Part 2

And all I remember is, friends flocking round As I sat with his head ’twixt my knees on the ground; And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.

The indefiniteness of the date at the head of this poem will be best explained by the following extract from a letter of Mr. Browning’s, published in 1881 in the _Boston Literary World_:—

“There is no sort of historical foundation about ‘Good News From Ghent.’ I wrote it under the bulwark of a vessel off the African coast, after I had been at sea long enough to appreciate even the fancy of a gallop on the back of a certain good horse ‘York,’ then in my stable at home.”

This poem, therefore, widely known and appreciated as one of the most stirring in the language, may be regarded as a living picture to illustrate the pages—no page in particular—of Motley.

As parallels in American literature, reference may be made to “Paul Revere’s Ride,” by Longfellow, and “Sheridan’s Ride,” by T. B. Reade.

ECHETLOS.

Here is a story, shall stir you! Stand up, Greeks dead and gone, Who breasted, beat Barbarians, stemmed Persia rolling on, Did the deed and saved the world, since the day was Marathon!

No man but did his manliest, kept rank and fought away In his tribe and file: up, back, out, down—was the spear-arm play: Like a wind-whipt branchy wood, all spear-arms a-swing that day!

But one man kept no rank, and his sole arm plied no spear, As a flashing came and went, and a form i’ the van, the rear, Brightened the battle up, for he blazed now there, now here.

Nor helmed nor shielded, he! but, a goat-skin all his wear, Like a tiller of the soil, with a clown’s limbs broad and bare, Went he ploughing on and on: he pushed with a ploughman’s share.

Did the weak mid-line give way, as tunnies on whom the shark Precipitates his bulk? Did the right-wing halt when, stark On his heap of slain, lay stretched Kallimachos Polemarch?

Did the steady phalanx falter? To the rescue, at the need, The clown was ploughing Persia, clearing Greek earth of weed, As he routed through the Sakian and rooted up the Mede.

But the deed done, battle won,—nowhere to be descried On the meadow, by the stream, at the marsh,—look far and wide From the foot of the mountain, no, to the last blood-plashed sea-side,—

Not anywhere on view blazed the large limbs thonged and brown, Shearing and clearing still with the share before which—down To the dust went Persia’s pomp, as he ploughed for Greece, that clown!

How spake the Oracle? “Care for no name at all! Say but just this: We praise one helpful whom we call The Holder of the Ploughshare. The great deed ne’er grows small.”

Not the great name! Sing—woe for the great name Míltiadés, And its end at Paros isle! Woe for Themistokles— Satrap in Sardis court! Name not the clown like these!

The name, Echetlos, is derived from ἐχέτλη, a plough handle. It is not strictly a proper name, but an appellative, meaning “the Holder of the Ploughshare.” The story is found in Pausanias, author of the “Itinerary of Greece” (1, 15, 32). Nothing further is necessary in order to understand this little poem and appreciate its rugged strength than familiarity with the battle of Marathon, and some knowledge of Miltiades and Themistocles, the one known as the hero of Marathon, and the other as the hero of Salamis. The lesson of the poem (“The great _deed_ ne’er grows small, not the great _name_!”) is taught in a way not likely to be forgotten. One is reminded of another, who wished to be nameless, heard only as “the voice of one crying in the wilderness!”

The ellipsis in thought between the eighth and ninth stanzas is so easily supplied that it is noticed here only as a simple illustration of what is sometimes the occasion of difficulty (see Introduction, p. iii). It would only have lengthened the poem and weakened it to have inserted a stanza telling in so many words that when the hero could not be found, a message was sent to the Oracle to enquire who it could be.

As a companion to “Echetlos” may be read the stirring poem of “Hervé Riel.”

HELEN’S TOWER.

Ἑλένη ἐπὶ πύργῳ

Who hears of Helen’s Tower, may dream perchance, How the Greek Beauty from the Scæan Gate Gazed on old friends unanimous in hate, Death-doom’d because of her fair countenance.

