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

Good night, dearest reader. Can you find your way in the dark?

M. J.

THE PURPLE CLOAK; OR, THE RETURN OF SYLOSON TO SAMOS

HEROD. III. 139

I

 
The king sat on his lofty throne in Susa's palace fair,
And many a stately Persian lord, and satrap proud, was there:
Among his councillors he sat, and justice did to all—
No supplicant e'er went unredrest from Susa's palace-hall.
 

II

 
There came a slave and louted low before Darius' throne,
"A wayworn suppliant waits without—he is poor and all alone,
And he craves a boon of thee, oh king! for he saith that he has done
Good service, in the olden time, to Hystaspes' royal son."
 

III

 
"Now lead him hither," quoth the king; "no suppliant e'er shall wait,
While I am lord in Susa's halls, unheeded at the gate;
And speak thy name, thou wanderer poor, pray thee let me know
To whom the king of Persia's land this ancient debt doth owe."
 

IV

 
The stranger bow'd before the king—and thus began to speak—
Full well, I ween, his garb was worn, and with sorrow pale his cheek,
But his air was free and noble, and proudly flash'd his eye,
As he stood unknown in that high hall, and thus he made reply—
 

V

 
"From Samos came I, mighty king, and Syloson my name;
My brother was Polycrates, a chief well known to fame;
That brother drove me from my home—a wanderer forth I went—
And since that hour my weary soul has never known content!
 

VI

 
"Methinks I need not tell to thee my brother's mournful fate;
He lies within his bloody grave—a churl usurps his state—
Mœandrius lords it o'er the land, my brother's base born slave;
Restore me to that throne, oh king! this, this, the boon I crave.
 

VII

 
"Nay, start not; let me tell my tale! I pray thee look on me,
And, prince, thou soon shalt know the cause that I ask this gift of thee;
Round Persia's king a bristling ring of spearmen standeth now,
But when Cambyses wore the crown—a wanderer poor wast thou!
 

VIII

 
"Remember'st not, oh king! the day when, in old Memphis town,
Upon the night ye won the fight, thou wast pacing up and down?
The costly cloak that then I wore, its colours charm'd thy eye—
In sooth it was a gorgeous robe, of purple Tyrian dye—
 

IX

 
"Let base-born peasants buy and sell, I gave that cloak to thee!
And for that gift on thee bestow'd, grant thou this boon to me—
I ask not silver, ask not gold—I ask of thee to stand
A prince once more on Samos' shore—my own ancestral land!"
 

X

 
"Oh! best and noblest," quoth the king, "thou ne'er shalt rue the day,
When to Cambyses' spearman poor thou gav'st thy cloak away;
The faithless eye each well-known form and feature may forget,
But the deeds of generous kindness done—the heart remembers yet.
 

XI

 
"To-day thou art a wanderer sad, but thou shalt sit, erelong,
Within thy fair ancestral hall, and hear the minstrel's song;
To-day thou art a homeless man—to-morrow thou shalt stand—
A conqueror and a sceptred king—upon thy native land.
 

XII

 
"A cloud is on thy brow to-day—thy lot is poor and low,
To all who gaze on thee thou seem'st a man of want and wo;
But thou shalt drain the bowl erelong within thy own bright isle,
A wreath of roses round thy head, and on thy brow a smile."
 

XIII

 
And he called the proud Otanes, one of the seven was he
Who laid the Magian traitor low, and set their country free;
And he bade him man a gallant fleet, and sail without delay,
To the pleasant isle of Samos, in the fair Icarian bay.
 

XIV

 
"To place yon chief on Samos' throne, Otanes, be thy care,
But bloodless let thy victory be, his Samian people spare!"
For thus the generous chieftain said, when he made his high demand,
"I had rather still an exile roam, than waste my native land."
 

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.

Let it not be supposed that Michael, in his anxiety to involve other men in his own fearful responsibility, was injudicious enough to act without all forethought and consideration. Not he. He had inherited from his sire the valuable faculty of detecting the wishes and views of men in their external evidences. On the countenances of men he read their hearts. It did not take long to discover that the venerable Mr Brammel and the haughty Mr Bellamy were bent upon the partnership, and would secure it at any cost. Satisfied of this, like a lazy and plethoric fish he kept within sight of his bait, close upon it, without deigning for a time as much as a nibble. It was his when he chose to bite. But there were deep enquiries to make, and many things to do, before he could implicate himself so far. In every available quarter he sought information respecting the one partner, and the father of the other, and of both; the intelligence that he received well repaid his trouble. Nothing could be more promising and satisfactory. Nor did he content himself with such arms against the selfishness of gentlemen, who, he was shrewd enough to know, were seeking only their own advantage in their earnest desire of a union with him. He had an eye to the balance of power. Two men, united and active, in the firm, pulling together on all occasions, might, not by one blow perhaps, but in the course of time, and by accumulating force and skill, oust him from his present elevated and natural position. Once admit them to authority, and the limits of their dominion must be prescribed by their own sense of honour, or by the opportunities afforded them of supremacy and independent action. Michael the impulsive saw and felt this most acutely, and took occasion, from their eagerness, to insure a proper equilibrium of the forces before permitting them to coalesce. There lived in the same city with Michael, and within a quarter of a mile of the banking-house, an individual to whom he turned his thoughts in his emergency. Mr Planner was his name, and his character is worth more than a mere passing observation. He was a study for an artist—a lesson for mankind. He was a man of surprising abilities, ill directed, and badly educated; at any period of his life capable of any thing—to the last moment of his existence accomplishing nothing. From a child he had displayed a love of admiration and applause, a craving after superiority and distinction, a burning ambition for fame. He had the body of a giant, and a giant's mental apparatus. But with all his gifts, physical and spiritual, all his energies and aims, he arrived at middle life a melancholy spectacle of failure and incompetency. There was no one object which he could pursue with steadiness

