In June, 1720, the £100 stock of the South Sea Company was rushed up to £890, and a little later it touched £1000. Then the tide turned, and, as is invariably the case, all were as anxious to sell as a few days before they had been eager to buy. Every hour intensified the panic, until at length the stock fell to £175, and the difference between the highest and lowest quotations is eloquent of the loss inflicted upon the community, for everybody who had money to invest was interested in this gigantic gamble.
Widespread misery and ruin followed. Suicide was of daily occurrence, and, after a momentary lull in the storm, popular indignation lashed itself into fury against the directors, for whom, it was openly declared, hanging was too good a fate. The Government, thoroughly alarmed, turned to the one strong man who had consistently opposed the scheme, and who, in consequence, was at that moment the most popular man in England; so Sir Robert Walpole stepped into the breach, and stemmed the tide of popular indignation and national disaster.
At first Walpole was disposed to resort to half-measures, but when it became apparent that the South Sea Company was rotten to the core and that it must go at any price, he devised a scheme by which the East India Company and the Bank of England took over £18,000,000 of South Sea stock. The Bank directors, throughout this trying period, acted with a strange lack of caution, and the situation was only saved by Walpole's better judgment.
The period was one of mad speculation, and no venture was too absurd to foist upon a public, which, until the crash came, did not display a gleam of intelligence or discernment, so blinded was it by greed. Naturally, those bankers who had advanced against South Sea stock did not escape loss, and many of the goldsmiths and private bankers were ruined by the reaction, while the Bank of England itself barely escaped. It is interesting to notice that, even in 1720, the public could only be tempted by a rising market; and it has remained true to this instinct, as, for some unaccountable reason, the "bear" is always looked upon as an undesirable kind of person.
The next disturbance of credit occurred in 1745, when the Young Pretender, "Bonnie Prince Charlie," after defeating Sir John Cope at Prestonpans, resolved to march on London, and penetrated as far as Derby. The news of his arrival there reached London on the 4th December (Black Friday), and the City was seized with so severe a panic that business was suspended. Some of the citizens actually left the country, and even the King made preparations for flight. Everybody then wished to possess himself of gold, and a run at once began upon the Bank of England, which was taken completely by surprise, and only saved the situation by resorting to the expedient of paying its notes in sixpences—a somewhat lengthy proceeding, but one which enabled it to gain time. Nobody, however, would trust a Stuart, and the panic very quickly subsided.
Learning that the Duke of Cumberland was advancing to meet him, Charles was compelled by his followers to beat a hasty retreat towards Scotland, and by the 23rd December the Highlanders had crossed the border again. In January, 1746, they defeated General Hawley at Falkirk, but in the following April the Prince lost the battle of Culloden, which dealt the final blow to the hopes of the House of Stuart.
The panics and crises between 1745 and 1857 have been discussed in Chapters I. and II. of this book—principally in Chapter II.
The Crimean War, through which this country muddled, was brought to a close in 1856, at a cost to the nation of £33,000,000; and it may perhaps be interesting to compare this sum with the £230,000,000 which has been expended in the South African struggle. Even for a Balaclava £33,000,000 seems a dear price to pay. But £230,000,000 for a Colenso! Glory makes a poor national asset.