prosperous merchant, one who walked on
'Change, rattling his watch-chain; who quoted
prices with a commanding, strident voice;
who awed the waiters at Garraway's, at the
"Cock," in Threadneedle Street, at the
"New England," and at the "Anti-Gallican;"
whose name was down in every charity and
on every committee; who carried a gold snuff-
box in his hand, and his gloves and silk
handkerchief together with his bank-book, in his
hat. He failed; and his brother allows him a
small stipend. His hat is now crammed with
the records of defunct transactions;
memoranda of mythical bargains; bills of lading
referring to phantom ships that never were
loaded; old blank bills of exchange, with the
name of his firm (when it had a name) curiously
flourished thereon in copper-plate; his former
seal of office; a greasy cheque-book, with
nothing but tallies telling of sums long since
drawn from his banker's; bits of sealing-
wax; his bankrupt certificate; his testimonials
of integrity from his brother merchants.
These have an abiding place in his pockets.
He has a decayed pocket-book, too, bulging out
with prospectuses of dead companies full of
sound and flourish, signifying nothing. He
sits alone, and aloof from his brother Ghosts;
not indulging even in the silent freemasonry
of these commercial phantoms. The greatest
favour you could do him, would be to send
him to get a cheque cashed for you (he is
perfectly honest), or to leave a bill for
acceptance. The trembling eagerness with
which he would present the magic document,
and answer the bland inquiry of the cashier
as to "how he would have it;" the delirious
semblance of business he would put into the
mere act of dropping "this first of exchange"
into the box appointed to receive it, would
be quite affecting.—When he is not sitting
on 'Change, I can picture him wandering
furtively about Lombard Street, peering
anxiously through the half-opened doors
when customers go in and out; or,
sauntering along Cheapside; glancing with
melancholy looks at the forms of bills of
lading, charter-parties, and policies of
insurance, displayed in the windows of the
stationers' shops; scrutinising the strong-
backed ledgers, day-books, and journals, in
their brave binding of vellum and red, thinking
meanwhile—miserable man—that their
glories are no longer for him; that he hath done
with ink, black, red, and blue; that "cash—
debtor—contra—creditor," have no longer
music for his ears. In the evening, at the
shabby coffee-house where he takes his meal,
nought strikes him in yesterday's "Advertiser,"
save the list of bankrupts. In bed he is haunted
—ghost as he is—by the ghosts of buried
hopes, by tipstaffs, by irate Commissioners,
and by fiats to which he has neglected to
surrender.

As the late Mr. Rothschild was called the
"Pillar of the Exchange," so seemeth this
other old phantom. He has been an Exchange
Spectre since ever there were Exchanges
or Ghosts at all. He puzzles me. I can
weave histories, find genealogies, dovetail
circumstances for all the other mysterious
Bourse-haunters; but this silver-haired
apparition is a mystery inscrutable. Centuries
of commercial ghostliness seem hovering in
the innumerable furrows of his parchment
face, in the multitudinous straggling locks of
his dull, lustreless white hair. Some garment
he has on—whether a coat, a cloak, or a gaberdine,
I will not be bold enough to say—which,
reaching from his neck to his heels, allows
you to see nothing but his furrowed face, and
lean, long hands clasped before him. How
long has he haunted the city of London?
Did he linger in Paul's Walk, or in the
Roundhouse of the Temple Church in Charles's
days, when business, intrigue, and devotion
were so curiously mingled in Christian
temples; when mountebanks vended their
wares by clustered pillars, and dirty-surpliced
choristers pursued jingling cavaliers for "spur
money?" Was he a City Ghost when ladies
in sacks, and gallants in cut velvet and
embroidery, came to gamble South Sea shares
in 'Change Alley ? Did he haunt 'Change
when merchants appeared thereon, who had
had their ears cut off by the Spaniards in
Honduras: when bargains were made for
cash in negro flesh 1 Does he remember Lord
Mayor Beckford, Fauntleroy, and Rowland
Stevenson? Can he have been the broker for
the Poyais Loan? I should not be surprised
to hear that his recollection extended to
Alderman Richard Whittington, thrice Lord
Mayor of London; or to that topping wine-
merchant who "in London did dwell," and
"who had but one daughter, he loved very well."

City Spectres, like the rest of their order,
are, for the most part, silent men. Their
main object seems to be to impress the
spectator, by the inert force of taciturnity, with
an idea of the weighty business they have
on hand. A few, however, are talkative;
some, as I know to my sorrow, are
garrulous. Woe be unto you if you have ever
been in the company of, or have the slightest
acquaintance with, the talkative Ghost!
Although, to say the truth, when he wants to
talk, he will talk, and is not even solicitous
of an introduction: he thinks he knows you;
or he knew your father, or he knows your wife's
second cousin, or he knows somebody very like
you; and, upon the strength of that knowledge,
he takes you quietly, but firmly, by the button
—he holds you in his "skinny hand" as tightly
as if you were the wedding guest and he the
Ancient Mariner; and, for all that you beat
your breast, you cannot choose but hear. You
listen like a three-years' child, while this
ancient bore speaks on, discoursing of his
grievances; of his losses; of the "parties"
he knows, or has known; of his cousin, who
—would you believe it, my dear sir?—drives
into the City every morning in a carriage
and pair, with a powdered footman in the