others in my situation to reflect that this
little range of pasturage once belonged to my father (whose family was
of some consideration in the world), and was sold by patches to remedy
distresses in which he involved himself in an attempt by commercial
adventure to redeem his diminished fortune. While the building scheme
was in full operation, this circumstance was often pointed out to me by
the class of friends who are anxious that no part of your misfortunes
should escape your observation. "Such pasture-ground!--lying at the very
town's end--in turnips and potatoes, the parks would bring L20 per acre;
and if leased for building--oh, it was a gold mine! And all sold for
an old song out of the ancient possessor's hands!" My comforters cannot
bring me to repine much on this subject. If I could be allowed to look
back on the past without interruption, I could willingly give up the
enjoyment of present income and the hope of future profit to those
who have purchased what my father sold. I regret the alteration of the
ground only because it destroys associations, and I would more willingly
(I think) see the Earl's Closes in the hands of strangers, retaining
their silvan appearance, than know them for my own, if torn up by
agriculture, or covered with buildings. Mine are the sensations of poor
Logan:--

"The horrid plough has rased the green
Where yet a child I strayed;
The axe has fell'd the hawthorn screen,
The schoolboy's summer shade."

I hope, however, the threatened devastation will not be consummated
in my day. Although the adventurous spirit of times short while since
passed gave rise to the undertaking, I have been encouraged to think
that the subsequent changes have so far damped the spirit of speculation
that the rest of the woodland footpath leading to Aunt Margaret's
retreat will be left undisturbed for her time and mine. I am interested
in this, for every step of the way, after I have passed through
the green already mentioned, has for me something of early
remembrance:--There is the stile at which I can recollect a cross
child's-maid upbraiding me with my infirmity as she lifted me coarsely
and carelessly over the flinty steps, which my brothers traversed with
shout and bound. I remember the suppressed bitterness of the moment,
and, conscious of my own inferiority, the feeling of envy with which I
regarded the easy movements and elastic steps of my more happily formed
brethren. Alas! these goo