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.