PETER GOLDTHWAITE'S TREASURE
by Nathaniel Hawthorne
"And so, Peter, you won't even consider of the business?" said
Mr. John Brown, buttoning his surtout over the snug rotundity of
his person, and drawing on his gloves. "You positively refuse to
let me have this crazy old house, and the land under and
adjoining, at the price named?"
"Neither at that, nor treble the sum," responded the gaunt,
grizzled, and threadbare Peter Goldthwaite. "The fact is, Mr.
Brown, you must find another site for your brick block, and be
content to leave my estate with the present owner. Next summer,
I intend to put a splendid new mansion over the cellar of the
old house."
"Pho, Peter!" cried Mr. Brown, as he opened the kitchen door;
"content yourself with building castles in the air, where
house-lots are cheaper than on earth, to say nothing of the cost
of bricks and mortar. Such foundations are solid enough for your
edifices, while this underneath us is just the thing for mine;
and so we may both be suited. What say you again?"
"Precisely what I said before, Mr. Brown," answered Peter
Goldthwaite. "And as for castles in the air, mine may not be
as magnificent as that sort of architecture, but perhaps as
substantial, Mr. Brown, as the very respectable brick block with
dry goods stores, tailors' shops, and banking rooms on the lower
floor, and lawyers' offices in the second story, which you are
so anxious to substitute."
"And the cost, Peter, eh?" said Mr. Brown, as he withdrew, in
something of a pet. "That, I suppose, will be provided for,
off-hand, by drawing a check on Bubble Bank!"
John Brown and Peter Goldthwaite had been jointly known to the
commercial world between twenty and thirty years before, under
the firm of Goldthwaite & Brown; which co-partnership, however,
was speedily dissolved by the natural incongruity of its
constituent parts. Since that event, John Brown, with exactly
the qualities of a thousand other John Browns, and by just
such plodding methods as they used, had prospered wonderfully,
and become one of the wealthiest John Browns on earth. Peter
Goldthwaite, on the contrary, after innumerable schemes, which
ought to have collected all the coin and paper currency of the
country into his coffers, was as needy a gentleman as ever wore
a patch upon his elbow. The contrast between him and his former
partner may be briefly marked; for Brown never reckoned upon
luck, yet always had it; while Peter made luck the main condition
of his projects, and always missed it. While the means held out,
his speculations had been magnificent, but were chiefly confined,
of late years, to such small business as adventures in the
lottery. Once he had gone on a gold-gathering expedition
somewhere to the South, and ingeniously contrived to empty his
pockets more thoroughly than ever; while others, doubtless, were
filling theirs with native bullion by the handful. More recently
he had expended a legacy of a thousand or two of dollars in
purchasing Mexican scrip, and thereby became the proprietor
of a province; which, however, so far as Peter could find out,
was situated where he might have had an empire for the same
money,--in the clouds. From a search after this valuable real
estate Peter returned so gaunt and threadbare that, on reaching
New England, the scarecrows in the cornfields beckoned to him,
as he passed by. "They did but flutter in the wind," quoth Peter
Goldthwaite. No, Peter, they beckoned, for the scarecrows knew
their brother!
At the period of our story his whole visible income would not
have paid the tax of the old mansion in which we find him. It
was one of those rusty, moss-grown, many-peaked wooden houses,
which are scattered about the streets of our elder towns, with a
beetle-browed second story projecting over the foundation, as if
it frowned at the novelty around it. This old paternal edifice,
needy as he was, and though, being centrally situated on the
principal street of the town, it would have brought him a
handsome sum, the sagacious Peter had his own reasons for never
parting with, either by auction or private sale. There seemed,
indeed, to be a fatality that connected him with his birthplace;
for, often as he had stood on the verge of ruin, and standing
there even now, he had not yet taken the step beyond it which
would have compelled him to surrender the house to his creditors.
So here he dwelt with bad luck till good should come.
Here, then, in his kitchen, the only room where a spark of fire
took off the chill of a November evening, poor Peter Goldthwaite
had just been visited by his rich old partner. At the close of
their interview, Peter, with rather a mortified look, glanced
downwards at his dress, parts of which appeared as ancient as
the days of Goldthwaite & Brown. His upper garment was a mixed
surtout, wofully faded, and patched with newer stuff on each
elbow; beneath this he wore a threadbare black coat, some of
the silk buttons of which had been replaced with others of a
different pattern; and lastly, though he lacked not a pair
of gray pantaloons, they were very shabby ones, and had been
partially turned brown by the frequent toasting of Peter's shins
before a scanty fire. Peter's person was in keeping with his
goodly apparel. Gray-headed, hollow-eyed, pale-cheeked, and
lean-bodied, he was the perfect picture of a man who had fed
on windy schemes and empty hopes, till he could neither live
on such unwholesome trash, nor stomach more substantial food.
