Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Man Without a Country, and Other Tales by Edward Everett Hale (fiction book recommendations TXT) 📖
- Author: Edward Everett Hale
Book online «The Man Without a Country, and Other Tales by Edward Everett Hale (fiction book recommendations TXT) 📖». Author Edward Everett Hale
"Who mortals and immortals rules alone."
"How, indeed?" cried one of his young companions. "There would be more sense in what the priests say and sing, if each were not quarrelling for his own,—Dagon against Astarte, and Astarte against Dagon."
The old captain bent over, that the poets might not hear him, and whispered: "There it is that the Hebrews have so much more heart than we in such things. Miserable fellows though they are, so many of them, yet, when I have gone through their whole land with the caravans, the chances have been that any serious-minded [pg 075] man spoke of no God but this 'He' of David's."
"What is his name?"
"They do not know themselves, I believe."
"Well, as I said an hour ago, God's man or Dagon's man,—for those are good names enough for me,—I care little; but I should like to sing as that young fellow does."
"My boy," said the old man, "have not you heard him enough to see that it is not he that sings, near as much as this love of his for a Spirit he does not name? It is that spirited heart of his that sings."
"You sing like him? Find his life, boy; and perhaps it may sing for you."
"We should be more manly men, if he sang to us every night."
"Or if the other did," said an Ionian sailor.
"Yes," said the chief. "And yet, I think, if your countryman sang every night to me, he would make me want the other. Whether David's singing would send me to his, I do not feel sure. But how silly to compare them! As well compare the temple in Accho with the roar of a whirlwind—"
"Or the point of my lance with the flight of an eagle. The men are in two worlds."
"O, no! that is saying too much. You said that one could paint pictures—"
"—Into which the other puts life. Yes, I did say so. We are fortunate that we have them together." [pg 076]
"For this man sings of men quite as well as the other does; and to have the other sing of God—'
"—Why, it completes the song. Between them they bring the two worlds together."
"He bows the heavens, and comes down," said the boy of the olive-harp, trying to hum David's air.
"Let us ask them—"
And just then there rang along the valley the sound of a distant conch-shell. The soldiers groaned, roused up, and each looked for his own side-arms and his own skin.
But the poets talked on unheeding.
The old chief knocked down a stack of lances; but the crash did not rouse them. He was obliged himself to interrupt their eager converse.
"I am sorry to break in; but the night-horn has sounded to rest, and the guard will be round to inspect the posts. I am sorry to hurry you away, sir," he said to David.
David thanked him courteously.
"Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest," said Homer, with a smile.
"We will all meet to-morrow. And may to-night's dreams be good omens!"
"If we dream at all," said Homer again:—
"Without a sign his sword the brave man draws,
And asks no omen but his country's cause."
They were all standing together, as he made this careless reply to the captain; and one of the young [pg 077] men drew him aside, and whispered that David was in arms against his country.
Homer was troubled that he had spoken as he did, But the young Jew looked little as if he needed sympathy. He saw the doubt and regret which hung over their kindly faces; told them not to fear for him; singing, as he bade them good night, and with one of the Carmel-men walked home to his own outpost:—
"The Lord who delivered me from the paw of the lion,
The Lord who delivered me from the paw of the bear,
He will deliver me."
And he smiled to think how his Carmelite companion would start, if he knew when first he used those words.
So they parted, as men who should meet on the morrow.
But God disposes.
David had left to-morrow's dangers for to-morrow to care for. It seemed to promise him that he must be in arms against Saul. But, unlike us in our eagerness to anticipate our conflicts of duty, David waited.
And the Lord delivered him. While they were singing by the brookside, the proud noblemen of the Philistine army had forced an interview with their king; and, in true native Philistine arrogance, insisted that "this Hebrew" and his men should be sent away.
With the light of morning the king sent for the minstrel, and courteously dismissed him, because "the [pg 078] princes of the Philistines have said, 'He shall not go up with us to the battle.'"
So David marched his men to Ziklag.
And David and Homer never met on earth again.
NOTE.—This will be a proper place to print the following note, which I was obliged to write to a second cousin of Miss Dryasdust after she had read the MS. of the article above:—
"DEAR MADAM:—I thank you for your kind suggestion, in returning my paper, that it involves a piece of impossible history. You inform me, that, according to the nomenclatured formulas and homophonic analogies of Professor Gouraud, of never-to-be-forgotten memory, "A NEEDLE is less useful for curing a DEAF HEAD, than for putting ear-rings into a Miss's lily-ears"; and that this shows that the second king of Judah, named David (or Deaf-head) began to reign in 1055 B.C., and died 1040 B.C.'; and further, that, according to the same authority, 'Homer flourished when the Greeks were fond of his POETRY'; which, being interpreted, signifies that he flourished in 914 B.C., and, consequently, could have had no more to do with David than to plant ivy over his grave, in some of his voyages to Phœnicia.
