tavern, chaining you down in a tap-room, pouring into your system liquid fire. You may forswear drink for ever, and do nobody any wrong.

Your respect for yourself, for truth, for the Lord, will make you go farther. Drink has done ruinous work on the bodies and souls of men-of men distinguished in Church and State, in commerce and in literature. Use it, and you too may fall. Like the millions whom it has devoured in the past, it may accomplish your ruin. It can fascinate; it works by the invincible power of habit. You may yet wear its chain. While you are free, continue so; your interests, your happiness, your prospects in eternity, demand that, with stubborn resolution, you repel the advances of drink.

If it be good for you, on moral grounds, to practise temperance according to the Christian standard, it must be good for others. If you are a minister, all that you know, as well as all that you have seen of the horrors of intemperance, calls on you to arise and work in this department of moral reform. Amid a tippling population, what special probability is there of success for the gospel which you bring? If you are a father, you are concerned for the safety of sons, for the happiness of daughters. How could you bear to see them the victims of drink, or of drunken fury? You take an interest in education, in the welfare of the country, in the progress of moral reform, in the maintenance of virtue, in the training of the young. The barrier that everywhere and in everything op. poses you is drink. It impedes your progress; it drags its victims before your eyes to repairless ruin.

Be doing then. Speak to your friend; plead with the young; command the drunkard to abstain; strengthen the hands of those who incessantly labour in the good cause. Put down drinking customs; show, in all the relations of life, the moral dignity of self-denial in drink. Demonstrate, in your own person, that sobriety is a cause of, as well as an essential element in, happiness. Remember that, like food undigested, the information you possess about drink, if it is not persistently acted on by you in your daily life, will become poison.

Rough Waters.

CHAPTER XVI.

TELLS OF "HOPE DEFERRED."

NONE seem so unsettled as the habitually phlegmatic when excited. Like calm, deep waters ruffled to their very depths, Mr. Letstieg's naturally quiet manner was unusually disturbed. Twice turning round to Mr. Blackham, who could not keep pace with him, he said at every corner, 66 Are we near it now ?" Still on they went, through lanes and courts which we described before. Poverty and vice were stamped upon these places. They seemed the nearest possible resemblance of what one can conceive of hell. The very air was full of curses; even children's tongues swelled the babel of hellish jargon.

Had Mr. Letstieg been passing through Paradise he would have had no ear for sweetest sound, nor eye for nature's most gorgeous covering, so occupied was he with the tumultuous feelings which now filled his heart.

"Mr. Blackham, pardon me, you seem very wearied; how thoughtless of me, we should have driven," said Mr. Letstieg, now noticing for the first time the utter lassitude of his companion.

"We are at it now; we will be there in a few minutes, and I can rest before we return."

"At it now! God grant that I be not disappointed in this hope! I cannot tell you why, but I feel as if I were about to get tidings of our lost child. For the last two months we have spoken more of him than during the twelve years of his loss."

Here," said Mr. Blackham, standing at the entrance of a paved gateway, " here's the place." They met a woman and two children coming out of the house.

"How is the old woman this evening ?"

In an unmistakable Milesian accent, she replied"Plase yer ravarance, she's got worse after you left last night; and instead of the purty hymn yer ravarance was taching her, she cursed and barged like a throoper."

Even Mr. Letstieg forgot his anxiety for a moment, to look round at the man who spent last night in such a place. No wonder his features were pale. "Did you see her this morning?"

"No, yer ravarance, I just went up thare now, but the door was closed, and she seems quiet, so I did not like to disturb her. I wish she had slept last night; for a sorra wink of sleep Mick got with her roarin', and he havin' to go away by daylight to his work."

They went up and knocked at the door; knocked again, no answer; again, no reply.

'Quick, get a policeman, and we'll burst the door." "Perhaps she is only asleep; knock louder." And with a knock loud enough to waken the dead, Mr. Letstieg thundered at the door.

At length a policeman was called, and, being told all the circumstances, without any ceremony put his shoulder to the door and burst it open.

