But the Devil kept his promise to Cornelius, and put him up to all the good things in Wall Street, and he soon had enough to build ten hospitals.  But the more he had to build with, the less he wanted to build.  And by-and-by the Devil called upon him, and found him contemplating two pictures.  One of them showed the finest hospital you can imagine, full of neat, clean rooms, in one of which sat Cornelius himself, wearing a dress with a number and badge, and sipping arrowroot.  The other showed fine houses, and opera-boxes, and fast-trotting horses, and dry champagne, and ladies who dance in ballets, and paintings by the great masters.  Cornelius thrust the pictures away, and the Devil did not ask to see them, nor was it needful that he should, for he had painted them himself.

“O dear Mr. Devil,” said Cornelius, “I am so glad that you have called, for I wanted to speak to you.  It strikes me that there is a great defect in the plan which you have been so good as to draw for me.”

“What is that?” asked the Devil.

“There is no place for black men,” said Cornelius.  “And you know white men will never let them come into the same hospital.”

And the Devil, to do him justice, talked very reasonably to Cornelius, and represented to him that there were very few black men in New York, and that these had very vigorous constitutions.  But Cornelius was inflamed with enthusiasm, and frantic with philanthropy, and he vowed that he would not give a cent to an hospital that had not a wing for black men as big as all the rest of the building.  And the Devil had to take his plan back, and come again in a year and a day.  And when he did come back, Cornelius asked him if he did not think it would be a most excellent thing if all the Irishmen in New York could be shut up in an hospital or elsewhere; and he could not deny it.  So he had to take his plan back again.  And next year it was the turn of the Chinese, and then of the Red Indians, and then of the dogs and cats.  And then Cornelius thought that he ought to provide room for all the people who had been ruined by his speculations, and the Devil thought so too, but doubted whether Cornelius would be able to afford it.  And at last Cornelius said: 

“Methinks I have been very foolish in wishing to build an hospital at all while I am living.  Surely it would be better that I should enjoy my money myself during my life, and leave the residue for the lawyers to divide after my death.”

“You are quite right,” said the Devil; “that is exactly what I should do if I were you.”

So Cornelius put the plans behind a shelf in his counting-house, and the mice ate them.  And he went on prospering and growing rich, until the Devil became envious of him, and insisted on changing places with him.  So Cornelius went below, and the Devil came and dwelt in New York, where he still is.

THE POISON MAID