University of Virginia Library

THE
ADVENTURE OF THE BLACK FISHERMAN

Everybody 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 neighborhood
of Hell-gate.

He was in a light skiff, and being well acquainted with the
currents and eddies, 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, 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
crouching in his skiff, rocking upon the billows until he fell
asleep. When he woke 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 lantern in the bow
of a boat 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 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 burden 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 favor, 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 burden 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 neighbors; 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; everything had an air of terrible 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 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 their
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 brush and
brier; 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 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 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 neighborhood. 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, nor 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?
everything 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?”

“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 neighborhood to this very day?”

“Haunt!” exclaimed several of the party, opening their
eyes still wider, and edging their chairs still closer.

“Aye, haunt,” repeated Peechy; “have none of you heard
of father Red-cap, 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 neighborhood 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 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 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 abroad among the
elements, when suddenly they were 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 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 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 sank 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 shores. Every one crowded to the
window; another musket-shot was heard, and another long
shout, 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
afterwards 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.

“Dowse 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 shrank 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, and 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 was 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 vigor, 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 neighbors, 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 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 other 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. “Pd not have had that sea-chest in the house for any
money; Pll 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-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 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 thunder-gust which had hitherto detained the company
was now at an end. The cuckoo clock in the hall tolled 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 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 homeward, 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, went a long way round, rather than pass by his own
church-yard.

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
everywhere, 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 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 everything 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 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
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 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, ramping, and raging of uncouth
figures about the hole, and at length showers of blows, dealt
by invisible cudgels, fairly belabored 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 recently 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
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 neighborhood 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 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 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 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
mullen-stalks, as if but seldom used, and so completely over-shadowed
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 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 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 Red-cap, 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 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[1] streamed by them with his deep-red plumage.

They now came to an inclosure 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 the negro that this was a family-vault, belonging to one
of the old Dutch families that owned this estate; an assertion
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 thunder-gust. 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 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 moss that had grown
over them. His heart leaped with joy, for he doubted not they
were the private marks of the buccaneers. All now that remained
was to ascertain the precise spot where the treasure lay
buried; for otherwise he might dig at random in the neighborhood
of the crosses, without coming upon the spoils, and he
had already had enough of such profitless labor. Here, however,
the old negro 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 beside a great white stone; then
under a small green knoll, a short distance from the ledge of
rocks; 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 anything 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 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
burden. 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 recognised 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 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
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 meantime, 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 bedclothes 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.[2] To him did the poor women
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 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
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, alchemy, 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 rumors 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 oppressed in
mind by the golden secret, and as a family physician is a kind
of father confessor, he was glad of any opportunity of unburdening
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 neighborhood 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
first 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.[3]

Wolfert's heart leaped with joy at having met with so
learned and able a coadjutor. Everything went on secretly,
but swimmingly. The doctor had many consultations with
his patient, and the good woman of the household lauded the
comforting effects of his visits. In the meantime 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 them 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 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 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
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 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 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 cockleshell
of a skiff upon this nocturnal expedition, with a wisdom
and valor 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 a 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 Corlaer'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 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 vigor, 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 short 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
neighboring 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
downwards, 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.

“Pots 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 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 rose, diffusing a
potent odor, savoring marvellously of brimstone and asafœtida,
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 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 distrubed 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 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 labors, 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 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, Pll 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 buccaneer,
grinning hideously down 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 water side. As he plunged struggling
onwards through brush 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 second, and showed two figures grappling
together—all was then darker than ever. The contest continued—the
combatants clinched 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 recognise the voice of the buccaneer. He

would fain have fled, but he was on the brink of a precipice,
and could go no further.

Again the parties were on their feet; again there was a tngging
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 everything from him,
and the swiftness of the current swept everything 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 fect, 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 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 morning were
already shooting up the sky. He found himself grievously
battered, and lying in the bottom of a boat. 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 neighborhood 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 neighborhood 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 them for their trouble. Some say they found
the fragments of an oaken chest, and an iron pot-lid, which
savored 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 other parts of this
island and its neighborhood, 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 Corlaer's 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 one of the ancient comrades of
Kidd of Bradish, returned to convey away treasures formerly
hidden in the vicinity. The only circumstance that throws
anything 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 harbor
in the grey 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 lantern in his hand, seated astride of 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 rumor,
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
bedside, 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 neighborhood 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 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 morning. 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 anything 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, 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,
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 night-cap 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 bequeathe,” 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 eabbages 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 night-cap, 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 building lots—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 everybody 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 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, a 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 neighborhood; 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-colored 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 Ropf, 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 parlor at Corlaer's Hook; where he long reigned
greatly honored and respected, insomuch that he was never
known to tell a story without its being believed, nor to utter a
oke without its being laughed at.