It had received its name for many reasons, any one of which might be deemed sufficient. A hundred years ago its founder was a man of such outrageous character, and withal so successful in his career, that it was thought the very Devil helped him. He was leagued with wicked landsmen, who, when they had accomplished their nefarious plans, sailed hither, and revelled jollily until the storm blew over. Many a bottle of pure wine was cracked in their convivialities, very different from the vile and burning fluids now served up at the bar. But Cargills was at last hanged, having been taken unawares at the Anchor Tavern, in New-York, whither he went when oppressed with ennui, and to get his feelings in tune. A set of landlords succeeded him, any one of whom had made society too hot to hold them. At last a certain humorist who happened to be there, snatching a pot of paint one day, which was near at hand to paint the bows of a schooner, clambered up by the aid of a ladder, and inscribed upon the sign-board, with great freedom of brush, a picture of that ancient gentleman, the Devil. He painted him _rampant_, with all that dismal aspect which is usually attributed to him, with hell-flames bristling from his forked tongue, his tail coiled up and superfluous, while in the back-ground was an extent of highly picturesque country, whence he had just issued, seeking whom he might devour. The semblance must have been correct, since by those that came there, the recognition was pleasurable and immediate. Indeed, the frequenters of the place for the last fifty years had been distinguished by the harsh term of hellicat devils. Latterly, nothing specific had been alleged against the Inn, only some murderous suspicions connected with the gangs which frequented it, and the very unsatisfactory character of a bad name.