The Webber dynasty continued in uninterrupted succession; and never did a line give more unquestionable proofs of legitimacy10. The eldest11 son succeeded to the looks, as well as the territory of his sire; and had the portraits of this line of tranquil12 potentates14 been taken, they would have presented a row of heads marvellously resembling in shape and magnitude the vegetables over which they reigned15.
The seat of government continued unchanged in the family mansion16:—a Dutch-built house, with a front, or rather gable-end of yellow brick, tapering17 to a point, with the customary iron weathercock at the top. Every thing about the building bore the air of long-settled ease and security. Flights of martins peopled the little coops nailed against the walls, and swallows built their nests under the eaves; and every one knows that these house-loving birds bring good luck to the dwelling18 where they take up their abode19. In a bright sunny morning in early summer, it was delectable20 to hear their cheerful notes, as they sported about in the pure, sweet air, chirping21 forth22, as it were, the greatness and prosperity of the Webbers.
Thus quietly and comfortably did this excellent family vegetate23 under the shade of a mighty24 button-wood tree, which by little and little grew so great as entirely25 to overshadow their palace. The city gradually spread its suburbs round their domain26. Houses sprung up to interrupt their prospects27. The rural lanes in the vicinity began to grow into the bustle28 and populousness29 of streets; in short, with all the habits of rustic30 life they began to find themselves the inhabitants of a city.
Still, however, they maintained their hereditary31 character, and Hereditary possessions, with all the tenacity32 of petty German princes in the midst of the Empire. Wolfert was the last of the line, and succeeded to the patriarchal bench at the door, under the family tree, and swayed the sceptre of his fathers, a kind of rural potentate13 in the midst of a metropolis33.
To share the cares and sweets of sovereignty, he had taken unto himself a help-mate, one of that excellent kind called stirring women; that is to say, she was one of those notable little housewives who are always busy when there is nothing to do. Her activity however, took one particular direction; her whole life seemed devoted to intense knitting; whether at home or abroad; walking or sitting, her needles were continually in motion, and it is even affirmed that by her unwearied industry she very nearly supplied her household with stockings throughout the year. This worthy couple were blessed with one daughter, who was brought up with great tenderness and care; uncommon34 pains had been taken with her education, so that she could stitch in every variety of way; make all kinds of pickles35 and preserves, and mark her own name on a sampler. The influence of her taste was seen also in the family garden, where the ornamental36 began to mingle37 with the useful; whole rows of fiery38 marigolds and splendid hollyhocks bordered the cabbage-beds; and gigantic sunflowers lolled their broad, jolly faces over the fences, seeming to ogle39 most affectionately the passers-by.
Thus reigned and vegetated40 Wolfert Webber over his paternal41 acres, peaceably and contentedly42. Not but that, like all other sovereigns, he had his occasional cares and vexations. The growth of his native city sometimes caused him annoyance43. His little territory gradually became hemmed44 in by streets and houses, which intercepted45 air and sunshine. He was now and then subject to the irruptions of the border population, that infest46 the streets of a metropolis, who would sometimes make midnight forays into his dominions47, and carry off captive whole platoons of his noblest subjects. Vagrant48 swine would make a descent, too, now and then, when the gate was left open, and lay all waste before them; and mischievous49 urchins51 would often decapitate the illustrious sunflowers, the glory of the garden, as they lolled their heads so fondly over the walls. Still all these were petty grievances52, which might now and then ruffle53 the surface of his mind, as a summer breeze will ruffle the surface of a mill-pond; but they could not disturb the deep-seated quiet of his soul. He would seize a trusty staff, that stood behind the door, issue suddenly out, and anoint the back of the aggressor, whether pig or urchin50, and then return within doors, marvellously refreshed and tranquillized.
The chief cause of anxiety to honest Wolfert, however, was the growing prosperity of the city. The expenses of living doubled and trebled; but he could not double and treble the magnitude of his cabbages; and the number of competitors prevented the increase of price; thus, therefore, while every one around him grew richer, Wolfert grew poorer, and he could not, for the life of him, perceive how the evil was to be remedied.
This growing care which increased from day to day, had its gradual effect upon our worthy burgher; insomuch, that it at length implanted two or three wrinkles on his brow; things unknown before in the family of the Webbers; and it seemed to pinch up the corners of his cocked hat into an expression of anxiety, totally opposite to the tranquil, broad-brimmed, low-crowned beavers56 of his illustrious progenitors57.