Gipsy Moll, as she was called, was dead, and lay with her face upturned to the ceiling-a ghastly face it was, distorted in death agonies by remorse.

Mr. Letstieg looked as if he would have given worlds to wring the secret from those dead lips; turning round to the Irishwoman, who, with her children, followed them up the stairs, he asked, “Do you know anything of the little boy that lived with her ?"

"Plase yer honour, he went away about four months ago, and we have not seen him since. She thought grate long for him; she often said she had a fortune in that child whenever she wished to claim it."

"Then he wasn't her child."

"No, bless yer honour; when his face was cleaned a nater bit of a lad you wouldn't find in a day's walk. Mick often said there was something of the gintleman about him."

"Have you any idea of where or how we could see him ?"

"Faix I wish I did, and I could earn some money very handy; a gintleman was here some months ago, and offered the old woman five pouns if she would tell where to find him. Some papers or other he stole,"

"See, make him out,-detain him if he comes here; get any information for me about him, and I'll reward you well." Mr. Letstieg's quiet manner forsook him completely, he was quite unnerved.

The policeman searched every nook and corner of the room, and emptied on the floor the contents of an old trunk, which had not been disturbed for many years, but no clue was found-nothing to feed the hope which had been kindled in his breast.

After giving a pound to bury the old woman, he went away, whispering to Mr. Blackham,

"I thank God my poor wife knows nothing of this; still I'm inclined to follow it up, and I'll speak to Gilby when we return."

"It might be well to do so; but, to save yourself,

perhaps, great disappointment, begin with the belief that you shall be unsuccessful."

"I could not begin with such a thought-few could; the very hope of success carries us on, and makes every toil and labour light. Believe me, sir, and I speak from experience, never take away hope from any effort, however hopeless."

"Might I detain you a few moments. There is a very delicate woman living in that house opposite; I was not able to call when over in this locality yesterday, and I would like to see her now."

"I will go with you."

In a wretched room, "plying her needle and thread," sat a young woman, busily employed at a white muslin gown-not so white as her fair hands and face. In a corner, in a straw chair, sat an old man, her father, nodding, and closing and opening his eyes as if this were the sole purpose for which he had been created. The pale cheeks became crimson when Miss Banks saw the gentlemen enter; there was something so graceful and lady-like in the manner with which she put aside the work she was engaged at, that Mr. Letstieg, who was naturally very much taken up with his own thoughts, was struck by it.

"I am sorry, Miss Banks, that you were not able to come to our meeting last night; I was afraid your father or yourself were not very well."

"Thank you, it is very kind of you to call; I was too ill to go.'

"I am glad you're better. I will not read with your father to-day, as I expect to be over again at the end of the week."

"That," said Mr. Blackham, after they left, "is another of the thousand instances of the fatal effects of intemperance I meet with. For several years I was rather opposed to total abstinence, but since I came to London I have seen enough to make a dark head grey."

"Indeed I believe it would be impossible to exaggerate the sad effects of intemperance. I wish that more of your brethren would look upon it from your point of view."

"What a history might be written from the reverses of that stupid old man; he was once an opulent merchant in this city, and, step by step, he was so dragged down in circumstances and in mind by the implacable demon of drink, that, on the very brink of idiotcy, he would have become the inmate of a workhouse but for the noble efforts of that peerless daughter. She gets work from some of the monster houses, and is often obliged to remain up half the night to earn enough to support her father. Twice she has been ill from over exertion, and I believe if he lives long she will soon be in her grave."

"What misery there is in the world! My friend, do me a kindness-take this five pound note, and, in whatever way your own delicacy suggests, urge it on their acceptance."

"Very many thanks; I have funds at my disposal, and I have spoken to Mr. Bright, the manager of the house of business for which she works, to give her, as if from themselves, an increased price for her work; this was the only way I could act without of fending."

"Well, take this sum, you will find plenty of use for it in such a parish as this."

