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Surveying
the Literary Landscape:
The Romantic Anthology
as Environment
Thomas
Hothem,
University of California,
Merced
-
The
metaphorical
correspondence
between land
and text is
such that authors
regularly allegorize
the acts of
reading and
writing by walking
us over hill
and dale. For
instance, in
what is a watershed
moment for British
literary landscape
description,
John Milton's Paradise
Lost concludes
its justification
of God's ways
to men as Adam
and the archangel
Michael ascend "a
Hill / Of Paradise
the highest,
from whose top
/ The Hemisphere
of Earth in
clearest Ken
/ Stretcht out
to the amplest
reach of prospect
lay" (XI.377-80),
and from this
point survey
Old Testament
history episode
by episode,
as if they were
leafing through
a Bible. At
the other end
of the long
eighteenth century,
William Wordsworth
parses the Wye
Valley's "steep
and lofty cliffs" for "the
language of
[his] former
heart" ("Lines
Written a Few
Miles above
Tintern Abbey" 6-8,
119). And John
Keats likens
the experience
of reading Homer
to commanding
a "wide
expanse" and
traveling through "realms
of gold," wherein—"like
some watcher
of the skies
/ When a new
planet swims
into his ken," or
some "stout
Cortez . . .
with eagle eyes" staring
at the Pacific,
somehow "Silent,
upon a peak
in Darien"—one
may descry "many
goodly states
and kingdoms" ("On
First Looking
into Chapman's
Homer" 5,
1, 9-10, 11-12,
14, 2).
-
Such
associations
between land
and text highlight
emergent poetics
of place in
the literature
of landscape
circa 1674,
1798 and 1816.
Yet, insofar
as we may invoke
the term "landscape" in
a conceptual
or figurative
sense, they
indicate as
much about
the landscape
of literature.
These versified
scenes are
themselves
significant
features in
the grand
topography
of British
literary history.
As environmentally
elaborate
coordinates
of a wider
literary imagination
(traces of
which they
model in miniature),
they are opulent
cairns along
the trail
of literary
tradition
and prominent
points of
interest
on our canonical
roadmap. In
reading them
for some semblance
of the contexts
in which they
appeared—or
for the literary
hinterlands
to which
they serve
as gateways—we
enjoy means
of survey
that, like
the modes
of landscape
vision they
describe,
afford comparisons
between
foregrounds
and backgrounds,
primary
and
secondary
foci, and
generalities
and particulars,
all depending
upon our
scope and
coincident
prospects.
In a word,
the vantage
points from
which readers
contemplate
such poems
and corresponding
canons enable
sweeping
perspectives
on literary
tradition.
As the poets
suggest,
from the
highest
hills of
Paradise
or the confines
of our homes,
the literary
imagination
permits
us to see
into the
past, perhaps
as far as
ancient
Egypt or
the pre-historic
Pacific
Ocean.[1]
-
This
rich legacy
of literary
landscape vision
is invaluable
for teaching
Romanticism
because, in
promoting personal
perspective,
it encourages
readers to explore.
After all, landscape
appreciation
is at once an
inspiration
for the Romantic
imagination
and an allegory
of interpretation,
a tried and
true means of
exacting order
from chaos in
the visual field.
It helps us
make sense of
what we see
by inciting
awareness of
the so-called "bigger
picture" and
the relationships
that occur within
it. As such,
it can be a
powerful, contextually
informed means
of seeing the
forest and the
trees, as it
were—particularly
when students
are confronted
with vast tracts
of unfamiliar
literary territory
laid out in
dense anthologies
and ambitious
survey courses.
Indeed, many
students count
such methods
of academic
overview among
the inexplicable
abstractions
by which literary
history operates.
This occurs
partly because
too few survey
courses account
for all the
complex contextual
negotiations
that students
perform as they
reconcile the
past with the
present. To
counteract this
effect, instead
of leaving the
modus operandi
of surveying
implicit, we
might, as Michael
does for Adam
atop that great
hill, exploit
the spatial
trappings of
this otherwise
temporal concept
to cultivate
powers of vision,
so that students
comprehend the
landscape of
anthologies
and syllabi
and develop
the kinds of
critical omniscience
for which such
materials are
intended. The
idea of landscape,
in this respect,
can serve as
a guiding metaphor
for conceptualizing
the textual
economies of
individual works
and the canons
of which they
are part.
-
In
observing that
the concept
of landscape
vision and the
politics of
place can apply
to both physical
and textual
environments—not
to mention the
historical,
ideological
and educational
environments
that influence
our experience
of them—this
essay will examine
the pedagogical
implications
of reading Romantic
literature ecosystemically,
in terms of
intersections
between depictions
of place, their
positions in
literary history,
survey courses
and anthological
infrastructures,
and hence their
status vis-à-vis
the politics
of the canon.
