pretending to know. It is one of those facts which have become
confounded by a variety of historians. Some asserted that she lost her
way among the tangled mazes of the swamp, and sank into some pit or
slough; others, more charitable, hinted that she had eloped with the
household booty, and made off to some other province; while others
surmised that the tempter had decoyed her into a dismal quagmire, on
the top of which her hat was found lying. In confirmation of this, it
was said a great black man, with an ax on his shoulder, was seen late
that very evening coming out of the swamp, carrying a bundle tied in
a check apron, with an air of surly triumph.
The most current and probable story, however, observes, that Tom
Walker grew so anxious about the fate of his wife and his property,
that he set out at length to seek them both at the Indian fort. During
a long summer's afternoon he searched about the gloomy place, but no
wife was to be seen. He called her name repeatedly, but she was
nowhere to be heard. The bittern alone responded to his voice, as he
flew screaming by; or the bull-frog croaked dolefully from a
neighbouring pool. At length, it is said, just in the brown hour of
twilight, when the owls began to hoot, and the bats to flit about, his
attention was attracted by the clamour of carrion crows hovering about
a cypress-tree. He looked up, and beheld a bundle tied in a check
apron, and hanging in the branches of the tree, with a great vulture
perched hard by, as if keeping watch upon it. He leaped with joy; for
he recognized his wife's apron, and supposed it to contain the
household valuables.
"Let us get hold of the property," said he, consolingly to himself,
"and we will endeavour to do without the woman."
As he scrambled up the tree, the vulture spread its wide wings, and
sailed off, screaming, into the deep shadows of the forest. Tom seized
the checked apron, but, woeful sight! found nothing but a heart and
liver tied up in it!
Such, according to this most authentic old story, was all that was to
be found of Tom's wife. She had probably attempted to deal with the
black man as she had been accustomed to deal with her husband; but
though a female scold is generally considered a match for the devil,
yet in this instance she appears to have had the worst of it. She must
have died game, however; for it is said Tom noticed many prints of
cloven feet deeply stamped about the tree, and found handfuls of hair,
that looked as if they had been plucked from the coarse black shock of
the woodman. Tom knew his wife's prowess by experience. He shrugged
his shoulders, as he looked at the signs of a fierce clapper-clawing.
"Egad," said he to himself, "Old Scratch must have had a tough time of
it!"
Tom consoled himself for the loss of his property, with the loss of
his wife, for he was a man of fortitude. He even felt something like
gratitude towards the black woodman, who, he considered, had done him
a kindness. He sought, therefore, to cultivate a further acquaintance
with him, but for some time without success; the old black-legs played
shy, for whatever people may think, he is not always to be had for
calling for: he knows how to play his cards when pretty sure of his
game.
At length, it is said, when delay had whetted Tom's eagerness to the
quick, and prepared him to agree to anything rather than not gain the
promised treasure, he met the black man one evening in his usual
woodman's dress, with his ax on his shoulder, sauntering along the
swamp, and humming a tune. He affected to receive Tom's advances with
great indifference, made brief replies, and went on humming his tune.
By degrees, however, Tom brought him to business, and they began to
haggle about the terms on which the former was to have the pirate's
treasure. There was one condition which need not be mentioned, being
generally understood in all cases where the devil grants favours; but
there were others about which, though of less importance, he was
inflexibly obstinate. He insisted that the money found through his
means should be employed in his service. He proposed, therefore, that
Tom should employ it in the black traffic; that is to say, that he
should fit out a slave-ship. This, however, Tom resolutely refused: he
was bad enough in all conscience; but the devil himself could not
tempt him to turn slave-trader.
Finding Tom so squeamish on this point, he did not insist upon it, but
proposed, instead, that he should turn usurer; the devil being
extremely anxious for the increase of usurers, looking upon them as
his peculiar people.
To this no objections were made, for it was just to Tom's taste.
"You shall open a broker's shop in Boston next month," said the black
man.
"I'll do it tomorrow, if you wish," said Tom Walker.
"You shall lend money at two per cent. a month."
"Egad, I'll charge four!" replied Tom Walker.
"You shall extort bonds, foreclose mortgages, drive the merchants to
bankruptcy"--
"I'll drive them to the d--l," cried Tom Walker.
"You are the usurer for my money!" said black-legs with delight. "When
will you want the rhino?"
"This very night."
"Done!" said the devil.
"Done!" said Tom Walker.--So they shook hands and struck a bargain.
A few days' time saw Tom Walker seated behind his desk in a
counting-house in Boston.
