ghost, 'xactly, nuther-but I'll tell ye all about it; 'twon't take long."

"Do, Peter-let's have it."

44

Let's have it," echoed the farmer, with a nod of approval

"Wal, you see I've lumbered seventeen years, come this fall, all 'long the Penobscot, so it's reasonable I should know the ways of the woods like a book, and when the men are making up a gang to go in, they most allers calkylate on me to go ahead fur 'em. I ginerally had my pick amongst 'em; I want to go into the woods with a good stiddy set-none of yer high spreein', drinkin', and gamblin' sort; there's allers mischief to be 'xpected from sich. But come to take a real good gang on 'em-youngsters, smart and spry, and good at e'en a'most anything, work or fun-now it's jolly, I tell ye! They'll make the woods holler, afore spring.

"Wal, it's four year, last fall, sence I agreed to go up river with a company of Jim Stilson's gittin' up. Yeou know Jim Stilson, Mr. Frost? Jim, he come down tow Bangor, where I was waitin' fur the gang; it wus putty well along in October, and he brought a feller with him that tuk my eye, the minit I laid it on him. He was a pictur to look at, that critter wus-a real tall, slim, wellset fellow, light in the heels, and heavy in the arm; his eyes wus jest as bright as a hawk's, and he had the curlin'est head yeou ever did see. Wal, Jim said he wanted to jine company with ushe'd wintered twice in the woods, wus sober, and smart tew work, and that wus easy enuff to see, and I liked his looks -he had a real out-and-out, free-spoken way with him. So I gin my consent,

and he come down to the boardin' house the very next mornin', with his traps. Jim called him Rob Kendal-I knowed his mother-she wus a Barnes. Wal, in a couple of days or so, we started up the river; the more I see of Rob the better I liked him; he wus clear grit, and as full of frisk as a colt, tew. When we got well into camp, and the teams come in, and the men were all under weigh, I tell yur there warn't nobody equal to Rob with the gang, take 'em all together, but Rob and I, we tuk tew each other amazin'. Rob he told me most all about himself and his affairs-he warn't none o' your close-mouthed sort-come to find out he was calkylatin' to get married in the spring, and the gal was a real purty one, tew--I knowed, cause I see

her once down to Aroostook, and she was one o' them critters you see once, and yeou don't forgit 'em--a reg'lar bewty, and a handsome-behaved gal, tew, Mary White wus. Her father wus a forehanded farmer, and she the only child; so I thought 'twas a good spec fur Rob, an' when I come to find out he 'xpected tew have her, I didn't wonder so much he sprung so tew work, and never seemed to feel it, nuther. Rob said she warn't very rugged, and he reckoned she couldn't stand a hard life, nohow, and he'd got all laid out fur makin' everything snug and handy fur her, against they went tew housekeepin'. He did set an awful sight by that gal. And I wish tew goodness you'd a seen him put in. He'd take down his tree afore a common man could 'ha got his axe well into the bark, and then, nights, after work wus done, and all snug up in camp, he'd carry on like all possessed -dance and sing, and tell stories, jest as limber and lively as if he'd never hefted a timber. I never see sich life in a feller in all my born days. Sometimes it made me feel kind o' sober like

thinks I, such sperrits can't hold out in this world: Them that laughs in the mornin' cries afore night,' as my mother used to say. The men, they sot their lives by Rob; he wus fun fur 'em day in and day out, and it seemed like nothin' short o' breakin' his neck could put a stop tew his fandangoes.

Wal, along 'bout the middle o' December, there come up a real old fashioned, driftin' snow-storm. It snowed a couple of days, stiddy, and the second day, about dark, there riz a wind from the norwest, and I tell ye, 'twas an awful blow. By eight o'clock, 'twas nuff to take ye off yer feet, and the snow driftin' like mad. We got the teams in in good season, and made up a roarin' great fire, of the biggest kind o' logs, and we laid out for comfort that night, yeou'd better b'leve. As fur Rob, he was wilder'n ever, and what with his carryin's on, and two or three more jist like him, the fun flew, I tell ye!

"Wal, we all sot up round the fire in a knot, and told stories, and had a fry, bar's meat or suthin', and there Jim Stilson he sot out tew tell a scrape he had with a couple o' gray wolves up in Canady. We kep purty still, listenin' when all at once, Jim stopped short off, and kinder sot, as though he'd heerd su'thin'.

Heard what, Peter?