Hearts would leap otherwise, at thy advance, Lady, to whom this Tower is consecrate: Like hers, thy face once made all eyes elate, Yet, unlike hers, was bless’d by every glance.

The Tower of Hate is outworn, far and strange: A transitory shame of long ago, It dies into the sand from which it sprang: But thine, Love’s rock-built Tower, shall fear no change: God’s self laid stable Earth’s foundations so, When all the morning-stars together sang.

The tower is one built by Lord Dufferin, in memory of his mother Helen, Countess of Gifford, on one of his estates in Ireland. “The Greek Beauty” is, of course, Helen of Troy, and the reference in the alternative heading is apparently to that fine passage in the third book of the “Iliad,” where Helen meets the Trojan chiefs at the Scæan Gate (see line 154, which speaks of “Helen at the Tower”).

On the last two lines, founded of course on the well-known passage in Job (xxxviii. 4-7), compare Dante:

“E il sol montava in su con quelle stelle Ch’eran con lui, quando l’Amor Divino Mosse da prima quelle cose belle.”

“Aloft the sun ascended with those stars That with him rose, when Love Divine first moved Those its fair works.” —_Inferno_ I. 38-40.

SHOP.

I.

So, friend, your shop was all your house! Its front, astonishing the street, Invited view from man and mouse To what diversity of treat Behind its glass—the single sheet!

II.

What gimcracks, genuine Japanese: Gape-jaw and goggle-eye, the frog; Dragons, owls, monkeys, beetles, geese; Some crush-nosed human-hearted dog: Queer names, too, such a catalogue!

III.

I thought “And he who owns the wealth “Which blocks the window’s vastitude, “—Ah, could I peep at him by stealth “Behind his ware, pass shop, intrude “On house itself, what scenes were viewed!

IV.

“If wide and showy thus the shop, “What must the habitation prove? “The true house with no name a-top— “The mansion, distant one remove, “Once get him off his traffic groove!

V.

“Pictures he likes, or books perhaps; “And as for buying most and best, “Commend me to these city chaps. “Or else he’s social, takes his rest “On Sundays, with a Lord for guest.

VI.

“Some suburb-palace, parked about “And gated grandly, built last year: “The four-mile walk to keep off gout; “Or big seat sold by bankrupt peer: “But then he takes the rail, that’s clear.

VII.

“Or, stop! I wager, taste selects “Some out o’ the way, some all-unknown “Retreat: the neighbourhood suspects “Little that he who rambles lone “Makes Rothschild tremble on his throne!”

VIII.

Nowise! Nor Mayfair residence Fit to receive and entertain,— Nor Hampstead villa’s kind defence From noise and crowd, from dust and drain,— Nor country-box was soul’s domain!

IX.

Nowise! At back of all that spread Of merchandize, woe’s me, I find A hole i’ the wall where, heels by head, The owner couched, his ware behind, —In cupboard suited to his mind.

X.

For, why? He saw no use of life But, while he drove a roaring trade, To chuckle “Customers are rife!” To chafe “So much hard cash outlaid “Yet zero in my profits made!

XI.

“This novelty costs pains, but—takes? “Cumbers my counter! Stock no more! “This article, no such great shakes, “Fizzes like wild fire? Underscore “The cheap thing—thousands to the fore!”

XII.

’Twas lodging best to live most nigh (Cramp, coffinlike as crib might be) Receipt of Custom; ear and eye Wanted no outworld: “Hear and see “The bustle in the shop!” quoth he.

XIII.

My fancy of a merchant-prince Was different. Through his wares we groped Our darkling way to—not to mince The matter—no black den where moped The master if we interloped!

XIV.

Shop was shop only: household-stuff? What did he want with comforts there? “Walls, ceiling, floor, stay blank and rough, “So goods on sale show rich and rare! “_Sell and scud home_,” be shop’s affair!

XV.

What might he deal in? Gems, suppose! Since somehow business must be done At cost of trouble,—see, he throws You choice of jewels, everyone Good, better, best, star, moon and sun!

