
did not pause for the report. He scrambled
over rock and stone, through bush
and briar; rolled down banks like a
hedgehog; scrambled up others like a
catamount. In every direction he heard
some one or other of the gang hemming
him in. At length he reached the rocky
ridge along the river: one of the red-caps
was hard behind him. A steep rock like
a wall rose directly in his way; it seemed
to cut off all retreat, when, fortunately,
he espied the strong cord-like branch of
a grape-vine reaching half way down it.
He sprang at it with the force of a desperate
man; seized it with both hands;
and, being young and agile, succeeded in
swinging himself to the summit of the
cliff. Here he stood in full relief against
the sky, when the red-cap cocked his
pistol and fired. The ball whistled by
Sam's head. With the lucky thought of
a man in emergency, he uttered a yell,
fell to the ground, and detached at the
same time a fragment of the rock, which
tumbled with a loud splash into the river.

"I've done his business," said the redcap
to one or two of his comrades, as
they arrived panting: "he'll tell no tales,
except to the fishes in the river."

His pursuers now turned off to meet
their companions. Sam, sliding silently
down the surface of the rock, let himself
quietly into his skiff; cast loose the fastening,
and abandoned himself to the
rapid current, which in that place runs
like a mill-stream, and soon swept him
off from the neighbourhood. It was not,
however, until he had drifted a great distance
that he ventured to ply his oars;
when he made his skiff dart like an
arrow through the strait of Hell-gate,
never heeding the danger of Pot, Frying-pan,
or Hog's Back itself; nor did he feel
himself thoroughly secure until safely
nestled in bed in the cockloft of the
ancient farm-house of the Suydams.

Here the worthy Peechy Prauw paused
to take breath, and to take a sip of the
gossip tankard that stood at his elbow.
His auditors remained with open mouths
and outstretched necks, gaping like a nest
of swallows for an additional mouthful.

"And is that all?" exclaimed the half-pay
officer."

"That's all that belongs to the story,"
said Peechy Prauw.

"And did Sam never find out what
was buried by the red-caps?" said Wolfert,
eagerly, whose mind was haunted
by nothing but ingots and doubloons.

"Not that I know of," said Peechy;
"he had no time to spare from his work,
and, to tell the truth, he did not like to
run the risk of another race among the
rocks. Besides, how should he recollect
the spot where the grave had been digged,
every thing would look so different by
daylight? And then, where was the
use of looking for a dead body, when
there was no chance of hanging the
murderers?"

"Ay, but are you sure it was a dead
body they buried?" said Wolfert.

"To be sure," cried Peechy Prauw,
exultingly. "Does it not haunt in the
neighbourhood to this very day?"

"Haunts!" exclaimed several of the
party, opening their eyes still wider, and
edging their chairs still closer.

"Ay, haunts," repeated Peechy: "have
none of you heard of Father Redcap,
who haunts the old burnt farm-house in
the woods, on the border of the Sound,
near Hell-gate?"

"Oh! to be sure, I've heard tell of
something of the kind: but then I took
it for some old wives' fable."

"Old wives' fable or not," said Peechy
Prauw, "that farm-house stands hard by
the very spot. It's been unoccupied time
out of mind, and stands in a lonely part

of the coast; but those who fish in the
neighbourhood have often heard strange
noises there; and lights have been seen
about the wood at night; and an old
fellow in a red cap has been seen at the
windows more than once, which people
take to be the ghost of the body that
was buried there. Once upon a time
three soldiers took shelter in the building
for the night, and rummaged it from top
to bottom, when they found old Father
Redcap astride of a cider-barrel in the
cellar, with a jug in one hand and a
goblet in the other. He offered them a
drink out of his goblet; but just as one
of the soldiers was putting it to his
mouth—whew!—a flash of fire blazed
through the cellar, blinded every mother's
son of them for several minutes,
and when they recovered their eyesight,
jug, goblet, and Redcap, had vanished,
and nothing but the empty cider-barrel
remained!"

Here the half-pay officer, who was
growing very muzzy and sleepy, and
nodding over his liquor, with half-extinguished
eye, suddenly gleamed up
like an expiring rushlight.

"That's all fudge!" said he, as Peechy
finished his last story.

"Well, I don't vouch for the truth of
it myself," said Peechy Prauw, "though
all the world knows that there's something
strange about that house and
grounds; but as to the story of Mud
Sam, I believe it just as well as if it
had happened to myself."

The deep interest taken in this conversation
by the company had made them
unconscious of the uproar that prevailed
abroad among the elements, when
suddenly they were all electrified by a
tremendous clap of thunder; a lumbering
crash followed instantaneously,
shaking the building to its very foundation—all
started from their seats, imagining
it the shock of an earthquake,
or that old Father Redcap was coming
among them in all his terrors. They
listened for a moment, but only heard
the rain pelting against the windows,
and the wind howling among the trees.
The explosion was soon explained by
the apparition of an old negro's bald
head thrust in at the door, his white
goggle eyes contrasting with his jetty
poll, which was wet with rain, and
shone like a bottle. In a jargon but
half intelligible, he announced that the
kitchen chimney had been struck with
lightning.

A sullen pause of the storm, which
now rose and sunk in gusts, produced
a momentary stillness. In this interval,
the report of a musket was heard, and a
long shout, almost like a yell, resounded
from the shore. Every one crowded to
the window. Another musket-shot was
heard, and another long shout, that mingled
wildly with a rising blast of wind.
It seemed as if the cry came up from
the bosom of the waters; for though
incessant flashes of lightning spread a
light about the shore, no one was to be
seen.

Suddenly the window of the room
overhead was opened, and a loud halloo
uttered by the mysterious stranger. Several
hailings passed from one party to
the other, but in a language which none
of the company in the bar-room could
understand; and presently they heard
the window closed, and a great noise
overhead, as if all the furniture were
pulled and hauled about the room. The
negro servant was summoned, and
shortly after was seen assisting the
veteran to lug the ponderous sea-chest
down stairs.

The landlord was in amazement—
"What!—you are not going on the
water in such a storm?"

"Storm!" said the other scornfully;
"do you call such a sputter of weather
a storm?"