Why, the sound of a voice-a woman's voice, singin'-it seemed kinder way off down in the woods, and unsartin' like, when it fust reached us, but afore one of us spoke, it come up clearer, and the wind seemed tew take it along -'twas awful, now you'd better b'leve, if 'twas nothin' but singin'. 'Twarn't like nothin' that ever I heerd, neither it was sweet and dredful mournful, and while we sot, all of a tremble, every man of us, that 'ere voice come right up tew the door, and then away off agin' down the wind, dyin' out, till you couldn't tell if you heerd it or not, and then how it sot to blow! worse'n ever! I said we wus all of a tremble; I tell ye, there wus fellers there as you couldn't start with nothin' airthly, and they wus as white as your shirt, that 'ere minit, and there we jest sot, and looked at each other, and not a word out of anybody's head, till Jim Stilson spɔke up, and says he, Wal, I hope to the Lord that 'ere's fur good and not fur evil.'

"The Lord knows, I don't,' says I. "What on airth do ye call it?' says Dave Hughes, and then they all begun to speak to once, and some said one thing, and some said another, and two or three fellers they stuck out 'twarn't nothin' o' no account no how, and so they jawed.

66

Bime-by, thinks I, Rob hasn't opened his head, and I looked acrost the fire at him. Wal, jest as sure as I set here, my fust thought wus of a dead manhis face wus so white, and sot like, and his mouth had that hard look; but I see he kep tew work on his axe, and I thought he'd got an awful scare, so I says, Rob, I never heerd the beat o' that, did yeou?'

"No,' says he, and never another word; but I see it had gone right through him.

bedtime, we'd got quite limbered out agin, though there warn't much said about anything, and Rob, he never spoke at all; come ten o'clock, we was all camped down snug and quiet-the wind had gone down, and when I turned in, I see a star winkin' through the pine, so I knowed 'twould be fair in the mornin'. I guess the sun never looked better to any of us than it did next day. Howsomever, I was asleep as soon as any of 'em, but I guess 'twus about midnight, I roused up, and shifted to t'other side-that brought me facin' the fire; there warn't no blaze, but a great bed of red coals, and what should I see but Rob Kendal sittin afore it, back to me, holdin his face in his hands, and shakin' like an ager-fit. I watched him a minit, and then I mustered up, and got along side of him- Rob,' says I, what ails ye?' Wal, for all the world, there he jest broke right down, and tuk on cryin' like a child fur about five minits-it shet my mouth right up; I couldn't say nothin' to the feller. Bime-by he calmed down a leetle, and says I, Rob, come, don't keep yer trouble to yerself; I don't know what ails ye if yeou do.'

"Peter,' says he, lookin' right at me, wild as a sperrit, she's deadshe's gone!'

466

Who?' says I. "Mary,' says he. 'Don't speak-I know it-I feel it. That was her voice, as sure as I'm a livin' man—there is no such other!'

"Oh, Rob,' says I, that's all your notion, now, 'cause your head natʼrally runs that way, and Mary's a singer. That didn't sound like nothin' airthly, that ever I heerd.'

"No more did hers,' says he, I've heerd her voice when it had jest that awful sweet sound in it, and it allers sent a shiver through me to hear it. It's all over, Peter, and off he went agin, groaning and takin on like a tree that's hit in the heart, and comes down hard. Wal, I set to, and I talked, and hauled up all the comfortin' considerations I could, and I got him quieted away, but I see he held on to his notion, and if you'll b'lieve it, the more I said agin' it, the more I got the conviction he was right. But any way, I got him off to bed, and he dropped asleep, fur he was clean beat out. Trouble does take hold of sich light-hearted critters awful strong, and besides, I tell ye,

there was suthin' unairthly in that busi

ness.

"Next mornin' sure 'nuff we had sun, and fust-rate weather, and the men tuk hold smart to break out the road, but there was a sight of talk, off and on, about that ere voice in the woods. There wus diff'rent opinions, as I said afore-fur my part, I never 'xpect tew sce my way clear through that in this world, and I'm willin' to wait till all is made plain that's now dark.

"I s'pose all the men must ha' noticed how queer Rob was, an' what a change had come over him; fur I never did see a feller so altered in all my born days. There warn't a bit of color in his face, and he had a real down, dogged sort o' look-that ere look a man gits on sometimes when he holds trouble, and don't want to talk on it; and I know Rob didn't. But, as I was sayin', though they had it over 'mongst themselves, there warn't one of 'em that said a word to him. I guess they wus afraid to rile him. It wus queer. though, warn't it? they all stood off so from a feller that allers had a good word and a joke fur everybody. But they see he wus done with that.

46

Wal, Rob, he worked like all possessed fur three or four weeks-he didn't say much to me, but he stuck to it Mary wus dead; howsomever, I see be had jest unsartainty enuff to keep him as restless as a starved critter, and one night he says to me-we wus out looking arter the cattle-says he, 'Peter, it's no use; I can't stand it no longer. I'm goin' over to Aroostook to settle my mind.'

"Wal,' says I, 'I dunno but it's

best.'

