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 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 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 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 a crest a fullblown 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 parlor at
Corlears 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 joke without its being laughed at.
End of Tales of a Traveller, by Washington Irving