"You'll get drenched to the skin—
you'll catch your death!" said Peechy
Prauw, affectionately.

"Thunder and lightning!" exclaimed
the merman; "don't preach about weather
to a man that has cruised in whirlwinds
and tornadoes!"

The obsequious Peechy was again
struck dumb. The voice from the water
was heard once more, in a tone
of impatience. The bystanders stared
with redoubled awe at this man of
storms, who seemed to have come up
out of the deep, and to be summoned
back to it again. As, with the assistance
of the negro, he slowly bore his

ponderous sea-chest towards the shore,
they eyed it with a superstitious feeling,
half doubting whether he were not
really about to embark upon it, and
launch forth upon the wild waves. They
followed him at a distance with a lantern.

"Douse the light!" roared the hoarse
voice from the water—"no one wants
lights here!"

"Thunder and lightning!" exclaimed
the veteran, turning short upon them;
"back to the house with you."

Wolfert and his companions shrunk
back in dismay. Still their curiosity
would not allow them entirely to withdraw.
A long sheet of lightning now
flickered across the waves, and discovered
a boat, filled with men, just under
a rocky point, rising and sinking with
the heaving surges, and swashing the
water at every heave. It was with difficulty
held to the rocks by a boat-hook,
for the current rushed furiously round
the point. The veteran hoisted one end
of the lumbering sea-chest on the gunwale
of the boat; he seized the handle
at the other end to lift it in, when the
motion propelled the boat from the shore;
the chest slipped off from the gunwale,
and sinking into the waves, pulled the
veteran headlong after it. A loud
shriek was uttered by all on shore,
and a volley of execrations, by those
on board—but boat and man were hurried
away by the rushing swiftness of
the tide. A pitchy darkness succeeded;
Wolfert Webber, indeed, fancied that he
distinguished a cry for help, and that he
beheld the drowning man beckoning for
assistance; but when the lightning again
gleamed along the water, all was void;
neither man nor boat were to be seen;
nothing but the dashing and weltering of
the waves as they hurried past.

The company returned to the tavern
to await the subsiding of the storm.
They resumed their seats, and gazed on
each other with dismay. The whole
transaction had not occupied five minutes,
and not a dozen words had been
spoken. When they looked at the oaken
chair, they could scarcely realize the
fact, that the strange being, who had so
lately tenanted it, full of life and Herculean
vigour, should already be a corpse.
There was the very glass he had just
drunk from; there lay the ashes from
the pipe which he had smoked, as it
were, with his last breath. As the
worthy burghers pondered on these
things, they felt a terrible conviction of
the uncertainty of existence, and each
felt as if the ground on which he stood
was rendered less stable by this awful
example.

As, however, the most of the company
were possessed of that valuable philosophy
which enables a man to bear up
with fortitude against the misfortunes of
his neighbours, they soon managed to
console themselves for the tragic end of
the veteran. The landlord was particularly
happy that the poor dear man had
paid his reckoning before he went: and
made a kind of farewell speech on the
occasion. "He came," said he, "in a
storm, and he went in a storm—he
came in the night, and he went in the
night—he came nobody knows from
whence, and he has gone nobody knows
where. For aught I know, he has gone
to sea once more on his chest, and may
land to bother some people on the other
side of the world! Though it's a thousand
pities," added he, "if he has gone
to Davy Jones's locker, that he had not
left his own locker behind him."

"His locker! St. Nicholas preserve
us!" cried Peechy Prauw—"I'd not
have had that sea-chest in the house
for any money; I'll warrant he'd come
racketing after it at nights, and making
a haunted house of the inn; and as to
his going to sea in his chest, I recollect
what happened to Skipper Onderdonk's
ship, on his voyage from Amsterdam.
The boatswain died during a storm, so
they wrapped him up in a sheet, and
put him in his own sea-chest, and threw
him overboard; but they neglected, in
their hurry-scurry, to say prayers over
him; and the storm raged and roared
louder than ever, and they saw the dead
man seated in his chest, with his shroud
for a sail, coming hard after the ship,
and the sea breaking before him in great
sprays, like fire; and there they kept
scudding day after day, and night after
night, expecting every moment to go to
wreck; and every night they saw the
dead boatswain, in his sea-chest, trying
to get up with them, and they heard his

whistle above the blasts of wind, and he
seemed to send great seas, mountain
high, after them, that would have
swamped the ship if they had not put
up the deadlights; and so it went on
till they lost sight of him in the fogs off
Newfoundland, and supposed he had
veered ship, and stood for Dead Man's
Isle. So much for burying a man at
sea, without saying prayers over him."

The thundergust which had hitherto
detained the company was at an end.
The cuckoo-clock in the hall told midnight;
every one pressed to depart, for
seldom was such a late hour of the night
trespassed on by these quiet burghers.
As they sallied forth, they found the
heavens once more serene. The storm
which had lately obscured them had
rolled away, and lay piled up in fleecy
masses on the horizon, lighted up by
the bright crescent of the moon, which
looked like a little silver lamp hung up
in a palace of clouds.

The dismal occurrence of the night,
and the dismal narrations they had
made, had left a superstitious feeling in
every mind. They cast a fearful glance
at the spot where the bucanier had disappeared,
almost expecting to see him
sailing on his chest in the cool moonshine.
The trembling rays glittered
along the waters, but a was placid;
and the current dimpled over the spot
where he had gone down. The party
huddled together in a little crowd as
they repaired homewards, particularly
when they passed a lonely field, where
a man had been murdered; and even the
sexton who had to complete his journey
alone, though accustomed, one would
think, to ghosts and goblins, yet went
a long way round, rather than pass by
his own churchyard.

Wolfert Webber had now carried home
a fresh stock of stories and notions to
ruminate upon. These accounts of pots
of money and Spanish treasures, buried
here and there and every where about
the rocks and bays of these wild shores,
made him almost dizzy. "Blessed St.
Nicholas!" ejaculated he, half aloud, "is
it not possible to come upon one of these
golden hoards, and to make one's self
rich in a twinkling? How hard that I
must go on, delving and delving, day in
and day out, merely to make a morsel
of bread, when one lucky stroke of a
spade might enable me to ride in my
carriage for the rest of my life!"

