University of Virginia Library

THE ADVENTURE OF SAM,
THE BLACK FISHERMAN.
COMMONLY DENOMINATED MUD SAM.

Every body knows Mud Sam, the old negro
fisherman who has fished about the Sound for the
last twenty or thirty years. Well, it is now many
years since that Sam, who was then a young fellow,
and worked on the farm of Killian Suydam
on Long Island, having finished his work early,
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 been
able to shift his station with the shifting of

the tide, from the Hen and Chickens to the
Hog's back, and from the Hog's back to the
Pot, and from the Pot to the Frying pan;
but in the eagerness of his sport Sam did not
see that the tide was rapidly ebbing; until the
roaring of the whirlpools and rapids 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 Black well'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
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 east
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 lanthorn 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 lanthorn 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 stout
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 the ridge that overlooked
their path. They had stopped to rest for
a moment, and the leader was looking about
among the bushes with his lanthorn. “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 lanthorn 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 lanthorn.
“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 with poor Sam. He hesitated and
lingered and listened. By and bye 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 mystery and
secresy. 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, therefore, resist an impulse, in spite of
every danger, to steal nearer, and overlook the
villains 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; he saw the light of their lanthorn
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 hedge hog; scrambled up
others like a catamount. In every direction he
heard some one or other of the gang hemmin
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 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 an 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 red cap, 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 Hogs
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 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; 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 different by daylight. And then,
where was the use of looking for a dead body,
when there was no chance of hanging the murderers?”

“Aye, 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.

“Aye, haunts,” repeated Peechy, “has none
of you heard of father red cap that 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 wild 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 red cap 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 eye sight, jug,
goblet, and red cap 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 humbug!” 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 the 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 that made
the building shake to its foundation. All started
from their seats, imagining it the shock of an
earthquake, or that old father red cap 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 thurst 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 over head 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 again
heard 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 called 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 lanthorn.

“Dowse the light!” roared the hoarse voice
from the water. “No one wants lights here!”

“Thunder and lightning!” exclaimed the veteran;
“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,
sunk into the waves, and 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 drear and void. Neither
man nor boat was to be seen; nothing but
the dashing and weltering of the waves as they
hurried past.

The company returned to the tavern, for they
could not leave it before the storm should subside.
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 human 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 happy that the

poor dear man had paid his reckoning before he
went.

“He came 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
the landlord, “if he has gone to Davy Jones
that he had not left his sea chest behind him.”

“The sea chest! St. Nicholas preserve us!” said
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 on 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 skurry 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 dead lights.
And so it went on till they lost sight of him in
the fogs of 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 now at an end. The cuckoo
clock in the hall struck midnight; every one
pressed to depart, for seldom was such a late
hour 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
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 buccaneer
had disappeared, almost expecting to see him
sailing on his chest in the cool moonshine. The
trembling rays glittered along the waters, but all
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 he who had farthest to go and had to complete
his journey alone, though a veteran sexton,
and 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.
His mind was all of a whirl with these freebooting
tales; and then these accounts of pots of
money and Spanish treasures, buried here and
there and every where, about the rocks and bays
of this wild shore made him almost dizzy.

“Blessed St. Nicholas!” ejaculated he half
aloud, “is it not possible to come upon one of
these golden hoards, and so 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 black
fisherman, his imagination gave a totally different
complexion to the tale. He saw in the gang
of red caps 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 eye 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, bags 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 red cap, 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 Mud 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 their 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

shovel full 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, and 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 death bed, 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 suddenly of a brain fever in the
alms house.

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 negro
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 was
an amphibious kind of animal, something more
of a fish than a man; he had led the life of an
otter 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, looming through 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 Stepping Stones; 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 lay Mud
Sam himself, indulging in a true negro's luxury
—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
briars caught their clothes as they passed; the
garter-snake glided across their path; the spotted
toad hopped and waddled before them, and the
restless cat-bird 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
tress. The area had once been a grass-plot,
but was now shagged with briars 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 red cap, and called
to mind the story of Peechy Prauw. The evening
was approaching and the light falling dubiously
among these places, gave a melancholy
tone to the scene, well calculated to foster any
lurking feeling of awe or superstition. The
night hawk, 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,[2] as he
streamed by them with his deep red plumage,
seemed like some genius flitting about this region
of mystery.

They now came to an enclosure that had once
been a garden. It extended along the foot of a
rocky ridge, but was little better than a wilderness

of weeds, with here and there a matted rose bush,
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 skull rolled on the floor. Wolfert
drew back shuddering, but was reassured on
being informed by Sam 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, and having
often to hold by shrubs and grape vines to avoid

slipping into the deep and hurried stream. A
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 chesnuts, so as to be sheltered and almost
concealed. The beach sloped gradually
within the cove, but the current swept deep and
black and rapid along its jutting points. Sam
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 shelve 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 narrowly, Wolfert remarked
three crosses cut in the rock just above the ring,
which had no doubt some mysterious signification.
Old Sam now readily recognized 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 places look 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 Sam
thought might be the very ridge from which he
overlooked the diggers. Wolfert examined it
narrowly, and at length descried 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 on them. His heart
leaped with joy, for he doubted not but they
were the private marks of the buccaneers, to denote
the places where their treasure lay buried.
All now that remained was to ascertain the precise
spot; for otherwise he might dig at random
without coming upon the spoil, and he had already
had enough of such profitless labour. Here,
however, Sam was perfectly at a loss, and indeed
perplexed him 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 farther at present; and,
indeed, Wolfert had come unprepared with implements
to prosecute his researches. Satisfied,
therefore, with having ascertained the place, he
took note of all its landmarks, that he might recognize
it again, and set out on his return homeward,
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 on 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 him. 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 horror of Wolfert when he recognized

the grizzly visage of the drowned buccaneer.
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
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
tagged 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 grizzly
buccaneer. 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 bed clothes right and left, in the idea
that he was shovelling among 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 house wives 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.[3] To him did the poor women repair

for council and assistance touching the mental
vagaries of Wolfert Webber.

