When Allcraft, one morning at his usual hour, presented himself at the bank, his confidential clerk approached him with a very serious face, and placed a newspaper in his hand.  Michael had grown very timid and excitable; and when the clerk put his finger on the particular spot to which he desired to call his superior’s attention, the heart of the nervous man leapt into his throat, and the blood rushed from his cheek, as if it were its duty to go and look after it.  He literally wanted the courage to read the words.  He attempted to smile indifferently, and to thank his servant as courteously as if he had given him a pleasant pinch of snuff; but at the same time, he pressed 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