Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine - Volume 54, No. 338, December 1843

PART II

I Oh, "monarchs' arms are wondrous long!"3 their power is wondrous great, But not to them 'tis given to stem the rushing tide of fate. A king may man a gallant fleet, an island fair may give, But can he blunt the sword's sharp edge, or bid the dead to live? II They leave the strand, that gallant band, their ships are in the bay, It was a glorious sight, I ween, to view that proud array; And there, amid the Persian chiefs, himself he holds the helm, Sits lovely Samos' future lord—he comes to claim his realm! III Mœandrius saw the Persian fleet come sailing proudly down, And his troops he knew were all too few to guard a leaguer'd town; So he laid his crown and sceptre down, his recreant life to save— Who thus resigns a kingdom fair deserves to be a slave. IV He calls his band—he seeks the strand—they grant him passage free— "And shall they then," his brother cried, "have a bloodless victory? No—grant me but those spears of thine, and I soon to them shall show, There yet are men in Samos left to face the Persian foe." V The traitor heard his brother's word, and he gave the youth his way; "An empty land, proud Syloson, shall lie beneath thy sway." That youth has arm'd those spearmen stout—three hundred men in all— And on the Persian chiefs they fell, before the city's wall. VI The Persian lords before the wall were sitting all in state, They deem'd the island was at peace—they reck'd not of their fate; When on them came the fiery youth4—with desperate charge he came— And soon lay weltering in his gore full many a chief of fame. VII The outrage rude Otanes view'd, and fury fired his breast— And to the winds the chieftain cast his monarch's high behest. He gave the word, that angry lord—"War, war unto the death!" Then many a scimitar flash'd forth impatient from its sheath. VIII Through Samos wide, from side to side, the carnage is begun, And ne'er a mother there is seen, but mourns a slaughter'd son; From side to side, through Samos wide, Otanes hurls his prey, Few, few, are left in that fair isle, their monarch to obey! IX The new-made monarch sits in state in his loved ancestral bow'rs, And he bids his minstrel strike the lyre, and he crowns his head with flow'rs; But still a cloud is on his brow—where is the promised smile? And yet he sits a sceptred king—in his own dear native isle. X Oh! Samos dear, my native land! I tread thy courts again— But where are they, thy gallant sons? I gaze upon the slain— "A dreary kingdom mine, I ween," the mournful monarch said, "Where are my subjects good and true? I reign but o'er the dead! XI "Ah! woe is me—I would that I had ne'er to Susa gone, To ask that fatal boon of thee, Hystaspes' generous son. Oh, deadly fight! oh, woeful sight! to greet a monarch's eyes! All desolate—my native land, reft of her children, lies!" XII Thus mourn'd the chief—and no relief his regal state could bring. O'er such a drear unpeopled waste, oh! who would be a king? And still, when desolate a land, and her sons all swept away, "The waste domain of Syloson," 'tis call'd unto this day!

LOVE AND DEATH

O strong as the Eagle,     O mild as the Dove! How like, and how unlike,     O Death and O Love! Knitting Earth to the Heaven,     The Near to the Far— With the step on the dust,     And the eyes on the star! Interweaving, commingling,     Both rays from God's light! Now in sun, now in shadow,     Ye shift to the sight! Ever changing the sceptres     Ye bear—as in play; Now Love as Death rules us,     Now Death has Love's sway! Why wails so the New-born?     Love gave it the breath. The soul sees Love's brother—     Life enters on Death! Why that smile the wan lips     Of the dead man above? The soul sees Death changing     Its shape into Love. So confused and so blending     Each twin with its brother, The frown of one melts     In the smile of the other. Love warms where Death withers,     Death blights where Love blooms; Death sits by our cradles,     Love stands by our tombs! Edward Lytton Bulwer. Nov. 9, 1843.