Such a meta-environmental
approach befits
the study of
Romantic literature
because reading
it often involves
negotiating
among natural,
historical,
literary, psychological
and educational
contexts, and
finding cues
in each for
interpreting
its counterparts
(as we must
do to fully
appreciate the
above selections
from Wordsworth
and Keats).
To elucidate
instructional
means of addressing
these interrelations,
I will devote
this essay to
describing the
rationale behind
my undergraduate
course "Placing
Romanticism"—which,
in surveying
representations
of place from
Blake and the
Wordsworths
to Keats and
Hemans, highlights
aesthetic trends
that place certain
writing in the
category "Romantic," so
as to define
Romanticism's
place in literary
history and
identify its
influence over
literature and
culture of the
past two hundred
years. I hope
to suggest that,
by calling attention
to the contexts
in which Romanticism
exists for us,
we can promote
a kind of historical
reflexivity
that helps students
visualize their
studies, examine
positions in
the landscape
of interpretation,
and assess the
topography of
literary tradition
for themselves.
Anatomizing
Anthologies
-
Because
attaining this
degree of perspective
can be challenging—especially
over the course
of mere ten-
to fourteen-week
terms during
which we tour
college students
through some
fifty years
of intensive
literary production—we
must find
ways to extrapolate
our learning
to wider
contexts by
working closely
with what
we have.
The process
of "placing" Romanticism
requires
that students
engage course
materials
critically
as they
enhance
their cultural
literacy.
More often
than not,
the way
toward
this kind
of awareness
leads through
a literary
anthology,
and the
basic
focus of
the course
becomes
how to read
it for the
era that
it represents.[2] Despite
the incongruity
of compressing
such massive
literary
output
into the
space
of a thousand
pages,
as a means
of
covering
the Romantic
period
in relatively
short order,
anthologies
such as
Jerome
McGann's New
Oxford
Book
of Romantic
Period
Verse,
Anne
Mellor
and Richard
Matlak's British
Literature
1780–1830, David
Perkins's English
Romantic
Writers,
and
Duncan
Wu
and
David
Miall's Romanticism:
An
Anthology
with
CD-ROM have
become
indispensable
in
identifying
the
era
as
a
formative
historical
context
for
contemporary
culture. Inevitably,
the
further
we
venture
into
the
future,
the
further
the
Romantic
era
recedes
into
the
past,
the
smaller
its
half-century
window
becomes
in
the
course
of
literary
history,
and
the
less
distinct
it
may
appear
to
the
untrained
eye.
The
importance
of
marking
this
rich
yet
finite
literary
terrain
is
further
underscored
by
Romantic
writers'
and
readers'
supposed
penchant
for "escaping" history,
and
by
the
ease
with
which
the
Romantic
ethos
may
be
absorbed
into
other,
less
particular
literary
traditions.[3]
-
Its
material limitations
notwithstanding,
the fitness
of the anthology
form for instilling
historical awareness
in modern readers
becomes especially
evident when
we consider
that the idea
of the anthology
was intrinsic
to the rise
of Romanticism.
Romantic audiences
were well acquainted
with literary
miscellanies
and collected
editions, and
Romantic poets
frequently presented
their work in
anthology form.[4] Moreover,
literary works
themselves are
implicitly anthologic,
insofar as they
collect and
arrange ideas
and images according
to overarching
narrative ideologies.
In learning
to see literary
epochs through
the filter of
anthologies
we thus witness
literary history
in action: we
become privy
to the literary
process of creation,
the vicissitudes
of audience
reception, the
politics of
editorial selection,
and hence the
formation of
the canon. Furthermore,
in a practical
sense, anthologies
include a greater
variety and
number of works
than might be
presented via
a selection
of collected
editions—a
strategy that
curtails historical
coverage by
emphasizing
the work of
too few authors.[5] In
the end, the
anthology is
a serviceable
textual environment
that stands
for a distinct
era of literary
production,
a time capsule
that houses
a culture in
miniature. As
a veritable
atlas of literary
production,
its means of
mapping Romanticism
can teach us
as much about
ourselves and
our world as
it does about
the literature
we read.[6]
-
If
anthologies
efficiently
demarcate eras
and provide
useful windows
into the past,
teaching with
them entails
getting students
to see them
as something
other than bulky
tomes for which
we may feel
we've paid too
much, and with
which we often
dispense at
term's end.
Of course, this
is to say nothing
of counteracting
students' tendency
to treat textbooks,
as James Sosnoski
reminds us,
as "apparatuses
of orthodoxy" (75).[7] To
promote critical
interaction
with anthologies
we might instead
emphasize their
utility, the
extent of overview
they afford,
the wealth of
material they
present for
our comparative
inspection,
and hence our
freedom of choice
in perusing
their contents.
