d
his thumb upon the paragraph, and made his way straight to his snug
and private room. He was ready to drop when he reached it, and his
heart beat like a hammer against his ribs. He placed the paper on the
table, and, ere he read a syllable, he laboured to compose himself.
What could it be? Was the thing exploded? Was he already the common
talk and laugh of men? Was he ruined and disgraced? He read at
length--_The property and estates of Walter Bellamy, Esq., were
announced for sale by auction._ His first sensation on perusing the
advertisement was one of overpowering sickness. Here, then, was his
destruction sealed! Here was the declaration of poverty trumpeted to
the world. Here was the alarum sounded--here was his doom proclaimed.
Let there be a run upon the bank--and who could stop it now?--let it
last for four-and-twenty hours, and he is himself a bankrupt, an
outcast, and a beggar. The tale was told--the disastrous history was
closed. He had spun his web--had been his own destiny. God help and
pardon him for his transgressions! There he sat, unhappy creature,
weeping, and weeping like a heart-broken boy, sobbing aloud from the
very depths of his soul, frantic with distress. For a full half hour
he sat there, now clenching his fists in silent agony, now accusing
himself of crime, now permitting horrible visions to take possession
of his brain, and to madden it with their terrible and truth-like
glare. He saw himself--whilst his closed eyes were pressed upon his
paralysed hands--saw himself as palpably as though he stood _before_
himself, crawling through the public streets, an object for men's
pity, scorn, and curses. Now men laughed at him, pointed to him with
their fingers, and made their children mock and hoot the penniless
insolvent. Labouring men, with whose small savings he had played the
thief, prayed for maledictions on his head; and mothers taught their
little ones to hate the very name he bore, and frightened them by
making use of it. Miserable pictures, one upon the other, rose before
him--dark judgments, which he had never dreamed of or anticipated; and
he stood like a stricken coward, and he yearned for the silence and
concealment of the _grave_. Ay--the grave! Delightful haven to
pigeon-hearted malefactors--inconsistent criminals, who fear the puny
look of mortal man, and, unabashed, stalk beneath the eternal and the
killing frown of God. Michael fixed upon his remedy, and the delusive
opiate gave hi