University of Virginia Library

DEACON GRUBB
AND THE
OLD NICK.

It was many years ago, somewhere about the
time of the Dark Day, or the Comet, or the
Great Earthquake, or the Cold Friday, or the
Old French War,—one or the other of these distinguished
epochs, which serve old chrones and
gossips to fix their chronology, that there lived
in the town of—blank, in the state of Massachusetts,
a shrewd, calculating, demure old codger,
known to every body round about as Deacon
Grubb. His character will be so well understood
by saying that he was a country Deacon,
that I shall be excused for not delineating it at
full length. Deacon Grubb cultivated a bit of a
farm, officiated as Town Clerk, drove something
of a trade at auctioneering, manufactured wooden
bowls and tin ware, and kept the only grocery
shop in the village, where he sold West
India Goods “of as good quality, and on as reasonable
terms, as could be found in the place.”
And of a truth, considering that the Deacon had

the monopoly of the trade, he must be allowed
to have been somewhat reasonable in his dealing,
though his gallon pot had a trick of getting
jammed by accident, and his water-pail now and
then overset into the rum hogshead. By the
exercise of all these occupations—by looking
out for the main chance, putting the best foot
foremost, snatching at every good bone that was
offered, and sticking to the old precept—“Get
what you can, and keep what you get,”—the
Deacon contrived to lay up what he called an
honest penny before he was too old to relish
the possession of a comfortable round sum.

As times went on, and the Deacon was waxed
in wealth, he began to cast about for new
means to increase his stores. The more he got
the more greedy he became,—a common case
with many close-fiisted fellows besides deacons.
Among other projects of speculation he cast his
eyes upon a certain piece or parcel of land with
buildings thereon situated, belonging to Joel
Wetherbrain, an odd, incomprehensible sort of
a fellow, who was never at home, but let his
lands run to waste, and his house fall to ruins.
Nobody knew exactly what to make of Joel;
whether he was fool or knave, a misanthrope or
an enthusiast—religious-mad, or honestly crack-brained
in the way of nature; it were difficult
to decide the point at this late day, especially as
my old aunt (of whom I had this narrative, and
who was a person of high reputation for veracity,
for she never forgot a particle of a story she
heard) was dubious about the matter herself.—
However, that was neither here nor there. The

Deacon took it hugely to heart that Joel's tenements
should lie thus idle; and he formed a pious
resolution to trap Joel's five wits in a bargain
for the same, whereby if he could get the
estate a good pennyworth, he should turn it to
an excellent account in the end, and quiet his
conscience by the reflection that he made fruitful
one of the waste places of the earth.

Though the Deacon had probably heard of a
certain command forbidding him to covet his
neighbor's house, yet he either thought the precept
inapplicable in the case of a house without
an inhabitant, or the temptation was too strong
to be resisted. As he was one day sharking about
the grounds, and admiring the advantages
of the situation, the fatness of the soil, and the
solidity of the old mansion, which, though a
little shabby on the outside from neglect, was
sound and compact in frame and substance, he
unexpectedly encountered Joel, and in a sly,
roundabout way contrived to have the subject
touched upon. They made a long haggling
piece of work of it, and at last the Deacon consented,
although the situation was wretched,
the land poor, and the house ready to tumble to
pieces, to give Joel about half of what it cost
originally. Joel clenched the bargain, and the
Deacon went home hugging himself with the
thought of having made a great spec.

Well, now had the Deacon got his heart's desire.—He
quickly set himself to repairing the
old house, and putting the fields in order: in a
short time the whole was neat and flourishing.

The Deacon removed to his new estate:
the minister preached a sermon the next
Sunday from the text, “The hand of the
diligent maketh rich,” and every body
thought it the grandest bargain that had
been made since the worthy settlers of
the town cheated the Indians out of the
land, at the expense of three cracked muskets
and a pot of red paint.

But just as the Deacon had taken comfortable
possession of the premises, and
Joel Weatherbrain had bidden adieu to
the place, there got all at once into circulation
the most alarming reports about
the estate in question. There were stories
of ghosts, goblins, and demons frequenting
the place for some wonderful
cause that nobody could explain. It was
even said that Old Beelzebub himself
haunted the house in the shape of a tinware
pedlar, and that he appeared every
Thanksgiving night at twelve o'clock,
rattling up and down the house, and making
such a clatter and tantararra as to
frighten every body within hearing out of
their wits. The Deacon was horrified at
these accounts, the more so as he found
they were universally believed. How the
stories originated, nobody could tell; every
one had heard them of somebody

else; but there was nothing talked of but
Deacon Grubb and the haunted house.
It was generally believed that Old Beelzebub
had taken up his quarters there,
and that it would be difficult work to rout
him. The Deacon had over-reached every
man in the town, and with all their respect
for the talents of the Old Nick, it
was thought if the Deacon and the Devil
came to close quarters, they would make
a tough match of it.

