The Hermit

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Sometimes, a book that starts out as an engaging and promising work of fiction is soured by an incomplete and half-hearted conclusion.  That’s the case with Charles Clark Munn’s The Hermit. 

Published in 1903, The Hermit follows the exploits of a young man who returns to his boyhood village after earning his fortune in the big city.  Set in the wilderness of Maine, we’re taken on canoe trips deep up a river a hundred miles from the nearest settlement.  We watch as the young man attempts to re-kindle the spark with his schooldays sweetheart.  Along the way, we run across a myriad of colorful supporting characters who bring their own lively stories.

It’s a solid foundation for a meaningful and entertaining yarn.  But inexplicably, Munn introduces a number of semi-major elements that he never resolves.  What creature made those weird tracks along the riverbank?  What about the wild man whose face we catch glimpses of in the firelight along the edge of our camp?  Did the game wardens capture the escaped murderer to whose cabin we led them?  You won’t get those answers in this book.

And unfortunately, the matters that are resolved are often easily predictable. 

This book had much potential.  The original edition contained a number of illustrations by A. Burnham Shute—a well-known illustrator in the 19^th century better known for his contributions to the original edition of Herman Melville’s Moby Dick. And the first two-thirds of the novel is a page-turner. 

Despite a rather poignant final chapter, the lack of resolution is a thoughtless omission. The book is fun for awhile, but you may feel the time invested was wasted.  Think about that before going too far out of your way looking for The Hermit.

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Quotes

To the novice in the woods there is a certain weird Presence ever existent in these solitudes; a subtle, invisible mystery scarce comprehended and impossible to explain.  To look into never penetrated and almost impassable forest glades is to half expect to see some new and hideous shape, some strange creature glaring out of the shadow.  Walk in a little, and this lurking sense of danger increases—you stop, look about, then go on, declaring to yourself that you are not afraid and yet you are.

We are moved by subtle influences, and memory is ofttimes awakened by the veriest trifle.  The odor of a certain flower, a strain of music, the sighing of the breeze in the pines, even the croaking of a frog in springtime, will carry us back over a lifetime in an instant.

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