On our table stood, not one, but two "black bottles," two bottles that had held "Cork stout"—two we saw without seeing double. The corks had already been drawn, but upon them were two faces distinctly visible, which we resolved to draw likewise; and as the pencil wound itself about, we seemed to hear the following dialogue, in a sort of screw-like tone:—
"Arrah, Paddy now, and where are you from?"
"Sure I'm from Cork."
"Cork is it? fait den it's from Cork I am meself."
"Not such terrifying images, sir," said a nervous visitor, who trembled like Keeley in the old drama of the Bottle Imp, "not such terrifying images as that family of phantoms, that assemblage of the blues, which you conjured up in your last number. You might well call them "frights." I'm sure I've felt all over like the Derbyshire turnpike-man ever since; but I'm not at all afraid of those two bottle conjurors there."
The allusion to this mysterious Derbyshire pike-man produced inquiry, and we were all forthwith reminded by our agitated companion, of a midnight scene—
