at this crisis, while grasping the bannister with weak hands, I lay
faint and hopeless on the deck, I fancied I saw a dark figure
crawling up the cabin-steps towards me. I listened; the sound drew
near, the form advanced, already it touched that part of the
staircase to which I clung. Was it the phantom of one of those
wretches who had just met death? Had it come fresh from eternity,
the taint of recent earth yet hanging about it, to warn me of my own
departure? A sudden vivid flash enabled me to dispel all doubt; the
dull, grey eye, and thin furrowed form, were not to be so mistaken;
the voice too--but why prolong the mystery? it was my old
unforgotten persecutor, the Mysterious Tailor of High Holborn. What
followed I know not: overpowered by previous excitement, and the
visitation of this infernal phantom, my brain spun round--my heart
ticked audibly like a clock--my tongue glued to my mouth--I sank
senseless at the cabin door.

_(To be concluded in our next.)_

* * * * *



SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS

NORFOLK PUNCH.

AN INCANTATION.


Twenty quarts of real Nantz,