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--

408

The Last Man