66

And so the very next mornin' he started. Somehow the camp wus dull enuff that spring arter he was gone. I never wanted to see the eend of anything so in my life, and when it come thaw, I quit. I didn't mean to riverdrive that year.

"I got tew Bangor, and straightened my traps a little-a feller's things do get tarnally mussed up there in the woods, and then, for my life, I couldn't help steerin' over to Aroostook; I wanted to know what become of Rob Kendal. I knowed pretty well where Mary's father, old Jabez White, lived. There wus a small settlement round there, and I calkylated Rob must be hangin' on in the neighborhood, or, any

way, I should strike his trail somehow.

"I remember very well, 'twas a real soft, shiny kind of a spring day, when I come down into the neighborhood of White's farm. The road wus hilly and lonesome, and run into the woods and bushes, most of the way. Everything looked green and stirrin', though the trees hadn't leaved out. Wal, I kept along, and, bime-by, the road tuk a turn, and there right afore me, I see White's red house, and the barns risin' up, big and handsome, behind it. That's a good sign, to my thinkin', when a man's barn takes the shine off of his house. Now, yeou see, come to git close on to the house, I begun to feel kinder skittish about walkin' right in, 'cause, thinks I, ef anything has happened, 'tain't likely White's folks 'll want to go over it to me, so I stopped, and tuk a view of the premises. While I wus a lookin', a man come round the corner o' the barn, with a pitch-fork in his hand, and sure 'nuff, when he got nigh to, I see it was Rob Kendal. I didn't know him at fust; for he warn't the same man to look at he used to be, and as soon as he sot his eye on me, I see there warn't no sense asking questions. He seemed kinder glad to see me, fur old acquaintance' sake, and shook hands hearty, and wanted me to go in and let the folks git me some dinner, but I told him no, I was in a hurry, and jest stopped to say how d'ye do. So we talked a spell about one thing an' another. I guess we both thought more of what we didn't like to speak on. Yeou see, I couldn't make up my mind to ask him square out, and, bime-by, says I: Wal, Rob, I must be movin'; good-by to ye.' Then while he was shakin' hands he spoke up all on a suddent, and says he, Peter, I dunno as I need to tell yo Mary's dead, and 'twas last February, that 'ere night.'

"Wal,' says I, 'I'm sorry for ye, Rob, but I s'pose it's all right.' He shook his head, an' I see his countenance kinder changed, and I didn't say no more. It's sore handlin'-heart's trouble is. So I come off, and I hain't seen him sence. I've heered he stuck by the Whites, tho', an' they wus a doin' by him as they would their own son.

"Now, all that 'ere's as true as gospel, and any man as was there kin testify to it. What do yeou say to that, Mrs. Frost?"

WHAT

1.

a good old man St. Anthony was? He used to sit in his cave and read his holy books all day long, in spite of the allurements or annoyances of the devil-see Teniers' picture of the saint's temptations. There he sat with his Bible and prayer-book, never looking up at the loveliest woman, or turning to hush the noisiest imp; and I suppose that he rather enjoyed this fighting and conquering the legions, fair or foul, which Satan sent to attack him. But, as I am, perhaps uncharitably, disposed to think, Anthony must sometimes have found it a very disagreeable kind of life. He may not have minded the pretty girls or the skinny hags; he may even have become accustomed to the racket of that little trumpet-nosed fiend who kept playing all sorts of diabolical dancing-tunes on his musical proboscis: but I wonder how he enjoyed himself in cold rainy weather!-when the damp wood refused to burn and only sent out clouds of smoke to sting the saint's eyelids; when his bread grew mouldy; when his bed-room walls were clammy with moisture, and the rheumatics crept about among his old bones! Poor old Saint Anthony!

I confess that I am, myself, occasionally rather hermitically inclined; but I never become quite misanthropic enough to fancy a cave-an oozy, trickly, puddlesome cave!

The hut-plan, too, has its objections; the roof might be leaky and the chimney smoky. Perhaps a snug little back room might be fitted up, with a small cookingrange, a comfortable lounge, a wellchosen library; and, in the closet, a variety of meats and fruits put up in self-sealing, air-tight cans, and a big drum of Turkish tobacco. In this case the front room might be left in a dilapi. dated condition to do the hermit in, whenever I heard anybody coming.

But, somehow, I can never quite suit myself with any of the ordinary notions of hermit-life. The fact is, that I once played the anchorite for a time in such a jovial way, that I suppose my taste must be spoiled for any of your common kinds of hermitages. Let me enjoy the pleasure of narrating my experiences at the Jolly Hermitage.

But first a bit of history.

