That ride with Mr. Jefferson, and the day I spent at Monticello, have still a pleasant flavor in retrospect. Mr. Jefferson's urbanity matched his delightful conversation, and my pleasure in his condescension and his intellectual charm gave him evident satisfaction.

Part of our way lay through the forest, and one could hear the oozing sap, mounting upward into the yet leafless branches interlaced above us. The graceful, clean-limbed maples had strung themselves with strand after strand of glowing coral leaf buds, and the white trunked cotton woods were hung thickly with a soft pinkish brown fringe, while each branch of the laurel, the dogwood and the ivy shrubs bulged with close folded gray green buds—big with promise of leaf and blossom. The rich loam under our horses' feet was cracked open here and there, making tiny winrows of the rotted leaves, where reawakened roots of fern or flower were pushing upward with divine instinct for life and sunshine. From sunny dell's slope, and the southern side of oak and locust trees, rose nature's incense—the breath of purple violets, of white anemones, and flushed arbutus blossoms, floating intermittently upon the whimsical zephyrs of a balmy day in March.

Sudden bursts of rapture, or shrill, happy calls from vibrant throats of robin, and wren, cat bird and oriole, red bird and yellow hammer, mocking bird and blue jay, rang from treetop to treetop, and the fluttering of busy wings, and the important chirruping and twittering of the nest builders, told that the birds, too, recognized the many hints of coming spring, and were all of a spirit with the mounting sap, and the promise-breathing perfume of violet and arbutus buds.

We talked of farming and gardening, upon which subject Mr. Jefferson had gathered much valuable information. From horticulture we drifted to books, and the writers of them. It pleased me to find that, as far as my limited reading had gone, our tastes were similar. He preferred the Greeks and Greek literature to the Romans and their writings. He admired Demosthenes, Thucydides, and Homer; Tacitus and Horace were his favorites among the Latins; and when we came to English writers, he also gave first place to Dryden, Milton, Pope and Ossian among the poets, to Bacon, Hume and Addison among prose writers. Finding I knew nothing of French, Italian or German literatures, he barely mentioned MoliÈre, Racine, Petrarch, Tasso and Goethe. Yet his mere word of appreciation kindled my resolution to know these masters, when peace and a quiet life should give me opportunity.

My liking for Ossian seemed to delight Mr. Jefferson, and he quoted freely from his poems, saying, with warmth, that he thought "this rude bard of the North the greatest of poets."

"Then, sir, you give no credence to the charge of the English critics, that there was never any other Ossian than his pretended translator?"

"No, I do not!" answered Mr. Jefferson emphatically, then proceeded to give me cogent reasons to back his opinion.

The urgency of Mr. Jefferson's invitation to stop a day at Monticello was not to be resisted, nor was my inclination far behind the courtesy of my host. The early morning was spent about the beautifully turfed and planted grounds, and the carefully cultivated gardens. I was even allowed to look over the garden books, as accurate as algebraic demonstrations, and as neat as copy books. Horses were then ordered for a ride over the plantation. Mr. Jefferson scanned their satiny coats with critical eye, rubbed a single rough spot on his own mount with his handkerchief, and showing the black groom who held the impatient steed's bridle the dust stain made upon it, gave him a sharp reprimand. We got back in time for a glass of Scotch rum and hot water, seasoned with nutmeg, before dinner. A second ride to Charlottesville in the afternoon, to procure the mail and attend to some matter of business, seemed necessary to Mr. Jefferson's indefatigable energy.

Mrs. Jefferson gave us her charming company in the evening, and some excellent music with voice and spinet, after which I was so fortunate as to be able to entertain her by an account of the Philadelphia performance of "A School for Scandal," with a few quotations from the text—since they had not yet had the opportunity to read any of Mr. Sheridan's plays.

Though Mr. Jefferson had given me most minute directions, I came near losing the trail—to the right, half way up the mountain—which was to lead me to the hermit's retreat. One of the giant sentinel maples, which marked the entrance to the trail, had recently blown down, and its sprawling branches completely hid the path. A double log cabin, built in a dent of the mountain's southern slope, was the old scout's home. The forest clustered about it protectingly, except for a clearing a few yards wide just in front of the door, and no other than wild growth was anywhere visible. Two yelping dogs came from the doorway at the sound of my horse's feet, followed closely by the hermit himself.

"Light, stranger, an' hitch," he called, pointing to the nearest tree trunk.

I did so, while he leisurely approached, a short stemmed cob pipe in his mouth, his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his homespun breeches. His hunting shirt was also of homespun; his leggins, belt, and moccasins of leather; and the cap which surmounted his face—so covered with beard that a pair of heavy browed, keen brown eyes, and a large crooked nose were the only features visible—was made of deerskin. Though hair and beard were grizzled, he showed no signs of age in figure or bearing. Within the cabin's wide chimney a fire smoldered, and a rough bench was drawn up before it. Seated and served with tobacco for my pipe, I unfolded my mission.

"Thar' ain't no two men nowhares I'd ruther pleasure thin Pat Henry en' George Clark," said the scout, "en' I 'low I'm the man they er' lookin' fur. I knows them Algonquins, en' ther savage ways, en' ther heathen talk better'n menny."

"Governor Henry and Mr. Clark say they cannot do without you, and Mr. Jefferson bade me tell you to come to Monticello this week to give him your promise."

"Thar' ain't but one thing es'll hinder me—but thet's 'nuff. I see no way er promisin' jist now, Cap'n—but I'll see Mr. Jefferson afore I sez no. You coulden' nohow mention no kind uv frolic, nur no feastin' nur pleasuring es temptin' ter me, Capt'n, es killin' Injuns. The way I hates the redskins mought be counted es hell-desarvin' sin, Capt'n, but fur the fact thet they's devils en' hes devils' ways, en' the Holy Word commands us ter hate the devil and all his wurrucks. Did Mr. Henry ur Clark tell yer the old scout's story, Capt'n?"

Just then my eye was drawn to the crack in the door, between the two rooms, by hearing the swishering as of a woman's skirts, and a soft tread upon the planks, and I was much astonished to see what seemed to me the shadow of a woman's form. The scout, too, looked up, then drew his brow into a half worried frown. I had not heard of a wife or a daughter; indeed, had understood that the hermit lived entirely alone, so was greatly surprised. Something in the scout's manner led me to think, however, that he did not care to be questioned, so I made haste to withdraw my eyes and to answer his question in the negative.

"Wall, ef you kin bide er spell longer you shell hear the pitiful tale"—said the old man with a sigh—"en' er sadder, I 'low you've seldom hearn, even in this land uv sorrowful stories en' terrurble sufferin's."

"Then without doubt your opportunity has come," said I when the tale was ended; "nor do I wonder you hate the Indians," and I wrung his hand. "But I must say good-by now, and ride on. I hope you will decide to join us, as your not doing so will be a serious loss to our expedition."

"I'll see, I'll see. Ther temptation to fight Injun devils is not one I'm likely ter resist; yit thar's reasons, serious reasons," and he lowered his voice, looked grave, and watched the crack in the door between the two rooms as he gripped my hand in farewell.

A mile farther down the mountain a sudden crackling in the bushes at one side caused my horse to snort and sniff suspiciously. But I had no time now to track wild beast, or snare game, for it was already midday, and I must reach Staunton, if not home, that night. As I rode on I thought much of the scout's sad story, and pitied his bereaved and lonely condition. But could he be a hypocrite posing for sympathy? Surely that was a woman's form which flitted before the partly open door, yet he had let fall no hint of having any companion of his solitude, and I knew of no neighbors nearer than the dwellers on the plantations around Charlottesville.