Because an anthology
shapes a hodgepodge
of sources into
a coherent vision
of an aesthetic
tradition, like
a landscape
its form is
as instructive
as its content.
In characterizing
the genre as "a
theoretically
interesting
form whose potential
for opening
up discourse
has yet to be
sufficiently
explored" (47),
Sarah Lawall
observes that
an
anthology's
various constituent
parts—its
visibly constructed
table of contents,
preface, and
editorial apparatus
(footnotes,
headnotes, extended
essays, ancillary
materials);
its self-reflexive
identity (always
aware of its
situation vis-à-vis
the audience);
and finally
its virtual
reality as a
paradigm enacted
differently
in each classroom—bring
to the surface
a web of communicative
relationships
that might otherwise
remain obscure.
(48)
Lawall's
emphasis on
the anatomy
and situation
of anthologies
underscores
the range of
topoi they can
present and
the variety
of audiences
they can reach.
In cultivating
an understanding
of their form
we thus gain
important insights
into the historical
imagination
of the eras
they represent.
In other words,
just as we learn
a lot about
poems or paintings
by the kinds
of landscapes
they depict,
so we can study
literary movements
in greater context
by viewing anthologies
as intertextually
intricate fields
whose features
signify in context
and alone.
-
That
said, because
readers tend
to be more concerned
with what texts
convey than
with the shapes
they take, to
facilitate critical
engagement with
anthologies
we might draw
upon the kind
of visualization
we usually associate
with the interpretation
of maps and
pictures. Indeed,
as pictorial
manifestations
of narrative
operations to
which texts
in general subscribe,
landscapes are
allegories of
anthologization.
As Alan Liu
has shown in
his meticulous
analysis of
the picturesque
aesthetic tradition,
a relatively
orthodox Romantic
prospect such
as the one in
Claude Lorraine's
1646 painting Landscape
with Hagar and
the Angel is
a veritable
anthology of
treasured images
and competing
narratives.[8] Striking
a pose that
simultaneously
dramatizes the
Angel's counsel
to Hagar as
she flees Abram
in Genesis 16,
evokes paintings
of the Annunciation
by the likes
of Fra Angelico,
models means
of perspective
that would become
the hallmark
of British landscape
poetry, and
presages depictions
of tourists
in picturesque
sketches such
as William Gilpin's
view of Tintern
Abbey, the titular
characters survey
a lush river
scene replete
with mountains
in the distance,
an ancient castle
on a cliff,
and an equally
aged arched
bridge toward
which two boatmen
drift—all
of which is
framed by vine-laden
oaks that stretch
to the sky.
This palimpsest
of environmental,
literary, artistic,
secular and
religious tropes
thus contains
any number of
narratives present
and past, from
biblical legends
to subjects
for eighteenth-century
locodescriptive
poetry, picturesque
travel writing,
and gothic fiction,
not to mention
histories of
landscape painting
and portraiture.
Its anthology
of images spans
out in all historical
directions,
indicating grander
meta-narratives
simultaneously
beyond the scope
and within compass
of the scene
at hand (given
its finitude
of imagery yet
depth of prospect).
Approaching
Romantic Anthologies
-
Applying
such a multidimensional
visual perspective
to the textual
landscape of
an anthology
helps readers
discern meaning
in the features
and form of
the book, so
as to set our
sense of the
literary climate
circa 1800 and
2005 in stronger
relief. It invites
us to gauge
the relationships
between the
anthology's
constituent
parts, to conjecture
as to the significance
they assume
in context,
to compare the
authors and
works that are
included therein,
and to measure
them against
those that are
not. Of course,
because anthologies
are creatures
of the same
textual environments
that they survey,
we also must
consider the
vantage points
that they construct
and the contexts
in which they
arise. To call
attention to
such characteristics,
I like to begin
Romanticism
courses by having
students read
and discuss
the editorial
principles behind
our anthology,
to treat such
commentary as
a "legend" for
the "maps" that
follow it. This
activity helps
demystify the
anthology and
put things in
perspective
by elucidating
ways in which
its careful
presentation
of the Romantic
era reflects—or,
as is sometimes
the case, belies—tensions
affecting the
canon then and
now. As students
engage editorial
politics that
they are usually
prone to ignore,
they take the
first step in
the process
of familiarizing
themselves with
their textbook—which,
of course, is
a medium that
effectively
plays Virgil
to their Dante,
or, in terms
perhaps more
Romantically
pertinent (if
somewhat despairing),
Rousseau to
their Shelley—and
the age through
which it tours
us.
-
All
things being
equal, my Romantic
anthology of
choice is Mellor
and Matlak's British
Literature 1780–1830.