As he turned over in his thoughts all
that had been told of the singular adventure
of the negro fisherman, his imagination
gave a totally different complexion
to the tale. He saw in the gang of redcaps
nothing but a crew of pirates burying
their spoils, and his cupidity was
once more awakened by the possibility
of at length getting on the traces of some
of this lurking wealth. Indeed, his infected
fancy tinged every thing with
gold. He felt like the greedy inhabitant of
Bagdad, when his eyes had been greased
with the magic ointment of the dervise,
that gave him to see all the treasures of
the earth. Caskets of buried jewels,
chests of ingots, and barrels of outlandish
coins, seemed to court him from
their concealments, and supplicate him
to relieve them from their untimely
graves.

On making private inquiries about the
grounds said to be haunted by Father
Redcap, he was more and more confirmed
in his surmise. He learned that
the place had several times been visited
by experienced money-diggers, who had
heard Black Sam's story, though none of
them had met with success. On the contrary,
they had always been dogged with
ill luck of some kind or other, in consequence,
as Wolfert concluded, of not
going to work at the proper time, and
with the proper ceremonials. The last
attempt had been made by Cobus Quackenbos,
who dug for a whole night, and
met with incredible difficulty; for, as
fast as he threw one shovelful of earth
out of the hole, two were thrown in by
invisible hands. He succeeded so far,
however, as to uncover an iron chest,
when there was a terrible roaring, ramping,
and raging of uncouth figures about
the hole, and at length a shower of blows
dealt by invisible cudgels, that fairly belaboured
him off of the forbidden ground.
This Cobus Quackenbos had declared on
his deathbed, so that there could not be
any doubt of it. He was a man that
had devoted many years of his life to
money-digging, and it was thought would
have ultimately succeeded, had he not

died recently of a brain-fever in the
almshouse.

Wolfert Webber was now in a worry
of trepidation and impatience, fearful lest
some rival adventurer should get a scent
of the buried gold. He determined privately
to seek out the black fisherman,
and get him to serve as guide to the
place where he had witnessed the mysterious
scene of interment. Sam was
easily found, for he was one of those old
habitual beings that live about a neighbourhood
until they wear themselves a
place in the public mind, and become, in
a manner, public characters. There was
not an unlucky urchin about town that
did not know Mud Sam, the fisherman,
and think that he had a right to play his
tricks upon the old negro. Sam had led
an amphibious life, for more than half a
century, about the shores of the bay and
the fishing-grounds of the Sound. He
passed the greater part of his time on
and in the water, particularly about Hell-gate;
and might have been taken, in bad
weather, for one of the hobgoblins that
used to haunt that strait. There would
he be seen at all times, and in all weathers;
sometimes in his skiff anchored
among the eddies, or prowling like a
shark about some wreck, where the fish
are supposed to be most abundant. Sometimes
seated on a rock, from hour to
hour, looking, in the mist and drizzle,
like a solitary heron watching for its
prey. He was well acquainted with
every hole and corner of the Sound, from
the Wallabout to Hell-gate, and from
Hell-gate even unto the Devil's Steppingstones;
and it was even affirmed that he
knew all the fish in the river by their
Christian names.

Wolfert found him at his cabin, which
was not much larger than a tolerable
dog-house. It was rudely constructed of
fragments of wrecks and drift-wood, and
built on the rocky shore, at the foot of
the old fort, just about what at present
forms the point of the Battery. A
"most ancient and fish-like smell" pervaded
the place. Oars, paddles, and
fishing-rods were leaning against the
wall of the fort; a net was spread on the
sands to dry; a skiff was drawn up
on the beach; and at the door of his
cabin was Mud Sam himself, indulging
in the true negro luxury of sleeping in
the sunshine.

Many years had passed away since
the time of Sam's youthful adventure,
and the snows of many a winter had
grizzled the knotty wool upon his head.
He perfectly recollected the circumstances,
however, for he had often been
called upon to relate them, though, in
his version of the story, he differed in
many points from Peechy Prauw; as is
not unfrequently the case with authentic
historians. As to the subsequent researches
of money-diggers, Sam knew
nothing about them, they were matters
quite out of his line; neither did the
cautious Wolfert care to disturb his
thoughts on that point. His only wish
was to secure the old fisherman as a
pilot to the spot, and this was readily
effected. The long time that had intervened
since his nocturnal adventure, had
effaced all Sam's awe of the place, and
the promise of a trifling reward roused him
at once from his sleep and his sunshine.

The tide was adverse to making the
expedition by water, and Wolfert was too
impatient to get to the land of promise
to wait for its turning; they set off therefore
by land. A walk of four or five
miles brought them to the edge of a
wood, which at that time covered the
greater part of the eastern side of the
island. It was just beyond the pleasant
region of Bloomen-dael. Here they struck
into a long lane, straggling among trees
and bushes, very much overgrown with
weeds and mullein stalks, as if but seldom
used, and so completely overshadowed,
as to enjoy but a kind of twilight.
Wild vines entangled the trees, and
flaunted in their faces; brambles and
briers caught their clothes as they
passed; the garter-snake glided across
their path; the spotted toad hopped and
waddled before them; and the restless
catbird mewed at them from every
thicket. Had Wolfert Webber been
deeply read in romantic legend, he might
have fancied himself entering upon forbidden,
enchanted ground; or that these
were some of the guardians set to keep
a watch upon buried treasure. As it
was, the loneliness of the place, and the
wild stories connected with it, had their
effect upon his mind.

On reaching the lower end of the lane,
they found themselves near the shore of
the Sound, in a kind of amphitheatre surrounded
by forest-trees. The area had
once been a grass-plot, but was now
shagged with briers and rank weeds.
At one end, and just on the river bank,
was a ruined building, little better than
a heap of rubbish, with a stack of chimneys
rising, like a solitary tower, out of
the centre; the current of the Sound
rushed along just below it, with wildly
grown trees drooping their branches into
its waves.