Mr. Gilby was anxiously waiting their arrival, and was scarcely disappointed to hear that their mission was a failure; however, he promised to see Mr. Catchwell in the morning, and asked Mr. Letstieg to come over about twelve o'clock, saying

"If any detective in Europe can ferret the matter out, believe me, it is Catchwell."

CHAPTER XVII.

THE PLOT THICKENS.

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"WOULD'NT be a bit surprised, sir, this same youngster you want me to search for was the same as stole your papers and ran away; at any rate, the lad you got from the ragged-school lived with that old woman."

"What! Catchwell, can it be that they are the same." "Edward," turning to Mr. Letstieg, "that boy's face haunted me several times when passing through the office door; it would set me a thinking, where did I see it before. The face of that boy, Jack (for we never gave him any other name), resembles yours -What! tut, man, bear the news better. With God's help your child will be restored to you. Take my advice and tell Louisa the hope you have, and Catchwell and I will see about the necessary steps to be taken. Young Singleton will be here in an hour; of his own accord, he has volunteered a clear confession about the stolen papers."

Richard Singleton confessed all; told how Hathaway induced Jack to steal the title deeds, and how he himself went to Wriggle's to sell them. Mr. Gilby heard all patiently unto the end, and then closed the huge ledger which lay opened before him.

"Go and tell," he said, "Mr. Jones, my solicitor, that I want to see him for a few moments; or, stop a moment, I'll write a note."

The note was written, and as Mr. Jones lived only two doors above Mr. Gilby's, he was with him in a few minutes.

At the close of the consultation, Mr. Gilby said, with more vehemence than he had ever been known to exhibit,

"Justice won't be blind this time, in the case of that scoundrel; next to the finding of the child, I would like to see him punished for his iniquity." By "that scoundrel," he meant Mr. Wriggle, gentleman attorney.

Mr. Catchwell set out at once on his voyage of discovery, promising, before twenty-four hours, to have some information for his employer.

That evening Mrs. Letstieg went to the Singleton's; what a change! They all looked happy, even Henry, who, but a few weeks ago seemed like one marked out for the grave, was reading aloud for his mother, while she and Adelaide were sewing.

Just as Mrs. Letstieg was driving to the door, Henry was reading an advertisement from the Times offering £500 reward to any one who could give information about a child stolen twelve years ago from its parents. No particulars were given, and it concluded with "Any persons wishing to engage in the search may apply at Mr. Gilby's, 21,- street."

"We must ask Richard, when he comes home, if he heard what child this is," said Mrs. Singleton, while Adelaide, throwing aside her work, ran to open the door for Mrs. Letstieg.

Like an angel she was received by the Singletons. When she had disencumbered herself of her cloak and bonnet, Adaleide could not help exclaiming"Mrs. Letstieg, I hope you did not fatigue yourself coming; you look wearied ?"

66

Adelaide, dear, I can scarcely control myself; tears will come," and she sat down on the sofa, covering her face with her hands. After a moment she looked up "Oh, God! do not deceive the hope that has risen within my breast, to see my child again; to press it to my heart," and in silent prayer she clasped

her hands.

The Singletons were told the whole history; and as Mrs. Letstieg told them more than the reader yet knows, we will give the account in her own words"My husband suspects that Mr. Wriggle had something to do with the abduction of the child. Mr. Wriggle was my father's clerk; and in five years

after the death of my father, my mother married him, to the surprise of every one. I was then a young girl at school, and had the greatest horror of my step-father; so great did this become, that it was arranged I should spend my vacations with a relative. My mother had been married ten years when she died, and, to the utter astonishment of all her friends, left the money she had in her own right, except five hundred a-year, to Mr. Wriggle. The five hundred a-year was settled on me; and, in case I had no children, it reverted to Mr. Wriggle. My mother's relations disputed the will, which they suspected had been forged; but for want of sufficient evidence they failed. My husband took an active share in the lawsuit; hence Mr. Wriggle, in the event of our child being removed, could gratify his avarice and his revenge. God forgive him for the sorrow he has caused me!"

