Nay, it is nothing, empty as the wind, But a “bear” whisper down Throgmorton Street; Wild enterprise shall still be unconfined; No rest for us, when rising premiums greet The morn, to pour their treasures at our feet;— When, hark! that solemn sound is heard once more, The gathering bears its echoes yet repeat— ’Tis but too true, is now the general roar, The Bank has raised her rate, as she has done before. And then, and there were hurryings to and fro, And anxious thoughts, and signs of sad distress, Faces all pale, that, but an hour ago Smiled at the thought of their own craftiness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The coins from hungry pockets, mutual sighs Of brokers and their clients. Who can guess How many a “stag” already panting flies, When upon times so bright, such awful panics rise?” Mr. Francis, in his _History of the English Railway_, says: “The daily press was thoroughly deluged with advertisements; double sheets did not supply space enough for them; double doubles were resorted to, and, then, frequently, insertions were delayed. It has been estimated that the receipts of the leading journals averaged, at one period £12,000 and £14,000 a week, from this source. The railway papers, on some occasions, contained advertisements that must have netted £700 to £800 on each publication. The printer, the lithographer, and the stationer, with the preparation of prospectuses, the execution of maps, and the supply of other requisites, also made a considerable harvest. “The leading engineers were, necessarily, at a great premium. Mr. Brunel was said to be connected with fourteen lines, Mr. Robert Stephenson with thirty-four, Mr. Locke with thirty-one, Mr. Rastrick with seventeen, and other engineers with one hundred and thirteen. “The novelist has appropriated this peculiar portion of commercial history, and, describing it, says gravely and graphically: ‘A colony of solicitors, engineers and seedy accountants, settled in the purlieus of Threadneedle Street. Every town and parish in the Kingdom blazed out in zinc plates over the doorways. From the cellar to the roof, every fragment of a room held its committee. The darkest cupboard on the stairs contained a secretary, or a clerk. Men, who were never seen east of Temple Bar before, or since, were, now, as familiar to the pavement of Moorgate Street, {279} as the stockbrokers; ladies of title, lords, Members of Parliament, and fashionable loungers thronged the noisy passages, and were jostled by adventurers, by gamblers, rogues and imposters.’