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—­ah, why?  But that my firm courage and cheerful exertions might shelter the dear mate, whom I chose in the spring of my life; though the throbbings of my heart be replete with pain, though my hopes for the future are chill, still while your dear head, my gentlest love, can repose in peace on that heart, and while you derive from its fostering care, comfort, and hope, my struggles shall not cease,—­I will not call myself altogether vanquished.

One fine February day, when the sun had reassumed some of its genial power, I walked in the forest with my family.  It was one of those lovely winter-days which assert the capacity of nature to bestow beauty on barrenness.  The leafless trees spread their fibrous branches against the pure sky; their intricate and pervious tracery resembled delicate sea-weed; the deer were turning up the snow in search of the hidden grass; the white was made intensely dazzling by the sun, and trunks of the trees, rendered more conspicuous by the loss of preponderating foliage, gathered around like the labyrinthine columns of a vast temple; it was impossible not to receive pleasure