A haul of Trollopes – an aside

I don’t usually post these ‘look at these books I just bought’ pieces, but today I can’t resist.

A trip to town yesterday ended with a happy book haul at a charity shop.

Trollope book haul

I wonder what’s the significance of the colour-coded bands at the top of the spine? Different sequences or series of novels? I need to check.

I’ve only read one Trollope novel, and that was The Warden, many years ago. Here in this unprepossessing shop was a complete row of pristine OWC paperbacks of the Barsetshire and Palliser novels.

I toyed with the idea of buying just the first one or two in each series; but at the giveaway price being charged, decided to buy the lot.

It was for a good charitable cause.

All those good intentions not to buy more books…Hope I’m not turning in my dotage into John Major, the lacklustre ex-Prime Minister who named Trollope as one of his favourite authors.

Shelley again: Ode to the West Wind

Shelley, Ode to the West Wind. Text at the Poetry Foundation

Section V

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:

What if my leaves are falling like its own!

The tumult of thy mighty harmonies


Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,

Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,

My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!


Drive my dead thoughts over the universe

Like wither’d leaves to quicken a new birth!

And, by the incantation of this verse,


Scatter, as from an unextinguish’d hearth

Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!

Be through my lips to unawaken’d earth


The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?



Portrait of Shelley by Alfred Clint (d. 1883), now in the National Portrait Gallery, via Wikimedia Commons, attribution By Amelia Curran

Written while Shelley was travelling in Italy with his wife Mary in 1819, this poem was published in 1820. It has been seen as an expression of his feelings of helplessness and anger at the news of the political and social turmoil home in England, and in particular the Peterloo Massacre in Manchester in 1819. The poem is also his message of life and hope for the future.

It’s written in the terza rima form (with added couplets after four triplets or 3-line stanzas) used by Dante in The Divine Comedy – a poem with which Shelley was familiar.

In the first four sections the speaker expresses his feelings of wonder and admiration at the power of the autumn wind, blowing clouds and leaves fiercely along. In the fifth he turns his thoughts to the future: he addresses the wind directly, praying that it will transform his lifeless, decaying spirit (his own poetic powers or ‘leaves’ are falling, as those on the trees are) and use him as its ‘lyre’ – rather as Coleridge and other Romantic poets had written: poets express a desire to be metaphorical Aeolian harps, musical instruments which are ‘played’ by the natural forces of the wind strumming through their strings to make them resonate. That is, they become, literally, inspired – filled with the life-giving breath, animus or breeze of Nature.

He goes one step further in addressing the wind in the second triplet: ‘Be thou me’.

His argument develops organically from this thought to the desire that the wind should ‘drive’ his ‘dead thoughts’ worldwide, disseminating them and causing them to ‘quicken’ into life, out of their silent, sterile, lifeless current state.

Therefore this poem itself becomes its own ‘incantation’, a magic charm or prayer of fertility, causing the dying embers of his imagination’s or spirit’s ‘hearth’ to be scattered universally, ‘sparking’ revolutionary change into the lives of humanity, especially, presumably, those in oppressed England.

The image develops: by doing this, his poetic ‘voice’ will be as a rousing trumpet call, like the last trumpet perhaps, except it won’t signal Judgement Day in the biblical sense, but rather a revolution in England, a political awakening, not just a personal one for him.

This poem will then be, he concludes, an invocation and a ‘prophecy’ of change for the better. Hence the note of optimism at the end; though winter is inevitably anticipated in this autumn gale, spring will surely follow – as political change will inevitably follow if the spirit of the wind heed his plea to be used as its prophetic, vatic voice – and as Nature restores life to the frozen land in spring after the long death of winter.

I quoted in my previous post from Shelley’s ‘A Defence of Poetry’, in which he wrote:

A man cannot say, “I will compose poetry.” The greatest poet even cannot say it: for the mind in creation is as a fading coal [compare his image of sparks and embers in the poem] which some invisible influence, like an inconstant wind, awakens to transitory brightness…when composition begins, inspiration is already on the decline.

… Poetry redeems from decay the visitations of divinity on man. [just as the wind in this poem is urged to restore life into humanity through the poet’s voice, as surely as Nature restores life to the earth in spring]

In ‘Ode to the West Wind’, Shelley puts this theory into practice. In doing so he also enacts the famous closing words of his Defence: that poets are ‘the unacknowledged legislators of the world’ – that is, in poems like this, they are Nature’s instruments for effecting change. Unlike the despised Lake poets, radicals like Shelley reject the solitary, reclusive and reflective life they advocated and, largely, lived.