But, withal, this Peter Goldthwaite, crack-brained simpleton as,
perhaps, he was, might have cut a very brilliant figure in the
world, had he employed his imagination in the airy business of
poetry, instead of making it a demon of mischief in mercantile
pursuits. After all, he was no bad fellow, but as harmless as a
child, and as honest and honorable, and as much of the gentleman
which nature meant him for, as an irregular life and depressed
circumstances will permit any man to be.
As Peter stood on the uneven bricks of his hearth, looking round
at the disconsolate old kitchen, his eyes began to kindle with
the illumination of an enthusiasm that never long deserted him.
He raised his hand, clinched it, and smote it energetically
against the smoky panel over the fireplace.
"The time is come!" said he. "With such a treasure at command,
it were folly to be a poor man any longer. To-morrow morning I
will begin with the garret, nor desist till I have torn the
house down!"
Deep in the chimney-corner, like a witch in a dark cavern, sat
a little old woman, mending one of the two pairs of stockings
wherewith Peter Goldthwaite kept his toes from being frostbitten.
As the feet were ragged past all darning, she had cut pieces
out of a cast-off flannel petticoat, to make new soles. Tabitha
Porter was an old maid, upwards of sixty years of age, fifty-five
of which she had sat in that same chimney-corner, such being the
length of time since Peter's grandfather had taken her from the
almshouse. She had no friend but Peter, nor Peter any friend but
Tabitha; so long as Peter might have a shelter for his own head,
Tabitha would know where to shelter hers; or, being homeless
elsewhere, she would take her master by the hand and bring him
to her native home, the almshouse. Should it ever be necessary,
she loved him well enough to feed him with her last morsel, and
clothe him with her under petticoat. But Tabitha was a queer old
woman, and, though never infected with Peter's flightiness, had
become so accustomed to his freaks and follies that she viewed
them all as matters of course. Hearing him threaten to tear the
house down, she looked quietly up from her work.
"Best leave the kitchen till the last, Mr. Peter," said she.
"The sooner we have it all down the better," said Peter
Goldthwaite. "I am tired to death of living in this cold, dark,
windy, smoky, creaking, groaning, dismal old house. I shall feel
like a younger man when we get into my splendid brick mansion,
as, please Heaven, we shall by this time next autumn. You shall
have a room on the sunny side, old Tabby, finished and furnished
as best may suit your own notions."
"I should like it pretty much such a room as this kitchen,"
answered Tabitha. "It will never be like home to me till the
chimney-corner gets as black with smoke as this; and that won't
be these hundred years. How much do you mean to lay out on the
house, Mr. Peter?"
"What is that to the purpose?" exclaimed Peter, loftily. "Did not
my great-granduncle, Peter Goldthwaite, who died seventy years
ago, and whose namesake I am, leave treasure enough to build
twenty such?"
"I can't say but he did, Mr. Peter," said Tabitha, threading
her needle.
Tabitha well understood that Peter had reference to an immense
hoard of the precious metals, which was said to exist somewhere
in the cellar or walls, or under the floors, or in some concealed
closet, or other out-of-the-way nook of the house. This wealth,
according to tradition, had been accumulated by a former Peter
Goldthwaite, whose character seems to have borne a remarkable
similitude to that of the Peter of our story. Like him he was a
wild projector, seeking to heap up gold by the bushel and the
cartload, instead of scraping it together, coin by coin. Like
Peter the second, too, his projects had almost invariably failed,
and, but for the magnificent success of the final one, would have
left him with hardly a coat and pair of breeches to his gaunt
and grizzled person. Reports were various as to the nature of his
fortunate speculation: one intimating that the ancient Peter had
made the gold by alchemy; another, that he had conjured it out
of people's pockets by the black art; and a third, still more
unaccountable, that the devil had given him free access to the
old provincial treasury. It was affirmed, however, that some
secret impediment had debarred him from the enjoyment of his
riches, and that he had a motive for concealing them from his
heir, or at any rate had died without disclosing the place of
deposit. The present Peter's father had faith enough in the
story to cause the cellar to be dug over. Peter himself chose
to consider the legend as an indisputable truth, and, amid his
many troubles, had this one consolation that, should all other
resources fail, he might build up his fortunes by tearing his
house down. Yet, unless he felt a lurking distrust of the golden
tale, it is difficult to account for his permitting the paternal
roof to stand so long, since he had never yet seen the moment
when his predecessor's treasure would not have found plenty of
room in his own strong box. But now was the crisis. Should he
delay the search a little longer, the house would pass from the
lineal heir, and with it the vast heap of gold, to remain in its
burial-place, till the ruin of the aged walls should discover
it to strangers of a future generation.
"Yes!" cried Peter Goldthwaite, again, "to-morrow I will set
about it."