Wolfert had not a doubt that this was
the haunted house of Father Redcap,
and called to mind the story of Peechy
Prauw. The evening was approaching,
and the light, falling dubiously among
these woody places, gave a melancholy
tone to the scene, well calculated to foster
any lurking feeling of awe or superstitution.
The nighthawk, wheeling about
in the highest regions of the air, emitted
his peevish, boding cry. The woodpecker
gave a lonely tap now and then
on some hollow tree, and the fire-bird[5]
streamed by them with his deep-red
plumage. They now came to an enclosure
that had once been a garden. It
extended along the foot of a rocky ridge,
but it was little better than a wilderness
of weeds, with here and there a matted
rosebush, or a peach or plum tree, grown
wild and ragged, and covered with moss.
At the lower end of the garden they
passed a kind of vault in the side of a
bank, facing the water. It had the look
of a root-house. The door, though decayed,
was still strong, and appeared to
have been recently patched up. Wolfert
pushed it open. It gave a harsh grating
upon its hinges, and striking against
something like a box, a rattling sound
ensued, and a scull rolled on the floor.
Wolfert drew back shuddering, but was
reassured, on being informed by the
negro that this was a family-vault belonging
to one of the old Dutch families
that owned this estate; an assertion
which was corroborated by the sight of
coffins of various sizes piled within.
Sam had been familiar with all these
scenes when a boy, and now knew that
he could not be far from the place of
which they were in quest.

They now made their way to the water's
edge, scrambling along ledges of
rocks that overhung the waves, and
obliged often to hold by shrubs and
grape-vines to avoid slipping into the
deep and hurried stream. At length
they came to a small cove, or rather
indent of the shore. It was protected
by steep rocks, and overshadowed by a
thick copse of oaks and chestnuts, so as
to be sheltered and almost concealed.
The beach shelved gradually within the
cove, but the current swept, deep and
black and rapid, along its jutting points.

The negro paused; raised his remnant
of a hat, and scratched his grizzled poll
for a moment, as he regarded this nook:
then suddenly clapping his hands, he
stepped exultingly forward, and pointed
to a large iron ring, stapled firmly in the
rock, just where a broad shelf of stone
furnished a commodious landing-place.
It was the very spot where the red-caps
had landed. Years had changed the more
perishable features of the scene; but
rock and iron yield slowly to the influence
of time. On looking more closely,
Wolfert remarked three crosses cut in
the rock just above the ring; which had
no doubt some mysterious signification.

Old Sam now readily recognised the
overhanging rock under which his skiff
had been sheltered during the thundergust.
To follow up the course which
the midnight gang had taken, however,
was a harder task. His mind had been
so much taken up on that eventful occasion
by the persons of the drama, as to
pay but little attention to the scenes;
and these places look so different by
night and day. After wandering about
for some time, however, they came to an
opening among the trees, which Sam
thought resembled the place. There was
a ledge of rock of moderate height, like
a wall, on one side, which he thought
might be the very ridge from whence he
had overlooked the diggers. Wolfert
examined it narrowly, and at length discovered
three crosses, similar to those
above the iron ring, cut deeply into the
face of the rock, but nearly obliterated
by the moss that had grown over them.
His heart leaped with joy, for he doubted

not they were the private marks of the
bucaniers. All now that remained was
to ascertain the precise spot where the
treasure lay buried, for otherwise he
might dig at random in the neighbourhood
of the crosses, without coming upon
the spoils, and he had already had enough
of such profitless labour. Here, however,
the old negro was perfectly at a
loss, and indeed perplexed by a variety
of opinions; for his recollections were
all confused. Sometimes he declared it
must have been at the foot of a mulberry
tree hard by; then it was just beside a
great white stone; then it must have
been under a small green knoll, a short
distance from the ledge of rock; until at
length Wolfert became as bewildered as
himself.

The shadows of evening were now
spreading themselves over the woods, and
rock and tree began to mingle together.
It was evidently too late to attempt any
thing further at present; and indeed
Wolfert had come unprovided with implements
to prosecute his researches.
Satisfied, therefore, with having ascertained
the place, he took note of all its
landmarks that he might recognise it
again, and set out on his return homewards;
resolved to prosecute this golden
enterprise without delay.

The leading anxiety, which had
hitherto absorbed every feeling, being
now in some measure appeased, fancy
began to wander, and to conjure up a
thousand shapes and chimeras as he
returned through this haunted region.
Pirates hanging in chains seemed to
swing from every tree, and he almost
expected to see some Spanish Don, with
his throat cut from ear to ear, rising
slowly out of the ground, and shaking
the ghost of a money-bag.

Their way back lay through the desolate
garden, and Wolfert's nerves had
arrived at so sensitive a state, that the
flitting of a bird, the rustling of a leaf,
or the falling of a nut, was enough to
startle them. As they entered the confines
of the garden, they caught sight of
a figure at a distance, advancing slowly
up one of the walks, and bending under
the weight of a burthen. They paused,
and regarded him attentively. He wore
what appeared to be a woollen cap, and,
still more alarming, of a most sanguinary
red. The figure moved slowly on, ascended
the bank, and stopped at the very
door of the sepulchral vault. Just before
entering it, he looked around. What
was the affright of Wolfert, when he recognized
the grisly visage of the drowned
bucanier! He uttered an ejaculation of
horror. The figure slowly raised his
iron fist, and shook it with a terrible
menace.

Wolfert did not pause to see any more,
but hurried off as fast as his legs could
carry him, nor was Sam slow in following
at his heels, having all his ancient
terrors revived. Away then did they
scramble, through bush and brake, horribly
frightened at every bramble that
tugged at their skirts; nor did they pause
to breathe, until they had blundered their
way through this perilous wood, and had
fairly reached the high road to the city.

Several days elapsed before Wolfert
could summon courage enough to prosecute
the enterprise, so much had he been
dismayed by the apparition, whether
living or dead, of the grisly bucanier.
In the mean time, what a conflict of mind
did he suffer! He neglected all his concerns;
was moody and restless all day;
lost his appetite; wandered in his thoughts
and words, and committed a thousand
blunders. His rest was broken; and
when he fell asleep, the nightmare, in
shape of a huge money-bag, sat squatted
upon his breast. He babbled about incalculable
sums; fancied himself engaged
in money-digging; threw the bedelothes
right and left, in the idea that he was
shovelling away the dirt; groped under
the bed in quest of the treasure, and lugged
forth, as he supposed, an inestimable
pot of gold.