His reputation for a ready-moneyed man, who would lend money out for a
good consideration, soon spread abroad. Everybody remembers the time
of Governor Belcher, when money was particularly scarce. It was a time
of paper credit. The country had been deluged with government bills,
the famous Land Bank had been established; there had been a rage for
speculating; the people had run mad with schemes for new settlements;
for building cities in the wilderness; land-jobbers went about with
maps of grants, and townships, and Eldorados, lying nobody knew where,
but which everybody was ready to purchase. In a word, the great
speculating fever which breaks out every now and then in the country,
had raged to an alarming degree, and everybody was dreaming of making
sudden fortunes from nothing. As usual the fever had subsided; the
dream had gone off, and the imaginary fortunes with it; the patients
were left in doleful plight, and the whole country resounded with the
consequent cry of "hard times."
At this propitious time of public distress did Tom Walker set up as
usurer in Boston. His door was soon thronged by customers. The needy
and adventurous; the gambling speculator; the dreaming land-jobber;
the thriftless tradesman; the merchant with cracked credit; in short,
every one driven to raise money by desperate means and desperate
sacrifices, hurried to Tom Walker.
Thus Tom was the universal friend of the needy, and acted like a
"friend in need"; that is to say, he always exacted good pay and good
security. In proportion to the distress of the applicant was the
hardness of his terms. He accumulated bonds and mortgages; gradually
squeezed his customers closer and closer: and sent them at length, dry
as a sponge, from his door.
In this way he made money hand over hand; became a rich and mighty
man, and exalted his cocked hat upon 'Change. He built himself, as
usual, a vast house, out of ostentation; but left the greater part of
it unfinished and unfurnished, out of parsimony. He even set up a
carriage in the fulness of his vainglory, though he nearly starved the
horses which drew it; and as the ungreased wheels groaned and
screeched on the axle-trees, you would have thought you heard the
souls of the poor debtors he was squeezing.
As Tom waxed old, however, he grew thoughtful. Having secured the good
things of this world, he began to feel anxious about those of the
next. He thought with regret on the bargain he had made with his black
friend, and set his wits to work to cheat him out of the conditions.
He became, therefore, all of a sudden, a violent church-goer. He
prayed loudly and strenuously, as if heaven were to be taken by force
of lungs. Indeed, one might always tell when he had sinned most during
the week, by the clamour of his Sunday devotion. The quiet Christians
who had been modestly and steadfastly travelling Zionward, were struck
with self-reproach at seeing themselves so suddenly outstripped in
their career by this new-made convert. Tom was as rigid in religious
as in money matters; he was a stern supervisor and censurer of his
neighbours, and seemed to think every sin entered up to their account
became a credit on his own side of the page. He even talked of the
expediency of reviving the persecution of Quakers and Anabaptists. In
a word, Tom's zeal became as notorious as his riches.
Still, in spite of all this strenuous attention to forms, Tom had a
lurking dread that the devil, after all, would have his due. That he
might not be taken unawares, therefore, it is said he always carried a
small Bible in his coat-pocket. He had also a great folio Bible on his
counting-house desk, and would frequently be found reading it when
people called on business; on such occasions he would lay his green
spectacles in the book, to mark the place, while he turned round to
drive some usurious bargain.
Some say that Tom grew a little crack-brained in his old days, and
that, fancying his end approaching, he had his horse new shod, saddled
and bridled, and buried with his feet uppermost; because he supposed
that at the last day the world would be turned upside down; in which
case he should find his horse standing ready for mounting, and he was
determined at the worst to give his old friend a run for it. This,
however, is probably a mere old wives' fable. If he really did take
such a precaution, it was totally superfluous; at least so says the
authentic old legend; which closes his story in the following manner.
One hot summer afternoon in the dog-days, just as a terrible black
thunder-gust was coming up, Tom sat in his counting-house, in his
white linen cap and India silk morning-gown. He was on the point of
foreclosing a mortgage, by which he would complete the ruin of an
unlucky land-speculator for whom he had professed the greatest
friendship. The poor land-jobber begged him to grant a few months'
indulgence. Tom had grown testy and irritated, and refused another
day.
"My family will be ruined, and brought upon the parish," said the
land-jobber. "Charity begins at home," replied Tom; "I must take care
of myself in these hard times."
"You have made so much money out of me," said the speculator.
Tom lost his patience and his piety. "The devil take me," said he, "if
I have made a farthing!"
Just then there were three loud knocks at the street-door. He stepped
out to see who was there. A black man was holding a black horse, which
neighed and stamped with impatience.