Shelley on poetry, reason and imagination

I’m still teaching the Romantics, and thus lack time for my own reading. I thought therefore I’d share something I found stimulating when working on Shelley. It’s taken from a fine website called Romanticism and Imagination, which focuses on Shelley and Coleridge and their differing views on poetry, imagination, reason, and related topics. The hyperlinks are from that site, and link either to passages from Coleridge – in particular his Biographia Literaria, in which he expounded, among other things, his views on these topics, or give explanatory notes in general terms. So here’s Shelley:


Portrait of Shelley by Alfred Clint (d. 1883), now in the National Portrait Gallery, via Wikimedia Commons, attribution By Amelia Curran

‘According to one mode of regarding those two classes of mental action, which are called reason and imagination, , the former may be considered as mind contemplating the relations borne by one thought to another, however produced; and the latter, as mind acting upon those thoughts so as to colour them with its own light, and composing from them, as from elements, other thoughts, each containing within itself the principle of its own integrity.

Reason is the enumeration of quantities already known; Imagination is the perception of the value of those quantities, both separately and as a whole. Reason respects the differences, and Imagination the similitudes of things. Reason is to Imagination as the instrument to the agent, as the body to the spirit, as the shadow to the substance.

Poetry, in a general sense, may be defined to be “the expression of the Imagination:” and Poetry is connate with the origin of man. Man is an instrument over which a series of external and internal impressions are driven, like the alternations of an ever-changing wind over an Æolian lyre; which move it, by their motion, to ever-changing melody…

A man cannot say, “I will compose poetry.” The greatest poet even cannot say it: for the mind in creation is as a fading coal which some invisible influence, like an inconstant wind, awakens to transitory brightness…when composition begins, inspiration is already on the decline.

Poetry thus makes immortal all that is best and most beautiful in the world; it arrests the vanishing apparitions which haunt the interluminations of life, and veiling them or in language or in form sends them forth among mankind, bearing sweet news of kindred joy to those with whom their sisters abide– abide, because there is no portal of expression from the caverns of the spirit which they inhabit into the universe of things. Poetry redeems from decay the visitations of divinity on man.’



Robert Louis Stevenson Day

13 November is the birthday of Robert Louis Stevenson, I learned from a post today by Karen at Kaggsysbookishramblings. He was born in Edinburgh in 1850 and died in the Samoan Islands, where he has gone for the sake of his ailing health, in 1894.

Portrait of Stevenson

Photo c. 1880 of RLS from the ‘Knox series’ via Wikimedia Commons

At Karen’s suggestion I’d like to celebrate this fine author’s work with an extract from one of the first of his books I read (some years ago): Travels in the Cevennes with a Donkey. It was one of his first works of literature, an account of his 12-day journey in 1878 over some 200 km in this region of south-central rural France. It was published the following year.

This extract is from the chapter ‘In the valley of the Tarn’. He’s been hiking and camping most days – a practice which baffles the local peasants – sleeping without a tent in an early, rather heavy, cumbersome sleeping bag which requires a recalcitrant and headstrong donkey named Modestine to carry it:

Sleep for a long time fled my eyelids; and just as I was beginning to feel quiet stealing over my limbs, and settling densely on my mind, a noise at my head startled me broad awake again, and, I will frankly confess it, brought my heart into my mouth.

It was such a noise as a person would make scratching loudly with a finger-nail; it came from under the knapsack which served me for a pillow, and it was thrice repeated before I had time to sit up and turn about. Nothing was to be seen, nothing more was to be heard, but a few of these mysterious rustlings far and near, and the ceaseless accompaniment of the river and the frogs. I learned next day that the chestnut gardens are infested by rats; rustling, chirping, and scraping were probably all due to these; but the puzzle, for the moment, was insoluble, and I had to compose myself for sleep, as best I could, in wondering uncertainty about my neighbours.

I was wakened in the grey of the morning (Monday, 30th September) by the sound of foot-steps not far off upon the stones, and opening my eyes, I beheld a peasant going by among the chestnuts by a footpath that I had not hitherto observed. He turned his head neither to the right nor to the left, and disappeared in a few strides among the foliage. Here was an escape! But it was plainly more than time to be moving. The peasantry were abroad; scarce less terrible to me in my nondescript position than the soldiers of Captain Poul to an undaunted Camisard. I fed Modestine with what haste I could; but as I was returning to my sack, I saw a man and a boy come down the hillside in a direction crossing mine. They unintelligibly hailed me, and I replied with inarticulate but cheerful sounds, and hurried forward to get into my gaiters.

OWC edition of Travels with a Donkey

My Oxford World’s Classics edition, ed. and Introduction by Emma Letley (1992)

The Camisards were 18C Protestants who rebelled against the French government; even after their revolt was crushed, the tradition of Protestantism remained strong in the region. Stevenson was fascinated by them, for they reminded him of the Scots Covenanters from the previous century. The reference to Captain Poul concerns a ‘soldier of fortune’ who, Stevenson had written a few pages earlier, captured and killed a renowned Camisard named Séguier (I’m indebted to the notes and Introduction of my OWC edition for these details).