and delicious that I felt
inclined to lie down and roll among the hot coals. The usual furniture
of a lawyer's office was around us,--rows of volumes in sheepskin, and
a multitude of writs, summonses, and other legal papers, scattered over
the desks and tables. But there were certain objects which seemed to
intimate that we had little dread of the intrusion of clients, or of
the learned counsellor himself, who, indeed, was attending court in a
distant town. A tall, decanter-shaped bottle stood on the table,
between two tumblers, and beside a pile of blotted manuscripts,
altogether dissimilar to any law documents recognized in our courts. My
friend, whom I shall call Oberon,--it was a name of fancy and
friendship between him and me,--my friend Oberon looked at these papers
with a peculiar expression of disquietude.

"I do believe," said he, soberly, "or, at least, I could believe, if I
chose, that there is a devil in this pile of blotted papers. You have
read them, and know what I mean,--that conception in which I endeavored
to embody the character of a fiend, as represented in our traditions
and the written records of witchcraft. Oh, I have a horror of what was
created in my own brain, and shudder at the manuscripts in which I gave
that dark idea a sort of material existence! Would they were out of my
sight!"

"And of mine, too," thought I.

"You remember," continued Oberon, "how the hellish thing used to suck
away the happiness of those who, by a simple concession that seemed
almost innocent, subjected themselves to his power. Just so my peace is
gone, and all by these accursed manuscripts. Have you felt nothing of
the same influence?"

"Nothing," replied I, "unless the spell be hid in a desire to turn
novelist, after reading your delightful tales."

"Novelist!" exclaimed Oberon, half seriously. "Then, indeed, my devil
has his claw on you! You are gone! You cannot even pray for
deliverance! But we will be the last and only victims; for this night I
mean to burn the manuscripts, and commit the fiend to his retribution
in the flames."

"Burn your tales!" repeated I, startled at the desperation of the idea.

"Even so," said the author, despondingly. "You cannot conceive what an
effect the composition of these tales has had on me. I have become
ambitious of a bubble, and careless of solid reputation. I am
surrounding myself with shadows, which bewilder me, by aping the
realities of life. They have drawn me aside