bed, on a horse that galloped like mad across the
fields, over the hills, and down into the black hemlock swamp towards
the old Indian fort; and that shortly after a thunder-bolt falling in
that direction seemed to set the whole forest in a blaze.

The good people of Boston shook their heads and shrugged their
shoulders, but had been so much accustomed to witches and goblins, and
tricks of the devil, in all kinds of shapes, from the first settlement
of the colony, that they were not so much horror-struck as might have
been expected. Trustees were appointed to take charge of Tom's
effects. There was nothing, however, to administer upon. On searching
his coffers, all his bonds and mortgages were found reduced to
cinders. In place of gold and silver, his iron chest was filled with
chips and shavings; two skeletons lay in his stable instead of his
half-starved horses, and the very next day his great house took fire
and was burnt to the ground.

Such was the end of Tom Walker and his ill-gotten wealth. Let all
griping money-brokers lay this story to heart. The truth of it is not
to be doubted. The very hole under the oak-trees, whence he dug Kidd's
money, is to be seen to this day; and the neighbouring swamp and old
Indian fort are often haunted in stormy nights by a figure on
horseback, in morning-gown and white cap, which is doubtless the
troubled spirit of the usurer. In fact, the story has resolved itself
into a proverb, and is the origin of that popular saying, so prevalent
throughout New England, of "The Devil and Tom Walker."

FROM THE MEMOIRS OF SATAN

BY WILHELM HAUFF

In this way the jovial stranger had kept myself, and twelve or fifteen
other gentlemen and ladies (our fellow guests), in a perpetual whirl
of delight. Scarcely any had any special business to detain them at
the hotel, and yet none ventured to entertain the mere idea of
departure, even at a distant day. On the other hand, after we had
slept for some time late on mornings, sat long at dinner, sung and
played long of evenings, and drank, chatted, and laughed long of
nights, the magic tie which bound us to this hotel seemed to have
woven new chains around us.

This intoxication, however, was soon to be put an end to, perhaps for
our good. On the seventh day of our rejoicings, a Sunday, our friend
Von Natas was not to be found anywhere. The waiters gave as his
apology a short journey; he could not return before sunset, but would
certainly