“This is an ugly night, sir,” said the Captain, who now, for the first time, found words, “yet methinks I see a sail a-head.”

“Surely not,” I replied, “no earthly vessel but our own can live on such a sea.”

Scarcely had the words escaped me, when “helm a lee!” was roared out in a loud emphatic tone, something between rage and fright.

The captain strove to turn his helm, but in vain, the rudder had lost all power.  At this instant, a rushing sound swept past us, and the two ships came in direct contact with each other.  The crash was tremendous:  down with a dizzy spinning motion went the strange vessel; one yell—­but one shrill piercing yell, which is ever sounding in my ears, ensued—­a pause, and all was over.

My heart died within me at that cry; an icy shudder crept through me, every hair of my head seemed endowed with separate vitality.  To go down into the tomb—­and such a tomb!—­unwept, unknown, the very lights from the English coast still discernible in distance, yet not a friend to hold forth aid; the idea was inexpressibly awful.  Just 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,
  Eau-de-vie of southern France;
  By Arabia’s chemic skill,
  Sublimed, condensed, in trickling still;
  ’Tis the grape’s abstracted soul,
  And the first matter of the bowl.

  Oranges, with skins of gold,
  Like Hesperian fruit of old,
  Whose golden shadow wont to quiver
  In the stream of Guadalquiver,
  Glowing, waving as they hung
  Mid fragrant blossoms ever young,
  In gardens of romantic Spain,—­
  Lovely land, and rich in vain! 
  Blest by nature’s bounteous hand,
  Cursed with priests and Ferdinand! 
  Lemons, pale as Melancholy,
  Or yellow russets, wan and holy. 
  Be their number twice fifteen,
  Mystic number, well I ween,
  As all must know, who aught can tell
  Of sacred lore or glamour spell;
  Strip them of their gaudy hides,
  Saffron garb of Pagan brides,
  And like the Argonauts of Greece,
  Treasure up their Golden Fleece.