The deeper he looked at the matter the more certain of success
grew Peter. His spirits were naturally so elastic that even now,
in the blasted autumn of his age, he could often compete with the
spring-time gayety of other people. Enlivened by his brightening
prospects, he began to caper about the kitchen like a hobgoblin,
with the queerest antics of his lean limbs, and gesticulations of
his starved features. Nay, in the exuberance of his feelings, he
seized both of Tabitha's hands, and danced the old lady across
the floor, till the oddity of her rheumatic motions set him into
a roar of laughter, which was echoed back from the rooms and
chambers, as if Peter Goldthwaite were laughing in every one.
Finally he bounded upward almost out of sight, into the smoke
that clouded the roof of the kitchen, and, alighting safely on
the floor again, endeavored to resume his customary gravity.
"To-morrow, at sunrise," he repeated, taking his lamp to retire
to bed, "I'll see whether this treasure be hid in the wall of
the garret."
"And as we're out of wood, Mr. Peter," said Tabitha, puffing and
panting with her late gymnastics, "as fast as you tear the house
down, I'll make a fire with the pieces."
Gorgeous that night were the dreams of Peter Goldthwaite! At one
time he was turning a ponderous key in an iron door not unlike
the door of a sepulchre, but which, being opened, disclosed a
vault heaped up with gold coin, as plentifully as golden corn in
a granary. There were chased goblets, also, and tureens, salvers,
dinner dishes, and dish covers of gold, or silver gilt, besides
chains and other jewels, incalculably rich, though tarnished
with the damps of the vault; for, of all the wealth that was
irrevocably lost to the man, whether buried in the earth or
sunken in the sea, Peter Goldthwaite had found it in this one
treasure-place. Anon, he had returned to the old house as poor
as ever, and was received at the door by the gaunt and grizzled
figure of a man whom he might have mistaken for himself, only
that his garments were of a much elder fashion. But the house,
without losing its former aspect, had been changed into a palace
of the precious metals. The floors, walls, and ceiling were of
burnished silver; the doors, the window frames, the cornices, the
balustrades and the steps of the staircase, of pure gold; and
silver, with gold bottoms, were the chairs, and gold, standing
on silver legs, the high chests of drawers, and silver the
bedsteads, with blankets of woven gold, and sheets of silver
tissue. The house had evidently been transmuted by a single
touch; for it retained all the marks that Peter remembered, but
in gold or silver instead of wood; and the initials of his name,
which, when a boy, he had cut in the wooden door-post, remained
as deep in the pillar of gold. A happy man would have been
Peter Goldthwaite except for a certain ocular deception, which,
whenever he glanced backwards, caused the house to darken from
its glittering magnificence into the sordid gloom of yesterday.
Up betimes rose Peter, seized an axe, hammer, and saw, which
he had placed by his bedside, and hied him to the garret. It
was but scantily lighted up, as yet, by the frosty fragments
of a sunbeam, which began to glimmer through the almost opaque
bull's-eyes of the window. A moralizer might find abundant themes
for his speculative and impracticable wisdom in a garret. There
is the limbo of departed fashions, aged trifles. Of a day, and
whatever was valuable only to one generation of men, and which
passed to the garret when that generation passed to the grave,
not for safe keeping, but to be out of the way. Peter saw piles
of yellow and musty account-books, in parchment covers, wherein
creditors, long dead and buried, had written the names of dead
and buried debtors in ink now so faded that their moss-grown
tombstones were more legible. He found old moth-eaten garments
all in rags and tatters, or Peter would have put them on. Here
was a naked and rusty sword, not a sword of service, but a
gentleman's small French rapier, which had never left its
scabbard till it lost it. Here were canes of twenty different
sorts, but no gold-headed ones, and shoe-buckles of various
pattern and material, but not silver nor set with precious
stones. Here was a large box full of shoes, with high heels
and peaked toes. Here, on a shelf, were a multitude of phials,
half-filled with old apothecaries' stuff, which, when the
other half had done its business on Peter's ancestors, had been
brought hither from the death chamber. Here--not to give a longer
inventory of articles that will never be put up at auction--was
the fragment of a full-length looking-glass, which, by the dust
and dimness of its surface, made the picture of these old things
look older than the reality. When Peter not knowing that there
was a mirror there, caught the faint traces of his own figure, he
partly imagined that the former Peter Goldthwaite had come back,
either to assist or impede his search for the hidden wealth. And
at that moment a strange notion glimmered through his brain that
he was the identical Peter who had concealed the gold, and ought
to know whereabout it lay. This, however, he had unacountably
forgotten.
"Well, Mr. Peter!" cried Tabitha, on the garret stairs. "Have
you torn the house down enough to heat the teakettle?"
"Not yet, old Tabby," answered Peter; "but that's soon done--as
you shall see."
With the word in his mouth, he uplifted the axe, and laid about
him so vigorously that the dust flew, the boards crashed, and,
in a twinkling, the old woman had an apron full of broken
rubbish.
"We shall get our winter's wood cheap," quoth Tabitha.
