A Son of the Gods and A Horseman in the Sky | Page 2

satire has appealed rather to the
cultured, and even the emotional quality of his fiction is frequently so
profound and unusual as to be fully enjoyed only by the intellectually
untrammelled. His writing was never for those who could only read and
feel, not think.
Another factor against his wider acceptance has been the infrequency
and fragmentary character of his work, particularly his satire. No
sustained fort in that field has come from him. His satire was born
largely of a transient stimulus, and was evanescent. Even his short
stories are, generally, but blinding flashes of a moment in a life. He
laughingly ascribes the meagerness of his output to indolence; but there
may be a deeper reason, of which he is unconscious. What is more
dampening than a seeming lack of appreciation? "Tales of Soldiers and
Civilians" had a disheartening search for an established publisher, and
finally was brought out by an admiring merchant of San Francisco. It
attracted so much critical attention that its re-publication was soon
undertaken by a regular house.
Had Bierce never produced anything but these prose tales, his right to a
place high in American letters would nevertheless be secure, and of all
his work, serious or otherwise, here is his greatest claim to popular and
permanent recognition. No stories for which the Civil War has
furnished such dramatic setting surpass these masterpieces of short

fiction, either in power of description, subtlety of touch or literary
finish. It is deeply to be regretted that he has not given us more such
prose.
W. C. Morrow.

A Son of the Gods

A breezy day and a sunny landscape. An open country to right and left
and forward; behind, a wood. In the edge of this wood, facing the open
but not venturing into it, long lines of troops halted. The wood is alive
with them, and full of confused noises: the occasional rattle of wheels
as a battery of artillery goes into position to cover the advance; the hum
and murmur of the soldiers talking; a sound of innumerable feet in the
dry leaves that strew the interspaces among the trees; hoarse commands
of officers. Detached groups of horsemen are well in front - not
altogether exposed - many of them intently regarding the crest of a hill
a mile away in the direction of the interrupted advance. For this
powerful army, moving in battle order through a forest, has met with a
formidable obstacle - the open country. The crest of that gentle hill a
mile away has a sinister look; it says, Beware! Along it runs a stone
wall extending to left and right a great distance. Behind the wall is a
hedge; behind the hedge are seen the tops of trees in rather straggling
order. Among the trees - what? It is necessary to know.
Yesterday, and for many days and nights previously, we were fighting
somewhere; always there was cannonading, with occasional keen
rattlings of musketry, mingled with cheers, our own or the enemy's, we
seldom knew, attesting some temporary advantage. This morning at
daybreak the enemy was gone. We have moved forward across his
earthworks, across which we have so often vainly attempted to move
before, through the debris of his abandoned camps, among the graves
of his fallen, into the woods beyond.
How curiously we regarded everything! How odd it all seemed!

Nothing appeared quite familiar; the most commonplace objects - an
old saddle, a splintered wheel, a forgotten canteen everything related
something of the mysterious personality of those strange men who had
been killing us. The soldier never becomes wholly familiar with the
conception of his foes as men like himself; he cannot divest himself of
the feeling that they are another order of beings, differently conditioned,
in an environment not altogether of the earth. The smallest vestiges of
them rivet his attention and engage his interest. He thinks of them as
inaccessible; and, catching an unexpected glimpse of them, they appear
farther away, and therefore larger, than they really are - like objects in a
fog. He is somewhat in awe of them.
From the edge of the wood leading up the acclivity are the tracks of
horses and wheels - the wheels of cannon. The yellow grass is beaten
down by the feet of infantry. Clearly they have passed this way in
thousands; they have not withdrawn by the country roads. This is
significant - it is the difference between retiring and retreating.
That group of horsemen is our commander, his staff, and escort. He is
facing the distant crest, holding his field-glass against his eyes with
both hands, his elbows needlessly elevated. It is a fashion; it seems to
dignify the act; we are all addicted to it. Suddenly he lowers the glass
and says