Its inclusive,
unassuming approach
to such a vibrant
era of diverse
literary production
allows us to
examine the
concept of Romanticism
contextually,
without immediately
overdetermining
the term. Indeed,
as they assert
in their "General
Introduction," the
editors deliberately
avoid "using
the terms 'Romantic'
or 'Romanticism'
to describe
[this] historical
period" (2).
Hence, rather
than privilege
poetry to the
extent that
other genres
are only lightly
represented—as
McGann, Perkins,
and Wu do—Mellor
and Matlak include
a broad sampling
of poetry, prose,
fiction, drama,
letters, and
journals, in
hopes of illustrating
that "each
genre has its
own literary
merits" and
that "such
generic variety
more accurately
reflects the
literary culture
of this period" (vii).
This selection
of genres provides
a more comprehensive
inventory of
the era's textual
environment
and hence a
more variegated
representation
of Romantic
writers' fascination
with the physical
environment.[9] Furthermore,
in presenting
works according
to their order
of publication
(rather than
that of composition)—and
prefacing the
collection with "Historical
and Cultural
Context Sections" on
such topics
as the French
Revolution,
the rights of
woman, slavery,
abolitionism,
the political
economy, aesthetic
theory, and
science and
nature—the
editors "highlight
the ways in
which literary
works functioned
within a public literary
sphere" whose
aesthetic concerns
dovetail with
its political
ones (vii).
Such a revisionist
rationale enables
students to
approach the
movement from
the ground up
(so to speak).
It allows them
a more objective
overview of
the period—insofar
as this is possible—so
that they can
entertain the
idea of Romanticism
without laboring
as much under
the weight of
its cultural
baggage.
-
Given
the unfortunately
prohibitive
cost of Mellor
and Matlak's
anthology in
current markets,
I have also
used Wu's Romanticism,
which is relatively
comprehensive
yet suffers
from some traditional
blind spots
in showcasing
the work of
the so-called "Big
Six"—Blake,
Wordsworth,
Coleridge, Shelley,
Byron and Keats.
While it includes
just enough
alternative
genres and "non-traditional" authors
to contextualize
the movement
more generally,
it also undercuts
such genres
and authors
by effectively
damning them
with faint praise—particularly
by denying adequate
representation
to women writers
who published
as much if not
more than the
Big Six, and
in editorial
apparatus referring
to them on a
first-name basis
while addressing
male writers
by surname.
Nevertheless,
I have found
that students
who have used
Wu's anthology
are often attuned
to its sexism;
in remarking
upon it they
manage to see
around it sufficiently.
(In fact, some
classes became
such seasoned
critics of Wu's
policies as
to actively
seek out the
writings of
female Romantic
poets elsewhere,
thus exercising
the kinds of
extended scholarly
inquiry that
anthologies
are designed
to inspire.)
Whatever is
lost in Wu's
text is recouped
somewhat in
his and Miall's
compendious
CD-ROM, whose
graphics-rich,
context-oriented
contents I often
juxtapose with
those of the
paper anthology
and those of
such electronic
resources as
the British
Women Romantic
Poets project.[10] In
this respect,
both British
Literature 1780-1830 and Romanticism are
subject to similar
critical treatment:
we "deconstruct" the
presentation
of each anthology
and pursue reflexive
versions of
Romanticism.
-
While
thus assessing
the editorial
rationale governing
our anthology,
we also sample
broader contexts
from which its
selections are
culled, the "bigger
picture" of
Romanticism
that the anthology
presents in
miniature. Such
a panorama is
of course only
a few clicks
of a mouse away.
Because it operates
much like a
website, Wu
and Miall's
CD-ROM represents
something of
a gateway to
the wealth of
Romantic material
currently online
in virtual libraries.
Amidst the spacious
pastures of
the Internet
are such diverse
resources as Romantic
Circles, Romanticism
on the Net,
the Romantic
Chronology,
the William
Blake Archive,
the Artcyclopedia
Romanticism
page,
the Romantic
Natural History
site,
the Regency
Fashion Page,
and of course
the English
Romanticism
collection on
the Voice
of the Shuttle,
to name but
eight portals
to this wider
world.[11] I
also encourage
students to
subscribe to
the NASSR-L and C18-L Internet
discussion groups,
so that they
are exposed
to the kinds
of things that
scholars in
the field are
currently discussing
and discovering,
and can join
in the conversation
if they like.
Such scholarly
sampling and
participation
informs students'
work for class,
which revolves
around response
writing—wherein
they nurture
their ideas
by informally
exploring their
reactions to
the reading—and
longer, more
developed essays
born of their
initial responses.