The good work being thus commenced, Peter beat down all before
him, smiting and hewing at the joists and timbers, unclinching
spike-nails, ripping and tearing away boards, with a tremendous
racket, from morning till night. He took care, however, to leave
the outside shell of the house untouched, so that the neighbors
might not suspect what was going on.
Never, in any of his vagaries, though each had made him happy
while it lasted, had Peter been happier than now. Perhaps, after
all, there was something in Peter Goldthwaite's turn of mind,
which brought him an inward recompense for all the external
evil that it caused. If he were poor, ill-clad, even hungry, and
exposed, as it were, to be utterly annihilated by a precipice of
impending ruin, yet only his body remained in these miserable
circumstances, while his aspiring soul enjoyed the sunshine of a
bright futurity. It was his nature to be always young, and the
tendency of his mode of life to keep him so. Gray hairs were
nothing, no, nor wrinkles, nor infirmity; he might look old,
indeed, and be somewhat disagreeably connected with a gaunt old
figure, much the worse for wear; but the true, the essential
Peter was a young man of high hopes, just entering on the world.
At the kindling of each new fire, his burnt-out youth rose afresh
from the old embers and ashes. It rose exulting now. Having lived
thus long--not too long, but just to the right age--a susceptible
bachelor, with warm and tender dreams, he resolved, so soon as
the hidden gold should flash to light, to go a-wooing, and win
the love of the fairest maid in town. What heart could resist
him? Happy Peter Goldthwaite!
Every evening--as Peter had long absented himself from his
former lounging-places, at insurance offices, news-rooms, and
bookstores, and as the honor of his company was seldom requested
in private circles--he and Tabitha used to sit down sociably by
the kitchen hearth. This was always heaped plentifully with the
rubbish of his day's labor. As the foundation of the fire, there
would be a goodly-sized backlog of red oak, which, after being
sheltered from rain or damp above a century, still hissed with
the heat, and distilled streams of water from each end, as if
the tree had been cut down within a week or two. Next these
were large sticks, sound, black, and heavy, which had lost the
principle of decay, and were indestructible except by fire,
wherein they glowed like red-hot bars of iron. On this solid
basis, Tabitha would rear a lighter structure, composed of the
splinters of door panels, ornamented mouldings, and such quick
combustibles, which caught like straw, and threw a brilliant
blaze high up the spacious flue, making its sooty sides visible
almost to the chimney-top. Meantime, the gleam of the old kitchen
would be chased out of the cobwebbed corners and away from the
dusky cross-beams overhead, and driven nobody could tell whither,
while Peter smiled like a gladsome man, and Tabitha seemed a
picture of comfortable age. All this, of course, was but an
emblem of the bright fortune which the destruction of the house
would shed upon its occupants.
While the dry pine was flaming and crackling, like an irregular
discharge of fairy musketry, Peter sat looking and listening,
in a pleasant state of excitement. But, when the brief blaze and
uproar were succeeded by the dark-red glow, the substantial heat,
and the deep singing sound, which were to last throughout the
evening, his humor became talkative. One night, the hundredth
time, he teased Tabitha to tell him something new about his
great-granduncle.
"You have been sitting in that chimney-corner fifty-five years,
old Tabby, and must have heard many a tradition about him," said
Peter. "Did not you tell me that, when you first came to the
house, there was an old woman sitting where you sit now, who
had been housekeeper to the famous Peter Goldthwaite?"
"So there was, Mr. Peter," answered Tabitha, "and she was near
about a hundred years old. She used to say that she and old Peter
Goldthwaite had often spent a sociable evening by the kitchen
fire--pretty much as you and I are doing now, Mr. Peter."
"The old fellow must have resembled me in more points than one,"
said Peter, complacently, "or he never would have grown so rich.
But, methinks, he might have invested the money better than he
did--no interest!--nothing but good security!--and the house to
be torn down to come at it! What made him hide it so snug,
Tabby?"
"Because he could not spend it," said Tabitha; "for as often
as he went to unlock the chest, the Old Scratch came behind and
caught his arm. The money, they say, was paid Peter out of his
purse; and he wanted Peter to give him a deed of this house and
land, which Peter swore he would not do."
"Just as I swore to John Brown, my old partner," remarked Peter.
"But this is all nonsense, Tabby! I don't believe the story."
"Well, it may not be just the truth," said Tabitha; "for some
folks say that Peter did make over the house to the Old Scratch,
and that's the reason it has always been so unlucky to them that
lived in it. And as soon as Peter had given him the deed, the
chest flew open, and Peter caught up a handful of the gold. But,
lo and behold!--there was nothing in his fist but a parcel of
old rags."
"Hold your tongue, you silly old Tabby!" cried Peter in great
wrath. "They were as good golden guineas as ever bore the
effigies of the king of England. It seems as if I could recollect
the whole circumstance, and how I, or old Peter, or whoever it
was, thrust in my hand, or his hand, and drew it out all of a
blaze with gold. Old rags, indeed!"