After poor tried Mrs. Letstieg left, the Singletons joined in prayer and asked the God of all comfort to comfort her who had been their deliverer in such bitter trials.

"Oh! mother," said Adelaide, "what a cup of sorrow she has had to drain, yet how calm and angel. like she looked when we were in affliction-hiding

Deep, deep within the hold,
Now in decay, and old,

Salt waves are sleeping in pools dark and still;
Stars show their faces there,

Beaming through midnight air, Casting down bright rays those mirrors to fill.

Many a winter storm,

Many a summer warm,

Riding the billow that proud ship has moved; Loud was the sailor's song,

Borne by the breeze along;

Light were those hearts that so merrily roved.

Still now it seems to me,
Wafted across the sea;

Note after note ringing out on the air;
Sound of those bygone years,
Shadowed in thought appears,

Far off and distantly greeting me here.

has taught me !"

When Richard returned (that night he was later than usual) his sister told him the history of Mrs. Letstieg's trials, and that Mr. Gilby said a boy he had named Jack, whom he took from a ragged-school, must be her child.

"Jack, Mrs. Letstieg's child. Jack! that I have been making inquiries for this whole evening, to repay him for the faithfulness with which he clung to me in trouble."

"Another proof he is her child.”

"I'll search him out and pay a tithe of the devotion which my heart will ever feel for our deliverer. Mother, you need not fear to trust me now on the streets of London. I must go this night and inquire further about him. Don't remain up; I'll be back about two. Let us read our chapter and pray before I go."

(To be continued.)

The Old Wreck.

By E. L. WYNNE, Dublin.

BRIGHTLY the evening sun Glows when the day is done; Twilight's dim shades are insensibly nigh; Down on the wild sea-shore

I love to watch the hour

Calling the light to her home in the sky.

Far o'er the summer sea
Soft breezes come to me,

Rippling the waters along their cool way,
Whitening each tiny wave,
Hasting my feet to lave,
Ere I depart with the fast closing day.

Moored to a sunken rock,
Safe from the tempest's shock,

Years it has rested from journeys afar;
Yon crumbling vessel wreck,

Moss creeping o'er its deck,

Filled with the remnants of masthead and spar.

By S. B. LOUDON, Liverpool.

SECTION 3.-DRINK.

HAVING disposed of the subject of "Food," its twin sister, "Drink," next engages our attention. Fluids are more essential to life than solids. Every one knows how much more intense thirst is than hunger. A man would live much longer without food than without drink. There is no passion or appetite of our nature to be, for a moment, compared with thirst as to intensity. The necessity for supplying the body with a proper quantity of fluid, and of a pure and healthy kind, is very great. It has been computed that only about one-fourth of the human body is composed of solid flesh, bone, and muscle. This vast amount of fluid is continually escaping by the pores of the body, and various other outlets, so that it requires to be replenished daily. By what this should be replenished, in addition to the supply obtained from vegetables, fruits, &c., and what particular drinks should be taken in health and disease, are the questions now properly before us.

The readers of the Irish League Journal will hardly expect me to recommend, for a universal drink, any. thing but pure cold water. Apart altogether from my teetotal predilections, I am most firmly convinced not only that perfect health is compatible with the use of water, but that water is perfectly essential to health. Can we doubt that our Almighty Father provided man, originally, with the drink most suitable for him; and will any one venture to maintain that what was most suitable for our first parents, is a bad thing for their descendants? For my own part, I am willing to take what God has supplied me with, assured that since He, who is "the only wise God," has given it, it must be the best, both physi cally and otherwise. Water-"blessed water"-it has been well called-is good in health: it is equally good in illness. It will subdue fever, and renovate the system sooner and far more effectually, than anything else known to medical science. But we are continually told that wine, bitter ale, and other alcoholic stimulants, are necessary as tonics. If, by a tonic is meant something that will enable one to eat more food, I admit that drinking ale, in what is called "moderation," will produce this effect; but if

