textfiles/etext/AUTHORS/HAWTHORNE/hawthorne-peter-479.txt

                                      1838

                                TWICE-TOLD TALES

                          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. Tomorrow 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!" said Peter Goldthwaite, again, "tomorrow 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.

   "Tomorrow, 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 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
unaccountably 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 book-stores,
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 over-head, 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 guincas 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
downstairs, 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 in- sides. 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, 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
meantime, 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.
Tomorrow 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
.