in the crown, torn in the brim, worn away in
the forepart, by constant pulling off; napless
long since; but rendered factitiously lustrous
by the matutinal application of a wet brush:
his satin stock —black once, brown now—
fastened at the back with a vicious wrench
and a rusty buckle: his sorry body-coat
(Spectres never wear frock-coats), tesselated
on the collar and elbows with cracked grease-
spots; torn at the pockets with continuous
thrusting-in of papers; dotted white with the
tombstones of dead buttons: his shrinking,
withered, shame-faced trousers: his boots,
(not Bluchers, but nearly always Wellingtons)
cracked at the sides and gone at the heel, the
connection still preserved by the aid of a red-
hot poker and gutta percha. I know all
about that Ghost. He passed to the world
of spectres in 1825. He must have been that
head clerk in the great banking firm of Sir
John Jebber, Jefferson, and Co., which
speculated somewhat too greedily in the Patent
Washing, Starching, Mangling, and Ironing
Company; in the Amalgamated Dusthole,
Breeze Exportation, and Cinder Consumption
Company; in the Royal Rat, Cat, and
Rabbit Fur Company (Incorporated by Royal
Charter); in the Imperial Equitable Spontaneous
Combustion Association for
Instantaneous Illumination (in connection with the
Northern Lights Office); in the Anglico-
Franco-Mexico Mining Company for the
Rapid Diffusion of Quicksilver all over the
World; in Baratarian (deferred) Bonds.
When the panic of twenty-five came, and there
was a rush on Jebber's bank, and a line of
carriages extended from Lombard Street
to Ludgate Hill (for most of the aristocracy
banked at Jebber's), it was the Spectre
who enacted the bold stroke of policy, of
having heavy coal-waggons driven artfully into
the line of vehicles between Birchin Lane and
Nicholas Lane; and of raising an alarm of
"mad dog" at the corner of Pope's Head Alley,
whereby the stream of customers, rabid to
draw out their deposits, was arrested for
hours. 'Twas he who suggested to the firm
the artful contrivance (first practised by a
larger establishment) of paying heavy cheques
in sixpences; but all, alas, in vain! The firm
had to be removed from Lombard Street to
the Bankruptcy Court, in Basinghall Street.
Jebber went into a lunatic asylum; the Miss
Jebbers went out (poor things!) as
governesses; and Jefferson, with the Co. emigrated
—some people said with the cash-box—to
the land of freedom; where he became principal
director of that famous banking company,
the five-dollar notes of which were
subsequently in such astonishing demand as
shin-plasters and pipe-lights. Their head
clerk went, straightway, into the Ghost line
of business, and. has never given it up. The
other clerks found easily and speedily berths
in other establishments; but, malicious people
said that the Ghost-clerk knew more about
that bundle of bank notes, which was so
unaccountably missing, than he chose to aver.
He did not give satisfactory information,
either, about the shares in several of the
companies we have enumerated, and no
one would employ him; so he became an
accountant, with no accounts to keep; and
an agent, with no agencies. Then he was
secretary to that short-lived association,
"The Joint-Stock Pin-Collecting Company."
Then he got into trouble about the
subscription for the survivors of the "Tabitha
Jane," Mauley, master; his old detractors,
with unabated malice, declaring that there
never was a "Tabitha Jane," nor a Mauley,
master. He sells corn and coal on
commission now—not at first-hand; but for those
who are themselves commission agents. He
is a broker's "man in possession," when he
can get a job. He does a bit of law writing,
a bit of penny-a-lining, a bit of process-serving;
an infinity of those small offices known
as "odd jobs." He picks up a sorry crust
by these means, and is to be heard of at the
bar of the Black Lion. He is sober; but, upon
compulsion, I am afraid. If you give him
much beer, he weeps, and tells you of his
bygone horse and gig; of his box at Shooter's
Hill; of his daughter Emily, who had the
best of boarding-school educations (and
married Clegg, of the Great Detector Insurance
Office), and who won't speak to her poor old
father, now, sir: of his other daughter, Jenny,
who is kind to him; although she is mated
with a dissolute printer, whose relations are
continually buying him new fonts of type,
which he is as continually mortgaging for
spirits and tobacco. Poor old Ghost! Poor
old broken-down, spirit-worn hack! When
great houses come toppling down, how
many slender balustrades and tottering
posts are crushed along with the massive
pillars!

Here is another Spectre of my acquaintance,
who has been a ruined man any time
these twenty years; but is a very joyous and
hilarious Ghost, notwithstanding. Though
utterly undone, he sits cheerfully down all
day on his accustomed bench in the Bengalee
walk, beating the devil's tattoo with mirthful
despair on the Exchange flags. Bless you,
he has thriven on ruin. He lives on it now.
Burnt out four times—broken both legs—
bed-ridden wife—child scalded to death—
execution on his poor "sticks," at this very
moment. He is, you will please observe, no
begging-letter writer; he would scorn the
act. You can come round to his "place"
now, if you like, and judge of his total wreck
for yourself; here is the letter of Alderman
Fubson, condoling with him; and, could you
lend him half-a-crown?

Turn round another arcade into the Austro-
Sclavonian walk, and sympathise with this
melancholy Spectre in the hat pulled over his
brows, and the shabby cloak with the mangy
fur-collar. No clerk, cashier, or stock-broker's
assistant has he been; but, in times gone by, a