the
editor of one of our best temperance journals, which left a most vivid
impression on my mind. He had just returned from a sea-voyage; and, for
the sake of enjoying a debauch, unmolested by his friends, took up his
abode in a rum-selling tavern in a somewhat lonely location on the
seaboard. Here he drank for many days without stint, keeping himself the
whole time in a state of semi-intoxication. One night he stood leaning
against a tree, looking listlessly and vacantly out upon the ocean; the
waves breaking on the beach, and the white sails of passing vessels
vaguely impressing him like the pictures of a dream. He was startled by
a voice whispering hoarsely in his ear, _"You have murdered a man; the
officers of justice are after you; you must fly for your life!"_ Every
syllable was pronounced slowly and separately; and there was something in
the hoarse, gasping sound of the whisper which was indescribably
dreadful. He looked around him, and seeing nothing but the clear
moonlight on the grass, became partially sensible that he was the victim
of illusion, and a sudden fear of insanity thrilled him with a momentary
horror. Rallying himself, he returned to the tavern, drank another glass
of brandy, and retired to his chamber. He had scarcely lain his head on
the pillow when he heard that hoarse, low, but terribly distinct whisper,
repeating the same words. He describes his sensations at this time as
inconceivably fearful. Reason was struggling with insanity; but amidst
the confusion and mad disorder one terrible thought evolved itself. Had
he not, in a moment of mad frenzy of which his memory made no record,
actually murdered some one? And was not this a warning from Heaven?
Leaving his bed and opening his door, he heard the words again repeated,
with the addition, in a tone of intense earnestness, "Follow me!" He
walked forward in the direction of the sound, through a long entry, to
the head of the staircase, where he paused for a moment, when again he
heard the whisper, half-way down the stairs, "Follow me!"

Trembling with terror, he passed down two flights of stairs, and found
himself treading on the cold brick floor of a large room in the basement,
or cellar, where he had never been before. The voice still beckoned him
onward; and, groping after it, his hand touched an upright post, against
which he leaned for a moment. He heard it again, apparently only two or
three yards in front of him "You have mur