Dame Webber and her daughter were
in despair at what they conceived a returning
touch of insanity. There are
two family oracles, one or other of which
Dutch housewives consult in all cases of
great doubt and perplexity—the dominie
and the doctor. In the present instance,
they repaired to the doctor. There was
at that time a little, dark, mouldy man of
medicine, famous among the old wives of
the Manhattoes for his skill, not only in
the healing art, but in all matters of
strange and mysterious nature. His

name was Dr. Knipperhausen, but he was
more commonly known by the appellation
of the High German doctor.[6] To
him did the poor woman repair for counsel
and assistance touching the mental
vagaries of Wolfert Webber.

They found the doctor seated in his
little study, clad in his dark camlet robe
of knowledge, with his black velvet cap,
after the manner of Boerhaave, Van Helmont,
and other medical sages; a pair of
green spectacles set in black horn upon
his clubbed nose; and poring over a
German folio that reflected back the
darkness of his physiognomy.

The doctor listened to their statement
of the symptoms of Wolfert's malady
with profound attention; but when they
came to mention his raving about buried
money, the little man pricked up his ears.
Alas, poor women! they little knew the
aid they had called in.

Dr. Knipperhausen had been half his
life engaged in seeking the short cuts to
fortune, in quest of which so many a
long lifetime is wasted. He had passed
some years of his youth among the Harz
mountains of Germany, and had derived
much valuable instruction from the
miners, touching the mode of seeking
treasure buried in the earth. He had
prosecuted his studies also under a travelling
sage, who united the mysteries of
medicine with magic and legerdemain.
His mind, therefore, had become stored
with all kinds of mystic lore; he had
dabbled a little in astrology, alchymy,
divination; knew how to detect stolen
money, and to tell where springs of water
lay hidden; in a word, by the dark nature
of his knowledge, he had acquired
the name of the High German doctor,
which is pretty nearly equivalent to that
of necromancer.

The doctor had often heard the rumours
of treasure being buried in various
parts of the island, and had long been
anxious to get in the traces of it. No
sooner were Wolfert's waking and sleeping
vagaries confided to him, than he
beheld in them the confirmed symptoms
of a case of money-digging, and lost no
time in probing it to the bottom. Wolfert
had long been sorely oppressed in
mind by the golden secret, and as a
family physician is a kind of father confessor,
he was glad of an opportunity of
unburthening himself. So far from
curing, the doctor caught the malady
from his patient. The circumstances unfolded
to him awakened all his cupidity;
he had not a doubt of money being buried
somewhere in the neighbourhood of the
mysterious crosses, and offered to join
Wolfert in the search. He informed
him that much secrecy and caution must
be observed in enterprises of the kind;
that money is only to be digged for at
night, with certain forms and ceremonies,
the burning of drugs, the repeating of
mystic words, and above all, that the
seekers must be provided with a divining-rod,
which had the wonderful property of
pointing to the very spot on the surface
of the earth under which treasure lay
hidden. As the doctor had given much
of his mind to these matters, he charged
himself with all the necessary preparations,
and as the quarter of the moon was
propitious, he undertook to have the divining-rod
ready by a certain night.[7]

D. K.

Wolfert's heart leaped with joy at
having met with so learned and able a
coadjutor. Every thing went on secretly
but swimmingly. The doctor had many
consultations with his patient, and the
good woman of the household lauded the
comforting effect of his visits. In the
mean time, the wonderful divining-rod,
that great key to nature's secrets, was
duly prepared. The doctor had thumbed
over all his books of knowledge for the
occasion; and the black fisherman was
engaged to take him in his skiff to the
scene of enterprise; to work with spade
and pickaxe in unearthing the treasure;
and to freight his bark with the weighty
spoils they were certain of finding.

At length the appointed night arrived
for this perilous undertaking. Before
Wolfert left his home, he counselled his
wife and daughter to go to bed, and feel
no alarm if he should not return during
the night. Like reasonable women, on
being told not to feel alarm, they fell immediately
into a panic. They saw at
once by his manner that something unusual
was in agitation; all their fears
about the unsettled state of his mind were
revived with tenfold force; they hung
about him, entreating him not to expose
himself to the night air, but all in vain.
When once Wolfert was mounted on his
hobby, it was no easy matter to get him
out of the saddle. It was a clear starlight
night, when he issued out of the
portal of the Webber palace. He wore
a large flapped hat, tied under the chin
with a handkerchief of his daughter's to
secure him from the night damp; while
Dame Webber threw her long red cloak
about his shoulders, and fustened it round
his neck.

The doctor had been no less carefully
armed and accoutred by his housekeeper,
the vigilant Frau Ilsy, and sallied forth
in his camlet robe by way of surcoat;
his black velvet cap under his cocked
hat; a thick clasped book under his arm;
a basket of drugs and dried herbs in one
hand, and in the other the miraculous
rod of divination.

The great church clock struck ten as
Wolfert and the doctor passed by the
churchyard, and the watchman bawled,
in a hoarse voice, a long and doleful
"All's well!" A deep sleep had already
fallen upon this primitive little burgh.
Nothing disturbed this awful silence, excepting
now and then the bark of some
profligate, night-walking dog, or the
serenade of some romantic cat.

It is true Wolfert fancied more than
once that he heard the sound of a stealthy
footfall at a distance behind them; but
it might have been merely the sound of
their own steps echoing along the quiet
street. He thought also, at one time,
that he saw a tall figure skulking after
them, stopping when they stopped, and
moving on as they proceeded; but the
dim and uncertain lamplight threw such
vague gleams and shadows, that this
might all have been mere fancy.

They found the old fisherman waiting
for them, smoking his pipe in the stern
of his skiff, which was moored just in
front of his little cabin. A pickaxe and
spade were lying in the bottom of the
boat, with a dark lantern, and a stone
bottle of good Dutch courage, in which
honest Sam, no doubt, put even more
faith than Dr. Knipperhausen in his
drugs.