Perhaps even this would not have materially disturbed the serenity58 of his mind had he had only himself and his wife to care for; but there was his daughter gradually growing to maturity59; and all the world knows when daughters begin to ripen60 no fruit or flower requires so much looking after. I have no talent at describing female charms, else fain would I depict61 the progress of this little Dutch beauty. How her blue eyes grew deeper and deeper, and her cherry lips redder and redder; and how she ripened62 and ripened, and rounded and rounded in the opening breath of sixteen summers, until, in her seventeenth spring, she seemed ready to burst out of her bodice like a half-blown rose-bud.
Ah, well-a-day! could I but show her as she was then, tricked out on a Sunday morning in the hereditary finery of the old Dutch clothes-press, of which her mother had confided64 to her the key. The wedding dress of her grandmother, modernized65 for use, with sundry66 ornaments67, handed down as heirlooms in the family. Her pale brown hair smoothed with buttermilk in flat waving lines on each side of her fair forehead. The chain of yellow virgin68 gold, that encircled her neck; the little cross, that just rested at the entrance of a soft valley of happiness, as if it would sanctify the place. The—but pooh!—it is not for an old man like me to be prosing about female beauty: suffice it to say, Amy had attained her seventeenth year. Long since had her sampler exhibited hearts in couples desperately70 transfixed with arrows, and true lovers’ knots worked in deep blue silk; and it was evident she began to languish72 for some more interesting occupation than the rearing of sunflowers or pickling of cucumbers.
At this critical period of female existence, when the heart within a damsel’s bosom73, like its emblem74, the miniature which hangs without, is apt to be engrossed75 by a single image, a new visitor began to make his appearance under the roof of Wolfert Webber. This was Dirk Waldron, the only son of a poor widow, but who could boast of more fathers than any lad in the province; for his mother had had four husbands, and this only child, so that though born in her last wedlock76, he might fairly claim to be the tardy77 fruit of a long course of cultivation. This son of four fathers united the merits and the vigor78 of his sires. If he had not a great family before him, he seemed likely to have a great one after him; for you had only to look at the fresh gamesome youth, to see that he was formed to be the founder79 of a mighty race.
This youngster gradually became an intimate visitor of the family. He talked little, but he sat long. He filled the father’s pipe when it was empty, gathered up the mother’s knitting-needle, or ball of worsted when it fell to the ground; stroked the sleek80 coat of the tortoise-shell cat, and replenished81 the teapot for the daughter from the bright copper82 kettle that sung before the fire. All these quiet little offices may seem of trifling83 import, but when true love is translated into Low Dutch, it is in this way that it eloquently84 expresses itself. They were not lost upon the Webber family. The winning youngster found marvellous favor in the eyes of the mother; the tortoise-shell cat, albeit85 the most staid and demure86 of her kind, gave indubitable signs of approbation87 of his visits, the tea-kettle seemed to sing out a cheering note of welcome at his approach, and if the sly glances of the daughter might be rightly read, as she sat bridling88 and dimpling, and sewing by her mother’s side, she was not a wit behind Dame89 Webber, or grimalkin, or the tea-kettle in good-will.
Wolfert alone saw nothing of what was going on. Profoundly wrapt up in meditation90 on the growth of the city and his cabbages, he sat looking in the fire, and puffing92 his pipe in silence. One night, however, as the gentle Amy, according to custom, lighted her lover to the outer door, and he, according to custom, took his parting salute93, the smack94 resounded95 so vigorously through the long, silent entry as to startle even the dull ear of Wolfert. He was slowly roused to a new source of anxiety. It had never entered into his head, that this mere96 child, who, as it seemed but the other day, had been climbing about his knees, and playing with dolls and baby-houses, could all at once be thinking of love and matrimony. He rubbed his eyes, examined into the fact, and really found that while he had been dreaming of other matters, she had actually grown into a woman, and what was more, had fallen in love. Here were new cares for poor Wolfert. He was a kind father, but he was a prudent97 man. The young man was a very stirring lad; but then he had neither money or land. Wolfert’s ideas all ran in one channel, and he saw no alternative in case of a marriage, but to portion off the young couple with a corner of his cabbage garden, the whole of which was barely sufficient for the support of his family.
Like a prudent father, therefore, he determined98 to nip this passion in the bud, and forbade the youngster the house, though sorely did it go against his fatherly heart, and many a silent tear did it cause in the bright eye of his daughter. She showed herself, however, a pattern of filial piety99 and obedience100. She never pouted101 and sulked; she never flew in the face of parental102 authority; she never fell into a passion, or fell into hysterics, as many romantic novel-read young ladies would do. Not she, indeed! She was none such heroical rebellious103 trumpery104, I warrant ye. On the contrary, she acquiesced105 like an obedient daughter; shut the street-door in her lover’s face, and if ever she did grant him an interview, it was either out of the kitchen window, or over the garden fence.
