The clerk went as he was bid, but stupified and stunned by the information he had received. He took his accustomed seat at the desk, and placed a large ledger before him. He was occupied with one trifling account for half the day, and did not finish it at last. A simple sum of compound addition puzzled the man who, an hour before, could have gone through the whole of the arithmetic in his sleep. Oh, boasted intellect of man! How little is it thou canst do when the delicate and feeling heart is out of tune! How impotent thou art! How like a rudderless ship upon a stormy sea! Poor Burrage was helpless and adrift! And Michael sat for hours together alone, in his little room. He was literally afraid to creep out of it. He struggled to keep his mind steadily and composedly fixed upon the fate that awaited him--a fate which he had marked out for himself, and resolved not to escape. He forced himself to regard the great Enemy of Man as _his_ best friend--his only comforter and refuge. But just when he deemed himself well armed, least vulnerable, and most secure, the awful _reality_ of death--its horrible accompaniments--dissolution, corruption, rottenness, decay, and its still more awful and obscure _uncertainties_, started suddenly before him, and sent a sickening chill through every pore of his unnerved flesh. Then he retreated from his position--fled, as it were, for life, and dared not look behind, so terrible was the sight of his grim adversary. He leaped from his chair, as if unable to sit there; and, whilst he paced the room, he drew his breath, as though he needed air for respiration--his heart throbbed, and his brain grew tight and hot within his skull. The fit passing away, Michael hastened to review the last few years of his existence, and to bribe himself to quietness and resignation, by contrasting the hateful life which he had spent with the desirable repose offered to him in the grave; and by degrees the agitation ceased--the alarm subsided, and the deluded man was once more cozened into hardened and unnatural tranquillity. In this way flew the hours--one train of feeling succeeding to another, until the worn-out spirit of the man gave in, and would be moved no longer. At last, the unhappy banker grew sullen and silent. He ceased to sigh, and groan, and weep. His brain refused to think. He drew his seat to the window of the room, which permitted him, unperceived, to observe the movements in the bank--and, folding his arms, he looked doggedly on, and clenched his teeth, and frowned. He saw the fortunate few who came for money and received it--and the unfortunate many, who brought their money--left, and lost it. He was indifferent to all. He beheld--as the spirits fair may be supposed to look upon the earth a moment before the sweeping pestilence that comes to thin it--life, vigorous and active, in that house of business, whose latest hour had come--whose knell was already sounding; but it moved him not.