"I thank you for the suggestion. I knew the unforgetting professor; and I do not doubt that he remembered David and Homer as his near friends. But, of course, to such a memory, a century or two might easily slip aside.
"Now, did you look up Clement? And did you not forget the Arundelian Marbles? For, if you will take the long estimates, you will find that some folks think Homer lived as long ago as the year 1150, and some that it was as 'short ago' as 850. And some set David as long ago as 1170, and some bring him down to a hundred and fifty years later. These are the long measures and the short measures. So the long and short of it is, that you can keep the two poets 320 years apart, while I have rather more than a century which I can select any night of, for a bivouac scene, in which to bring them together. Believe me, my dear Miss D., always yours, &c.
"Confess that you forgot the Arundelian Marbles!"
[pg 079][I am tempted to include this little burlesque in this collection simply in memory of the Boston Miscellany, the magazine in which it was published, which won for itself a brilliant reputation in its short career. There was not a large staff of writers for the Miscellany, but many of the names then unknown have since won distinction. To quote them in the accidental order in which I find them in the table of contents, where they are arranged by the alphabetical order of the several papers, the Miscellany contributors were Edward Everett, George Lunt, Nathan Hale, Jr., Nathaniel Hawthorne, N.P. Willis, W.W. Story, J.R. Lowell, C.N. Emerson, Alexander H. Everett, Sarah P. Hale, W.A. Jones, Cornelius Matthews, Mrs. Kirkland, J.W. Ingraham, H.T. Tuckerman, Evart A. Duyckinck, Francis A. Durivage, Mrs. J. Webb, Charles F. Powell, Charles W. Storey, Lucretia P. Hale, Charles F. Briggs, William E. Channing, Charles Lanman, G.H. Hastings, and Elizabeth B. Barrett, now Mrs. Browning, some of whose earliest poems were published in this magazine. These are all the contributors whose names appear, excepting the writers of a few verses. They furnished nine tenths of the contents of the magazine. The two Everetts, Powell, William Story, and my brother, who was the editor, were the principal contributors. And I am tempted to say that I think they all put some of their best work upon this magazine.
The misfortune of the Miscellany, I suppose, was that its publishers had no capital. They had to resort to the claptraps of fashion-plates and other engravings, in the hope of forcing an [pg 080] immediate sale upon persons who, caring for fashion-plates, did not care for the literary character of the enterprise. It gave a very happy escape-pipe, however, for the high spirits of some of us who had just left college, and, through my brother's kindness, I was sometimes permitted to contribute to the journal. In memory of those early days of authorship, I select "The South American Editor" to publish here. For the benefit of the New York Observer, I will state that the story is not true. And lest any should complain that it advocates elopements, I beg to observe, in the seriousness of mature life, that the proposed elopement did not succeed, and that the parties who proposed it are represented as having no guardians or keepers but themselves. The article was first published in 1842.]
* * * * *
It is now more than six years since I received the following letter from an old classmate of mine, Harry Barry, who had been studying divinity, and was then a settled minister. It was an answer to a communication I had sent him the week before.
"TOPSHAM, R.I. January 22, 1836.
"To say the truth, my dear George, your letter startled me a little. To think that I, scarcely six months settled in the profession, should be admitted so far into the romance of it as to unite forever two young runaways like yourself and Miss Julia What's-her-name is at least curious. But, to give you your due, you have made a strong case of it, and as Miss —— (what is her name, I have not yours at hand) is not under any real guardianship, I do not see but I am perfectly justified [pg 081] in complying with your rather odd request. You see I make a conscientious matter of it.
"Write me word when it shall be, and I will be sure to be ready. Jane is of course in my counsels, and she will make your little wife feel as much at home as in her father's parlor. Trust us for secrecy.
"I met her last week—"
But the rest of the letter has nothing to do with the story.
The elopement alluded to in it (if the little transaction deserves so high-sounding a name) was, in every sense of the words, strictly necessary. Julia Wentworth had resided for years with her grandfather, a pragmatic old gentleman, to whom from pure affection she had long yielded an obedience which he would have had no right to extort, and which he was sometimes disposed to abuse. He had declared in the most ingenuous manner that she should never marry with his consent any man of less fortune than her own would be; and on his consent rested the prospect of her inheriting his property.
Julia and I, however, care little for money now, we cared still less then; and her own little property and my own little salary made us esteem ourselves entirely independent of the old gentleman and his will.
His intention respecting the poor girl's marriage was thundered in her ears at least once a week, so that we [pg 082] both knew that I had no need to make court to him, indeed,
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