Cranford

comes back to me, harmoniously flowing on and on, with spirit and
intention, and delightful emphasis, as we all sat indoors one gusty
morning listening to her ghost stories. They were Scotch ghosts,
historical ghosts, spirited ghosts, with faded uniforms and nice old
powdered queues. As I think it over I am suddenly struck by the immense
superiority of the ghosts of my youth to the present legion of unclean
spirits which surround us, as we are told—wielding teacups, smashing
accordions and banjos, breaking furniture in bits. That morning at
Hampstead, which I recall, was of a different order of things, spiritual
and unseen; mystery was there, romantic feeling, some holy terror and
emotion, all combined to keep us gratefully silent and delighted.

                                  II

It is something for us Cockneys to know that Mrs. Gaskell belongs to
London after all, if only as a baby. Although so much of her life was
spent in the North, and Knutsford was the home of her childhood, and
Manchester that of her married life, yet she was born in Chelsea. She
was born in 1810, in pretty old Lindsay Place, of which the
windows—ancient lights even then—still look out upon the river at its