It is easy to imagine the tribulation into
which the poor man was thrown by
cogitating upon this matter. There was
no doubt the stories were true, for this
was the only manner in which Joel Weatherbrain's
neglect of the estate could be
accounted for—a matter which he unluckily
forgot to question him about at the
time of making the bargain. It was now
clearly perceived why Joel was so ready
to part with it at so low a price, and the
Deacon could not avoid fretting himself
into a fever, with chagrin at the thought
of having been over-reached by such a
crack-skull as Joel. Instead of making a
great bargain, he found he had bought
“a pig in a poke.”

However, after having been a few weeks
settled in his new residence, his apprehensions

began to subside. He took care to
nail a horse-shoe upon his barn-door, and
another upon the gate in front of the
house, and trusting in these sovereign
precautions against witchcraft and diablerie
of all colors, he made himself tolerably
easy, thinking his muniments sufficiently
strong to defy Beelzebub and all his tricks;
but he soon found out the devil is not so
easily got rid of—the more is the pity.

One Saturday evening, after the Deacon
had shut up his shop, and despatched
those little items of business in the grocery
line which are most conveniently done
with closed doors, he sat down alone in
his chimney corner to enjoy a comfortable
pipe of tobacco. He continued a long
while puffing and cogitating, but whether
his thoughts were occupied with the spiritual
concerns of the coming day, or were
wrapt up in calculations on the profits of
the past one, it becomes me not to judge;
my old aunt had her opinion upon this
point, but I could never get it out of her.

It had got to be near midnight, and there
was not a soul stirring. A dead silence
reigned throughout the mansion, broken
by nothing save the ticking of a death
watch and a subdued pianissimo sort of
grunt which accompanied every aspiration

of smoke from the Deacon's lips. The
candle had burnt down to the socket, and
began to flicker a fitful and uncertain
light, and the Deacon was in the midst of
a profound reverie, with his eye fixed upon
the lower end of a pot-hook which
hung down the chimney.

All at once he was startled by a strange
noise. He looked round,—the room was
full of smoke from his tobacco pipe, and
the candle in the act to expire: a sudden
fear crept over him, as he thought of the
stories concerning the house. But there
was nothing to be seen. In a few seconds
he heard the same noise still louder, and
now it seemed to come from the chimney.
He poked his head up the chimney and
listened, but all was still “It can be nothing,”
said he to himself, “but the wind
roaring over the top of the chimney.”

He sat down again, put another candle
in the candlestick, took up a coal with
the tongs, and was blowing it, when he
heard the same noise come down the
chimney again, and presently a hollow,
strange sounding voice. In surprise and
astonishment he looked up and espied a
couple of dim, wavering lights at the top
of the chimney, but whether they were a
pair of fixed stars or the twinklers of an

enormous, he could not tell. Presently
they grew larger, and at length, turned
whitish and ghastly, like a pair of peeled
onions or a couple of eggs in a soap-dish.
“Mercy on my sins!” exclaimed he, “what
can this mean?” He had no time to answer
his own questions, for immediately
there came a voice down the chimney,
which sounded like a Dutchman bawling
through a speaking-trumpet—“Deacon!
Deacon!” `What in heaven's name do
you want of me?' “Deacon, have you
watered the rum?” `Ye-e-e-es,' was
the slow and most unwilling reply. “Have
you sanded the brown sugar?” `Ye-e-es.'
“Said your prayers?” `Yes.' “Then set
me a chair.”