-
These
broader contexts
and focused
exercises are
designed to
enrich modern
readers' understanding
of Romantic
literature by
introducing
them to and
including them
in its ever-evolving
history. Yet
we must be careful
that these scholarly
horizons do
not distract
us from engaging
with the anthology,
so that the
politics and
nuances of its
complex textual
environment
are sufficiently
explored. Hence,
after contemplating
the aforementioned
collection of
electronic resources,
we return our
gaze to the
landscape of
the anthology,
to see how it
applies editorial
rationales and
reflects the
dynamism of
the field. Guided
in part by Aidan
Day's provisional,
pithy and ultimately
plastic characterizations
of Romantic
literature (1-6),
we size up the
terrain by opening
our anthologies,
identifying
a "mini
anthology" of
six relatively
familiar poems,
and analyzing
them comparatively.
Among these "Greatest
Hits of Romanticism" are Blake's "The
Tyger," Wordsworth's "I
Wandered Lonely
as a Cloud," Coleridge's "Kubla
Khan," Byron's "She
Walks in Beauty," Shelley's "Ode
to the West
Wind," and Keats's "Ode
on a Grecian
Urn."[12] These
poems serve
as coordinates
in the landscape
of Romanticism
that guide our
tour of the
movement by
momentarily
representing
it in toto,
then operate
as familiar
landmarks to
which we return
when we read
each author's
work in greater
depth.
-
Odds
are that students
recognize at
least one of
these poems
in some form,
and we begin
our examination
of them by discussing
where we've
seen them. Most
who know them
studied them
in high school
or college,
usually in the
context of British
literature or
poetry surveys.
Others also
recognize the
legacy of these
poems in different
cultural contexts,
such as popular
music. In impressing
upon students
that this miniature
canon reverberates
in contemporary
culture much
as it does in
literary history,
I take this
as my cue to
play DJ, and
produce such
recordings as
Allen Ginsburg's
recitations
of "Nurse's
Song" and "The
Tyger," Jah
Wobble's The
Inspiration
of William Blake,
Julian Cope's
interpretation
of "I
Wandered Lonely
as a Cloud," Rush's "Xanadu," and,
for good measure,
Iron Maiden's
rendition of "The
Rime of the
Ancient Mariner."[13] Bruce
Dickinson's
enunciation
of "water,
water everywhere" usually
causes a few
heads to nod
(not just from
headbanging),
and sets us
searching for
other familiar
phrasings that
have entered
the grand "anthology" of
popular parlance.
Keats's "Ode" often
scores highest
with the kinds
of sentiments
it expresses,
but lines from
the other poems
often resonate
as strongly
(particularly
if students
are familiar
with films such
as Dead
Poets Society or Gothic).
-
Having
placed these
poems in terms
of the class's
collective knowledge,
we then examine
the place at
which each occurs
in our anthology.
Perhaps because
Romanticism
anthologies
tend to be organized
by author—and
the Big Six
in particular—we
usually find
that the six
poems occur
at regular intervals
and as such
underpin the
Romantic canon,
as structuring
devices of sorts.
A cross-sectional
perspective
bears this out.
Viewing our
anthologies
from the side,
I have students
bookmark each
of the poems
and measure
the text block
for the distances
between them.
Indeed, whereas
Blake's "Tyger" occurs
relatively early
on in both British
Literature 1780–1830 and Romanticism (roughly
a half inch
from Wordsworth's
poem)—most
likely because
of the historical
gap between
Blake's Songs
of Experience (1794)
and Wordsworth's Poems
in Two Volumes (1807)—the
other five poems
are all roughly
equidistant
(about a quarter
inch) from one
another, and
span the anthology
accordingly.
I like to think
that this seeming
coincidence
dramatizes the
centrality of
these poems
in the anthology,
the canon, and
the cultural
consciousness.
In staking out
the literary
and cultural
terrain of Romanticism
in our textbooks,
this mini anthology
of "Greatest
Hits" thus
foregrounds
sustained inquiries
into the canonical
situation of
these major
authors and
their contemporaries.
Figures
in the Anthological
Landscape
-
Of
course, literature
in general—from
the shortest
of poems to
the mightiest
of canons—is
shot through
with such structurally
determined referential
dynamics. Hence
our next focus
involves investigating
the anthologic
nature of literary
works relative
to historical
context. Though
it lies beyond
the scope of
Romanticism
as defined by
conventional
anthologies,
Thomas Gray's "Elegy
Written in a
Country Churchyard" (1750)
is an excellent
touchstone for
such an inquiry,
as it is something
of a crash course
in British literary
tradition and
hence a valuable
demonstration
of canonical
politics. In
his excellent
analysis of
the Elegy's
literary anatomy,
John Guillory
has shown that
Gray's work
is an anthology
unto itself—in
much the same
way as Claude's Landscape
with Hagar and
the Angel is.
