Six months from the time when Nicholas made the loans before spoken of, he “found that the security was not worth a farthing.” If any one is surprised that he should have been so improvident of safety, they only need be told, that he is one of those men whose expansiveness of mind, and splendid talents were at home only in great things. He could grasp at millions, and sport with them as mere baubles; but the dull and dry detail of investigating trifles, was fit occupation only for meaner minds. And to the same splendid talents it was undoubtedly owing, that in passing into retirement, he was enabled to discover so much soundness and prosperity in the affairs of the U. S. Bank of Pennsylvania, when nobody else could, and that the stockholders of that institution, are so permanently fixed in an investment of a capital of 35 millions, that they will never get a dollar of it back again. Nicholas, however, was a man of courtesy, and when on a visit to this city, condescended to call on the directors of the Morrison. The money borrowed by them, had been all expended; another instalment of interest was becoming due, and nothing provided to pay it with. He met them in the Bank parlor, with solemn faces, and like the Irishman’s owl, which he feigned to be a parrot, they spoke not, but were thinking very hard. THE D——L NOT TO BE FEARED. “Well gentlemen,” said he, “what is the matter?” Mr. Faintheart, always foremost to express discouragement, and always the last to aid in relief, immediately replied. Why Mr. B. the D——l is to pay, and we have no money. True, answered Nicholas, you owe _me_ a good deal of money, but if that is all, it can no doubt be arranged. Mr. Faintheart first blushed, then turned pale, rose from his seat, and his knees smote together, when he perceived that he had unluckily hit on the vulgar cognomen of Nicholas. Regarding the man with the highest veneration, and even with fear, and unable himself to comprehend, how so great a mind could exist, without more aid than falls to the lot of common mortals, he secretly believed the profane allusion to be a verity, and, in his fears, expecting a blow from the forked tail, that would annihilate him at once, he was fain to ensconce himself under the table. But perceiving that none of his comrades attempted to run away, and that Nicholas himself sat in “the armed chair, calm as a summer’s morning,” with a smile playing upon his countenance, benignant as benevolence herself, he was re-assured; the purple came to his nose again, and he stammered out, I beg pardon, I had no allusion to—to—_you_, sir. “Sit down, Mr. Faintheart,” said Nicholas, “your wit amuses us.” Mr. Faintheart sat down, but was unable sufficiently to master his disturbed, and mortified feelings, to utter another word. EVERY MAN HAS HIS PRICE.