"Tom, you're come for," said the black fellow, gruffly. Tom shrank
back, but too late. He had left his little Bible at the bottom of his
coat-pocket, and his big Bible on the desk buried under the mortgage
he was about to foreclose: never was sinner taken more unawares. The
black man whisked him like a child into the saddle, gave the horse the
lash, and away he galloped, with Tom on his back, in the midst of the
thunder-storm. The clerks stuck their pens behind their ears, and
stared after him from the windows. Away went Tom Walker, dashing down
the street; his white cap bobbing up and down; his morning-gown
fluttering in the wind, and his steed striking fire out of the
pavement at every bound. When the clerks turned to look for the black
man, he had disappeared.
Tom Walker never returned to foreclose the mortgage. A countryman, who
lived on the border of the swamp, reported that in the height of the
thunder-gust he had heard a great clattering of hoofs and a howling
along the road, and running to the window caught sight of a figure,
such as I have described, 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 be in time for tea and supper.
The enjoyment of his society had already become such a necessity, that
this piece of information made us helpless and ill at ease.
The conversation turned naturally on our absent friend and his
striking, brilliant apparition among us. It was strange, but I could
not get it out of my head that I had already met with him in my walk
through life, but in a different shape; and, absurd as the idea was,
it still forced itself irresistibly on my mind once and again. I
called to mind, from years long gone by, the recollection of a man who
in his whole demeanour, but more especially in his glance, had the
greatest resemblance to him. The one of whom I now speak was a foreign
physician, who occasionally visited my native town, and there lived at
first in great retirement, though he soon found a crowd of worshippers
collected around him. The thought of this man was always a melancholy
one, for it was asserted that some serious misfortune always followed
his visits; still I could not shake off the idea that Natas resembled
him strikingly, in fact that he was one and the same person.
I mentioned to my next neighbour at table the idea that incessantly
haunted me, and how unpleasant it was to identify so horrible a being
as the stranger who had so afflicted my native city, with our mutual
friend who had so fully gained my esteem and affection; but it will
seem still more incredible when I assure my readers that all my
neighbours were full of precisely the same idea, and that all fancied
they had seen our agreeable companion in some entirely different
shape.
"You are enough to make one downright melancholy," said Baroness von
Thingen, who sat near me; "you make our friend Natas out to be the
Wandering Jew, or God knows what more!"
A little old man, a professor in Tibsingen, who had joined our circle
some days before, and passed his time in quiet, silent enjoyment,
enlivened by an occasional deep conference with the Rhine wine, had
kept smiling to himself during what he called our "comparative
anatomy," and twirling his huge snuff-box between his fingers with
such skilful rapidity, that it revolved like a coach-wheel.
"I cannot longer refrain from a remark I wished to make," exclaimed he
at last. "Under your favour, gracious lady, I do not look upon him as
being precisely the Wandering Jew, but still as being a very strange
mortal. As long as he was present, the thought would, it is true, now
and then flash up in my mind, 'You have seen this man before, but pray
where was it?' but these recollections were driven away as if by magic
whenever he fastened upon me those dark wandering eyes of his."
"So was it with me--and with me--and with me," exclaimed we all in
astonishment.
"Hem! hem!" smiled the Professor. "Even now the scales seem to fall
from my eyes, and I see that he is the very same person I saw in
Stuttgart twelve years ago."
"What, you have seen him then, and in what circumstances?" asked Lady
von Thingen eagerly, and almost blushed at the eagerness she
displayed.
The Professor took a pinch of snuff, shook the superfluous grains off
his waistcoat, and answered--"It may be now about twelve years since I
was forced by a law-suit to spend some months in Stuttgart. I lived at
one of the best hotels, and generally dined with a large company at
the table d'hôte. Once upon a time I made my first appearance at table
after a lapse of several days, during which I had been forced to keep
my room. The company were talking very eagerly about a certain Signor
Barighi, who for some time past had been delighting the other visitors
with his lively wit, and his fluency in all languages. All were
unanimous in his praise, but they could not exactly agree as to his
occupation; some making him out a diplomatist, others a teacher of
languages, a third party a distinguished political exile, and a fourth
a spy of the police. The door opened, all seemed silent, even
confused, at having carried on the dispute in so loud a tone; I judged
that the person spoken of must be among us, and saw--"
"Who, pray?"
"Under favour, the same person who has amused us so agreeably for some
days past. There was nothing supernatural in this, to be sure, but
listen a moment; for two days Signor Barighi, as the stranger was
called, had given a new relish to our meals by his brilliant
conversation, when mine host interrupted us suddenly--'Gentlemen,'
said he, 'prepare yourself for an unique entertainment which will be
provided for you tomorrow.'
