stories by modern american authors-第48节

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wife　of　the　neighborhood　but　abandoned　her　work　to　crowd　to　the

mansion　of　Wolfert　Webber；　to　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　the　poor　Wolfert　undergo；　and

all　in　vain！　　It　was　a　moving　sight　to　behold　him　wasting　away　day

by　day；　growing　thinner　and　thinner　and　ghastlier　and　ghastlier；

and　staring　with　rueful　visage　from　under　an　old　patchwork

counterpane；　upon　the　jury　of　matrons　kindly　assembled　to　sigh　and

groan　and　look　unhappy　around　him。



Dirk　Waldron　was　the　only　being　that　seemed　to　shed　a　ray　of

sunshine　into　this　house　of　mourning。　　He　came　in　with　cheery　look

and　manly　spirit；　and　tried　to　reanimate　the　expiring　heart　of　the

poor　money　digger；　but　it　was　all　in　vain。　　Wolfert　was　completely

done　over。＇1＇　　If　anything　was　wanting　to　complete　his　despair；　it

was　a　notice；　served　upon　him　in　the　midst　of　his　distress；　that

the　corporation　was　about　to　run　a　new　street　through　the　very

center　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？





＇1＇　Exhausted。





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　lawyerlet

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　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＇1＇　his　pen；　spread　out　his

paper；　and　prepared　to　write。





＇1＇　In　Irving's　time；　quills　were　made　into　pens　by　pointing　or

〃nibbing〃　their　ends。





〃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　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　burned　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　center　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　rent；

insomuch　that　on　quarter　day　it　was　a　goodly　sight　to　see　his

tenants　knocking　at　the　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　home　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　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　leather…bottomed　armchair　in　the　inn　parlor　at

Corlear'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　joke　without　its　being　laughed

at。







Introduction　to　〃Wieland's　Madness；〃　from　〃Wieland；　or　The

Transformation。〃





　　　　　From　Virtue's　blissful　paths　away

　　　　　The　double…tongued　are　sure　to　stray；

　　　　　Good　is　a　forth…right　journey　still。

　　　　　And　mazy　paths　but　lead　to　ill。





〃WIELAND〃　is　the　first　American　novel。　　It　appeared　in　1798；　its

author　was　soon　recognized　as　the　earliest　American　novelist；　and

he　remained　the　greatest；　until　Fenimore　Cooper　brought　forth　his

Leather…stocking　Tales；　a　quarter　of　a　century　later。



Although　modern　sophistication　easily　points　out　flaws　in　Charles

Brockden　Brown's　story…structure；　and　reproves　him　for

improbability；　morbidness；　and　a　style　often　too　elevated；　yet　his

work　lives。　　His　downright　originality　is　worthy　of　Cooper　himself；

and　his　weird　imaginations　and　horribly　sustained　scenes　of　terror

have　been　surpassed　by　few　writers　save　Edgar　Allan　Poe。







Charles　Brockden　Brown





FIRST　PART



I



Wieland's　Madness





＇As　the　story　opens；　the　narratress；　Clara　Wieland；　is　entering

upon　the　happy　realization　of　her　love　for　Henry　Pleyel；　closest

friend　of　her　brother　〃Wieland。〃



Their　woodland　home；　Mettingen；　on　the　banks　of　the　then　remote

Schuylkill；　is　the　abode　of　music；　letters　and　thorough　culture。

The　peace　of　high　thinking　and　simple　outdoor　life　hovers　over

all。＇





One　sunny　afternoon　I　was　standing　in　the　door　of　my　house；　when　I

marked　a　person　passing　close　to　the　e