But it was not an old woman's legend that would discourage Peter
Goldthwaite. All night long he slept among pleasant dreams, and
awoke at daylight with a joyous throb of the heart, which few are
fortunate enough to feel beyond their boyhood. Day after day
he labored hard without wasting a moment, except at meal times,
when Tabitha summoned him to the pork and cabbage, or such other
sustenance as she had picked up, or Providence had sent them.
Being a truly pious man, Peter never failed to ask a blessing; if
the food were none of the best, then so much the more earnestly,
as it was more needed;--nor to return thanks, if the dinner had
been scanty, yet for the good appetite, which was better than
a sick stomach at a feast. Then did he hurry back to his toil,
and, in a moment, was lost to sight in a cloud of dust from the
old walls, though sufficiently perceptible to the ear by the
clatter which he raised in the midst of it. How enviable is the
consciousness of being usefully employed! Nothing troubled Peter;
or nothing but those phantoms of the mind which seem like vague
recollections, yet have also the aspect of presentiments. He
often paused, with his axe uplifted in the air, and said to
himself,--"Peter Goldthwaite, did you never strike this blow
before?" or, "Peter, what need of tearing the whole house down?
Think a little while, and you will remember where the gold
is hidden." Days and weeks passed on, however, without any
remarkable discovery. Sometimes, indeed, a lean, gray rat peeped
forth at the lean, gray man, wondering what devil had got into
the old house, which had always been so peaceable till now. And,
occasionally, Peter sympathized with the sorrows of a female
mouse, who had brought five or six pretty, little, soft and
delicate young ones into the world just in time to see them
crushed by its ruin. But, as yet, no treasure!
By this time, Peter, being as determined as Fate and as diligent
as Time, had made an end with the uppermost regions, and got
down to the second story, where he was busy in one of the front
chambers. It had formerly been the state bed-chamber, and was
honored by tradition as the sleeping apartment of Governor
Dudley, and many other eminent guests. The furniture was gone.
There were remnants of faded and tattered paper-hangings, but
larger spaces of bare wall ornamented with charcoal sketches,
chiefly of people's heads in profile. These being specimens of
Peter's youthful genius, it went more to his heart to obliterate
them than if they had been pictures on a church wall by Michael
Angelo. One sketch, however, and that the best one, affected
him differently. It represented a ragged man, partly supporting
himself on a spade, and bending his lean body over a hole in
the earth, with one hand extended to grasp something that he
had found. But close behind him, with a fiendish laugh on his
features, appeared a figure with horns, a tufted tail, and a
cloven hoof.
"Avaunt, Satan!" cried Peter. "The man shall have his gold!"
Uplifting his axe, he hit the horned gentleman such a blow on the
head as not only demolished him, but the treasure-seeker also,
and caused the whole scene to vanish like magic. Moreover, his
axe broke quite through the plaster and laths, and discovered a
cavity.
"Mercy on us, Mr. Peter, are you quarrelling with the Old
Scratch?" said Tabitha, who was seeking some fuel to put under
the pot.
Without answering the old woman, Peter broke down a further
space of the wall, and laid open a small closet or cupboard,
on one side of the fireplace, about breast high from the
ground. It contained nothing but a brass lamp, covered with
verdigris, and a dusty piece of parchment. While Peter
inspected the latter, Tabitha seized the lamp, and began
to rub it with her apron.
"There is no use in rubbing it, Tabitha," said Peter. "It is not
Aladdin's lamp, though I take it to be a token of as much luck.
Look here Tabby!"
Tabitha took the parchment and held it close to her nose, which
was saddled with a pair of iron-bound spectacles. But no sooner
had she began to puzzle over it than she burst into a chuckling
laugh, holding both her hands against her sides.
"You can't make a fool of the old woman!" cried she. "This is
your own handwriting, Mr. Peter! the same as in the letter you
sent me from Mexico."
"There is certainly a considerable resemblance," said Peter,
again examining the parchment. "But you know yourself, Tabby,
that this closet must have been plastered up before you came
to the house, or I came into the world. No, this is old Peter
Goldthwaite's writing; these columns of pounds, shillings, and
pence are his figures, denoting the amount of the treasure; and
this at the bottom is, doubtless, a reference to the place of
concealment. But the ink has either faded or peeled off, so
that it is absolutely illegible. What a pity!"
"Well, this lamp is as good as new. That's some comfort," said
Tabitha.
"A lamp!" thought Peter. "That indicates light on my
researches."
For the present, Peter felt more inclined to ponder on this
discovery than to resume his labors. After Tabitha had gone down
stairs, he stood poring over the parchment, at one of the front
windows, which was so obscured with dust that the sun could
barely throw an uncertain shadow of the casement across the
floor. Peter forced it open, and looked out upon the great
street of the town, while the sun looked in at his old house.
The air, though mild, and even warm, thrilled Peter as with
a dash of water.