Wolfert was deeply cogitating106 these things in his mind, and his brow wrinkled with unusual care, as he wended his way one Saturday afternoon to a rural inn, about two miles from the city. It was a favorite resort of the Dutch part of the community from being always held by a Dutch line of landlords, and retaining an air and relish107 of the good old times. It was a Dutch-built house, that had probably been a country seat of some opulent burgher in the early time of the settlement. It stood near a point of land, called Corlears Hook, which stretches out into the Sound, and against which the tide, at its flux108 and reflux, sets with extraordinary rapidity. The venerable and somewhat crazy mansion was distinguished109 from afar, by a grove110 of elms and sycamores that seemed to wave a hospitable111 invitation, while a few weeping willows112 with their dank, drooping113 foliage115, resembling falling waters, gave an idea of coolness, that rendered it an attractive spot during the heats of summer.
Here, therefore, as I said, resorted many of the old inhabitants of the Manhattoes, where, while some played at the shuffle-board and quoits and ninepins, others smoked a deliberate pipe, and talked over public affairs.
It was on a blustering116 autumnal afternoon that Wolfert made his visit to the inn. The grove of elms and willows was stripped of its leaves, which whirled in rustling117 eddies118 about the fields.
The ninepin alley69 was deserted119, for the premature120 chilliness121 of the day had driven the company within doors. As it was Saturday afternoon, the habitual122 club was in session, composed principally of regular Dutch burghers, though mingled123 occasionally with persons of various, character and country, as is natural in a place of such motley population.
Beside the fire-place, and in a huge leather-bottomed armchair, sat the dictator of this little world, the venerable Rem, or, as it was pronounced, Ramm Rapelye.
He was a man of Walloon race, and illustrious for the antiquity124 of his line, his great grandmother having been the first white child born in the province. But he was still more illustrious for his wealth and dignity: he had long filled the noble office of alderman, and was a man to whom the governor himself took off his hat. He had maintained possession of the leathern-bottomed chair from time immemorial; and had gradually waxed in bulk as he sat in his seat of government, until in the course of years he filled its whole magnitude. His word was decisive with his subjects; for he was so rich a man, that he was never expected to support any opinion by argument. The landlord waited on him with peculiar125 officiousness; not that he paid better than his neighbors, but then the coin of a rich man seems always to be so much more acceptable. The landlord had always a pleasant word and a joke, to insinuate126 in the ear of the august Ramm. It is true, Ramm never laughed, and, indeed, maintained a mastiff-like gravity, and even surliness of aspect, yet he now and then rewarded mine host with a token of approbation; which, though nothing more nor less than a kind of grunt128, yet delighted the landlord more than a broad laugh from a poorer man.
“This will be a rough night for the money-diggers,” said mine host, as a gust127 of wind howled round the house, and rattled129 at the windows.
“What, are they at their works again?” said an English half-pay captain, with one eye, who was a frequent attendant at the inn.
“Aye, are they,” said the landlord, “and well may they be. They’ve had luck of late. They say a great pot of money has been dug up in the field, just behind Stuyvesant’s orchard131. Folks think it must have been buried there in old times by Peter Stuyvesant, the Dutch Governor.”
“Fudge!” said the one-eyed man of war, as he added a small portion of water to a bottom of brandy.
“Well, you may believe, or not, as you please,” said mine host, somewhat nettled132; “but every body knows that the old governor buried a great deal of his money at the time of the Dutch troubles, when the English red-coats seized on the province. They say, too, the old gentleman walks; aye, and in the very Same dress that he wears in the picture which hangs up in the family house.”
“Fudge!” said the half-pay officer.
“Fudge, if you please!—But didn’t Corney Van Zandt see him at midnight, stalking about in the meadow with his wooden leg, and a drawn133 sword in his hand, that flashed like fire? And what can he be walking for, but because people have been troubling the place where he buried his money in old times?”
Here the landlord was interrupted by several guttural sounds from Ramm Rapelye, betokening134 that he was laboring135 with the unusual production of an idea. As he was too great a man to be slighted by a prudent publican, mine host respectfully paused until he should deliver himself. The corpulent frame of this mighty burgher now gave all the symptoms of a volcanic136 mountain on the point of an eruption137. First, there was a certain heaving of the abdomen138, not unlike an earthquake; then was emitted a cloud of tobacco smoke from that crater139, his mouth; then there was a kind of rattle130 in the throat, as if the idea were working its way up through a region of phlegm; then there were several disjointed members of a sentence thrown out, ending in a cough; at length his voice forced its way in the slow, but absolute tone of a man who feels the weight of his purse, if not of his ideas; every portion of his speech being marked by a testy140 puff91 of tobacco smoke.
