“Hollo!” says a voice, “what’s the matter with you? you don’t look over cheerful this evening. Why, if you was to go into a dairy, you’d turn the milk sour! Step in here, man, and take a thimble-full to cheer your spirits! It will do you good. Come! I’ll stand treat to-night, and you shall do the same for me to-morrow.” A door that swung upon its hinges admitted the two men into a glittering-looking temple, where many lights were shining with great brilliancy. Sparkling glasses and polished vessels of pewter increased by reflection the brightness of the light, and made the place look gay. There was the hum of many voices. In one corner the ringing of loud, coarse laughter—in another, the mutterings of rising quarrel; here a song, there an oath, and everywhere that sad mingling of misery and merriment which are to be found in those scenes of sensuality. “Now, young lady with the pretty curls, a couple of glasses here for me and my friend! Here’s a furrener, you see. I aint got no prejudice against a furrener. I says to him, ‘Aint you a man and a brother?’ Fine sentiment that, Miss! When I was at school, at the Parochial College of St. Calves and Leather Breeches, I put that ‘ere sentiment into my Christmas piece, and it were very much admired. Come, mate! your glass is standing! Drink up! Here’s towards you! Hollo! music above stairs, eh? ‘Sons of Harmony! Grand Meeting Night! Glorious Apollo! Bacchus, God of Wine! Marble Halls! Alice Grey! Never mention Her! Nix my Dolly! Buffalo Gals!’ Well, if that aint a mixtur! Two more glasses, Miss! Drink up, mate!” The wretched “mate,” thus appealed to drinks up his glass and feels inspirited—his cheek glows—his blood flows merrily through his veins—and he is just beginning to forget that pale face in the air and the solemn singing. He goes to the doorway for a moment, and looks up into the misty night. Just then the Bells of St. Clement’s chime—a fluttering, like wings is heard, and then a solemn whispering. “The phantom voice! The phantom voice, again!” cries the wretched man; and he runs from the place with the quickness of desperate fear. But the voice follows, and it sings:— “Hark! the spirit of the Bells Upon St. Clement’s Tower, Groans at every deed that tells Of Evil’s guilty power. Struggle, strife! And feverish life— Struggle, strife, and din; Night bells chiming, Souls declining Into deeps of sin.” “Why, where are you running to? What the deuce is the matter with you?” said the man left behind in the gin-temple, who had followed and overtaken the frightened runaway. “You’re not going to get rid of me in this fashion to-night, I can tell you. I have got a little job for you to lend a hand in. Follow me!” and he takes him by the arm. They go on down a street towards the river, and in a dark bye-place, under a gateway, they meet two other men, with crape-masks on their faces and iron instruments in their hands.