Thus, then, did these three worthies
embark in their cockle-shell of a skiff
upon this nocturnal expedition, with a
wisdom and valour equalled only by the
three wise men of Gotham, who adventured
to sea in a bowl. The tide was
rising, and running rapidly up the Sound.
The current bore them along almost
without the aid of an oar. The profile of
the town lay all in shadow. Here and
there a light feebly glimmered from some
sick chamber, or from the cabin-window
of some vessel at anchor in the stream.
Not a cloud obscured the deep starry
firmament, the lights of which wavered
on the surface of the placid river; and a
shooting meteor, streaking its pale course
in the very direction they were taking,
was interpreted by the doctor into a most
propitious omen.

In a little while they glided by the
point of Corlear's Hook, with the rural

inn, which had been the scene of such
night adventures. The family had retired
to rest, and the house was dark and
still. Wolfert felt a chill pass over him
as they passed the point where the bucanier
had disappeared. He pointed it
out to Dr. Knipperhausen. While regarding
it, they thought they saw a boat
actually lurking at the very place; but
the shore cast such a shadow over the
border of the water, that they could discern
nothing distinctly. They had not
proceeded far, when they heard the low
sound of distant oars, as if cautiously
pulled. Sam plied his oars with redoubled
vigour, and knowing all the eddies
and currents of the stream, soon left their
followers, if such they were, far astern.
In a little while they stretched across
Turtle Bay and Kip's Bay, then shrouded
themselves in the deep shadows of the
Manhattan shore, and glided swiftly
along, secure from observation. At
length the negro shot his skiff into a
little cove, darkly embowered by trees,
and made it fast to the well-known iron
ring.

They now landed, and lighting the
lantern, gathered their various implements,
and proceeded slowly through the
bushes. Every sound startled them, even
that of their own footsteps among the
dry leaves; and the hooting of a screech
owl from the shattered chimney of the
neighbouring ruin made their blood run
cold.

In spite of all Wolfert's caution in
taking note of the landmarks, it was
some time before they could find the
open place among the trees, where the
treasure was supposed to be buried. At
length they came to the ledge of rock,
and on examining its surface by the aid
of the lantern, Wolfert recognised the
three mystic crosses. Their hearts beat
quick, for the momentous trial was at
hand that was to determine their hopes.

The lantern was now held by Wolfert
Webber, while the doctor produced the
divining-rod. It was a forked twig, one
end of which was grasped firmly in each
hand; while the centre, forming the
stem, pointed perpendicularly upwards.
The doctor moved this wand about,
within a certain distance of the earth,
from place to place, but for some time
without any effect; while Wolfert kept
the light of the lantern turned full upon
it, and watched it with the most breathless
interest. At length the rod began
slowly to turn. The doctor grasped it
with greater earnestness, his hands trembling
with the agitation of his mind. The
wand continued to turn gradually, until
at length the stem had reversed its position,
and pointed perpendicularly downward,
and remained pointing to one spot
as fixedly as the needle to the pole.

"This is the spot!" said the doctor in
an almost inaudible tone.

Wolfert's heart was in his throat.

"Shall I dig?" said the negro, grasping
the spade.

"Potstausends, no!" replied the little
doctor hastily. He now ordered his
companions to keep close by him, and
to maintain the most inflexible silence;
that certain precautions must be taken,
and ceremonies used, to prevent the evil
spirits which kept about buried treasure
from doing them any harm.

He then drew a circle about the place,
enough to include the whole party. He
next gathered dry twigs and leaves, and
made a fire, upon which he threw certain
drugs and dried herbs, which he had
brought in his basket. A thick smoke
arose, diffusing its potent odour, savouring
marvellously of brimstone and assafœtida,
which, however grateful it might
be to the olfactory nerves of spirits,
nearly strangled poor Wolfert, and produced
a fit of coughing and wheezing
that made the whole grove resound. Dr.
Knipperhausen then unclasped the volume
which he had brought under his arm,
which was printed in red and black
characters in German text. While Wolfert
held the lantern, the doctor, by the
aid of his spectacles, read off several
forms of conjuration in Latin and German.
He then ordered Sam to seize the
pickaxe and proceed to work. The
close-bound soil gave obstinate signs of
not having been disturbed for many a
year. After having picked his way
through the surface, Sam came to a bed
of sand and gravel, which he threw
briskly to right and left with the spade.

"Hark!" said Wolfert, who fancied
he heard a trampling among the dry
leaves, and a rustling through the bushes.

Sam paused for a moment, and they listened—no
footstep was near. The bat
flitted by them in silence; a bird, roused
from its roost by the light which glared
up among the trees, flew circling about
the flame. In the profound stillness of
the woodland they could distinguish the
current rippling along the rocky shore,
and the distant murmuring and roaring
of Hell-gate.

The negro continued his labours, and
had already digged a considerable hole.
The doctor stood on the edge, reading
formulæ, every now and then, from his
black-letter volume, or throwing more
drugs and herbs upon the fire, while
Wolfert bent anxiously over the pit,
watching every stroke of the spade.
Any one witnessing the scene, thus
lighted up by fire, lantern, and the reflection
of Wolfert's red mantle, might
have mistaken the little doctor for some
foul magician, busied in his incantations,
and the grizzly-headed negro for some
swart goblin obedient to his commands.

At length the spade of the old fisherman
struck upon something that sounded
hollow; the sound vibrated to Wolfert's
heart. He struck his spade again—

" 'Tis a chest," said Sam.

"Full of gold, I'll warrant it!" cried
Wolfert, clasping his hands with rapture.

Scarcely had he uttered the words
when a sound from above caught his
ear. He cast up his eyes, and lo! by
the expiring light of the fire, he beheld,
just over the disk of the rock, what appeared
to be the grim visage of the
drowned bucanier, grinning hideously
upon him.

