es of his beautiful hair clinging to, and veiling the features so late expressive and comely. On the pillow was his pet-kitten; to her, also, the watch for the master had been long and wearisome.
In his chair lay the guitar, whose melody was probably the last that his ear heard on earth. There were also his flute and violin, his portfolio and books, scattered and open, as if recently used. On the spread table was the untasted meal for noon, which he had prepared against his return from that bath which had proved so fatal. It was a touching sight; the dead hermit mourned by his humble retainers, the poor animals who loved him, and ready to be laid by stranger-hands in a foreign grave.
So fell this singular and accomplished being, at the age of twenty-eight. Learned in the languages, arts and sciences, improved by extensive travel, with personal beauty, and a feeling heart, the motives for this estrangement from his kind are still enveloped in mystery. It was, however, known that he was a native of England, where his father was a clergyman; that he received from thence ample remittances for his comfort; and that his name was Francis Abbot. These facts had been previously ascertained, but no written papers were found in his cell, to throw additional light upon the obscurity in which he had so effectually wrapped the history of his pilgrimage.
That he was neither an ascetic nor a misanthrope, has been sufficiently proved. Why he should choose