rses, herds of cattle, flocks of sheep, wandering at will; here throwing
down a hay-rick, and nestling from cold in its heart, which afforded them
shelter and food--there having taken possession of a vacant cottage. Once
on a frosty day, pushed on by restless unsatisfying reflections, I sought a
favourite haunt, a little wood not far distant from Salt Hill. A bubbling
spring prattles over stones on one side, and a plantation of a few elms and
beeches, hardly deserve, and yet continue the name of wood. This spot had
for me peculiar charms. It had been a favourite resort of Adrian; it was
secluded; and he often said that in boyhood, his happiest hours were spent
here; having escaped the stately bondage of his mother, he sat on the rough
hewn steps that led to the spring, now reading a favourite book, now
musing, with speculation beyond his years, on the still unravelled skein of
morals or metaphysics. A melancholy foreboding assured me that I should
never see this place more; so with careful thought, I noted each tree,
every winding of the streamlet and irregularity of the soil, that I might
better call up its idea in absence. A robin red-breast dropt from the
frosty branches of the trees, upon the congealed rivulet; its panting
breast and half-closed eyes shewed that it was dying: a hawk appeared in
the air; sudden fear seized the little creature; it exerted its last
strength, throwing itself on its back, raising its talons in impotent
defence against its powerful enemy. I took it up and placed it in my
breast. I fed it with a few crumbs from a biscuit; by degrees it revived;
its warm fluttering heart beat against me; I cannot tell why I detail this
trifling incident--but the scene is still before me; the snow-clad fields
seen through the silvered trunks of the beeches,--the brook, in days of
happiness alive with sparkling waters, now choked by ice--the leafless
trees fantastically dressed in hoar frost--the shapes of summer leaves
imaged by winter's frozen hand on the hard ground--the dusky sky, drear
cold, and unbroken silence--while close in my bosom, my feathered
nursling lay warm, and safe, speaking its content with a light chirp--
painful reflections thronged, stirring my brain with wild commotion--cold
and death-like as the snowy fields was all earth--misery-stricken the
life-tide of the inhabitants--why should I oppose the cataract of
destruction that swept us away?--why string my nerves and renew my
wearied efforts