“Not so bad as that, I trust, sir. A large percentage of the stock will no doubt be paid.” “When? Where? How? Hasn’t the Bank failed? And when did a bank fail and a stockholder receive a dollar? Gracious heavens!” And with this ejaculation, Mr. Townsend turned away and walked hastily in the direction of his place of business, murmuring to himself, “Ruined! ruined! ruined!” At his counting-room he found a letter from a correspondent in Philadelphia, announcing the failure of the Bank, but advising him by all means not to sacrifice his stock, nor be alarmed at the low price to which those interested in its depression would at first cause it to fall. Mr. Townsend read over this letter, and then laying it aside, murmured to himself, as he bowed his head upon a desk, “Ruined! ruined! ruined!” To this, and only to this conclusion, could his bewildered mind come. But, at length, the very extremity and almost hopelessness of the condition into which he found himself so suddenly reduced, aroused his mind into a more active state. “I must not sit idly here,” he said. “If any thing is to be saved, let me try to save it. Not sell! Yes, I will sell at any price, turn the proceeds into gold, and bury it in my cellar.” Under this new impulse, Mr. Townsend, after calming himself by a strong effort of the will, left his counting-room for the purpose of obtaining information as to the actual condition of the Bank, the price at which the stock was held, and the ultimate probable result, as determined in the minds of those who possessed the most accurate information. But he found every body astounded and bewildered at the unexpected event. There was no quotation of the stock whatever, except at a very low nominal price. Those who did, and those who did not, hold scrip, alike spoke of the folly of selling at present. Every one said--“Wait.”