oil painting from picture

roads: they stretch out east, west, north, and south-white, broad,
lonely; they are all cut in the moor, and the heather grows deep and
wild to their very verge. Yet a chance traveller might pass by; and
I wish no eye to see me now: strangers would wonder what I am doing,
lingering here at the sign-post, evidently objectless and lost. I
might be questioned: I could give no answer but what would sound
incredible and excite suspicion. Not a tie holds me to human society
at this moment- not a charm or hope calls me where my fellow-creatures
are- none that saw me would have a kind thought or a good wish for me.
I have no relative but the universal mother, Nature: I will seek her
breast and ask repose.
I struck straight into the heath; I held on to a hollow I saw
furrowing the brown moorside; I waded knee-deep in its dark
growth; I turned with its turnings, and finding a moss-blackened
granite crag in a hidden angle, I sat down under it. High banks of
moor were about me; the crag protected my head: the sky was over that.
Some time passed before I felt tranquil even here: I had a vague
dread that wild cattle might be near, or that some sportsman