Pond Street is the locality—the name is suggestive of stagnation and greenness—and here has been seen a terrible apparition, "A Tall Man with a Deathlike Face and Snowy Garments Reaching to his Feet." Allowing for the poetry which broke out in snow, the description serves wonderfully for an Irish labourer who, having been desperately beaten in one of the religious ceremonies of his nation, gets out of bed in the night-gown lent him by the hospital. But we will believe the Ghost to be veritable, and to have a mission. Let us see what it is.
First, a sturdy young "excavator" goes up-stairs into the ghostly chamber, and being in his cups, is the easier victim to the saucer eyes, which flame on him so hideously that he falls down in a fit.
Secondly, another "excavator" (if these poor spade men have been disturbing the Ghost's earthly tenement in its grave, justice would have sent the remonstrating spectre to the surveyor's office, or the contractor's counting-house) goes up-stairs, only to fall down in a fit like his predecessor.
Thirdly, an older labourer comes home, and being informed of the affair, proceeds to enquire into it. Stricken down in horror, his fits last for hours.
The neighbourhood, now clustered in agitation round the haunted house, clamours for the Police. Three gallant and well-grown officers, uniformed, and belted, and braceleted, and bludgeoned, march fearlessly into the house, prepared to say "Come, cut it," or "Be off out of that," to the grimmest phantom on the walk. In a few minutes the lettered heroes rush out of the dwelling, their horror untold; but a policeman, paid a guinea a week (less deductions), must have seen something remarkable when he declares, that "untold gold" should not induce him to stay in the place. And these legal authorities actually counsel the householders to leave the dreadful house as soon as possible.
The mission, you see, for which a supernatural visitor is sent from the world of spirits, prospers. Three labourers go into fits, and three policemen are frightened out of their duty. Then doors bang all night, and groans are heard, and a mob blocks up the street until five in the morning. And Mr. Punch, who, as may often be seen in the streets, is ready to tackle any ghost with that unhesitating club of his, goes the next afternoon to Pond Street, and finds the assembly again in full force, but not very reverent, and discussing the ghost's nature with that freedom of epithet characteristic of street conversationists. Mr. Punch was very much shocked to hear the roar of laughter which greeted a proposition, made by a gentleman in his shirt-sleeves and with a short pipe, to the effect that if any one would "stand" (Mr. Punch believes he reports the right word) a vessel of malt liquor, he would go into the house (which appears to have resembled that of Saul), and inflict upon the Ghost—as to whose future destiny the speaker's expressions showed that he had made up his mind—a species of castigation which certainly should be reserved for extreme cases. And Mr. Punch further reports that all along the King's Road, and near the Hospital, and even towards theatrical Brompton, many of whose inhabitants have rejoiced to see "the Ghost walk," the popular invitation was "Come on; let's go and see that blessed Ghost." Clearly, therefore, the supernatural visitor is fulfilling the important mission for which only can we suppose he has been sent from another world.
When the clergy of the neighbourhood heard of the affair, they were greatly moved. One of them, a young Barnabasian, threw down the sweetest handful of charming artificial flowers, with which he was making an altar-wreath for Sunday, rushed into the crowd, and affectionately, but earnestly, reproved his humbler brethren for putting faith in such vulgar and impious folly. He entered the haunted house, walked all over it, and throwing up every window in turn, addressed a few words of gentle ridicule from each: and he ended by leading away the whole assembly to his church, where he gave them some sound, shrewd counsel, which will probably spoil a Ghost's market in that quarter for some time. Others of the clergy, roused by the spectacle in Pond Street, have been equally active; and perhaps after all, this was the Ghost's real mission. In this case "it is an honest ghost, that let Punch tell ye."
The Roman Catholic priests of the vicinity, however, look at the matter in another light, and regard the "Deathlike face" as the editor of the Tablet does the Salette miracle, where the Virgin astonished the weak mind of the pig-boy and girl, and sent a very proper message to the French people not to swear. They say that the Ghost is that of somebody who, not having paid up the priest's "dues," will haunt the neighbourhood until somebody else pays them for him. The landlord of the house, who seems to have most reason to complain of the apparition, intends to pay these "dues," and charge them in the rent, unless the next tenant likes to take the Ghost with the fixtures.
This is, Punch joyfully admits, an enlightened age, but its lights will, sometimes, burn blue.