desolate. Here I could mark the net work of the clouds as
they wove themselves into thick masses: I could watch the slow rise of
the heavy thunder clouds and could see the rack as it was driven
across the heavens, or under the pine trees I could enjoy the
stillness of the azure sky.

My life was very peaceful. I had one female servant who spent the
greater part of the day at a village two miles off. My amusements were
simple and very innocent; I fed the birds who built on the pines or
among the ivy that covered the wall of my little garden, and they soon
knew me: the bolder ones pecked the crumbs from my hands and perched
on my fingers to sing their thankfulness. When I had lived here some
time other animals visited me and a fox came every day for a portion
of food appropriated for him & would suffer me to pat his head. I had
besides many books and a harp with which when despairing I could
soothe my spirits, and raise myself to sympathy and love.

Love! What had I to love? Oh many things: there was the moonshine, and
the bright stars; the breezes and the refreshing rains; there was the
whole earth and the sky that covers it: all lovely forms that visited
my imagination[,] all memories of heroism and virtue. Yet this was
very unlike my early life although as then I was confined to Nature
and books. Then I bounded across the fields; my spirit often seemed to
ride upon the winds, and to mingle in joyful sympathy with the ambient
air. Then if I wandered slowly I cheered myself with a sweet song or
sweeter day dreams. I felt a holy rapture spring from all I saw. I
drank in joy with life; my steps were light; my eyes, clear from the
love that animated them, sought the heavens, and with my long hair
loosened to the winds I gave my body and my mind to sympathy and
delight. But now my walk was slow--My eyes were seldom raised and
often filled with tears; no song; no smiles; no careless motion that
might bespeak a mind intent on what surrounded it--I was gathered up
into myself--a selfish solitary creature ever pondering on my regrets
and faded hopes.

Mine was an idle, useless life; it was so; but say not to the lily
laid prostrate by the storm arise, and bloom as before. My heart was
bleeding from its death's wound; I could live no otherwise--Often amid
apparent calm I was visited by despair and melancholy; gloom that
nought could dissipate or overcome; a hatred of life; a carelessness
of beauty; all these would by fits hol