While in England, we spent a couple of days in the Lake District, the stomping grounds of William Wordsworth. We spent some time at his house, Rydal Mount, and then walked the Coffin Trail down into Grasmere. We also spent some time in a little town with a big castle called Skipton. While there, I found a “Everyman’s Poetry” edition of Wordsworth’s poetry. I’ve not spent much time with Wordsworth since college (probably a survey class, maybe in my Romanticism class), so it’s been interesting to revisit some of his works. Here’s “Old Man Traveling,” the first poem from the collection, which has a nice but sobering turn at the end.
The little hedge-row birds,
That peck along the road, regard him not.
He travels on, and in his face, his step,
His gait, is one expression; every limb,
His look and bending figure, all bespeak
A man who does not move with pain, but moves
With thought—He is insensibly subdued
To settled quiet: he is one by whom
All effort seems forgotten, one to whom
Long patience has such mild composure given,
That patience now doth seem a thing, of which
He hath no need. He is by nature led
To peace so perfect, that the young behold
With envy, what the old man hardly feels.
—I asked him whither he was bound, and what
The object of his journey; he replied
“Sir! I am going many miles to take
A last leave of my son, a mariner,
Who from a sea-fight has been brought to Falmouth,
And there is dying in an hospital.”
(poem from wikisource.org)
Yesterday I made note of my favorite “King John” moment from Shakespeare’s King John. There was one other scene in the first plays first half (as presented by the Royal Shakespeare Company) that has stuck with me. In the previously mentioned scene, King John tasks Hubert with dispatching Arthur, a rival to the throne. In this scene, Arthur’s mother Constance (played wonderfully by Charlotte Randle in the RSC production), is grieving the loss of her son. Earlier in the play, Constance’s presence is played to almost comic effect, which makes this scene that much more powerful, a real picture of grief and loss. It’s the kind of scene that would shock and surprise if done for a Shakespeare presentation.
While in Stratford over break, we had the opportunity to see the Royal Shakespeare Company’s version of King John. KJ is not that well-known a play, of course, and I can imagine that there are many reasons why. Where it shines, it burns. When it doesn’t shine, it’s dense and forgettable. The RSC made good work of the play, though, particularly the first half. They took two creative turns. First, they cast King John as a woman (played admirably by Rosie Sheehy). Second, they placed the play in what felt like a 1960s-era spy genre (think the British Avengers series). That turn was most effective in the first half of the play, where there were a number of creative flourishes (dance numbers, boxing scenes) that served as spoonfuls of sugar to help the medicine. By the beginning of the second half, that creative flourish was gone (and the overall play the lesser for it).
During my recent trip to England and Scotland with students, we had the opportunity to spend some time in Holy Trinity Church in Stratford. While the main reason for going in is seeing the place where Shakespeare is buried, it’s also a beautiful church in and of itself. As I sat in the silence, I took out the pew-rack hymnal and came across this hymn:
I’ve found my use of social media continually on the slow-down. It’s not just the posting, mind you; it’s also the reading and perusing. I’d much rather blog, even if it is posting to the void for me. I find that I just don’t have the personality for tweeting. And I don’t have the consistency necessary for a real presence on Facebook. Instagram is mostly for travel. None of these things helps in good ways for me (except for Twitter, because that’s where some of my favorite thinkers and writers are present).
These last few days I’ve been thinking how this time of year, this time of life, would be a great time for a nice visit to Rivendell, the Last Homely House East of the Sea. Something about deep rest, I think. Fireside and song and a kind of leisure often not found in the day-to-day. As I was thinking about it, I looked back to The Hobbit to see what all had to be said of the place in Tolkien’s first published work: there really isn’t much, mostly just moon runes. The House of Elrond gets a much fuller rendering in The Fellowship of the Ring.
Space Enough, and Time 