credit would be shaken; and Montague would be regarded as a
pretender who had owed his reputation to a mere run of good luck,
and who had tempted chance once too often. But the event was such
as even his sanguine spirit had scarcely ventured to anticipate.
At one in the afternoon of the 14th of July the books were opened
at the Hall of the Company of Mercers in Cheapside. An immense
crowd was already collected in the street. As soon as the doors
were flung wide, wealthy citizens, with their money in their
hands, pressed in, pushing and elbowing each other. The guineas
were paid down faster than the clerks could count them. Before
night six hundred thousand pounds had been subscribed. The next
day the throng was as great. More than one capitalist put down
his name for thirty thousand pounds. To the astonishment of those
ill boding politicians who were constantly repeating that the
war, the debt, the taxes, the grants to Dutch courtiers, had
ruined the kingdom, the sum, which it had been doubted whether
England would be able to raise in many weeks, was subscribed by
London in a few hours. The applications from the provincial towns
and rural districts came too late. The merchants of Bristol had
intended to take three hundred thousand pounds of the stock, but
had waited to learn how the subscription went on before they gave
their final orders; and, by the time that the mail had gone down
to Bristol and returned, there was no more stock to be had.

This was the moment at which the fortunes of Montague reached the
meridian. The decline was close at hand. His ability and his
constant success were everywhere talked of with admiration and
envy. That man, it was commonly said, has never wanted, and never
will want, an expedient.