strange a problem as money running to waste, took refuge in the
supernatural. Much more truly haunted than the house in "Buckley Square"
are the streets of London which are tenanted by the ghosts that genius
created. These, having never been born, can never die, and still we may
meet them in the roads and squares where they lived and took their
pastime. Mr. Rideing, an American author, has published (with Messrs.
Jarvis and Son) a little volume called "Thackeray's London," an account
of the places which that great novelist made household words, and filled
with genial spectres that time can never lay. Mr. Rideing's little book
does not strike us as being quite complete. Surely Thackeray, especially
in the "Ballads," mentions many places not alluded to by the new
topographer. Besides, Mr. Rideing says that Thackeray's readers forget
the localities in which his characters appear. Surely this is a calumny
on human memory. Who but thinks of Becky Sharp as he trudges down Curzon
Street? Has Bryanston Square properly any reason for existence, except
that the Hobson Newcomes dwelt there? Are the chambers of Captain
Costigan forgotten by the memory of any man, or those of Pen and George
Warrington? But Pen took better rooms, not so lofty, when he scored that
success with "Walter Lorraine." Where did Mr. Bowes, the hopeless
admirer of the Fotheringay, dwell? Every one should know, but that
question might puzzle some. Or where was the lair of the Mulligan? Like
the grave of Arthur, or of Moliere, it is unknown; the whole of the
postal district known as W. is haunted by that tremendous shade. "I live
there," says he, pointing down towards Uxbridge with the big stick he
carries; so his abode is in that direction, at any rate. No more has
been given to man to know.

Many minor reminiscences occur to the mind. In Pump Court we encounter
the brisk little spectre of Mr. Frederick Minchin, and who can forget
that his club was The Oxford and Cambridge, than which what better could