Correspondence.
Since we allow freedom of discussion, we cannot hold ourselves responsible for the opinions of our Correspondents.
The Cheapside Ghost.
To the Editor of the City Press.
Sir, – Can you, who tell us faithfully what takes place in Common Council, when your brethren of the press are silenced by “closed doors”; you, who know every thing and everybody, from Aldgate-pump to Temple bar, can you be ignorant that Cheapside, or near it, is the haunt of a Ghost more subtle in its divinations than the ghost in Hamlet, and more active in its doings than the pseudo phantom of Cock-lane? Yes, sir, Mrs Veal has subsided to rest long ago, the ghost of Caesar does not even flourish in a play-bill; even the spirit-rappers have given up their conjurations, and when second-sight, biology, waltzing pianos, tapping and tipping tables, and eloquent marble busts have all sunk into silence and ignominy together, the busy precincts of Cheapside are visited by a spiritual presence, and one establishment at least favoured with an exhibition of its powers.
Brush up your periwig, and let “each particular hair,” stand on end “like quills upon the fretful porcupine,” for I am about to make some awful statements. In a certain house of business within hearing of Bow-bells curious noises are heard and extraordinary sights are seen; there is no apparition, no blue flame, no procession of tapers, no personages in white and phosphorescent unearthly eyes – in short, nothing of the ordinary and used-up ghost; but, hark!
It is said if you place a corked bottle on a desk, an invisible hand withdraws the cork; if you leave a letter for a moment unsealed, an invisible finger slips it into an envelope, and invisible lips moisten the adhesive and seal it closely; if you arrange a number of papers in the order of certain sums written on them the same unseen personage re-arranges them in the order of their dates; if you cut the wire away from one of the bells, so as to prevent it ringing, the same power shows its contempt of you by ringing the bell without a wire, and every hour of the day and night mysterious events of the kind occur, so that, in truth, London really has one haunted house.
Not long since, the principal was sitting at his desk with three ink-bottles, blue, black, and red, before him. Suddenly the blue bottle rose up, marched towards his next door neighbour, the red, and knocked him down. Black darted upon blue in defence of red, while the victim regained his feet and joined in the combat. A sanguinary fight ensued; the red blood and the blue blood were spilt freely, and the three bottles fought like three cock-sparrows; neither of them seeming to be aware of the object of the conflict; which, however, terminated in the death of blue, the original aggressor.
At another time, the principal, to whom the ghost seems particularly partial, was in want of a certain invoice, which had been stowed away with other papers carelessly, and while pondering on the tedious job he would have to find it, a leaf of paper was seen hovering over his head, like a kite in the air. It slowly descended to his desk and lo! it was the very invoice for which he was almost afraid to begin to search, so long had it reposed in dusty obscurity amongst files of forgotten documents.
So far there is nothing to indicate the sex or quality of the ghost, but the last instance I shall quote might make one imagine it to be the unquiet spirit of Dick Whittington’s cat, for on a quiet afternoon the principal was sitting rather drowsy in his counting-house, when he was suddenly awakened by a bump on the head from something which fell from the ceiling, and, to his astonishment, he found it to be a dead mouse, which his invisible familiar had presented to him from nowhere.
Feeling assured that no ordinary causes could produce such phenomena, he purposes to lay the whole of the facts before Professor Faraday, at the same time desiring the Professor to visit the scene of the enchantment. Whether Dr Faraday will “pooh, pooh!” or go into the inquiry with the enthusiasm which is that philosopher’s wont, remains to be seen. I enclose my card, and am, sir, yours, &c. The Hermit Of Cheapside.
(We have heard a good deal about this Cheapside ghost, but thought it too foolish an affair to occupy any space in our columns. But as our correspondent encloses his car, and we know him to be trustworthy, and as, moreover, the subject has long since ceased to be of a “private and confidential” nature, we see no objection to the insertion of the above, but, of course, we decline to state the exact locality of the ghostly performances, and content ourselves with remarking that they take place in the house of a respectable citizen, who believes that they are capable of a philosophical explanation. – ED. C. P. )
London City Press, 22nd May 1858.