First,
there was a certain heaving of the abdomen, not unlike an earthquake;
then was emitted a cloud of tobacco smoke from that crater, his mouth;
then there was a kind of rattle 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 testy puff 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 redoubtable Ramm contracted his brow, clasped up his mouth,
till it wrinkled at each corner, and redoubled his smoking with such
vehemence, 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 rebuke 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 narrative 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 talisman 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
gunpowder scenes which, by his own account, he had witnessed.
The golden stories of Kidd, however, were resolutely 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 pensively home, full of magnificent ideas of buried riches.
The soil of his native island seemed to be turned into gold-dust; and
every field teemed with treasure. His head almost reeled at the thought
how often he must have heedlessly rambled over places where countless
sums lay, scarcely covered by the turf beneath his feet. His mind was
in a vertigo with this whirl of new ideas. As he came in sight of the
venerable mansion of his forefathers, and the little realm where the
Webbers had so long and so contentedly flourished, his gorge 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
repose. 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 bellies, corpulent with pieces of
eight, or venerable doubloons; and chests, wedged close with moidores,
ducats, and pistareens, yawned before his ravished eyes, and vomited
forth their glittering contents.
Wolfert awoke a poorer man than ever. He had no heart to go about his
daily concerns, which appeared so paltry 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 uproar.
The third night he went to bed with a palpitating heart. He put on his
red nightcap, wrong side outwards for good luck. It was deep midnight
before his anxious mind could settle itself into sleep.
