rumble. All this, he speaks in a low and
earnest, though distressingly rambling, tone;
and his brother Ghosts in the distance—as if
believing he had really business to transact
with you—clutch their umbrellas, and bend
their dull eyes on both of you with looks of
jealous curiosity.

That substantial Spectre, who holds me in
spirit-wearying conversation; who speaks in
a low, hoarse, secret kind of voice, with long
and bitter words, was an attorney—a City
attorney—in large practice; and, for some
alleged mal-practices, was struck off the
Rolls. He has been a Spectre and a bore
ever since. You must hear his case; you
must hear the scandalous, the unheard-of,
manner in which he has been treated. Read
his statement to the public, which the
newspapers would not insert; read his letter to
Mr. Justice Bullwiggle, which that learned
functionary never answered; read his
memorial to Lord Viscount Fortyshins, which
was answered, and that was all. Only wait
till he has the means to publish a pamphlet
on his case. Meanwhile, read his notes
thereupon. Never mind your appointment
at three: what's that to justice?

Even as he speaks, a slowly gibbering army
of Ghosts who have grievances start before
you; Ghosts with inventions which they
can't afford to patent, and which unscrupulous
capitalists have pirated; Ghosts who can't
get the Prime Minister to listen to their
propositions for draining Ireland in three weeks,
or for swamping the National Debt in a day;
Ghosts against whose plans of national
defence the War Office door has been more
than once rudely shut; Spectres who, like
Dogberry, have had losses; Ghosts who
when in the flesh (but they never had much
of that) were shrunk and attenuated, with
interminable stories of fraudulent partners;
Ghosts who have long been the victims of
fiendish official persecutions: lastly, and in
particular, that never-to-be-forgotten and
always-to-be-avoided Ghost, who has had a
Chancery suit on and off for an incalculable
number of years; who has just been with his
lawyers, and is going to file a bill to-morrow.
Alas, poor Ghost! "Be still, old mole; there
is no hope for thee!"

There is a genealogical Ghost, eyeing me
with devouring looks, that bode no
conversational good. He only wants one baptismal
certificate to prove that he is somebody's
great-great-grandson, and to come into
twenty thousand a-year. Let him but earn,
beg, or borrow a crown, and forthwith in
the "Times" comes out an advertisement,
"to parish clerks and others." There is
a sporting Ghost, with a phantom betting-
book, who tells you, in a sepulchral voice,
of "information" about "Job Pastern's lot;"
and that he can give you a "tip" for safe
odds on such and such an "event."—A Ghost
there is, too, in moustaches, who is called, on
the strength of those appendages, "Captain,"
and is supposed to have been embodied in
some sort of legion in Spain, at some time or
another.

Talkative or taciturn, however, here these
poor spectres sit or loiter during the day,
retiring into dark corners when genuine
business begins, and the merchants and
brokers come on 'Change; always, and without
intermission, seeming to be here, yet
prowling by some curious quality of body or
spirit in other City haunts; in Garraway's,
and in the Auction Mart; in small civic
coffee-houses and taverns; in the police-courts
of the Mansion House; in Guildhall and the
Custom House.

In Bartholomew Lane wander another race
of perturbed spirits, akin in appearance and
mysterious demeanour to the Exchange
Spectres; yet of a somewhat more practical
and corporeal order. These are the "lame
ducks;" men who have once been stock-
brokers—wealthy "bulls," purse-proud
"bears;" but who, unable to meet certain
financial liabilities on a certain settling day,
have been compelled to retire—who have
"waddled," as is the slang of Cambists—from
the parliament of money-brokers. Yet do
they linger in the purlieus of the beloved
Capel Court, even as the Peri waited at the
gates of Paradise: yet do they drive small
time bargains with very small jobbers, or
traffic in equivocal securities and shares in
suspicious companies. They affect the
transaction of business when they have none to
transact; and, under cover of consulting the
share-list of the day, or the City intelligence
in a newspaper, they furtively consume
Abernethy biscuits and "Polony" sausages.

Once, however, in about five-and-twenty
years, do they cast off their slough of semi-
inactivity: once even in that period do the
Spectres of the Royal Exchange start forth
into life and action. For, look you, once in
every quarter of a century—sometimes more
frequently—do the men, women, and children
run stark, staring, raving, ranting mad. They
have a MANIA. Now for gold-digging in
American Dorados; now for South Sea
fisheries; now for joint-stock companies, for
doing everything for everybody; now for
railways; now for life-assurance. Everybody goes
crazed for shares. Lords, ladies, divines,
physicians, chimneysweeps; all howl for shares.
They buy, sell, barter, borrow, beg, steal,
invent, dream of shares. Bank notes and
prospectuses fly about thick as the leaves in
Valombrosa; men are no longer mere human
beings; but directors, provisional committee-
men, auditors and trustees. The MANIA
continues, and the SPECTRES arise. They become
STAGS. Capel Court resounds with their shrill
bargains; and, the spectre of a moment before
stands erect, blatant, defiant, a stag of ten tynes.
Away with the appointment with the man
who never comes; away with the delusive
commission on corn and coals; away with the phantom
bill in the mythical Chancery; away with