it is understood to mean something that will remove dyspepsia, purify the blood, and restore the tore of the system, I emphatically deny that alcoholics are true tonics. I do not now enter on the question of the sincerity of those who drink ale and wine, for I have my own opinion-which may be false-that people take them because they like them, and not for any curative properties which they believe them to possess. But, granting for a moment that these things will produce tonic effects, the question next arises, are these effects ever marked by permanence. "There's the rub." If your physician orders you quinine, he will tell you when to leave off taking it; he does not expect you to continue it for months and years. But, has any doctor ever ordered "bitter ale" as a tonic, and told his patient to discontinue it at the end of two or three weeks? Oh, no; medical men know right well that alcohol is not a true tonic, and that it must be daily renewed. Tell me, ye ale and beer-drinkers, if this is not so. Give up the drink for a month, and see if it has done you any permanent good, and you will find that it has aggravated the very evil which it was intended to remedy. But if the life-power has become weak, the blood turgid, and the appetite low, let the patient drink freely of pure water, bathe his person with it once or twice a day, take exercise in the open air, live plainly, and what a different effect will be produced. In a short time his appetite will be restored, his vitality increased, and his whole system renovated. There is nothing to equal cold water in such diseases as I have mentioned, and I speak from experience. Talk of quinine and sarsaparilla, they are not, for a moment, to be compared with water-it will purify the blood sooner and more effectually than anything the most accomplished physician can prescribe. (To be continued.)

N.B.-Some readers of the "League Journal” have expressed a desire that I would give some directions as to what meats dyspeptics should abstain from. I think I have already given sufficiently plain hints on this subject. I will, however, tell them how bilious people may infallibly cure themselves, and, when cured, prevent themselves from getting ill again; and I can speak with confidence in the dietetic course of treatment, because it has cured myself after years of suffering.

Do not take blue pill and black draught, to begin with! Keep clear of all these things. Use fleshmeat, and particularly salted or corned meat, very sparingly (I do not say to give it up entirely), and sedulously avoid all sauces, soups, gravies, and oily and fatty substances, such as lard, pork, &c. I am not even satisfied that cocoa is unobjectionable. It is particularly rich, and contains a great amount of oily matter. But if pure homopathic cocoa can be obtained, it will be found most beneficial. Do not, on any account, use condiments. If you would be free from dyspepsia, you must avoid mustard, spices, pickles, and similar things. Use brown or Graham bread; do not drink coffee, unless you find that it agrees with you; take black tea instead, and in place of allowing it to "draw" (the old woman's plan!) drink soon after making; eat the purest and best butter, or none at all. If you have any bottles of "stout," "pale ale," or "old wine," give them to your little son (if you are a parent), and tell him to break them for you, and drink freely of God's gift to mankind-pure water.

You must have variety in your food, but do not partake of a number of dishes at the same meal. Eat plenty of ripe fruit, and such vegetables as I have already mentioned. (See League Journal for August). Be particular in sponging your person

153

from head to foot every morning, and take abundant exercise in the open air. In fine, live plainly and obey the laws of health, and you will not suffer from biliousness.

I can hardly wonder at the prevalence of stomach diseases, when I find the following receipts in a Temperance Journal :

"Cheese Sandwiches-Cheese, 3 oz.; butter, 1 oz. ; mustard, a little. Pound all together in a mortar, and place between slices of bread."

"Mixed Salads-Cut up onions, lettuce, radishes, mustard, cress, parsley, mint, celery, with boiled potatoes. Serve with salad sauce."

Bah! the very idea of such things is enough to give one an attack of bilious fever!

Lewis Keen's Dream.

By NESLIE BROOK.

"You do not seem like yourself to-day, uncle. What is the matter ?"

"My child, I scarcely know. My spirits have been unnaturally depressed the last few days since"Since when, uncle ?"

"Never mind. Where is your husband? How is business ?"