XVI.

Which lies within your power of purse? This ruby that would tip aright Solomon’s sceptre? Oh, your nurse Wants simply coral, the delight Of teething baby,—stuff to bite!

XVII.

Howe’er your choice fell, straight you took Your purchase, prompt your money rang On counter,—scarce the man forsook His study of the “Times,” just swang Till-ward his hand that stopped the clang,—

XVIII.

Then off made buyer with a prize, Then seller to his “Times” returned, And so did day wear, wear, till eyes Brightened apace, for rest was earned: He locked door long ere candle burned.

XIX.

And whither went he? Ask himself, Not me! To change of scene, I think. Once sold the ware and pursed the pelf, Chaffer was scarce his meat and drink, Nor all his music—money-chink.

XX.

Because a man has shop to mind In time and place, since flesh must live, Needs spirit lack all life behind, All stray thoughts, fancies fugitive, All loves except what trade can give?

XXI.

I want to know a butcher paints, A baker rhymes for his pursuit, Candlestick-maker much acquaints His soul with song, or, haply mute, Blows out his brains upon the flute!

XXII.

But—shop each day and all day long! Friend, your good angel slept, your star Suffered eclipse, fate did you wrong! From where these sorts of treasures are, There should our hearts be—Christ, how far!

There ought to be far more in a man than can be put into a front window. This man had all sorts of “curios” in his shop window, but there was nothing rich or rare in his soul; and so there was room for all of _him_ in a den which would not have held the hundredth part of his wares. The contemptible manner of the man’s life is strikingly brought out by the various suppositions (stanzas 5, 6, 7) so different from the poor reality (8-9). All he cared for was business, which made him “chuckle” on the one hand or “chafe” on the other, according as times were good or bad (10). Even in his business it was not the real excellence of his wares he cared for, only their saleability (11). A merchant prince is a very different person (13-19). The last three stanzas give the lesson in a style partly humorous, but passing in the end to an impressive solemnity.

In connection with this should be read the companion piece, “House,” to which reference is made in the Introduction.

THE BOY AND THE ANGEL.

Morning, evening, noon and night, “Praise God!” sang Theocrite.

Then to his poor trade he turned, Whereby the daily meal was earned.

Hard he laboured, long and well; O’er his work the boy’s curls fell.

But ever, at each period, He stopped and sang, “Praise God!”

Then back again his curls he threw, And cheerful turned to work anew.

Said Blaise, the listening monk, “Well done; “I doubt not thou art heard, my son:

“As well as if thy voice to-day “Were praising God, the Pope’s great way.

“This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome “Praises God from Peter’s dome.”

Said Theocrite, “Would God that I “Might praise Him, that great way, and die!”

Night passed, day shone, And Theocrite was gone.

With God a day endures alway, A thousand years are but a day.

God said in heaven, “Nor day nor night “Now brings the voice of my delight.”

Then Gabriel, like a rainbow’s birth, Spread his wings and sank to earth;

Entered, in flesh, the empty cell, Lived there, and played the craftsman well;

And morning, evening, noon and night, Praised God in place of Theocrite.

And from a boy, to youth he grew: The man put off the stripling’s hue:

The man matured and fell away Into the season of decay:

And ever o’er the trade he bent, And ever lived on earth content.

(He did God’s will; to him, all one If on the earth or in the sun.)

God said, “A praise is in mine ear; “There is no doubt in it, no fear:

“So sing old worlds, and so “New worlds that from my footstool go.

“Clearer loves sound other ways: “I miss my little human praise.”

Then forth sprang Gabriel’s wings, off fell The flesh disguise, remained the cell.

’Twas Easter Day: He flew to Rome, And paused above Saint Peter’s dome.

In the tiring-room close by The great outer gallery,

With his holy vestments dight, Stood the new Pope, Theocrite:

And all his past career Came back upon him clear,

Since when, a boy, he plied his trade, Till on his life the sickness weighed;

And in his cell, when death drew near, An angel in a dream brought cheer:

And, rising from the sickness drear, He grew a priest, and now stood here.