Wolfert gave a loud cry, and let fall
the lantern. His panic communicated
itself to his companions. The negro
leaped out of the hole; the doctor dropped
his book and basket, and began to
pray in German. All was horror and
confusion. The fire was scattered about,
the lantern extinguished. In their hurry-scurry,
they ran against and confounded
one another. They fancied a legion of
hobgoblins let loose upon them, and that
they saw, by the fitful gleams of the
scattered embers, strange figures in red
caps, gibbering and ramping around them.
The doctor ran one way, the negro
another, and Wolfert made for the waterside.
As he plunged, struggling onwards
through bush and brake, he heard the
tread of some one in pursuit. He scrambled
frantickly forward. The footsteps
gained upon him. He felt himself grasped
by his cloak, when suddenly his pursuer
was attacked in turn. A fierce fight and
struggle ensued. A pistol was discharged
that lit up rock and bush for a second,
and showed two figures grappling together—all
was then darker than ever.
The contest continued; the combatants
clenched each other, and panted and
groaned, and rolled among the rocks.
There was snarling and growling as of a
cur, mingled with curses, in which Wolfort
fancied he could recognise the voice
of the bucanier. He would fain have
fled, but he was on the brink of a precipice,
and could go no farther. Again
the parties were on their feet; again
there was a tugging and struggling, as if
strength alone could decide the combat,
until one was precipitated from the brow
of the cliff, and sent headlong into the
deep stream that whirled below. Wolfert
heard the plunge, and a kind of strangling,
bubbling murmur; but the darkness
of the night hid every thing from
him, and the swiftness of the current
swept every thing instantly out of bearing.

One of the combatants was disposed
of, but whether friend or foe Wolfert
could not tell, or whether they might not
both be foes. He heard the survivor
approach, and terror revived. He saw,
where the profile of the rocks rose against
the horizon, a human form advancing.
He could not be mistaken—it must be
the bucanier. Whither should he fly?
a precipice was on one side, a murderer
on the other. The enemy approached—
he was close at hand. Wolfert attempted
to let himself down the face of the cliff.
His cloak caught in a thorn that grew
on the edge: he was jerked from off his
feet, and held dangling in the air, half
choked by the string with which his careful
wife had fastened the garment round
his neck. Wolfert thought his last moment
was arrived; already he had committed
his soul to St. Nicholas, when the
string broke, and he tumbled down the
bank, bumping from rock to rock, and
bush to bush, and leaving the red cloak

fluttering, like a bloody banner, in the
air.

It was a long while before Wolfert
came to himself. When he opened his
eyes, the ruddy streaks of morning were
already shooting up the sky. He found
himself lying in the bottom of a boat,
grievously battered. He attempted to sit
up, but was too sore and stiff to move.
A voice requested him, in friendly accents,
to lie still. He turned his eyes
towards the speaker—it was Dirk Waldron.
He had dogged the party at the
earnest request of Dame Webber and her
daughter, who, with the laudable curiosity
of their sex, had pried into the secret
consultations of Wolfert and the doctor.
Dirk had been completely distanced in
following the light skiff of the fisherman,
and had just come in time to rescue the
poor money-digger from his pursuer.

Thus ended this perilous enterprise.
The doctor and Black Sam severally
found their way back to the Manhattoes,
each having some dreadful tale of peril
to relate. As to poor Wolfert, instead of
returning in triumph, laden with bags of
gold, he was borne home on a shutter,
followed by a rabble rout of curious
urchins.

His wife and daughter saw the dismal
pageant from a distance, and alarmed
the neighbourhood with their cries; they
thought the poor man had suddenly settled
the great debt of nature in one of his
wayward moods. Finding him, however,
still living, they had him speedily to bed,
and a jury of old matrons of the neighbourhood
assembled to determine how he
should be doctored.

The whole town was in a buzz with
the story of the money-diggers. Many
repaired to the scene of the previous
night's adventures; but though they
found the very place of digging, they
discovered nothing that compensated
them for their trouble. Some say they
found the fragments of an oaken chest,
and an iron potlid, which savoured
strongly of hidden money, and that in
the old family vault there were traces of
bales and boxes, but this is all very
dubious.

In fact, the secret of all this story has
never to this day been discovered. Whether
any treasure were ever actually
buried at that place; whether, if so, it
were carried off at night by those who
had buried it; or whether it still remains
there under the guardianship of gnomes
and spirits, until it shall be properly
sought for, is all matter of conjecture.
For my part, I incline to the latter opinion,
and make no doubt that great sums
lie buried, both there and in many other
parts of this island and its neighbourhood,
ever since the times of the bucaniers
and the Dutch colonists; and I
would earnestly recommend the search
after them to such of my fellow-citizens
as are not engaged in any other speculations.
There were many conjectures
formed, also, as to who and what was
the strange man of the seas who had
domineered over the little fraternity at
Corlear's Hook for a time, disappeared
so strangely, and re-appeared so fearfully.

Some supposed him a smuggler, stationed
at that place to assist his comrades
in landing their goods among the
rocky coves of the island. Others, that
he was one of the ancient comrades,
either of Kidd or Bradish, returned to
convey treasures formerly hidden in the
vicinity. The only circumstance that
throws any thing like a vague light on
this mysterious matter, is a report which
prevailed of a strange foreign-built shallop,
with much the look of a picaroon,
having been seen hovering about the
Sound for several days without landing
or reporting herself, though boats were
seen going to and from her at night;
and that she was seen standing out of
the mouth of the harbour, in the gray of
the dawn, after the catastrophe of the
money-diggers.

I must not omit to mention another
report, also, which I confess is rather
apocryphal, of the bucanier, who was
supposed to have been drowned, being
seen before daybreak with a lantern in
his hand, seated astride his great sea-chest,
and sailing through Hell-gate,
which just then began to roar and bellow
with redoubled fury.

While all the gossip world was thus
filled with talk and rumour, poor Wolfert
lay sick and sorrowful in his bed,
bruised in body, and sorely beaten down
in mind. His wife and daughter did all

they could to bind up his wounds, both
corporal and spiritual. The good old
dame never stirred from his bed-side,
where she sat knitting from morning till
night; while his daughter busied herself
about him with the fondest care. Nor
did they lack assistance from abroad.
Whatever may be said of the desertion
of friends in distress, they had no complaint
of the kind to make; not an old
wife of the neighbourhood but abandoned
her work to crowd to the mansion of
Wolfert Webber, inquire after his health,
and the particulars of his story. Not
one came, moreover, without her little
pipkin of pennyroyal, sage-balm, or other
herb-tea, delighted at an opportunity of
signalizing her kindness and her doctorship.
What drenchings did not the poor
Wolfert undergo! and all in vain. It
was a moving sight to behold him wasting
away day by day; growing thinner and
thinner, and ghastlier and ghastlier; and
staring with rueful visage from under an
old patchwork counterpane, upon the jury
of matrons kindly assembled to sigh and
groan, and look unhappy around him.