"We asked what this meant, and a grey headed captain, who had presided
at the hotel table many years, informed us of the joke as
follows--Exactly opposite this dining room, an old bachelor lives,
solitary and alone, in a large deserted house; he is a retired
Counsellor of State--lives on a handsome premium, and has an enormous
fortune besides. He is, however, a downright fool, and has some of the
strangest peculiarities; thus, for instance, he often gives himself
entertainments on a scale of extravagant luxury. He orders covers for
twelve, from the hotel, he has excellent wines in his cellar, and one
or the other of our waiters has the honour to attend table. You think,
perhaps, that at these feasts he feeds the hungry, and gives drink to
the thirsty--no such thing; on the chairs lie old yellow leaves of
parchment, from the family record, and the old hunks is as jovial as
if he had the merriest set of fellows around him; he talks and laughs
with them, and the whole thing is said to be so fearful to look upon,
that the youngest waiters are always sent over, for whoever has been
to one such supper will enter the deserted house no more.
"The day before yesterday he had a supper, and our new waiter, Frank,
there, calls heaven and earth to witness that nobody shall ever induce
him to go there a second time. The next day after the entertainment
comes the Counsellor's second freak. Early in the morning he leaves
the city, and comes back the morning after; not, however, to his own
house, which during this time is fast locked and bolted, but into this
hotel. Here he treats people he has been in the habit of seeing for a
whole year, as strangers; dines, and afterwards places himself at one
of the windows, and examines his own house across the way from top to
bottom.
"'Who does that house opposite belong to?' he then asks the host.
"The other regularly bows and answers, 'It belongs to the Counsellor
of State, Hasentreffer, at your Excellency's service.'"
"But, Professor," here observed I, "what has this silly Hasentreffer
of yours to do with our Natas?"
"A moment's patience, Doctor," answered the Professor, "the light will
soon break in upon you. Hasentreffer then examines the house, and learns
that it belongs to Hasentreffer. 'Oh, what!' he asks, 'the same that was
a student with me at Tibsingen'--then throws open the window, stretches
his powdered head out, and calls out--'Ha-asentreffer--Ha-asentreffer!'
"Of course no one answers, but he remarks: 'The old fellow would never
forgive me if I was not to look in on him for a moment,' then takes up
his hat and cane, unlocks his own house, goes in, and all goes on
after as before.
"All of us," the Professor proceeded in his story, "were greatly
astonished at this singular story, and highly delighted at the idea of
the next day's merriment. Signor Barighi, however, obliged us to
promise that we would not betray him, as he said he was preparing a
capital joke to play off on the Counsellor.
"We all met at the table d'hôte earlier than usual, and besieged the
windows. An old tumble down carriage, drawn by two blind steeds, came
crawling down the street; it stopped before the hotel. There's
Hasentreffer, there's Hasentreffer, was echoed by every mouth; and we
were filled with extravagant merriment when we saw the little man get
out, neatly powdered, dressed in an iron grey surtout with a huge
meerschaum in hand. An escort of at least ten servants followed him
in, and in this guise he entered the dining-room.
"We sat down at once. I have seldom laughed as much as I did then; for
the old chap insisted, with the greatest coolness, that he came direct
from Carrel, and that he had six days before been extremely well
entertained at the Swan Inn at Frankfort. Barighi must have
disappeared before the dessert, for when the Counsellor left the
table, and the other guests, full of curiosity, imitated his example,
Barighi was nowhere to be seen.
"The Counsellor took his seat at the window; we all followed his
example and watched his movements. The house opposite seemed desolate
and uninhabited. Grass grew on the threshold, the shutters were
closed, and on some of them birds seemed to have built their nests.
"'A fine house that, opposite,' said the old man to our host, who kept
standing behind him in the third position. 'Who does it belong to?'
"'To the Counsellor of State, Hasentreffer, at your Excellency's
service.'
"'Ah, indeed! that must be the same one that was a fellow-student with me,'
exclaimed he; 'he would never forgive me if I was not to inform him that
I was here.' He opened the window,--'Ha-asentreffer--Hasentreffer!' cried
he, in a hoarse voice. But who can paint our terror, when opposite, in
the empty house, which we knew was firmly locked and bolted, a
window-shutter was slowly raised, a window opened, and out of it
peered the Counsellor of State, Hasentreffer, in his chintz
morning-gown and white nightcap, under which a few thin grey locks
were visible; this, this exactly, was his usual morning costume. Down
to the minutest wrinkle on the pallid visage, the figure across the
street was precisely the same as the one that stood by our side. But
a panic seized us, when the figure in the morning-gown called out
across the street, in just the same hoarse voice, 'What do you want?
who are you calling to, hey?'
"'Are you the Counsellor of State, Hasentreffer?' said the one on our
side of the way, pale as death, in a trembling voice, and quaking as
he leaned against the window for support.
"'I'm the man,' squeaked the other, and nodded his head in a friendly
way; 'have you any commands for me?'
"'But I'm the man too,' said our friend mournfully, 'how can it be
possible?'