The Elegy is
a "tissue
of quotations," a
harmonic convergence
of treasured
images and rhetorical
commonplaces,
a transhistorical
greatest hits
collection whose "phrases
sound familiar
even in the
absence of identified
pretexts, as
though it were
the anonymous
distillation
of literary
sententiae" (Guillory, "The
English Common
Place" 8).
Of course, it
is also a landscape
poem, and like
most landscape
poems, it is
richly intertextual;
it situates
its scope of
allusion within
the landscape
at hand and
with respect
to the broader
landscape of
poetic tradition.
Thus, via the
organizing trope
of landscape,
the Elegy can
be read as an
exercise in
recitation and
indoctrination,
a rehearsal
of the kinds
of cultural
capital and
personal politics
to which anthologies
are usually
tied, and a
means of placing
them in a given
rhetorical context.
-
Putting
Guillory's thesis
into action,
I have students
read the "Elegy" aloud.
Then, drawing
upon Roger Lonsdale's
impeccable annotations
in his edition
of Gray, I distribute
a miniature
library of collected
editions containing
poetry to which
Gray alludes
in his first
thirty-six lines,
and ask students
to read flagged
passages in
a designated
order. This
orchestration
produces something
very much like
the "Elegy" itself.
For instance,
where Gray has "The
curfew tolls
the knell of
parting day,
/ The lowing
herd wind slowly
o'er the lea" (1-2),
student readers
in possession
of the requisite
volumes respectively
recite "I
hear the far-off
Curfew sound" (Milton, "Il
Penseroso" 73); "A
sullen bell
/ Remembered
tolling a departing
friend" (Shakespeare, 2
Henry IV I.i.102-103); "That
tolls the knell
for their departed
sense" (Dryden,
Prologue to "Troilus
and Cressida" 22); "It
is the Knell of
my departed
Hours" (Young, Night
Thoughts I.58);
and "As
from fresh pastures
and the dewy
fields … /
The lowing herds
return" (Pope, Odyssey X.485-87).
As students
read snippets
from Dante,
Milton, Shakespeare,
Young, Pope,
Gay, Petrarch,
Virgil, Warton,
Akenside, Horace,
Lucretius, Dryden,
Collins, Spenser,
Thomson and
Blair, and hear
these soundbytes
echoed in the "Elegy," they
witness Gray's
iterative genius
and anthologic
method. In so
doing they also
practice the
kind of close
reading that
Romantic poetry
demands, and
learn that there
is more meaning
in literary
landscape than
meets the eye.
-
The
clincher here
is that the
version of the "Elegy" with
which I provide
students is William
Blake's illustrated
edition of Gray's
poetry.
Blake's illustrations
incorporate
Gray's vaunted
landscape, but
foreground individuals
within it—a
move that perhaps
replaces the
poem's apparent
neoclassicism
with nascent
Romanticism.
Whereas Gray's
landscape represents
an Augustan
means of figuring
a world, Blake's
illustrations
suggest that
such a world
is also the
province of
thinking, feeling
beings living
within it. The
same might be
said, of course,
for Blake's
own poetic endeavors,
in particular
the Songs
of Innocence and Songs
of Experience,
two poem sequences—indeed,
anthologies—that
bring many other
thinking, feeling
beings together
in conversation
via their suggestively
interrelated
lyrical meditations.
The world of
the Songs is
replete with
valleys wild,
echoing greens,
merry sparrows,
gamboling lambs,
and infant joy.
At the same
time, it is
also home to
tigers "burning
bright," destitute
chimney sweeps,
lost boys and
girls, sick
roses and poison
trees. To constructively
complicate this
picture further,
the Blake
Archive allows
us to see the
poems in their "native
environs," as
words and pictures
that amplify
tensions between
innocence and
experience in
the complex
anthological
structure of
the Songs.
For instance,
though the contrast
between Blake's "Tyger" and
his "Lamb" is
suggestive enough,
students often
observe that
the tiger's "fearful
symmetry" is
also tempered
by the seeming "cuddly
kitty cat" quality
of Blake's illustration.
-
Such
a paradoxical
landscape of
cryptic poetic
utterances in
vibrant pictorial
contexts invites
plenty of conjecture,
and its many
pregnant juxtapositions
can yield an
entire semester
of material.
