THE SCRABSTER FAMILY.

AN EXTRACT FROM AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

I.

AFTER having lived the placid life of a stern recluse for some time, it occurred to me, in one of my infrequent ventures into society, to fall into the company of a lady with whose agreeable manners, vivacious intelligence, and charming sundries, I was at once captivated. I had for some time withdrawn from what are called the pleasures and gaieties of town life, and had settled down with an old friend my only solace and companion, a pipe, in a set of miserably cold chambers, where the chimnies always smoked, the doors and windows creaked and groaned, and the laundress was old, halt, and asthmatical. It was strange that these things had never occurred to me before, but on the evening of my introduction to Dulcinea, after having become somewhat intoxicated with too much indulgence in her brilliant conversation; and after having parted from her with as much reluctance as a captain from his anchor on a stormy night, these, and a thousand other miseries which I continually endured, rushed upon my overwrought mind with crushing force. I shook the hand of my host and his wife

B

with a melancholy indifference, and left the house to encounter the weather and the mud of a dreary November night, in a solitary walk from Kensington to Gray's Inn. A combined mixture of snow and rain was floating about the cold atmosphere, settling uncomfortably upon one's face and clothes. I had no umbrella, for I hated such contrivances, and had long abandoned the use of them. My hat would be spoilt, but what of that? The hat, never an ornament, could not possibly be rendered more hideous by a soaking. I was sure to be drenched. No matter. It would bring on my intermittent rheumatism a week before its time, close up the nasal orifice, and commence my coughing performances a little sooner than usual. That was all! I laughed, a short, dry, timid, hollow sort of laugh, which as soon as it reached my own ears, rushed in, penetrated into the very depths of my poor conscience, and seemed to echo and reverberate within, and moan a sort of reproof that this was a little too strong. I was silent. Steadily pawing over the ground, or rather through the mud, I occasionally plashed into a pool of liquid dirt, and by a curious and well known hydraulic operation, deposited the contents on my clothes and within-side my shoes. The upper man was slowly moistening and soddening, from the continuous influence of the uncomfortable deposit of the combined mixture of snow and rain. A sensation of cold crept over me, and round about me, and completely through me; the blood receded from all parts into my heart, and seemed there to become congealed by the cold draught of wind that rushed

through the deserted veins. I felt bleak and woebegone. Never had the world seemed so cold. Cold to the very heart; stone cold, and irrecoverably cold. My feet seemed to be enveloped in wet sponges rather than leather and warm lamb's wool. My body seemed shrouded in dank seaweed, and my nose for the nonce became a spout to carry off the accumulation of moisture from the eaves of my roofing tile. What was the wonder that I began seriously to review my past career, my present position, and my future prospects? What was the wonder that this communion was cheerless, blank, and horrifying?

Practically I walked on, whilst mentally I looked back to reassure myself as to the wisdom of my past years and conduct. What was the aspect? Imaginative seclusion! Placid retirement! Calm solitude! I began to apostrophise "Sweet solitude!" when the internal moan was again audible, and it seemed to shape itself into a low whispering word, which must have been "Dulcinea." True, said I in reply; solitude does not seem so reliable after one has met a Dulcinea. It may be, even, that the charms of solitude, comparatively, are paled before the brilliancy of Dulcinea; and that one would never retreat into solitude, if one could fall in with a Dulcinea at the proper moment. However, I have had a good deal of solitude, and I must insist that it has not been totally unprofitable. But to come to the present position I occupy. Is it advisable that I should continue my banishment from the social circle and domestic pleasures? This, though tending somewhat to the future, brought me to the

consideration, What is solitude? I plumped at this moment into the centre of the deepest puddle I had yet come to, and my legs were at once involved in a thick shower of dirty spray. The divergence from the perpendicular, caused by the suddenness and surprise of this incident, nearly cost me my balance; but I happily recovered and readjusted myself, though at the expense of my hat, which fell with a hard wooden sound, like a box, on the pavement, and then, impelled by the momentum rolled along the mud-thick path. As I picked up the wretched object, the internal moan revived and intensified, while a kind of despair seemed for a moment to seize hold of me, and shake me, and grin and glower upon me, and brush up each particular hair upon my head, stark and stiff. I endeavoured to reason away this feeling. Impossible ! One might as well attempt to reason down the squalls of a nursery at washing time. The halt laundress, platter-faced and weazing, seemed to gasp upon my very face. The snoutless ewer, the cracked basin, the split sheets, rose white and deformed upon my vision. The leaking teapot, the dim exhausted mirror, the grimy kettle, and the departed handles of the drawers, and legs of the chairs, clattered upon my hollow ears; while the chimney atmosphere of my apartments, and the chill black discomfort of the wretched hearth, palpably affected all my other senses. Thus, to realize my present position, I was now walking in moist sponges, enveloped in dank seaweed, surmounted by a supracilliary hat and ornamentation of mud, surrounded by mud; and beyond, a sea of difficulties, miseries,