Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 55, No. 339, January, 1844 eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 343 pages of information about Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 55, No. 339, January, 1844.

Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 55, No. 339, January, 1844 eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 343 pages of information about Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 55, No. 339, January, 1844.

“Oh—­I have dreaded this—­I have suspected it!” said Burrage, wringing his hands; “but it has always seemed impossible.  Poor Mr Allcraft!”

Poor!” exclaimed Michael.  “Do you begin already?  Do you throw it in my teeth so soon?  You are in the right, man—­go with the stream—­taunt me—­spit in my face—­trample me in the dust!”

“Do not speak unkindly to me, master,” said the old clerk.  “You will break my heart at once if you do.  What you have told me is hard enough to bear in one day.”

Michael took the good fellow’s hand, and answered, whilst his lips quivered with grief, “It is—­it is enough, old friend.  Go your ways.  Leave me to myself.  I have told you a secret—­keep it whilst it remains one.  Oh, what a havoc!  What devastation!  Go, Burrage—­go—­seal your lips—­do not breathe a syllable—­go to your work.”

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

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Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 55, No. 339, January, 1844 from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.