Eight hundred years ago, and more, -say nine hundred-a young Florentine, Giovanni Gualberto, was miraculously converted from revelry to sanotity, and, to clinch the nail of conversion, he resolved to use the hammer of seclusion. Through fear, perhaps, of Florentine temptations, he decided to become a hermit, and, of course, started for the nearest mountains, which happened to be the Apennines. There was a pleasant place, about twenty miles from Florence, called then, Acqua bella (Fair-water), where a mountain cascade made music in the dark glen of a fir forest. Thitherward he and a faithful companion directed their course, one fine morning, but as they passed out through the Porta alla Croce, and took the Arezzo road, along the Arno, towards the distant mountains, they may have sighed at the thought of the pleasures they were leaving behind them; they may have had doubts about cavelife or hut-life. Far be it from me to blame them if they walked slowly along, with so little to attract them ahead, and so much tugging at their heels. But asceticism was the fashion of the day, and they knew that they were making themselves famous, and so may have kept their spirits up by fancying the remarks that would be made on their piety and spunk that evening at the cafe. They trudged on, never once looking back at the dome and bell-tower, and reached the mountains at nightfall.

How they spent that first night, how

they built their hut, and how they managed generally for the first few years, you may learn by overhauling "The Life of Saint John Gualberto," in several volumes. They made a saint of him some time ago, and we must suppose that he deserved it, although thero are queer stories extant about a certain Countess Matilda, who was either so pious and thought so much of hermits generally, or was so much interested in this particular hermit, that she made bim large grants of lands and villas, thereabouts. Then there was another lady, by the name of Ita, the abbess of a convent not far from where John lived, who, to encourage him and the few friends who, by this time, had come to share his hermitage, gave him the site for a monastery, and lands around it. These are suspicious circumstances, and, indeed, scandalous tales are told of Ita and her nuns. But we ought to discredit everything said against John's fair fame; for he was canonized, and was, therefore, probably a very good man-as goodness went in those days. At all events, he built a monastery, by the assistance of the above-mentioned ladies, and many Florentines and others joined him, at what they called "The Sanctuary of Vallombrosa;" and whether the monks serenaded the nuns too often, or whether the nuns encouraged their attentions, we cannot now determine, for the blue distance of centuries makes those mountain-scenes quite indistinct to us. We only know that, for some reason, the pope sent word to Ita to move away, with her nuns, to somo less dangerous locality; and that the monastery flourished, became large and rich and famous. After John died and was made a saint of, many pious young men, attracted by the odor of his sanctity, and, perhaps, by the good wine and other creature comforts for which the place early became celebrated, came and joined "La Congregazione di Vallombrosa ;" and at the present day it is a wealthy, and, as I can testify, a very "jolly hermitage."

I had lived in Florence six months, or longer, and had made many pleasant excursions to places out of town-to Fiesole and Prato; often to San Miniato and Galileo's tower, hard by; to Pisa and Pistoia, and Sienna, by the railways, to spend a few days; to Carrara once with two sculptors, who went to select marble-do you remember that

VOL. IX.-4

trip, Edouardo?-and to other places more or less remote. I was very often accompanied by Minuti, my friend and Italian master, to whose excellences in either character I am glad to bear record. He had the good sense to appreciate my abjuration of Ollendorff, and the kindness to devote his time to teaching ine the language by "la prattica." Together we made calls or excursions, went to the opera or the cascine, and it was a compact between us, that in our conversation no English word should be spoken, and that he should correct my blunders at the instant. In this way I easily and rapidly acquired la bella lingua. A certain Signorina Ersilia, also, was of great service to me. The invariable presence of that decayed but excellent countess, her mother, prevented my practice in the endearing diminutives of the language; but I learned much Italian at the Casa Donati.

Pardon the digression, good reader; it was a pleasant one to me.

To return: Minuti had often spoken of Vallombrosa, and we had planned an excursion to the "Sanctuary;" but at last, when I found time to go, something happened to prevent his accompanying me. But he gave me efficient aid in starting; procured for me a letter of introduction from a friend of his to the abbot of the monastery; engaged a conveyance, and parted from me at the gates when starting, with an "Addio, caro mio! Bring me a flask of their wine. Addio!"

I omit detailing the particulars of my ride to the foot of the mountain, fearing that the little events of it cannot be made to seem as interesting to others as they seem to me. It was a ride through the upper part of the Val d'Arno, along the banks of that beautiful river among vineyards and olive-groves, past farmhouses and the villas of noblemen, and of the grand duke himself.

In the carriage with me rode a village priest, who had been to town-on a spree, I fancied, by the redness of hisface and was returning to his sheep, with a pale-faced woman of about twentyfive, who had just escaped death's hand at the hospital, and was getting back to her country home, her husband and children. The padre kept his nose in his prayer-book, and said nothing; but with Rosa I made acquaintance easily, and took delight in encouraging her expres