The
Bridge Was Small And Presented Nothing Remarkable In Itself:
I
obtained, however, as I looked over its parapet towards the west a
view of a scene, not of wild grandeur, but of something which I
like better, which richly compensated me for the slight trouble I
had taken in stepping aside to visit the little bridge.
About a
hundred yards distant was a small water-mill, built over the
rivulet, the wheel going slowly, slowly round; large quantities of
pigs, the generality of them brindled, were either browsing on the
banks or lying close to the sides half immersed in the water; one
immense white hog, the monarch seemingly of the herd, was standing
in the middle of the current. Such was the scene which I saw from
the bridge, a scene of quiet rural life well suited to the brushes
of two or three of the old Dutch painters, or to those of men
scarcely inferior to them in their own style, Gainsborough,
Moreland, and Crome. My mind for the last half-hour had been in a
highly excited state; I had been repeating verses of old Huw
Morris, brought to my recollection by the sight of his dwelling-
place; they were ranting roaring verses, against the Roundheads. I
admired the vigour but disliked the principles which they
displayed; and admiration on the one hand and disapproval on the
other, bred a commotion in my mind like that raised on the sea when
tide runs one way and wind blows another.
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