(110)
I visited, by turns, every chamber—they were all desolate and unfurnished, one excepted, in which the Owner had left a harpsichord, probably to be sold—I touched the keys—I played some old Scottish tunes, which had delighted me when a child. Past associations revived with the music—blended with a sense of unreality, which at last became too powerful—I rushed out of the room to give vent to my feelings.
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, po-litest