THE BRIDGE OVER THE THUR

FROM THE GERMAN.—GUSTAV SCHWAB

Spurning the loud Thur's headlong march, Who hath stretcht the stony arch? That the wayfarer blesses his path! That the storming river wastes his wrath! Was it a puissant prince, in quelling This watery vassal, oft rebelling?— Or earthly Mars, the bar o'erleaping, That wrong'd his war of its onward sweeping? Did yon high-nesting Castellan Lead the brave Street, for horse and man? And, the whiles his House creeps under the grass, The Road, that he built, lies fair to pass? Nay! not for the Bridge, which ye look upon, Manly hest knit stone with stone. The loved word of a woman's mouth Bound the thundering chasm with a rocky growth. She, in turret, who sitteth lone, Listing the broad stream's heavier groan, Kenning the flow, from his loosen'd fountains, From the clouds, that have wash'd a score of mountains. A skiff she notes, by the shelvy marge, Wont deftly across to speed its charge; Now jumping and twisting, like leaf on a lynn, Wo! if a foot list cradle therein! Sooner, than hath she thought her feeling, With travellers twain is the light plank reeling. Who are they?... Marble watcher! Who? Thy beautiful, youthful, only two! Coming, glad, from the greenwood slaughter, They reach the suddenly-swollen water; But the nimble, strong, and young, Boldly into the bark have sprung. The game in the forest fall, stricken and bleeding; Those river-waves are of other breeding! And the shriek of the mother helpeth not, At seeing turn upwards the keel of the boat. Whilst her living pulses languish, As she taketh in her anguish, By the roar, her soul which stuns, On the corses of her sons. Needs must she upon the mothers think, Who yet may stand beholding sink, Under the hastily-roused billow, Sons, upthriven to be their pillow. Till, in her deeply-emptied bosom, There buds a melancholy blossom, Tear-nourisht:—the will the wo to spare To others, which hath left her bare. Ere doth her sorrow a throe abate, Is chiseling and quarrying, early, late. The hoarse flood chafes, with straiten'd tides: Aloft, the proud Arch climbs and strides. How her eyes, she fastens on frolicsome boys, O'er the stone way racing, with careless noise. Hark!—hark!—the wild Thur, how he batters his rocks! But ye gaze, laugh, and greet the gruff chider, with mocks. Or, she vieweth with soft footfall, Mothers, following their children all. A gleam of pleasure, a spring of yearning, Sweetens her tears, dawns into her mourning. And her pious work endureth! And her pain a slumber cureth! Heareth not yonder torrent's jars! Hath her young sons above the stars! Fontainbleau, 1843.

THE BANKING-HOUSE

A HISTORY IN THREE PARTS. PART II

CHAPTER I.

A NEGOTIATION

It is vastly amusing to contemplate the activity and perseverance which are exhibited in the regard shown by every man for his individual interests. Be our faults what they may—and our neighbours are not slow to discover them—it is very seldom indeed that we are charged with remissness in this respect. So far from this being the case, a moralist of the present day, in a work of no mean ability, has undertaken to prove that selfishness is the great and crying evil of the age. Without venturing to affirm so wholesale a proposition, which necessarily includes in its censure professors and professions par excellence unsecular and liberal, we may be permitted in charity to express our regret, that the rewards apportioned to good men in heaven are not bestowed upon those in whom the selfish principle is most rampant, instead of being strictly reserved for others in whom it is least influential; since it is more pleasing to consider celestial joys in connexion with humanity at large, than with an infinitesimal minority of mortals.

Whilst Michael Allcraft coolly and designedly looked around him, in the hope of fixing on the prey he had resolved to find—whilst, cautious as the midnight housebreaker, who dreads lest every step may wake his sleeping victim, he almost feared to do what most he had at heart, and strove by ceaseless effort to bring into his face the show of indifference and repose;—whilst he was thus engaged, there were many, on the other hand, eager and impatient to crave from him, as for a boon, all that he himself was but too willing to bestow. Little did Michael guess, on his eventful wedding-day, as his noble equipage rattled along the public roads, what thoughts were passing in the minds of some who marked him as he went, and followed him with longing eyes. His absorbing passion, his exhilaration and delight, did not suffer him to see one thin and anxious-looking gentleman, who, spyglass in hand, sat at his cottage window, and brought as near as art allowed—not near enough to satisfy him—the entranced and happy pair. That old man, with nine times ten thousand pounds safe and snug in the stocks, was miserable to look at, and as miserable in effect. He was a widower, and had a son at Oxford, a wild, scapegrace youth, who had never been a joy to him, but a trial and a sorrow even from his cradle. Such punishments there are reserved for men—such visitations for the sins our fathers wrought, too thoughtless of their progeny. How the old man envied the prosperous bridegroom, and how vainly he wished that his boy might have done as well; and how through his small grey eye, the labouring tear-drops oozed, as he called fresh to mind again all that he had promised himself at the birth of his unhappy prodigal! What would he not give to recover and reform the wayward boy? The thought occurred to him, and he dallied with it for his pleasure. "If I could but settle him with this young Allcraft! Why should it not be done? I will give him all I have at once, if necessary, and live in a garret, if it will save my poor Augustus. I will speak to him on his return. What a companion and example for my boy! Open and straightforward—steady as a rock—as rich as Crœsus. Most certainly I'll see him. I knew his father. I'll not grudge a few thousands to establish him. Stick him to business, and he shall do yet." The equipage rolled on as unconscious of the old man's dreams as were its animated inmates; and in due time it passed a massive lodge, which led through green and winding paths to the finest park and mansion in the parish. Close to the lodge's porch there stood a tall and gloomy-looking man, neatly dressed—alone. His arms were folded, and he eyed the carriage thoughtfully and seriously, as though he had an interest there,