"O, Arthur is very well, thank you, and business is first-rate. I really think, uncle, that we shall make our fortune ten or twelve years quicker than you did; and then when we retire to a house of our own, as grand and as magnificently furnished as this one of yours, won't we have a house-warming!" And the thoughtless young speaker laughed merrily. There," she continued, "that uproarious burst of laughter has not won even a smile from you! What is the matter, uncle, dear? Are you unwell ?"

Not heeding her questions, the old man replied: "My child, I heartily wish I had not given my business to you and Arthur."

Agnes Wilkins drew her graceful little form up proudly, and an expression of scornful pity gleamed on her face. She was evidently highly offended. "It is very true," she said mentally, "that the more people have, the more they want. Just to think of uncle, rolling in wealth as he is, and yetUncle," she added, aloud, “you know we can leave."

He looked up quickly, and was surprised at the expression on her countenance. Agnes, my dear, you misunderstand me; I did not express that wish from any selfish motive, whatever. I repeat, with feelings of deep regret, I wish I had not let Arthur take to my business."

He rose from his chair, and walked to and fro across the room, with his eyes fixed upon the gorgeous carpet.

"Uncle, do explain yourself," said Agnes, who seemed in a perfect maze. She had never before seen her uncle so strangely and painfully agitated.

"Agnes, I am very lonely, very miserable. Can you stay with me this afternoon? It might relieve me to talk to you awhile."

"I will gladly remain with you, uncle," she replied, as she untied her bonnet-strings.

Lewis Keen, though now an old man, still possessed much of the dignity of manner and fascination which had characterised him in his younger days. He was a retired publican. Folks who had known him from his youth, told that he had been tolerably well educated, and was destined by his parents for some honorable profession; but being a most lazy character, greedy of gain, and fond of company, he chose the occupation of ale, wine, and spirit selling. For between twenty and thirty years he drove (to

use a technical phrase) "a roaring trade." His coffers filled to overflowing. The blood-red lamp that hung over his door and gleamed upon his name 365 nights in every year, had attracted tens of thousands of the poor moths of humanity, and lured them by its deceitful gleam to death and destruction. It was on such that he fattened. Their irretrievable loss was his temporary gain.

When he vacated the "Vaults" for the noble mansion which was the envy of Agnes Wilkins's simple little heart, many a curse was pronounced upon it by the pale, trembling lips of desperate wives and mothers; many a despairing wretch, before falling into outer darkness, hissed with his last fluttering breath a bitter curse upon both the house and its

owner.

Folks said, moreover, that there was always something about Lewis Keen which no one could understand. "Let a man once get into his clutches and it was all up with him." Some, however, did escape from him, and they testified to the irresistable something which attracted them to himself, and kept them in his den. No one could get to the bottom of the man's character. People either suspected him wrongly, or else he was a dire hypocrite, and wholly devoid of conscience. "That taciturn old housekeeper of his (Lewis was a bachelor) could tell a few tales if she liked," quoth the gossips, with signifi. cant winking of eyes and shaking of heads.

Be that as it may, the fat, complacent housekeeper never did "like;" her lips were as silent upon such subjects as though they had been hermetically sealed.

After pacing the drawing-room a considerable time, Lewis Keen reseated himself in his velvetcovered chair, and drew it nearer to his niece, who was sitting on a low cushion.

"Agnes," he began, nervously, "I have had aexcuse me, do you believe in dreams ?"

"I think not, uncle," said Agnes, lightly. "The fact is, I very seldom dream. When I do, I neither take any notice of it, nor remember what it was about."

'Humph! Well, I never considered myself superstitious, nor should I have thought that any dream could discompose me for whole days; but, certainly, I can attribute it to physical causes. I have felt unwell lately, and my nerves are not so strong as they once were. Then, have felt thoroughly upset since hearing of Minton's death, last week."

"Ah, poor fellow!" said Agnes. "And what a shocking death! I have thought much about him and his poor family. How his wife survived the sight of him lying dead in his blood, I cannot imagine. If I were to see dear Arthur so, knowing that his own hand had done the deed, I believe I should go raving mad, uncle."

