THE DEVIL AT FIRES.
An imaginative writer in the Chicago Tribune, who evidently attends fires occasionally, pictures the Devil or his imps present at every fire. There is so much truth in what he says, that every Fireman will recognize the picture. He says that the old theological idea of hell was a lake of fire provided as a place of eternal torment for the wicked ; and over this place the devil was presumed to reign. Dante described the infernal regions in blood-curdling strains, and the pictures of the scenes there enacted, drawn by Doré, are marvels of horror. De Foe takes the Devil out of his natural home, so to speak, and gives a history of his residence on earth among mankind. The crimes and follies which have distinguished the human race from the beginning of the world down to the present time entirely justify the general belief in the existence ol the Devil, and in his intimate connection with mundane affairs. But the strongest evidence of the Devil’s presence on earth, and of his ubiquity, or plurality, is found in the fact that he is able to preside, with a skill and ingenuity which is truly Satanic, at a score of fires at the same moment of time. He never sleeps ; he hears every fire-alarm : he rides on every Steam Fire Engine. But when he reaches the scene of the conflagration he leaves the fire to take care of itself, and mingles with the crowd of people assembled to witness the show. When the flames mount upward he betrays a feeling of malignant satisfaction. If the wind blows, he screams over the telegraph-wires and through the broken casements like a demon. If the flames sink under an ocean of water, he slyly cuts a hole in the hose pipe, or disables an Engine. If the burning building is a warehouse, he whispers in the ear of the Firemen that there is a quantity of dynamite on storage in the most exposed situation, and that he who enters the breach goes to certain death ! Hejningles in the crowd of property-savers, and prompts them to throw mirrors out of fourth-story windows and tug feather-beds painfully down the stair-cases. He follows the adventurous Fireman up the adder on his way to save a beautiful woman who shrieks at a window, and paralyzes all his noble energies by shouting in hs ear : ” The wall is falling! ” He mounts to the roof, and, in the midst of the devouring flames, flings brands on the wings of the hurricane, upon neighboring buildings. Then he descends, and insinuates to the on-lookers that everything is doomed to destruction, and that whatever can be drawn from the wreck is lawful plunder. And under the devilish impulse, men, till then honest, soil their hands and souls with theft, and slink away concealing stolen property. The Devil is very busy, indeed, lie tempts merchants and householders to secretly convey away their property, with the criminal intent of swearing to an insurance claim for the full amount next day. He is no respecter of values ; he will instigate a ruffian to plunder a bank-vault, and the next moment tempt a newsboy or an expressman to steat an old clay pipe or a penholder, an empty inkstand or a match-box, from the premises of an escaping tenant driven out in hot haste by the advancing flames. There is a vein of humor in the Devil, He shouts with mad delight if he can induce a street-car or omnibus-driver to sneak away with a mirror, chuckling with grim satisfaction at the idea that the thief will see himself as others see him every time he looks his stolen property squarely in the face. But the arch-fiend’s draught of pleasure is not wholly unmixed with gall and wormwood. An expression of mingled disgust and rage overspreads his malignant countenance as he tugs in vain at the skirts of the brave Fireman who rushes up the staircase of a burning hotel, through steam, flame and blinding smoke, to the rescue of helpless, weeping women and children whose despairing cries rend the air. His Majesty the Prince of Darkness feels only contempt for the sneaking thief whom he has prompted to steal a pen-wiper; but he hates with the rage of a fiend incarnate the blackened hero who staggers forth from a hell of fire bearing in his arms the form of a woman upon whose face he never looked before. To see reflected in the red glare of the conflagration the fiend scowling upon the hero who has risked a life for a lile, as he modestly lays his burden down, is to be thrice assured of his Devilship.
Drawn by Fire: Do The Right Thing
De Foe’s theory is, that, as a preliminary to the building of the Tower of Babel, the Devil incited everybody to get drunk ; and the theory is exceedingly plausible, since a prolific source of his Majesty’s influence at a fire is found in the freedom with which all the actors in the suddenly-improvised drama imbibe alcoholic stimulants. The scene of a grand conflagration is so exactly a counterpart of the fiend’s family residence that he throws off all disguise and appears in his true character, shouting hilariously, like Barnaby Rudge’s raven : ” I’m a Devil ! I’m a Devil !” When he urges men to take whisky at the public bar, in the club-house, or in the gentleman’s billiard-room, he assumes various shapes—as the physician prescribing for the stomach, the bon-vivant pleading for sociability, or the despondent banishing dull care. But when the fire-bell rings, and the scream of the steam-whistle is heard, and the mounting flames redden the murky, midnight sky with their lurid glare, his Satanic Majesty feels that the opportunity warrants the assumption of his kingship of the infernal regions, and in the ear of every fool—come to gape and stare—he shouts : “ Drink, drink ! Sleep your soul in the intoxicating fumes of whisky, wine, gin, brandy !” Then, indeed, hell breaks loose on earth. The thieves who came to steal from the wreck remain to rob and plunder each other. The few honest men are hustled about and escape without watches or pocket-books ; the women, in the outer edge of the crowd, coarse, blear-eyed, vile, and abandoned, mingle in the melee, and—the Devil is happy. But there is an end to all things. While the crowd is deep in its revels, oceans of water are pouring upon the devouring element. The walls have fallen with a deafening crash, combustibles have exploded, the wind has died away, and, where an hour ago there were tongues of flame hissing and curling about beams and rafters and twisting and withering up iron columns, now there is a huge bank of black smoke settling down upon the wreck like a pall. The crowd corkscrews itself homeward, describing curves and angles quite unknown to the science of plain trigonometry. But a few choice spirits remain, and the Devil remains with them. His enthusiasm is not dulled by the quenched fire, the smoke, the silence which has settled upon the scene, or the approaching dawn. He tempts the remaining stragglers to sneak through the cordon of police, careless whether they succeed in stealing some charred trifle, or in being collared and marched off to the lock-up. If they crawl away concealing booty he laughs a fiendish laugh, and, if they are caught in the act and clubbed, still he laughs. At sunrise the crowd increases, blocking the sidewalks and filling the muddy streets. The insurance agents appear later to look for salvage. The uninsured stare at the ruin and indulge vain regrets. The business public—friends and creditors—inquire anxiously for the proprietor of that which no longer exists, and the little army ol rag-pickers and gutter-snipes explore the heaps of debris in search of hidden treasures. At last the Devil goes home, having commissioned one of his imps to instigate the thieves by which the wreck is surrounded to offer their services to sufferers in the rescue of property. But the effort is vain ; the brand of larceny is upon every face. The loafers are driven away by the new relay of policemen, and the imp goes home to his father, the Devil.