They found the doctor seated in his little study,
clad in his dark camblet robe of knowledge, with
his black velvet cap, after the manner of Boorhaave,
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
seemed to reflect 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 life time is wasted.
He had passed some years of his youth in
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 all 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, alchemy,
and 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 rumours
of treasure being buried in various parts of
the island, and had long been anxious to get on
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 depressed in mind by the golden secret,
and as a family physician is a kind of father confessor,
he was glad of the 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 secresy
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.[4]

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 women 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 Mud Sam was engaged to
take them in his skiff to the scene of enterprise;
to work with spade and pick-axe 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 roused with tenfold force: they
hung about him entreating him not to expose
himself to the night air, but all in vain. When
Wolfert was once 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 fastened 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 camblet robe
by way of surtout; 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 church yard, and
the watchman bawled in 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 echo of their own steps echoing along
the quiet streets. 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
lamp light threw such vague gleams and shadows,
that this might all have been mere fancy.

They found the negro fisherman waiting for
them, smoking his pipe in the stern of his skiff,
which was moored just in front of his little cabin.

A pick-axe and spade were lying in the bottom
of the boat, with a dark lanthorn, 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 in 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
Corlaers 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 buccaneer 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 sounds 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 Sam 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 lanthorn, gathered
their various implements and proceeded slowly
through the bushes. Every sound startled them,
even that of their footsteps among the dry leaves;
and the hooting of a screech owl, from the shattered
chimney of Father red cap's 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 lanthorn,
Wolfert recognized the three mystic crosses.
Their hearts beat quick, for the momentous trial
was at hand that was to determine their hopes.

The lanthorn 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 lanthorn 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 hand trembling with the agitation of his mind.
The wand continued slowly to turn, 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 Sam, grasping the spade.

“Post tausends, 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 keep about buried treasure from
doing them any harm. The doctor then drew a
circle round 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 rose,
diffusing a 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. Doctor 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 lanthorn, 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 pick-axe 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 about them in silence; a bird roused
from its nest 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.

Sam continued his labours, and had already
digged a considerable hole. The doctor stood
on the edge, reading formulæ every now and then
from the 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
strangely lighted up by fire, lanthorn, and the reflection
of Wolfert's red mantle, might have mistaken
the little doctor for some foul magician,
busied in his incantations, and the grizzled-headed
Sam as some swart goblin, obedient to his
commands.

At length the spade of the 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 over head 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 buccaneer, grinning hideously down
upon him.

Wolfert gave a loud cry, and let fall the lanthorn.
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
lanthorn extinguished. In their hurry skurry
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, Mud Sam another,
and Wolfert made for the water side. As he
plunged struggling onwards through bush and
brake, he heard the tread of some one in pursuit.
He scrambled frantically 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 period, 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 Wolfert fancied he could recognize
the voice of the buccaneer. 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 view, and the
swiftness of the current swept every thing instantly
out of hearing. One of the combatants
was disposed of, but whether friend or foe Wolfert
could not tell, nor whether they might not
both be foes. He heard the survivor approach,
and his 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 buccaneer. 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 choaked by the string with which
his careful wife had fastened the garment round
his neck. Wolfert thought his last moment had
arrived; already had he 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 the 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 Mud 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 conveyed 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
the digging, they discovered nothing that compensated
for their trouble. Some say they found
the fragments of an oaken chest, and an iron
pot-lid 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
was ever actually buried at that place; whether,
if so, it was 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 buccaneers 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 Corlaers Hook for a time; disappeared
so strangely, and reappeared 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 a buccaneer; one of the ancient
comrades either of Kidd or Bradish, returned to
convey away treasures formerly hidden in the
vicinity. The only circumstance that throws
any thing like a vague light over this mysterious
matter is a report which prevailed of a strange
foreign built shallop, with the look of a piccaroon,
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
buccaneer, who was supposed to have been
drowned, being seen before daybreak, with a lanthorn
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 desertions 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 herbtea, 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 your's!—and
now fetch me a lawyer—let me make my will
and die.”

The lawyer was brought—a dapper, bustling,
round-headed little man, Roorback (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, that 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 red worsted 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 piece of meadow
come to be laid out in streets, and cut up into
snug building lots—why, whoever owns them
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 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 a 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
rapping at his door, from morning to 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 tea
room 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 a crest a full blown cabbage painted on the
pannels, with the pithy motto ALLES KOPF:
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
fullness of time the renowned Ramm Rapelye
slept with his fathers, and Wolfert Webber succeeded
to the leathern bottomed arm-chair in the
inn parlour at Corlaers 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.