“Who talks of old Peter Stuyvesant’s walking?—puff—Have people no respect for persons?—puff—puff—Peter Stuyvesant knew better what to do with his money than to bury it—puff—I know the Stuyvesant family—puff—every one of them—puff—not a more respectable family in the province—puff—old standers—puff—warm householders—puff—none of your upstarts—puff—puff—puff.—Don’t talk to me of Peter Stuyvesant’s walking—puff—puff—puff—puff.”
Here the redoubtable141 Ramm contracted his brow, clasped up his mouth, till it wrinkled at each corner, and redoubled his smoking with such vehemence142, that the cloudly volumes soon wreathed round his head, as the smoke envelopes the awful summit of Mount Etna.
A general silence followed the sudden rebuke143 of this very rich man. The subject, however, was too interesting to be readily abandoned. The conversation soon broke forth again from the lips of Peechy Prauw Van Hook, the chronicler of the club, one of those narrative144 old men who seem to grow incontinent of words, as they grow old, until their talk flows from them almost involuntarily.
Peechy, who could at any time tell as many stories in an evening as his hearers could digest in a month, now resumed the conversation, by affirming that, to his knowledge, money had at different times been dug up in various parts of the island. The lucky persons who had discovered them had always dreamt of them three times beforehand, and what was worthy of remark, these treasures had never been found but by some descendant of the good old Dutch families, which clearly proved that they had been buried by Dutchmen in the olden time.
“Fiddle-stick with your Dutchmen!” cried the half-pay officer. “The Dutch had nothing to do with them. They were all buried by Kidd, the pirate, and his crew.”
Here a key-note was touched that roused the whole company. The name of Captain Kidd was like a talisman145 in those times, and was associated with a thousand marvellous stories.
The half-pay officer was a man of great weight among the peaceable members of the club, by reason of his military character, and of the gunpowder146 scenes which, by his own account, he had witnessed.
The golden stories of Kidd, however, were resolutely147 rivalled by the tales of Peechy Prauw, who, rather than suffer his Dutch progenitors to be eclipsed by a foreign freebooter, enriched every spot in the neighborhood with the hidden wealth of Peter Stuyvesant and his contemporaries.
Not a word of this conversation was lost upon Wolfert Webber. He returned pensively148 home, full of magnificent ideas of buried riches. The soil of his native island seemed to be turned into gold-dust; and every field teemed149 with treasure. His head almost reeled at the thought how often he must have heedlessly rambled150 over places where countless151 sums lay, scarcely covered by the turf beneath his feet. His mind was in a vertigo152 with this whirl of new ideas. As he came in sight of the venerable mansion of his forefathers153, and the little realm where the Webbers had so long and so contentedly flourished, his gorge154 rose at the narrowness of his destiny.
“Unlucky Wolfert!” exclaimed he, “others can go to bed and dream themselves into whole mines of wealth; they have but to seize a spade in the morning, and turn up doubloons like potatoes; but thou must dream of hardship, and rise to poverty—must dig thy field from year’s end to year’s end, and—and yet raise nothing but cabbages!”
Wolfert Webber went to bed with a heavy heart; and it was long before the golden visions that disturbed his brain, permitted him to sink into repose155. The same visions, however, extended into his sleeping thoughts, and assumed a more definite form. He dreamt that he had discovered an immense treasure in the centre of his garden. At every stroke of the spade he laid bare a golden ingot; diamond crosses sparkled out of the dust; bags of money turned up their bellies156, corpulent with pieces of eight, or venerable doubloons; and chests, wedged close with moidores, ducats, and pistareens, yawned before his ravished eyes, and vomited157 forth their glittering contents.
Wolfert awoke a poorer man than ever. He had no heart to go about his daily concerns, which appeared so paltry158 and profitless; but sat all day long in the chimney-corner, picturing to himself ingots and heaps of gold in the fire. The next night his dream was repeated. He was again in his garden, digging, and laying open stores of hidden wealth. There was something very singular in this repetition. He passed another day of reverie, and though it was cleaning-day, and the house, as usual in Dutch households, completely topsy-turvy, yet he sat unmoved amidst the general uproar159.
The third night he went to bed with a palpitating heart. He put on his red nightcap, wrong side outwards160 for good luck. It was deep midnight before his anxious mind could settle itself into sleep. Again the golden dream was repeated, and again he saw his garden teeming161 with ingots and money-bags.
Wolfert rose the next morning in complete bewilderment. A dream three times repeated was never known to lie; and if so, his fortune was made.
In his
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