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