More firmly than on any of these productions Hale’s literary fame now rests on an anonymous study in the “Atlantic Monthly,” called “The Man without a Country,” a sketch of such absolutely lifelike vigor that I, reading it in camp during the Civil War, accepted it as an absolutely true narrative, until I suddenly came across, in the very midst of it, a phrase so wholly characteristic of its author that I sprang from my seat, exclaiming “Aut Cæsar aut nullus; Edward Hale or nobody.” This is the story on which the late eminent critic, Wendell P. Garrison, of the “Nation,” once wrote (April 17, 1902), “There are some who look upon it as the primer of Jingoism,” and he wrote to me ten years earlier, February 19, 1892, “What will last of Hale, I apprehend, will be the phrase ‘A man without a country,’ and perhaps the immoral doctrine taught in it which leads to Mexican and Chilean wars—‘My country, right or wrong.’”
Be this as it may, there is no doubt that on this field Hale’s permanent literary fame was won. It hangs to that as securely as does the memory of Dr. Holmes to his “Chambered Nautilus.” It is the exiled hero of this story who gives that striking bit of advice to boys: “And if you are ever tempted to say a word or do a thing that shall put a bar between you and your family, your home and your country, pray God in his mercy to take you that instant home to his own heaven!”
President James Walker, always the keenest of observers, once said of Hale that he took sides upon every question while it was being stated. This doubtless came, in part at least, from his having been reared in a newspaper office, or, as he said more tersely, having been “cradled in the sheets of the ‘Advertiser,’” and bred to strike promptly. His strongest and weakest points seem to have been developed in his father’s editorial office. Always ready to give unselfish sympathy, he could not always dispense deliberate justice. One of his favorite sayings was that his ideal of a committee was one which consisted of three persons, one of whom should be in bed with chronic illness, another should be in Europe, and he himself should be the third. It was one of his theories that clergymen were made to do small duties neglected by others, and he did them at a formidable sacrifice of time and in his own independent and quite ungovernable way. Taking active part for the Nation during the Civil War,—so active that his likeness appears on the Soldiers’ Monument on Boston Common,—he did not actually go to the war itself as chaplain of a regiment, as some of his friends desired; for they justly considered him one of the few men qualified to fill that position heartily, through his powerful voice, ready sympathy, and boundless willingness to make himself useful in every direction.
A very characteristic side of the man might always be seen in his letters. The following was written in his own hurried handwriting in recognition of his seventy-seventh birthday:—
April 8, ’99.
Dear Higginson,—Thanks for your card. It awaited me on my return from North Carolina last night.
Three score & ten as you know, has many advantages,—and as yet, I find no drawbacks.
Asa Gray said to me “It is great fun to be 70 years old. You do not have to know everything!”
I see that you can write intelligibly.
I wish I could—But I cannot run a Typewriter more than a Sewing-Machine.