It was the first day of the January thaw. The snow lay deep
upon the house-tops, but was rapidly dissolving into millions
of water-drops, which sparkled downwards through the sunshine,
with the noise of a summer shower beneath the eaves. Along the
street, the trodden snow was as hard and solid as a pavement
of white marble, and had not yet grown moist in the spring-like
temperature. But when Peter thrust forth his head, he saw that
the inhabitants, if not the town, were already thawed out by
this warm day, after two or three weeks of winter weather. It
gladdened him --a gladness with a sigh breathing through it--to
see the stream of ladies, gliding along the slippery sidewalks,
with their red cheeks set off by quilted hoods, boas, and sable
capes, like roses amidst a new kind of foliage. The sleigh-bells
jingled to and fro continually: sometimes announcing the arrival
of a sleigh from Vermont, laden with the frozen bodies of
porkers, or sheep, and perhaps a deer or two; sometimes of a
regular market-man, with chickens, geese, and turkeys, comprising
the whole colony of a barn yard; and sometimes of a farmer and
his dame, who had come to town partly for the ride, partly to go
a-shopping, and partly for the sale of some eggs and butter. This
couple rode in an old-fashioned square sleigh, which had served
them twenty winters, and stood twenty summers in the sun beside
their door. Now, a gentleman and lady skimmed the snow in
an elegant car, shaped somewhat like a cockle-shell. Now, a
stage-sleigh, with its cloth curtains thrust aside to admit the
sun, dashed rapidly down the street, whirling in and out among
the vehicles that obstructed its passage. Now came, round a
corner, the similitude of Noah's ark on runners, being an immense
open sleigh with seats for fifty people, and drawn by a dozen
horses. This spacious receptacle was populous with merry maids
and merry bachelors, merry girls and boys, and merry old folks,
all alive with fun, and grinning to the full width of their
mouths. They kept up a buzz of babbling voices and low laughter,
and sometimes burst into a deep, joyous shout, which the
spectators answered with three cheers, while a gang of roguish
boys let drive their snowballs right among the pleasure party.
The sleigh passed on, and, when concealed by a bend of the
street, was still audible by a distant cry of merriment.
Never had Peter beheld a livelier scene than was constituted by
all these accessories: the bright sun, the flashing water-drops,
the gleaming snow, the cheerful multitude, the variety of rapid
vehicles, and the jingle jangle of merry bells which made the
heart dance to their music. Nothing dismal was to be seen, except
that peaked piece of antiquity, Peter Goldthwaite's house, which
might well look sad externally, since such a terrible consumption
was preying on its insides. And Peter's gaunt figure, half
visible in the projecting second story, was worthy of his house.
"Peter! How goes it, friend Peter?" cried a voice across the
street, as Peter was drawing in his head. "Look out here, Peter!"
Peter looked, and saw his old partner, Mr. John Brown, on the
opposite sidewalk, portly and comfortable, with his furred cloak
thrown open, disclosing a handsome surtout beneath. His voice had
directed the attention of the whole town to Peter Goldthwaite's
window, and to the dusty scarecrow which appeared at it.
"I say, Peter," cried Mr. Brown again, "what the devil are you
about there, that I hear such a racket whenever I pass by? You
are repairing the old house, I suppose,--making a new one of it,
eh?"
"Too late for that, I am afraid, Mr. Brown," replied Peter. "If
I make it new, it will be new inside and out, from the cellar
upwards."
"Had not you better let me take the job?" said Mr. Brown,
significantly.
"Not yet!" answered Peter, hastily shutting the window; for, ever
since he had been in search of the treasure, he hated to have
people stare at him.
As he drew back, ashamed of his outward poverty, yet proud of
the secret wealth within his grasp, a haughty smile shone out on
Peter's visage, with precisely the effect of the dim sunbeams in
the squalid chamber. He endeavored to assume such a mien as his
ancestor had probably worn, when he gloried in the building of
a strong house for a home to many generations of his posterity.
But the chamber was very dark to his snow-dazzled eyes, and very
dismal too, in contrast with the living scene that he had just
looked upon. His brief glimpse into the street had given him a
forcible impression of the manner in which the world kept itself
cheerful and prosperous, by social pleasures and an intercourse
of business, while he, in seclusion, was pursuing an object that
might possibly be a phantasm, by a method which most people would
call madness. It is one great advantage of a gregarious mode
of life that each person rectifies his mind by other minds, and
squares his conduct to that of his neighbors, so as seldom to be
lost in eccentricity. Peter Goldthwaite had exposed himself to
this influence by merely looking out of the window. For a while,
he doubted whether there were any hidden chest of gold, and, in
that case, whether he was so exceedingly wise to tear the house
down, only to be convinced of its non-existence.
