it is a matter of importance that girls having
property, little or much, should understand the character of those to
whom they entrust it.

There are many and valuable books published upon these subjects, but
they are expensive to buy and take a long time to wade through; in
addition to this, they are so learned that we women-folk fail often to
get the simple information we require, even when we have read them.

The Bank of England, either by name or by sight, is known, I suppose, to
all of us; but its origin, its working, its influence, is not so
familiar to us, and it does not seem to me that we should be going at
all out of our province if we were to ask the "Old Lady of
Threadneedle-street" to tell us something of her history, her household,
and her daily life, seeing that most of us contribute to her
housekeeping, some more, some less.

We trust her so completely that "safe as the Bank of England" has passed
into a proverb; yet, for all that, we should like the old lady's own
account of how she came into existence, and how she became such a power
in the land, and what she does with all the money we lend her, and out
of what purse she pays us for the loan.

She certainly ought to be able to tell an interesting tale--for her
palace, her servants, her house-keeping, her treasures, her cellars, her
expenditure, her receipts and clearing, the frights she has every now
and again both given and received, must each and all be more amusing and
full of interest than any fairy tale told by Grimm or Andersen.

CHAPTER I.

THE STORY OF THE OLD LADY OF THREADNEEDLE STREET.

And so you want me to tell you the story of my life! Telling tales is
not quite in my line, but I will do the best I can; and should I become
garrulous and tedious, as old ladies are wont sometimes to be, you must
recall me by a gentle reminder that you live in the present century,
whose characteristics are short, decisive, and by all means amusing.

My career has been a strange and eventful one, as you yourselves will
see if I can interest you sufficiently to listen to the end.

Of course, I was not always known as the Old Lady of
Threadneedle-street; indeed, I can well remember the feeling of
annoyance with which I saw _Mr. Punch's_ illustration of me in 1847, as
a fat old woman without a trace of beauty, except in my garments, which
were made of bank notes. I have kept a copy of it, and will just pencil
you the outline.

The annoyance was int