Dirk Waldron was the only being that
seemed to shed a ray of sunshine into
this house of mourning. He came in
with cheery look and manly spirit, and
tried to reanimate the expiring heart of
the poor money-digger; but it was all in
vain. Wolfert was completely done over.
If any thing was wanting to complete his
despair, it was a notice served upon him,
in the midst of his distress, that the corporation
were about to run a new street
through the very centre of his cabbage-garden.
He now saw nothing before
him but poverty and ruin—his last reliance,
the garden of his forefathers, was
to be laid waste—and what then was to
become of his poor wife and child? His
eyes filled with tears as they followed
the dutiful Amy out of the room one
morning. Dirk Waldron was seated
beside him; Wolfert grasped his hand,
pointed after his daughter, and for the
first time since his illness, broke the
silence he had maintained.

"I am going," said he, shaking his
head feebly; "and when I am gone—
my poor daughter—"

"Leave her to me, father!" said Dirk,
manfully; "I'll take care of her!"

Wolfert looked up in the face of the
cheery, strapping youngster, and saw
there was none better able to take care
of a woman.

"Enough," said he, "she is yours!—
and now fetch me a lawyer—let me
make my will and die."

The lawyer was brought, a dapper,
bustling, round-headed little man—Roorbach
(or Rollebuck, as it was pronounced)
by name. At the sight of him the women
broke into loud lamentations, for
they looked upon the signing of a will
as the signing of a death-warrant.
Wolfert made a feeble motion for them
to be silent. Poor Amy buried her face
and her grief in the bed-curtain; Dame
Webber resumed her knitting to hide her
distress, which betrayed itself, however,
in a pellucid tear which trickled silently
down, and hung at the end of her peaked
nose; while the cat, the only unconcerned
member of the family, played
with the good dame's ball of worsted, as
it rolled about the floor.

Wolfert lay on his back, his nightcap
drawn over his forehead, his eyes closed,
his whole visage the picture of death. He
begged the lawyer to be brief, for he felt
his end approaching, and that he had no
time to lose. The lawyer nibbed his pen,
spread out his paper, and prepared to
write.

"I give and bequeath," said Wolfert,
faintly, "my small farm—"

"What! all?" exclaimed the lawyer.

Wolfert half opened his eyes and
looked upon the lawyer.

"Yes—all," said he.

"What! all that great patch of land
with cabbages and sunflowers, which the
corporation is just going to run a main
street through?"

"The same," said Wolfert, with a
heavy sigh, and sinking back upon his
pillow.

"I wish him joy that inherits it!" said
the little lawyer, chuckling and rubbing
his hands involuntarily.

"What do you mean?" said Wolfert,
again opening his eyes.

"That he'll be one of the richest men
in the place!" cried little Rollebuck.

The expiring Wolfert seemed to step
back from the threshold of existence;
his eyes again lighted up; he raised

himself in his bed, shoved back his
worsted red nightcap, and stared broadly
at the lawyer.

"You don't say so!" exclaimed he.

"Faith, but I do!" rejoined the other.
"Why, when that great field, and that
huge meadow, come to be laid out in
streets, and cut up into snug buildinglots—why,
whoever owns it need not
pull off his hat to the patroon!"

"Say you so?" cried Wolfert, half
thrusting one leg out of bed; "why, then,
I think I'll not make my will yet!"

To the surprise of every body, the
dying man actually recovered. The
vital spark, which had glimmered faintly
in the socket, received fresh fuel from
the oil of gladness which the little lawyer
poured into his soul. It once more
burnt up into a flame. Give physic to
the heart, ye who would revive the body
of a spirit-broken man! In a few days
Wolfert left his room; in a few days
more his table was covered with deeds,
plans of streets, and building-lots. Little
Rollebuck was constantly with him, his
right-hand man and adviser, and instead
of making his will, assisted in the more
agreeable task of making his fortune.

In fact, Wolfert Webber was one of
those many worthy Dutch burghers of
the Manhattoes, whose fortunes have
been made in a manner in spite of themselves;
who have tenaciously held on to
their hereditary acres, raising turnips
and cabbages about the skirts of the city,
hardly able to make both ends meet, until
the corporation has cruelly driven streets
through their abodes, and they have suddenly
awakened out of their lethargy, and
to their astonishment found themselves
rich men!

Before many months had elapsed, a
great bustling street passed through the
very centre of the Webber garden, just
where Wolfert had dreamed of finding a
treasure. His golden dream was accomplished.
He did indeed find an unlooked-for
source of wealth; for when his
paternal lands were distributed into
building-lots, and rented out to safe
tenants, instead of producing a paltry
crop of cabbages, they returned him an
abundant crop of rents; insomuch that
on quarter-day it was a goodly sight to
see his tenants knocking at his door
from morning till night, each with a little
round-bellied bag of money, the golden
produce of the soil.

The ancient mansion of his forefathers
was still kept up; but instead of being a
little yellow-fronted Dutch house in a
garden, it now stood boldly in the midst
of a street, the grand house of the neighbourhood;
for Wolfert enlarged it with
a wing on each side, and a cupola or tearoom
on top, where he might climb up
and smoke his pipe in hot weather; and
in the course of time the whole mansion
was overrun by the chubby-faced progeny
of Amy Webber and Dirk Waldron.

As Wolfert waxed old, and rich, and
corpulent, he also set up a great gingerbread-coloured
carriage, drawn by a pair
of black Flanders mares, with tails that
swept the ground; and to commemorate
the origin of his greatness, he had for
his crest a full-blown cabbage painted
on the panels with the pithy motto
Alles opf, that is to say, ALL HEAD,
meaning thereby, that he had risen by
sheer head-work.

To fill the measure of his greatness,
in the fulness of time the renowned Ramm
Rapelye slept with his fathers, and Wolfert
Webber succeeded to the leather-bottomed
arm-chair, in the inn-parlour
at Corlear's Hook, where he long reigned,
greatly honoured and respected, insomuch
that he was never known to tell a
story without its being believed, nor to
utter a joke without its being laughed at.