The Deacon knew not what to make of
the ceremony of his new guest who thus
honored him with a visit by pitching head
foremost down his chimney; but knowing
that some gentlemen of fashion are singular
in their tastes, and wisely conjecturing
that the Old Nick might have his whims
as well as the rest of them, he determined
to humor him. So setting an arm-chair
by the fire-place, and answering that all
was ready, down came the mysterious visiter
slap into the fire-place, overturning
as he landed, a tea-kettle, a coffee-pot,

and a pan of stewed apples. The Deacon
wished him joy of his safe descent,
and expressed an apprehension that he
had burnt his knuckles in the hot ashes;
but his guest replied very civilly that he
might be easy on that score, for he had a
hand in such matters too often to mind a
little scorching. Then brushing the ashes
and soot from his knees and elbows, he
sat down in the chair, crossed his legs,
gave a long deep-drawn sniff, probably to
ascertain whether there was any of his favorite
perfume of brimstone to be smelt,
turned up the whites of his enormous eyes
and gave the Deacon a most ominous and
inquisitive scowl, which the Deacon returned
by inviting him to smoke a pipe of
tobacco. The man of the chimney replied
that tobacco did not agree with him—he
would smoke a bunch of matches or a roll
of brimstone if the time allowed, but as his
stay must be short this night, he would not
trouble the Deacon to fetch the tinderbox.

“Then you come upon business,” replied
the Deacon.” `You are right,' said
the other. “Then proceed to the matter
if you please.” `Not till twelve o'clock,'
said the man of brimstone—`not till midnight;
and it wants ten minutes of the
hour,' casting at the same time a look at

the Deacon's wooden clock which he had
bought of a Connecticut pedlar, and paid
for in damaged Bohea tea. “Oh, ah,”
said the Deacon, “if the time does not
suit you, I can alter it.”—So going to the
clock, and moving forward the minute
hand, `I have taken the liberty sometimes,'
continued he, “to put back the time on
Saturday night, when there was danger
of my business crowding over into Sunday,
and now I can make up for what has
been lost by putting it forward. See there,
(said he, as the hands of the clock pointed
to twelve,) it is now midnight, let me know
your business, I hate to encroach upon
the Sabbath, but would not turn away a
customer.” At this the gentleman giving
a tremedous grin, exclaimed, “Deacon,
they have always said you beat the Devil
for tricks, and I begin to fear it may turn
out so. The truth is, I have come to give
you a try.” `At your service, friend Beelzebub,'
said the Deacon.—`But I don't
understand you.' “Why, Deacon, you
must know that this house and this estate
are mine.” `Yours! no such thing!'
“Yes, they fell to me from their ancient
owner, Hector Morterhead, a famous player
at chequers, who being engaged once
at play, and told he would lose, exclaimed
in a passion, `The devil fetch me and
all I own if I do not beat.' He lost the
game, and I have haunted this house ever
since.” `Umph!' ejaculated the Deacon.
“Now, Deacon,” continued he, “every
man who attempts to occupy this spot,
must play a game of chequers with me;
if he wins the game, he may remain in
peaceable possession; I have beat every
one so far; it is now your turn to try.”

This was the strangest proposal that
the Deacon had ever heard of for deciding
a litigated point as to the possession
of real estate; but as there was no remedy,
he submitted, and producing his chequer-board,
they sat down to the trial.—
The Deacon was celebrated for his knowledge
of the game, and would have puzzled
his adversary had he been any other
than what he was; but he soon found he
must lose.—“It is almost broad day,”
said he, “I really cannot play on Sunday;
let us put off the rest of the game till another
time.” `I am willing,' replied his
opponent, `to grant any reasonable accommodation,
especially to gentlemen of
your degree. Every body will grant that
deacons are long-lived.—I wait a long
while for them.—I allow you a delay this
once.—Next Saturday night I will call

again, when the game must be finished.”
So saying, he vanished up the chimney.

I suppose my readers will imagine that
the Deacon's sole object in putting off the
game was to delay the completion of it as
long as he could;—not so, he only wanted
an opportunity of getting ready a trick
against his adversary, which came into
his head just as he was upon the point of
giving up the game. He bethought himself
of one of his old tricks, by which he
used to play the game slyly of a Sunday.
“It will do his business for him,” said the
Deacon exultingly, “for altho' fire will not
burn his fingers, something else will.”

The visiter came according to appointment the next
Saturday night, and sat down to play without taking
notice that the board was different from that used on
the first night. The first move he made, his hand
was seized with a trembling; at the next move he
lost his king, and at the third all hope of achieving
his promised victory had vanished: and at every
step his affairs grew more desperate, and finally at
the seventh move the Deacon had won the game!

The man of brimstone sprang from his seat in a
passion, and overturned the chequer-board with a single
blow of his fist—when lo! it appeared he had
been playing upon the covers of the Deacon's Great
Bible! In an instant he went off in a whizz up the
chimney, and neither he nor any of his imps ever
dared to try their tricks with the Deacon afterwards.