But since we've
more ground
to cover and
larger contexts
to consider,
we are usually
left to ponder
how lambs and
tigers can coexist
in the same
landscape of
stark divisions
and strange
harmonies. The
consensus is
often that such
startling contrasts
represent Blake's
attempt to elucidate
a wider, more
psychologically
complex and
realistically
vexing world
than Gray's
purely memorial
one. After all,
the worst fate "some
Village Hampden" may
face in the "Elegy" is
the anonymity
of the grave,
whereas in the Songs he
could meet with
thorny jealousy, "fearful
symmetry," poison
fruit, and pointed
economic or
racial oppression—in
sum, everything
from a "Heaven
in Hells despair" to
a "Hell
in Heavens despite" ("The
Clod and the
Pebble" 4,
12). This does
not necessarily
mean that we
are the worse
for Blake's
world. Instead,
the deceptively
simple anthological
scope of the Songs challenges
pastoral idealism
of poetic tradition
so as to open
the Romantic
canon to a broader
range of experience.
In other words,
whereas Gray
shows us what's
in the literary
landscape, Blake
illustrates
how much we've
yet to see.
- The Songs thus
emphasize the
equally aesthetic,
personal and political
nature of Romantic
writing. Such
multifarious literary
purpose is resoundingly
confirmed once
we move into the
intricate environs
of the Visions
of the Daughters
of Albion,
Blake's sophisticated
metaphorical critique
of political and
personal enslavement.
Confronted with
such a difficult
text, students
often admit to
feeling as confined
and confused as
the Visions'
hopeful protagonist,
Oothoon. Both
parties feel that
somewhere in the
teeming linguistic
landscape there
must be salvation
or release. Yet
Blake weaves this
world together
so tightly as
to bind its features
in place, perhaps
to underscore
the absurdity
of sustaining
such rigid chains
of tradition and
to criticize repressive
patriarchal authority
that devolves
from its annals.
As we learn next,
such is also Mary
Wollstonecraft's
concern in her Thoughts
on the Education
of Daughters and Vindication
of the Rights
of Woman,
which are revisionist
treatises on the
machinery of sexual
oppression and
the extent of
its socio-structural
influence. If
there is room
for opening the
canon to an aesthetics
of perception,
then such democracy
must also extend
to the political
sphere—as
Wollstonecraft
suggests in the Vindication's
subtle yet astute
reassessment of "nature," that
great focus of
Romantic creative
energies. She
questions relatively
ossified conceptions
of nature that
have "made
a great difference
between man and
man"—and
of course man
and woman—so
as to inveigh
against "unnatural
distinctions established
in civilized life" and
promote more universal "natural
rights of mankind" (373,
382, 372).[14] While,
aside from her Letters
Written During
a Short Residence
in Sweden, Norway,
and Denmark,
Wollstonecraft
may not concern
herself with Romantic
idealizations
of the natural
world, she dramatizes
the rhetorical
force behind the
idea of nature
and refines our
sense of its pivotal
position in the
Romantic cultural
consciousness.
Situating
Romantic Landscape
-
Blake's
and Wollstonecraft's
productive problematizations
of nature inform
our approach
to the writings
of William Wordsworth.
Wordsworth,
of course, looms
large in the
landscape of
Romanticism
as a founding
father for the
movement, mostly
because of his
explicit recourse
to the natural
world. A contextually
intensive assessment
of his poetry
that attends
closely to his
environmental
vision can help
place the extent
of his influence
and open his
oeuvre to discussion,
so that his
instructive
articulation
of the Romantic
ethos doesn't
eclipse the
work of contemporaries
who pursue comparable
agendas. Wordsworth's
writing provides
good test cases
for the Romantic
imagination
because, given
that he achieves
what is for
many readers
a more familiar
literary balance
of aesthetics
and politics,
his poetry can
be an interesting
mix of rhetorically
intriguing phenomena
and vivid landscapes
mellowed by
memory. Despite
his seeming
advocacy of "quitting
one's books," students
usually recognize
that Wordsworth's
art isn't just
about getting
back to nature—it
also entails
a fair amount
of "drink[ing]
the spirit breath'd
/ From dead
men to their
kind" ("The
Tables Turned" 3; "Expostulation
and Reply" 7-8).
It is both a
recovery of
poetic tradition
as Gray conceived
of it—indeed,
in such tracts
as the Preface
to Lyrical
Ballads and
the Essay
Supplementary
to Poems (1815),
Wordsworth celebrates
such poets as
Virgil, Milton,
Spenser, Shakespeare,
and Thomson,
and elsewhere
acknowledges
the influence
of such predecessors
as Warton, Cowper
and Smith—and
an extension
of its reach
into newer,
more "realistic" fields
of focus. Put
another way,
although Wordsworth
often achieves
innovation in
landscape depiction—particularly
by concerning
himself with
otherwise peripheral
places such
as the Lake
District, the
South Downs,
Wales and Scotland,
rather than
with the neoclassically
charged Thames
Valley scenes
that pervade
the works of
Pope and Thomson—the
landscapes he
describes are
nevertheless
part of the
same island
that gives British
literature place.
