518 AN EPOCH IN THE LIFE OF 



day had passed without finding him at all determined in his preference. 

 He possessed a good deal of scientific knowledge should it be science ? 

 He was an accomplished man should it be fine arts ? He had read 

 much, and was a scribbler should it be literature light, moral, or 

 political ? 



Whenever Mulciber was puzzled, it was his custom to " consult 

 nature," in a vagabond stroll out of doors, with much about the same 

 profit as one looks first at one corner of the ceiling, then at another, for 

 a bright idea difficult to achieve, and not always found when sought. 

 A little meditation might, he imagined, lead to a lucky thought to guide 

 him in his extremity ; and so, for the fiftieth time, he had recourse to 

 the old expedient. He donned his hat, and wandered forth from the 

 oppressive dulness of his own den, away to the pastures of Putney. He 

 was very partial to the water, especially in sunny weather. Indolent 

 people generally are. There is an indescribable pleasure in gazing on 

 the rippling river, sparkling with sunbeams, the tide flowing up or 

 down just as it happens and the broad Jbosom of the water dotted 

 with gay wherries and their weary loads, or relieved of its monotony 

 by the passing interlude of a square-built coal-barge or two, heavy and 

 black as a bad man's conscience. Mulciber made choice of a retired 

 spot close to the w'ater's edge, and threw himself listlessly down to muse 

 in quiet and repose. Every thing around him appeared beautiful, happy, 

 and serene. The sky was clear, and the clouds bright and downy : the 

 little birds chirruped and sang gleefully about; the insects hummed 

 dreamily through the air ; the very earth itself seemed to breathe forth 

 gladness, in the living sheet of incense that glisteningly and quiveringly 

 ascended from its surface; and all things, in short, appeared calm, 

 peaceful, and harmonious, except the perturbed Mulciber, whom destiny 

 delighted so to cross. He took a brief review of his present condition, 

 and of the urgent necessity of at once attempting " something or 

 other," to give to it a brighter aspect; this, indeed, was a painful 

 and exhausted theme, which he was but too glad to forget. So he 

 picked the grass, looked at the clouds, then upon the water, and flung 

 pebbles into it by way of provoking pleasanter reveries. Still, however, 

 the sickening question would continue to obtrude, of " What shall I do ?" 



As a fatalist, Mulciber more than half imagined it was scarcely worth 

 trying to do anything, despite the importunities of prudence ; and as a 

 philosopher, he was almost prepared to yield passively to whatsoever 

 circumstances might betide him, " let the worst come to the worst/' 

 But neither his philosophy nor his fatalism could repress two images 

 which continually haunted his imagination namely, the spectres of his 

 tailor and his landlord. In the light of day, or the obscurity of night 

 in every season of the twenty-four hours, morning, noon, or eventide 

 they pressed themselves upon his morbid vision. It was vexatious 

 very ; but still there they were : in street or field in solitude or in the 

 crowd at home or abroad Mr. Truefit and Mr. Firstfloor were ever the 

 prominent and pestilential objects of his unwilling contemplation. If 

 he looked at the sky, the clouds seemed to assume the appearance of 

 tailors' shopboards ; the very foliage of the trees arranged itself into 

 enlarged and multiplied profiles of features too well remembered ; every 

 passenger who crossed his path appeared a Mr. Truefit, a Mr. Firstfloor, 