known to himself, and to no one else. He was a very proud man that—the owner of this vast estate, master of unnumbered acres, and feared rather than loved by the surrounding people. Wealth is the most royal of despots—the autocrat of all the world. Men whose sense of liberty forbids them to place their worst passions under wise control, will crawl in fetters to lick the basest hand well smeared with gold. There was not an individual who could say a good word for the squire behind his back. You would hardly believe it, if you saw individual and squire face to face. And there he stood, with as ill-omened a visage as ever brought blight upon a party of pleasure. He watched the panting horses out of sight—opened his gate, and walked the other way. He, like the old man, had his plans, and an itching for a share in Michael Allcraft's fortune. How he, so wealthy and respected, could need a part of it, remains a mystery at present. The squire knew his business. He went straightway to the banking-house, and made enquiry respecting Allcraft's destination. He gained intelligence, and followed him at once. They met abroad—they returned home in company. They became great friends, and within three months—partners. And the old man had been, as he threatened to be, very busy likewise. He had fought his son's battle very hardly and very successfully, as he believed, and with twenty thousand pounds had purchased for him a junior partner's interest in the estate. The hopeful boy was admitted into the concern during his residence in Oxford. He had never been seen, but his father was a man of substance, well known and esteemed. The character which he gave with his son was undeniable. Its truth could not be questioned, backed as it was by so liberal an advance.

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1

Perhaps the author of the lectures received this ill opinion of Pausanias from Julius Cæsar Scaliger, who treats him as an impostor; but he is amply vindicated by Vossius. He lived in the second century, and died very old at Rome. In his account of the numerous representations of the Χαριτες, he seems to throw some light upon a passage in Xenophon's Memorabilia, which, as far as we know, has escaped the notice of the commentators. It is in the dialogue between Socrates and the courtesan Theodote. She wishes that he would come to her, to teach her the art of charming men. He replies, that he has no leisure, being hindered by many matters of private and public importance; and he adds, "I have certain mistresses which will not allow me to be absent from them day nor night, on account of the spells and charms, which learning, they receive from me"— εισι δε και φιλαι μοι, αι ουτε ημεραϛ ουτε νυκτος αφ αυτων εασουσι με απιεναι, φιλτρα τε μανθανουσαι παρ εμον και επωδας. Who were these φιλαι? Had he meant the virtues or moral qualities, he would have spoken plainer, as was his wont; but here, where the subject is the personal beauty, the charms of Theodote, it is more in the Socratic vein that he refers to other personal charms, which engage his thoughts night and day, and keep him at home. Now, it appears too, that Socrates was taken to see her, on account of the fame of her beauty, and goes to her when she is sitting, or rather standing, to a painter; and it is evident from the dialogue, that she did not refuse the exhibition of her personal charms. It seems, then, not improbable, that Socrates was induced to go to her as the painter went, for the advantage of his art as a sculptor, and that the art was that one at home, the τις φιλωτερα σου ενδον. Be that as it may, it is extremely probable that the φιλαι were some personifications of feminine beauty, upon which he was then at work. Are there, then, any such recorded as from his hand? Pausanias says there were. "Thus Socrates, the son of Sophroniscus, made for the Athenians statues of the Graces, before the vestibule of the citadel," And adds the curious fact, that after that time the Graces were represented naked, and that these were clothed. Σωκρατης τε ο Σωφρονισχον προ της ες την ακροπολιν εσοδον Χαριτων ειργασατο αγαλματα Αθηναιοις. Και ταυτα μεν εστιν ὁμοιως απαντα εν εσθετι. Οι δε υστερον, ουκ οιδα εφ οτω, μεταβεβληκασι το σχημα αυταις. Χαριτας γουν, οι κατ εμε επλασσον τε και εγραφον γυμνας. Did not Socrates allude to these his statues of the Graces?—Pausanias, cap. xxxv. lib. 9.

2

The Literary Conglomerate, or Combination of Various Thoughts and Facts. Oxford: 1839. Printed by Thomas Combe.

3

Greek proverb.

4

"The fiery youth, with desperate charge, Made for a space an opening large." —Marmion.