Something like a groan fell from the old man's lips. Then he made answer: Co Agnes, I would tell this to none but you, and I tell you in confidence. It is just a fortnight ago that I met Harry Minton in the street. He looked like one possessed-so wild and poor, and miserable. He was a wretched sot, you know, Aggy. I thought to shame him by alluding to former times, and reminding bow respectable he used to be. He reached out his dirty, claw-like hand, and took one of mine in his grip-I seem to feel it yetand he said, in his low guttural tones, Keen, Keen, do you remember how you challenged me once in my boyhood to drink at your table? challenged me, sneered, bantered, until I was overcome? Keen, I cannot, I will not ever forgive you either in time or eternity!' Agnes, those words will ring in my ears till I die."

"Why so, uncle ?" said Agnes, and her upturned face was almost colorless.

"Oh, nothing. I'm a fool to mention the subject to you at all. But wait. I was going to tell you that two nights ago I had a strange dream-a dread. ful dream. I was sitting alone in this very room. The evening was warm, and I drew my chair to the open window to watch the rising moon. I greatly admire the view from this window, but that evening I could not enjoy it. That wretched suicide, Minton, haunted my mind. Janet came to the door with her piping voice, 'Lights, sir?'

66 6

Lights? No!' I thundered out. Don't let me be bothered any more to night.' I believe I frightened the lass half out of her wits; she has been afraid to look at me ever since. But really, Aggy, I have felt so irritable and so unquiet in my mind lately, that I have studied no one's feelings, nor anything else. I just want to be left alone."

"You shouldn't give way to nervousness, uncle," interposed Agnes, mildly.

"I know, child; but one is not always master of one's nerves. Well, as I was telling you, I sat at the window, looking out. The air of the room was almost oppressive with the fragrance of the roses on the verandah. Look at them, Agnes: they are mag. nificent this summer. The day died out; there was no light but that of the moon. I grew heavydrowsy. My eyes were fixed on the window curtains, which slowly and strangely resolved themselves into a human shape. This creature whether man, woman, or devil, I cannot tell-advanced towards me. It was attired in a long, white, rustling garment; its long, shaggy hair was as black as midnight; its eyes-its awful, piercing eyes-seemed to look into the depths of my soul to search out for its hidden secrets. My heart seemed to leap into my mouth. I was spell-bound, motionless, powerless. The thing spoke-spoke in terms of reproach, peculiar, thrilling, sepulchral, as you might imagine a ghost's would be whose grave you disturbed at midnight. It drew nearer, nearer to me, and laid its cold, damp hand upon my wrist. I stood upon my feet, panting, trembling. I know not how, but I was borne through the window, out into the mellow moonlight. Flap, flap went the long fluttering garments of my guide, as we hurried through mid-air. Its ghostly monotonous rustle was torment to me. The moon vanished; leaden clouds hung across the sky; the wind shrieked around, above, beneath us. I caught the sound of surf sullenly breaking upon some shore, and the roar of wind-born, in-rolling billows. We were nearing the sea. I tried to stop myself, to draw back; but that awful Presence beside me turned its gloomy, frowning face upon me, and drew me on. I could do nothing but follow.

"I smelt the brine; I felt the cold sea air upon my throbbing forehead, and my hair, my scanty gray hair, flying in the wind. We were going at a wild rate over the sea. I looked down and could just see the white foam breaking on the dirty billows, and anon a tiny-looking ship bravely battling with the giant waves. The air was full of sounds; I expected every moment to see jeering, reproaching spirits; I know I heard their hellish voices, uttering something to me, or about me!

"Well, the scene changed. We were still floating, hovering over the sea, but now it was sun-illumined; its placid waters sparkled and gleamed like a sea of gold. It was evening. I think we must have been somewhere in the Southern Ocean, for the sky was painted in the most gorgeous colors, and when the sun had set, the stars were so large and lustrous, as I had never seen them before. There was a noble ship beneath us, seemingly lying motionless on the placid waters. My guide paused over it. We remained as motionless as the vessel, listening, observ.