-
In
this respect,
Wordsworth's
literary intervention
is an expressly
anthologic gesture
toward re-collecting
poetic tradition,
an attempt to
clarify the
fount of poetry
by reorienting
it toward the
landscape of
everyday life.
This project
finds its expression
in anthology
form—the
co-authored
compilation Lyrical
Ballads,
which features
a complex social
landscape whose
moral scope
is not unlike
that of Blake's Songs and
whose elaborate
imagery and
experiments
in style enrich
its presentation.
In his Preface
to the work,
Wordsworth cultivates
an emphatic "earthiness" which
is designed
to democratize
the literary
imagination
by "grounding" it
in the popular
parlance, so
that poetic
expression might
yet overcome
the "gross
and violent
stimulants" agitating
the cultural
consciousness,
take root in
everyday experience,
and fulfill
its potential
as "the
image of man
and nature" (575,
578). Indeed,
he justifies
his focus on "low
and rustic life" by
asserting that,
in such a condition, "the
essential passions
of the heart
find a better
soil in which
they can attain
their maturity,
are less under
restraint, and
speak a plainer
and more emphatic
language" (574-75).
Landscape, in
this formulation,
becomes a common
denominator
of sentiment,
psychology,
character and
society; it
stages these
things in the
British countryside
and collects
them into poetic
tradition.
- By
touring us through
its series of
rural stories,
the Lyrical
Ballads'
composite nature—in
all senses of
this term—affords
any number of
vantage points
on literature
and society. Its
landscapes occasion
specific interrelations
among Romanticism's
natural, historical,
literary, psychological
and educational
contexts according
to readers' unique—and
often divergent—perspectives.
In cultivating
the kind of holistic
vision that landscape
allows, we can
appreciate the
exploits of Simon
Lee even
as we question
Wordsworth's objectification
of him. We can
luxuriate in the
scenery of the
Wye Valley even
as we debate Wordsworth's
selective vision
of the place,
in "Tintern
Abbey." We
can appreciate
the solace described
in "Nutting" even
as we consider
the meaning of
its disruption.
And we can indulge
in the mystery
of "The
Thorn" even
as we contemplate
the human hardships
it describes.
Coleridge's contributions
add another dimension
to this vision,
perhaps in the
form of a supernaturally
charged rejoinder
to Wordsworth's
sustained naturalism.
In this multifaceted
dialogical fashion,
the Lyrical
Ballads enable
breadths of prospect
and particularizations
of vantage point
so as to promote
fruitful inquiry
into Wordsworth's
and Coleridge's
aesthetics. Yet
fundamental to
all of this are
the eminently
legible landscapes
that support such
meditations and
allow for diverse
means of literary
appreciation.
Landscape is the
medium that communicates
the Lyrical
Ballads'
myriad sentiments
by rendering them
visible.
-
Nevertheless,
lest the Lyrical
Ballads'
strong human
element overwhelm
our sense
of landscape's
powers of
organization,
as a class
we take this
opportunity
to assemble
a collection
of perspectives
on Wordsworth's
poetic geography.
Based on
the idea that
sketching
is tantamount
to commenting—just
as paintings
are often
regarded
as "interpretations"—we
explore
intersections
between
the physical,
personal,
and rhetorical
environments
in the third
of his five "Poems
on the
Naming of
Places" by
drawing
the landscape
it elaborates.
This work
features
Wordsworth's
poetics
at their
most fundamental,
insofar
as the landscape
it describes
assumes
something
of a personality
that permeates
and transforms
the place.[15] In
groups,
students
discuss
what they
see in
the poem,
record
majority
and minority
perspectives,
reach
a consensus
about
their vision,
and draw
what they
see.[16] When
all groups
are finished,
each presents
its picture
and discusses
the making
thereof.
Then
we comparatively
analyze
the pictures,
observing
relationships
between
the human
and natural
worlds
in each
interpretation
with
respect
to position,
depth,
size,
color,
style,
inclusion
and exclusion.
Whereas
most
illustrations
include
a prominent
mountain,
setting
sun,
stars,
clouds,
groves,
fields,
a house
and sometimes
people,
no two
are ever
alike,
such
that in
concert
they represent
the range
of imagined
worlds
that proceed
from one
poem,
a veritable
anthology
of interpretations
born
of one
literary
landscape.
Landscape
in this
instance
is both
subject
to and
source
of creative
readings
that infinitely
re-incarnate
Wordsworth's
vision
by selectively
emphasizing
its natural
and
psychological
components.
Such
is perhaps
the
ultimate
outcome
of "conversation
poetry," as
Coleridge
termed
the
form:
presented
familiarly,
lyrical
landscapes
address
literary
moments
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