and patience—no single mark to which he could perseveringly apply the combined powers of his gifted intellect. He frittered his faculties upon a hundred trifles, never concentrated them upon a worthy purpose once. Pride, emulation, and the internal consciousness of strength, led him, year after year, and day after day, into difficulties and trials, and carried him through them only to drag him into deeper. There was no one man whom he would allow to perform any one thing so skilfully as himself. There was no branch of knowledge into which he did not grope his way, and from which he would not manage to extract sufficient learning to render his conceit intolerable, and his opposition dangerous to a more erudite antagonist. He could build a church—dam a river—form a company—warm a house—cool a room—one and all he would undertake at a minute's notice, and engage to execute better than any person living. He asserted it with confidence, and you believed him when he spoke with all the earnestness of self-conviction and of truth. He despised all works—all theories but his own; and these were unapproachable, inimitable. He wrote with his own invented pen, used his own ink, sat on his own chair, made with his own incomparable tools. Men were ignorant, behind their age—burdened with superstitions, clogged by false principles. This was a text from which he never ceased to preach. As a youth he was engaged in profitable business. Before he reached his thirtieth year he had realized a handsome competency. He retired from his occupation, and went abroad to found a city across the ocean, with views that were unknown to man, and which, well carried out, must prove infallible. He chose a spot removed from civilized society—lived for three years amongst a tribe of savages, and came home at last without a farthing in his scrip—beggared but not depressed. He had dwelt for many months in a district of swamps, and he had discovered a method of draining lands cheaper and more effectual than any hitherto attempted. He contracted to empty some thousand acres—began his work, succeeded for a time, and failed at last, from having falsely calculated his expenses, and for lack of means to carry out his plans. There were few public matters in which Mr Planner did not meddle. He wrote pamphlets, and "hints," and "original views" by dozens. His articles on the currency and corn-laws were full of racy hits and striking points—his criticisms on the existing state of art worthy of the artist's best attention. The temper of Mr Planner was such as might be expected from such a mass of arrogance and conceit. A man who, in the easiness of his heart, would listen humbly, patiently, approvingly to Mr Planner, must pronounce the ardent character an angel. The remarkable docility which Mr Planner evinced under such treatment, was only to be equalled by the volubility and pleasure with which he communicated his numerous and ingenious ideas. Sceptics—nay, men who had ventured only to contend for the soundness of their preconceived ideas, and who had been met with a torrent of vituperation and reproach in consequence—did not hesitate to call Mr Planner—the devil incarnate. Such as he was, he had become an agent and a tool in the hands of Allcraft's father. Michael had been his friend for years, and Planner liked the boy who had ever regarded him with awe and veneration. The youth had been taught by his parent to note the faults and inconsistencies of his character; but these had not rendered him insensible to the talents which had commanded even that discerning parent's respect and admiration. It was this personage, for some years the hanger-on at the bank, and the traveller and negotiator of many things for Allcraft senior, whose name suggested to Michael the means of providing against the encroachments of his future brethren. Planner could be relied upon. The smallest possible interest in the business would excite in him a corresponding interest in its prosperity, and secure his steadiness and good behaviour. Why not offer it then, and make his entrance into the firm a sine qua non in the bargain with Bellamy and Brammel? He revolved the matter, and saw no real objection to it. Planner was reputed a first-rate accountant; his services would be important, no remuneration could be too great, provided he would settle down, and fix his energies upon the one great object of advancing the welfare of the establishment. His friendship was secured, and a word or two would suffice to gain his faithful support and co-operation. So far from his becoming burdensome and useless in the bank, his talents would be in every way desirable. A coadjutor, such as he might be, firm and trusty, was invaluable. And why should he not be? A day had been fixed for accepting or rejecting the propositions of the gentlemen. The time was drawing on, when Michael visited his friend to sound him on his purpose.

Planner lived in a very humble part of a very humble house, in a very humble street. The two-pair back was his domain, and his territory was less adorned than crowded with the evidences of his taste and handiwork. In the remote corner of his unclean apartment was a lathe for turning ivory—near it the material, a monstrous elephant's tusk. Shelves, carried round the room, supported bottles of various sizes, externally very dirty, and internally what you please; for eyes could not penetrate so far, and determine the contents. A large label, crowning all, announced them to be "samples." Books were strewed every where—manuscripts met you at every turn. The walls were filled with charts and drawings, one of the former representing the field of Waterloo, dissected and intersected, with a view to prove Lord Wellington guilty of winning a battle, which, in conformity with every law of strategy, he should have lost. One drawing was a rough sketch of his unhappy swamp; another, the elaborate delineation of a hydraulic pump. In the niche corresponding to that in which the lathe was fixed, there was a small iron bedstead; and in this, although it was nearly noon when Michael paid his friendly visit, Mr Allcraft caught sight of Mr Planner when he opened the door, in obedience to the very sharp and loud voice which invited him to "walk in." The ingenious gentleman had breakfasted. The tea things were on a stool at his side. He wore his nightcap, and he was busy in examining a crimson liquid, which he held in a glass close to his eyes. "That man was murdered, Allcraft!" exclaimed Mr Planner after the briefest possible salutation. "Murdered, as I am a living Christian!"

"What man?" asked Allcraft.

"Him they hanged last week for poisoning his father. What was the evidence? Why, when they opened the body, they found a grain or two of arsenic. Hang a man upon that! A pretty state of things—look here, sir—look here!"—and he pointed triumphantly to his crimson liquid.