To the East with praise he turned, And on his sight the angel burned.

“I bore thee from thy craftsman’s cell, “And set thee here; I did not well.

“Vainly I left my angel-sphere, “Vain was thy dream of many a year.

“Thy voice’s praise seemed weak; it dropped— “Creation’s chorus stopped!

“Go back and praise again “The early way, while I remain.

“With that weak voice of our disdain, “Take up creation’s pausing strain.

“Back to the cell and poor employ: “Resume the craftsman and the boy!”

Theocrite grew old at home; A new Pope dwelt in Peter’s dome.

One vanished as the other died: They sought God side by side.

The lesson of this beautiful fancy is the complement of the “Shop” lesson. Even drudgery may be divine; since the will of God is the work to be done, no matter whether under St. Peter’s dome or in the cell of the craftsman (the Boy)—“all one, if on the earth or in the sun” (the Angel).

The poem is so full of exquisite things, that only a few can be noted. The value of the “little human praise” to God Himself (distich 12), all the dearer because of the doubts and fears in it (20-22); and the contrast between its seeming weakness and insignificance and its real importance as a necessary part of the great chorus of creation (34); the eager desire of Gabriel to anticipate the will of God, and his content to live on earth and bend over a common trade, if only thus he can serve Him best (13-19); and again the content of the “new pope Theocrite” to go back to his “cell and poor employ” and fill out the measure of his day of service, growing old at home, while Gabriel as contentedly takes his place as pope (probably a harder trial than the more menial service) and waits for the time when both “sought God side by side”—these are some of the fine and far reaching thoughts which find simple and beautiful expression here.

Longfellow’s “King Robert of Sicily,” though not really parallel, has points of similarity to “The Boy and the Angel.”

THE PATRIOT.

AN OLD STORY.

I.

It was roses, roses, all the way, With myrtle mixed in my path like mad: The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway, The church-spires flamed, such flags they had, A year ago on this very day.

II.

The air broke into a mist with bells, The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries. Had I said, “Good folk, mere noise repels— “But give me your sun from yonder skies!” They had answered “And afterward, what else?”

III.

Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun To give it my loving friends to keep! Nought man could do, have I left undone: And you see my harvest, what I reap This very day, now a year is run.

IV.

There’s nobody on the house-tops now— Just a palsied few at the windows set; For the best of the sight is, all allow, At the Shambles’ Gate—or, better yet, By the very scaffold’s foot, I trow.

V.

I go in the rain, and, more than needs, A rope cuts both my wrists behind, And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, For they fling, whoever has a mind, Stones at me for my year’s misdeeds.

VI.

Thus I entered, and thus I go! In triumphs, people have dropped down dead. “Paid by the world, what dost thou owe Me?”—God might question; now instead, ’Tis God shall repay: I am safer so.

The Patriot, on his way to the scaffold, surrounded by a hooting crowd, remembers how, just a year ago, the same people had been mad in their enthusiasm for him. Anything at all, however extravagant, would have been too little for them to do for him (stanza 2; cf. Gal. iv. 15, 16); but now——! The fourth stanza is very powerful. All have gone who can, to be ready to see the execution; only the “palsied few,” who cannot, are at the windows to see him pass. In the last stanza the thought of a more sudden contrast still is presented. A man may drop dead in the midst of a triumph, to find that in its brief plaudits he has his reward, while a vast account stands against him at the higher tribunal. Far better die amid the execrations of men and find the contrast reversed.

It is “an old story,” and therefore general; but one naturally thinks of such cases as Arnold of Brescia, or the tribune Rienzi. A higher Name than these need not be introduced here, in proof of the people’s fickleness!

INSTANS TYRANNUS.

I.

Of the million or two, more or less, I rule and possess, One man, for some cause undefined, Was least to my mind.

II.

I struck him, he grovelled of course— For, what was his force? I pinned him to earth with my weight And persistence of hate; And he lay, would not moan, would not curse, As his lot might be worse.

