DEATH TO THE INQUISITIVE.
A STORY OF SINFUL LOVE.
CHAPTER I. THE WHITECHAPEL MYSTERY.
Hark! It is a woman's cry
Echoing thro' the unhallowed place:—
Forward, to her rescue, fly—
See the suffering in her face.
A piercing shriek echoed throughout the entire length and breadth of the gloomy passage, hushed as it was in the brief hour of repose that usually intervened between the vice-rampant hour of midnight and the ever reluctant dawn.
It seemed as if the very light shrank from penetrating the loathsome windings of that wretched quarter of London, and as to pure air, it simply refused to enter such illy ventilated nooks and crevices, while the poisoned vapors that filled the narrow precincts were always trying to escape and failing through their own over-weight of reeking odors.