We count it among the great events of our young existence, that we had, some days since, the honour of visiting the Old Lady. It was not without an emotion of awe that we passed her Porter’s Lodge. The porter himself, blazoned in royal scarlet, and massively embellished with gold lace, is an adumbration of her dignity and wealth. His cocked hat advertises her stable antiquity as plainly as if she had written up, in imitation of some of her lesser neighbours, “established in 1694.” This foreshadowing became reality when we passed through the Hall—the tellers’ hall. A sensation of unbounded riches permeated every sense, except, alas! that of touch. The music of golden thousands clattered in the ear, as they jingled on counters until its last echoes were strangled in the puckers of tightened money-bags, or died under the clasps of purses. Wherever the eye turned, it rested on money; money of every possible variety; money in all shapes; money of all colours. There was yellow money, white money, brown money; gold money, silver money, copper money; paper money, pen and ink money. Money was wheeled about in trucks; money was carried about in bags; money was scavengered about with shovels. Thousands of sovereigns were jerked hither and thither from hand to hand—grave games of pitch and toss were played with staid solemnity; piles of bank notes—competent to buy whole German dukedoms and Italian principalities—hustled to and fro with as much indifference as if they were (as they had been) old rags. This Hall of the Old Lady’s overpowered us with a sense of wealth; oppressed us with a golden dream of Riches. From this vision an instinctive appeal to our own pockets, and a few miserable shillings, awakened us to Reality. When thus aroused we were in one of the Old Lady’s snug, elegant, waiting-rooms, which is luxuriously Turkey-carpeted and adorned with two excellent portraits of two ancient cashiers; regarding one of whom the public were warned:— “Sham Abraham you may, I’ve often heard say: But you mustn’t sham ‘Abraham Newland.’” There are several conference-rooms for gentlemen who require a little private conversation with the Old Lady—perhaps on the subject of discounts. It is no light thing to send in one’s card to the Foster-Mother of British commerce; the Soul of the State; “the Sun,” according to Sir Francis Baring, around which the agriculture, trade, and finance of this country revolves; the mighty heart of active capital, through whose arteries and veins flows the entire circulating medium of this great country. It was not, therefore, without agitation that we were ushered from the waiting-room, into that celebrated private apartment of the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street—the Parlour—the Bank Parlour, the inmost mystery—the _cella_ of the great Temple of Riches.