The name, Echetlos, is derived from χτλη, 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 neer 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.
HELENS TOWER
λνη π πργWho hears of Helens Tower, may dream perchance,
How the Greek Beauty from the Scæan Gate
Gazed on old friends unanimous in hate,
Death-doomd 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 blessd 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, Loves rock-built Tower, shall fear no change:
Gods self laid stable Earths 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
Cheran con lui, quando lAmor 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
ISo, 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!
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!
I thought And he who owns the wealth
Which blocks the windows vastitude,
Ah, could I peep at him by stealth
Behind his ware, pass shop, intrude
On house itself, what scenes were viewed!
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!
Pictures he likes, or books perhaps;
And as for buying most and best,
Commend me to these city chaps.
Or else hes social, takes his rest
On Sundays, with a Lord for guest.
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, thats clear.
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!
Nowise! Nor Mayfair residence
Fit to receive and entertain,
Nor Hampstead villas kind defence
From noise and crowd, from dust and drain,
Nor country-box was souls domain!
Nowise! At back of all that spread
Of merchandize, woes me, I find
A hole i the wall where, heels by head,
The owner couched, his ware behind,
In cupboard suited to his mind.
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!
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!
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.
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!
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 shops affair!
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!
Which lies within your power of purse?
This ruby that would tip aright
Solomons sceptre? Oh, your nurse
Wants simply coral, the delight
Of teething baby, stuff to bite!
Howeer 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,
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.
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.
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?
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!
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 mans 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.