III.

“Were the object less mean, would he stand “At the swing of my hand! “For obscurity helps him, and blots “The hole where he squats.” So, I set my five wits on the stretch To inveigle the wretch. All in vain! Gold and jewels I threw Still he couched there perdue; I tempted his blood and his flesh, Hid in roses my mesh, Choicest cates and the flagon’s best spilth Still he kept to his filth.

IV.

Had he kith now or kin, were access To his heart, did I press Just a son or a mother to seize! No such booty as these. Were it simply a friend to pursue ’Mid my million or two, Who could pay me, in person or pelf, What he owes me himself! No: I could not but smile through my chafe: For the fellow lay safe As his mates do, the midge and the nit, —Through minuteness, to wit.

V.

Then a humour more great took its place At the thought of his face: The droop, the low cares of the mouth, The trouble uncouth ’Twixt the brows, all that air one is fain To put out of its pain. And, “no!” I admonished myself, “Is one mocked by an elf, “Is one baffled by toad or by rat? “The gravamen’s in that! “How the lion, who crouches to suit “His back to my foot, “Would admire that I stand in debate! “But the small turns the great “If it vexes you,—that is the thing! “Toad or rat vex the king? “Though I waste half my realm to unearth “Toad or rat, ’tis well worth!”

VI.

So, I soberly laid my last plan To extinguish the man. Round his creep-hole, with never a break Ran my fires for his sake; Over-head, did my thunder combine With my under-ground mine: Till I looked from my labour content To enjoy the event.

VII.

When sudden ... how think ye, the end? Did I say “without friend?” Say rather from marge to blue marge The whole sky grew his targe With the sun’s self for visible boss, While an Arm ran across Which the earth heaved beneath like a breast Where the wretch was safe prest! Do you see! Just my vengeance complete, The man sprang to his feet, Stood erect, caught at God’s skirts, and prayed! —So, _I_ was afraid!

“Instans Tyrannus,” the _present_ tyrant, the tyrant for the time only, whose apparently illimitable power to hurt shrivels into nothing in presence of the King of kings, whose dominion is everlasting.

The poor victim of this tyrant’s oppression is a true child of God, but the nobility of his inner life is of course concealed from the proud wretch who despises him, and who, it must be remembered, is the speaker throughout. We must be careful, therefore, to estimate at their proper worth the epithets he applies and the motives he attributes to the object of his hate. _He_ can, of course, think of no other reason why his victim “would not moan, would not curse,” than that, if he did, “his lot might be worse.” And again, when temptation failed to shake his steadfast patience, the tyrant is quite consistent with himself, as one of those who call evil good, and good evil, in speaking of him as still keeping “to his filth.” The last stanza is magnificent. Has the power of prayer ever been set forth in nobler language?

THE LOST LEADER.

I.

Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat— Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, Lost all the others, she lets us devote; They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, So much was theirs who so little allowed: How all our copper had gone for his service! Rags—were they purple, his heart had been proud! We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him, Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die! Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, Burns, Shelley, were with us,—they watch from their graves! He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!

II.

We shall march prospering,—not thro’ his presence; Songs may inspirit us,—not from his lyre; Deeds will be done,—while he boasts his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire: Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, One more devil’s-triumph and sorrow for angels, One more wrong to man, one more insult to God! Life’s night begins: let him never come back to us! There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, Forced praise on our part—the glimmer of twilight, Never glad confident morning again! Best fight on well, for we taught him—strike gallantly, Menace our heart ere we master his own; Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!

“The Lost Leader” is supposed to be the poet Wordsworth, who, on accepting the laureateship, abandoned the party of distinguished literary men who had enthusiastically supported the principles of the French Revolution. It is necessary, of course, to enter into the lofty enthusiasm of that party, and for the moment to identify ourselves with it, in order to appreciate the wonderful power and pathos of this exquisite poem. (See Wordsworth’s “French Revolution as it appeared to enthusiasts at its commencement.”)