I wandered, scarce knowing where, into an old wood, that stands at the back of the house—­we called it the Wilderness.  A well-known form was missing, that used to meet me in this place—­it was thine—­Ben Moxam—­the kindest, gentlest, politest of human beings, yet was he nothing higher than a gardener in the family.  Honest creature! thou didst never pass me in my childish rambles, without a soft speech, and a smile.  I remember thy good-natured face.  But there is one thing, for which I can never forgive thee, Ben Moxam—­that thou didst join with an old maiden aunt of mine in a cruel plot, to lop away the hanging branches of the old fir-trees—­I remember them sweeping to the ground.

I have often left my childish sports to ramble in this place—­its glooms and its solitude had a mysterious charm for my young mind, nurturing within me that love of quietness and lonely thinking, which has accompanied me to maturer years.

In this Wilderness I found myself, after a ten years’ absence.  Its stately fir-trees were yet standing, with all their luxuriant company of underwood—­the squirrel was there, and the melancholy cooings of the wood-pigeon—­all was as I had left it—­my heart softened at the sight—­it seemed as though my character had been suffering a change since I forsook these shades.

My parents were both dead—­I had no counsellor left, no experience of age to direct me, no sweet voice of reproof.  The Lord had taken away my friends, and I knew not where he had laid them.  I paced round the wilderness, seeking a comforter.  I prayed that I might be restored to that state of innocence, in which I had wandered in those shades.

Methought my request was heard, for it seemed as though the stains of manhood were passing from me, and I were relapsing into the purity and simplicity of childhood.  I was content to have been moulded into a perfect child.  I stood still, as in a trance.  I dreamed that I was enjoying a personal intercourse with my heavenly Father—­and, extravagantly, put off the shoes from my feet—­for the place where I stood I thought, was holy ground.

This state of mind could not last long, and I returned with languid feelings to my inn.  I ordered my dinner—­green peas and a sweetbread—­it had been a favorite dish with me in my childhood—­I was allowed to have it on my birthdays.  I was impatient to see it come upon table—­but, when it came, I could scarce eat a mouthful—­my tears choked me.  I called for wine—­I drank a pint and a half of red wine—­and not till then had I dared to visit the church-yard, where my parents were interred.

The cottage lay in my way—­Margaret had chosen it for that very reason, to be near the church—­for the old lady was regular in her attendance on public worship—­I passed on—­and in a moment found myself among the tombs.

I had been present at my father’s burial, and knew the spot again—­my mother’s funeral I was prevented by illness from attending—­a plain stone was placed over the grave, with their initials carved upon it—­for they both occupied one grave.