But this was momentary. Peter, the Destroyer, resumed the task
which fate had assigned him, nor faltered again till it was
accomplished. In the course of his search, he met with many
things that are usually found in the ruins of an old house, and
also with some that are not. What seemed most to the purpose
was a rusty key, which had been thrust into a chink of the wall,
with a wooden label appended to the handle, bearing the initials,
P.G. Another singular discovery was that of a bottle of wine,
walled up in an old oven. A tradition ran in the family, that
Peter's grandfather, a jovial officer in the old French War,
had set aside many dozens of the precious liquor for the benefit
of topers then unborn. Peter needed no cordial to sustain his
hopes, and therefore kept the wine to gladden his success. Many
halfpence did he pick up, that had been lost through the cracks
of the floor, and some few Spanish coins, and the half of a
broken sixpence, which had doubtless been a love token. There
was likewise a silver coronation medal of George the Third. But
old Peter Goldthwaite's strong box fled from one dark corner to
another, or otherwise eluded the second Peter's clutches, till,
should he seek much farther, he must burrow into the earth.
We will not follow him in his triumphant progress, step by step.
Suffice it that Peter worked like a steam-engine, and finished,
in that one winter, the job which all the former inhabitants of
the house, with time and the elements to aid them, had only half
done in a century. Except the kitchen, every room and chamber was
now gutted. The house was nothing but a shell,--the apparition of
a house,--as unreal as the painted edifices of a theatre. It was
like the perfect rind of a great cheese, in which a mouse had
dwelt and nibbled till it was a cheese no more. And Peter was
the mouse.
What Peter had torn down, Tabitha had burned up; for she wisely
considered that, without a house, they should need no wood to
warm it; and therefore economy was nonsense. Thus the whole house
might be said to have dissolved in smoke, and flown up among the
clouds, through the great black flue of the kitchen chimney. It
was an admirable parallel to the feat of the man who jumped down
his own throat.
On the night between the last day of winter and the first of
spring, every chink and cranny had been ransacked, except within
the precincts of the kitchen. This fated evening was an ugly one.
A snow-storm had set in some hours before, and was still driven
and tossed about the atmosphere by a real hurricane, which fought
against the house as if the prince of the air, in person, were
putting the final stroke to Peter's labors. The framework being
so much weakened, and the inward props removed, it would have
been no marvel if, in some stronger wrestle of the blast, the
rotten walls of the edifice, and all the peaked roofs, had come
crushing down upon the owner's head. He, however, was careless
of the peril, but as wild and restless as the night itself, or
as the flame that quivered up the chimney at each roar of the
tempestuous wind.
"The wine, Tabitha!" he cried. "My grandfather's rich old wine!
We will drink it now!"
Tabitha arose from her smoke-blackened bench in the
chimney-corner, and placed the bottle before Peter, close beside
the old brass lamp, which had likewise been the prize of his
researches. Peter held it before his eyes, and, looking through
the liquid medium, beheld the kitchen illuminated with a golden
glory, which also enveloped Tabitha and gilded her silver hair,
and converted her mean garments into robes of queenly splendor.
It reminded him of his golden dream.
"Mr. Peter," remarked Tabitha, "must the wine be drunk before the
money is found?"
"The money is found!" exclaimed Peter, with a sort of fierceness.
"The chest is within my reach. I will not sleep, till I have
turned this key in the rusty lock. But, first of all, let us
drink!"
There being no corkscrew in the house, he smote the neck of the
bottle with old Peter Goldthwaite's rusty key, and decapitated
the sealed cork at a single blow. He then filled two little china
teacups, which Tabitha had brought from the cupboard. So clear
and brilliant was this aged wine that it shone within the cups,
and rendered the sprig of scarlet flowers, at the bottom of each,
more distinctly visible than when there had been no wine there.
Its rich and delicate perfume wasted itself round the kitchen.
"Drink, Tabitha!" cried Peter. "Blessings on the honest old
fellow who set aside this good liquor for you and me! And
here's to Peter Goldthwaite's memory!"
"And good cause have we to remember him," quoth Tabitha, as she
drank.
How many years, and through what changes of fortune and various
calamity, had that bottle hoarded up its effervescent joy, to
be quaffed at last by two such boon companions! A portion of
the happiness of the former age had been kept for them, and was
now set free, in a crowd of rejoicing visions, to sport amid
the storm and desolation of the present time. Until they have
finished the bottle, we must turn our eyes elsewhere.
It so chanced that, on this stormy night, Mr. John Brown found
himself ill at ease in his wire-cushioned arm-chair, by the
glowing grate of anthracite which heated his handsome parlor.
He was naturally a good sort of a man, and kind and pitiful
whenever the misfortunes of others happened to reach his heart
through the padded vest of his own prosperity. This evening
he had thought much about his old partner, Peter Goldthwaite,
his strange vagaries, and continual ill luck, the poverty of
his dwelling, at Mr. Brown's last visit, and Peter's crazed
and haggard aspect when he had talked with him at the window.
"Poor fellow!" thought Mr. John Brown. "Poor, crackbrained Peter
Goldthwaite! For old acquaintance' sake, I ought to have taken
care that he was comfortable this rough winter."
