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Page 17
Now think of the ingratitude of men! I have brought her in here,
"according to my best discretion," and do you believe, these hidalgos,
or dons, or senores, or whatever they are, had forgotten she existed.
And when I showed them to her, they said in good Portugal that I was a
liar. Fortunately the Consul is our old friend Kingsley. He was
delighted to see me; thought I was at the bottom of the sea. From him we
learned that the Confederacy was blown sky-high long ago. And from all I
can learn, I may have the Florida back again for my own private yacht or
peculium, unless she goes to Sta. Lucia.
Not I, my friends! Scrape her, and mend her, and give her to the
marines,--and tell them her story; but do not intrust her again to my
own Polly's own
FREDERIC INGHAM
A PIECE OF POSSIBLE HISTORY.
[This essay was first published in the Monthly Religious Magazine,
Boston, for October, 1851. One or another professor of chronology has
since taken pains to tell me that it is impossible. But until they
satisfy themselves whether Homer ever lived at all, I shall hold to the
note which I wrote to Miss Dryasdust's cousin, which I printed
originally at the end of the article, and which will be found there in
this collection. The difficulties in the geography are perhaps worse
than those of chronology.]
* * * * *
A summer bivouac had collected together a little troop of soldiers from
Joppa, under the shelter of a grove, where they had spread their
sheep-skins, tethered their horses, and pitched a single tent. With the
carelessness of soldiers, they were chatting away the time till sleep
might come, and help them to to-morrow with its chances; perhaps of
fight, perhaps of another day of this camp indolence. Below the garden
slope where they were lounging, the rapid torrent of Kishon ran brawling
along. A full moon was rising above the rough edge of the Eastern hills,
and the whole scene was alive with the loveliness of an Eastern
landscape.
As they talked together, the strains of a harp came borne down the
stream by the wind, mingling with the rippling of the brook.
"The boys were right," said the captain of the little company. "They
asked leave to go up the stream to spend their evening with the
Carmel-men; and said that they had there a harper, who would sing and
play for them."
"Singing at night, and fighting in the morning! It is the true soldier's
life," said another.
"Who have they there?" asked a third.
"One of those Ziklag-men," replied the chief. "He came into camp a few
days ago, seems to be an old favorite of the king's, and is posted with
his men, by the old tomb on the edge of the hill. If you cross the
brook, he is not far from the Carmel post; and some of his young men
have made acquaintance there."
"One is not a soldier for nothing. If we make enemies at sight, we make
friends at sight too."
"Echish here says that the harper is a Jew."
"What!--a deserter?"
"I do not know that; that is the king's lookout. Their company came up a
week ago, were reviewed the day I was on guard at the outposts, and they
had this post I tell you of assigned to them. So the king is satisfied;
and, if he is, I am."
"Jew or Gentile, Jehovah's man or Dagon's man," said one of the younger
soldiers, with a half-irreverent tone, "I wish we had him here to sing
to us."
"And to keep us awake," yawned another.
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