o 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 t