My tale would scarcely have an end, were I to repeat but the one half of what during two brief days (two centuries in suffering) I experienced from this derangement of the nervous system.  My readers may fancy that I have exaggerated my state of mind:  far from it, I have purposely softened down the more distressing particulars, apprehensive, if not of being discredited, at least of incurring ridicule.  Towards the close of the third day my fever began to abate, I became more sobered in my turn of thought, could contrive to answer questions, and listen with tolerable composure to my landlord’s details of my miraculous preservation.  The storm was slowly rolling off my mind, but the swell was still left behind it.  The fourth day found me so far recovered, that I was enabled to quit my chamber, sit beside an open window, and derive amusement from the uncouth appearance of a Dutch crew, whose brig was lying at anchor in the harbour.  From this time forward, every hour brought fresh accession to my strength, until at the expiration of the tenth day—­so sudden is recovery in cases of violent fever when once the crisis is passed—­I was sufficiently restored to take my place by a night-coach for London.  The first few stages I endured tolerably well, notwithstanding that I had somewhat rashly ventured upon an outside place; but as midnight drew on, the wind became so piercingly keen, accompanied every now and then by a squally shower of sleet, that I was glad to bargain for an inside berth.  By good luck, there was just room enough left for one, which I instantly appropriated, in spite of sundry hints hemmed forth by a crusty old gentleman, that the coach was full already.  I took my place in the coach, to the dissatisfaction of those already seated there.  Not a word was spoken for miles:  for the circumstance of its being dark increased the distrust of all, and, in the firm conviction that I was an adventurer, they had already, I make no doubt, buttoned up their pockets, and diligently adjusted their watch-chains.  In a short time, this reserve wore away.  From this moment the conversation became general.  Each individual had some invalid story to relate, and I too, so far forgot my usual taciturnity as to indulge my hearers with a detail of my late indisposition—­of its origin in the Mysterious Tailor—­of the wretch’s inconceivable persecution—­of the fiendish peculiarities of his appearance—­of his astonishing ubiquity, and lastly, of my conviction that he was either more or less than man.  Scarcely had the very uncourteous laughter that accompanied this narrative concluded, when a low, intermittent snore, proceeding from a person close at my elbow, challenged my most serious notice.  The sound was peculiar—­original—­unearthly—­and reminded me of the same music which had so harrowed my nerves at Bologne.  Yet it could not surely be he—­he, the very thoughts of whom now sent a thrill through every vein.  Oh, no! it must be some one else—­there were other harmonious