These feelings grew so powerful that, in spite of the inclement
weather, he resolved to visit Peter Goldthwaite immediately.
The strength of the impulse was really singular. Every shriek
of the blast seemed a summons, or would have seemed so, had Mr.
Brown been accustomed to hear the echoes of his own fancy in the
wind. Much amazed at such active benevolence, he huddled himself
in his cloak, muffled his throat and ears in comforters and
handkerchiefs, and, thus fortified, bade defiance to the tempest.
But the powers of the air had rather the best of the battle. Mr.
Brown was just weathering the corner, by Peter Goldthwaite's
house, when the hurricane caught him off his feet, tossed him
face downward into a snow bank, and proceeded to bury his
protuberant part beneath fresh drifts. There seemed little hope
of his reappearance earlier than the next thaw. At the same
moment his hat was snatched away, and whirled aloft into some
far distant region, whence no tidings have as yet returned.
Nevertheless Mr. Brown contrived to burrow a passage through
the snow-drift, and, with his bare head bent against the storm,
floundered onward to Peter's door. There was such a creaking and
groaning and rattling, and such an ominous shaking throughout the
crazy edifice, that the loudest rap would have been inaudible to
those within. He therefore entered, without ceremony, and groped
his way to the kitchen.
His intrusion, even there, was unnoticed. Peter and Tabitha
stood with their backs to the door, stooping over a large
chest, which, apparently, they had just dragged from a cavity,
or concealed closet, on the left side of the chimney. By the
lamp in the old woman's hand, Mr. Brown saw that the chest
was barred and clamped with iron, strengthened with iron
plates and studded with iron nails, so as to be a fit
receptacle in which the wealth of one century might be
hoarded up for the wants of another. Peter Goldthwaite was
inserting a key into the lock.
"O Tabitha!" cried he, with tremulous rapture, "how shall I
endure the effulgence? The gold!--the bright, bright gold!
Methinks I can remember my last glance at it, just as the
iron-plated lid fell down. And ever since, being seventy
years, it has been blazing in secret, and gathering its
splendor against this glorious moment! It will flash upon
us like the noonday sun!"
"Then shade your eyes, Mr. Peter!" said Tabitha, with somewhat
less patience than usual. "But, for mercy's sake, do turn the
key!"
And, with a strong effort of both hands, Peter did force the
rusty key through the intricacies of the rusty lock. Mr. Brown,
in the mean time, had drawn near, and thrust his eager visage
between those of the other two, at the instant that Peter threw
up the lid. No sudden blaze illuminated the kitchen.
"What's here?" exclaimed Tabitha, adjusting her spectacles, and
holding the lamp over the open chest. "Old Peter Goldthwaite's
hoard of old rags."
"Pretty much so, Tabby," said Mr. Brown, lifting a handful of the
treasure.
Oh, what a ghost of dead and buried wealth had Peter Goldthwaite
raised, to scare himself out of his scanty wits withal! Here was
the semblance of an incalculable sum, enough to purchase the
whole town, and build every street anew, but which, vast as it
was, no sane man would have given a solid sixpence for. What
then, in sober earnest, were the delusive treasures of the chest?
Why, here were old provincial bills of credit, and treasury
notes, and bills of land, banks, and all other bubbles of the
sort, from the first issue, above a century and a half ago,
down nearly to the Revolution. Bills of a thousand pounds were
intermixed with parchment pennies, and worth no more than they.
"And this, then, is old Peter Goldthwaite's treasure!" said
John Brown. "Your namesake, Peter, was something like yourself;
and, when the provincial currency had depreciated fifty or
seventy-five per cent., he bought it up in expectation of a rise.
I have heard my grandfather say that old Peter gave his father a
mortgage of this very house and land, to raise cash for his silly
project. But the currency kept sinking, till nobody would take
it as a gift; and there was old Peter Goldthwaite, like Peter
the second, with thousands in his strong box and hardly a coat
to his back. He went mad upon the strength of it. But, never
mind, Peter! It is just the sort of capital for building castles
in the air."
"The house will be down about our ears!" cried Tabitha, as the
wind shook it with increasing violence.
"Let it fall!" said Peter, folding his arms, as he seated
himself upon the chest.
"No, no, my old friend Peter," said John Brown. "I have house
room for you and Tabby, and a safe vault for the chest of
treasure. To-morrow we will try to come to an agreement about
the sale of this old house. Real estate is well up, and I could
afford you a pretty handsome price."
"And I," observed Peter Goldthwaite, with reviving spirits,
"have a plan for laying out the cash to great advantage."
"Why, as to that," muttered John Brown to himself, "we must
apply to the next court for a guardian to take care of the
solid cash; and if Peter insists upon speculating, he may
do it, to his heart's content, with old PETER GOLDTHWAITE'S
TREASURE."
~~~~~~~ THE END ~~~~~~~
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