CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:
REVOLUTION, REACTION, AND CULTURAL RESPONSE
As we learned from Mozart, it is the MIDDLE CLASS, those most important people who have some education and some money, but most importantly a MAJORITY who can influence the way of the world.
From that middle class came James Watt (1736-1819) who invented the steam engine in 1769 and began the Industrial Revolution.
The
Industrial Revolution began primarily in
Eventually,
The Industrial Revolution meant cheaper clothing and other manufactured goods. People moved to the cities to be near the factories where they could work for good salaries. But industry did have its drawbacks . . .
Cities became smokey and crowded, and it was not long before individual people lost their identities in the mob of city people.
English painter John Constable (1776–1837) reminded the English of a place in their country that could be soon laid waste by industrialization.
The Hay Wain 1821
Boat-building near Flatford Mill, 1815
Joseph Mallord William Turner (1775 - 1851) followed Constable, as explained here by Sister Wendy.
The Fighting "Temeraire" tugged to her
last berth to be broken up 1838
Dido building
Ulysses deriding Polyphemus - Homer's Odyssey (1829)
Slavers throwing overboard the Dead and Dying - Typhon coming on ("The Slave Ship") 1840
Romanticism was basically anti-classicism,
in that it emphasized the individual, the subjective, the irrational, the
imaginative, the personal, the spontaneous, the emotional, the visionary, and
the transcendental.
Romanticism included:
appreciation of the beauties of nature; emotions over reason and the senses
over intellect; examination of human personality, its moods and potential; a
focus on man’s passions and inner struggles; a new view of the artist as an
individual creator, whose creative spirit is more important than formal rules
and traditional procedures; an emphasis upon imagination as a gateway to
spiritual truth; an interest in folk culture, national and ethnic cultural
origins, and the medieval era; and a predilection for the exotic, the remote,
the mysterious, the weird, the occult, the monstrous, the diseased, and even
the satanic.
Ferdinand Victor Eugène
Delacroix (1798 – 1863)
Arab Horses Fighting in a Stable 1860
Hamlet and Horatio in the Graveyard 1839
The Death of Sardanapalus 1827
The Women of
Jewish Bride 1832
Girl Seated in a Cemetery 1824
Aspasia c. 1824
Théodore Géricault (1791 –1824) was one of the greatest French romantics.
The Medusa, a government vessel, had foundered off the West African coast and 150 people tried to escape on a raft. After thirteen days, only fifteen were rescued alive. They had had nothing but a few drops of wine - and human meat - to sustain them. The tragedy was blamed on official negligence and created a political scandal, as well as the most famous of all Romantic paintings.
The Raft of the Medusa (1824)
An Officer of the Imperial Horse Guards Charging, also Chasseur Charging. 1814.
The
The Madman. c. 1822
The Madwoman. 1822-23
Romanticism in literature began with William Wordsworth (1770 –1850), who published Lyrical
Ballads in 1798.
INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM
RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD
1803-6
THERE
was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, |
|
The
earth, and every common sight, |
|
To
me did seem |
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Apparell'd in celestial light, |
|
The glory and the freshness of
a dream. |
|
It is not now as it hath been
of yore;— |
|
Turn
wheresoe'er I may, |
|
By
night or day, |
|
The things which I have seen I
now can see no more. |
|
|
|
The
rainbow comes and goes, |
|
And
lovely is the rose; |
|
The
moon doth with delight |
|
Look
round her when the heavens are bare; |
|
Waters
on a starry night |
|
Are
beautiful and fair; |
|
The
sunshine is a glorious birth; |
|
But
yet I know, where'er I go, |
|
That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth. |
|
|
|
Now, while the birds thus sing
a joyous song, |
|
And
while the young lambs bound |
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As
to the tabor's sound, |
|
To me alone there came a
thought of grief: |
|
A timely utterance gave that
thought relief, |
|
And
I again am strong: |
|
The cataracts blow their
trumpets from the steep; |
|
No more shall grief of mine
the season wrong; |
|
I hear the echoes through the
mountains throng, |
|
The winds come to me from the
fields of sleep, |
|
And
all the earth is gay; |
|
Land
and sea |
|
Give
themselves up to jollity, |
|
And
with the heart of May |
|
Doth
every beast keep holiday;— |
|
Thou
Child of Joy, |
|
Shout round me, let me hear
thy shouts, thou happy |
|
Shepherd-boy! |
|
|
|
Ye blessèd
creatures, I have heard the call |
|
Ye to
each other make; I see |
|
The heavens laugh with you in
your jubilee; |
|
My
heart is at your festival, |
|
My
head hath its coronal, |
|
The fulness
of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all. |
|
O
evil day! if I were sullen |
|
While
Earth herself is adorning, |
|
This
sweet May-morning, |
|
And
the children are culling |
|
On
every side, |
|
In
a thousand valleys far and wide, |
|
Fresh
flowers; while the sun shines warm, |
|
And the babe leaps up on his
mother's arm:— |
|
I
hear, I hear, with joy I hear! |
|
—But
there's a tree, of many, one, |
|
A single field which I have look'd upon, |
|
Both of them speak of
something that is gone: |
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The
pansy at my feet |
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Doth
the same tale repeat: |
|
Whither is fled the visionary
gleam? |
|
Where is it now, the glory and
the dream? |
|
|
|
Our birth is but a sleep and a
forgetting: |
|
The Soul that rises with us, our
life's Star, |
|
Hath
had elsewhere its setting, |
|
And
cometh from afar: |
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Not
in entire forgetfulness, |
|
And
not in utter nakedness, |
|
But trailing clouds of glory
do we come |
|
From
God, who is our home: |
|
Heaven lies about us in our
infancy! |
|
Shades of the prison-house
begin to close |
|
Upon
the growing Boy, |
|
But he beholds the light, and
whence it flows, |
|
He
sees it in his joy; |
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The Youth, who daily farther
from the east |
|
Must
travel, still is Nature's priest, |
|
And
by the vision splendid |
|
Is
on his way attended; |
|
At length the Man perceives it
die away, |
|
And fade into the light of
common day. |
|
|
|
Earth fills her lap with
pleasures of her own; |
|
Yearnings she hath in her own
natural kind, |
|
And, even with something of a
mother's mind, |
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And
no unworthy aim, |
|
The
homely nurse doth all she can |
|
To make her foster-child, her
Inmate Man, |
|
Forget
the glories he hath known, |
|
And that imperial palace
whence he came. |
|
|
|
Behold the Child among his
new-born blisses, |
|
A six years' darling of a
pigmy size! |
|
See, where 'mid work of his
own hand he lies, |
|
Fretted by sallies of his
mother's kisses, |
|
With light upon him from his
father's eyes! |
|
See, at his feet, some little
plan or chart, |
|
Some fragment from his dream
of human life, |
|
Shaped by himself with newly-learnèd art; |
|
A
wedding or a festival, |
|
A
mourning or a funeral; |
|
And
this hath now his heart, |
|
And
unto this he frames his song: |
|
Then
will he fit his tongue |
|
To dialogues of business,
love, or strife; |
|
But
it will not be long |
|
Ere
this be thrown aside, |
|
And
with new joy and pride |
|
The little actor cons another
part; |
|
Filling from time to time his
'humorous stage' |
|
With all the Persons, down to
palsied Age, |
|
That Life brings with her in
her equipage; |
|
As
if his whole vocation |
|
Were
endless imitation. |
|
|
|
Thou, whose exterior semblance
doth belie |
|
Thy
soul's immensity; |
|
Thou best philosopher, who yet
dost keep |
|
Thy heritage, thou eye among
the blind, |
|
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, |
|
Haunted for ever by the eternal
mind,— |
|
Mighty
prophet! Seer blest! |
|
On
whom those truths do rest, |
|
Which we are toiling all our
lives to find, |
|
In darkness lost, the darkness
of the grave; |
|
Thou, over whom thy
Immortality |
|
Broods like the Day, a master
o'er a slave, |
|
A presence which is not to be
put by; |
|
To
whom the grave |
|
Is but a lonely bed without
the sense or sight |
|
Of
day or the warm light, |
|
A place of thought where we in
waiting lie; |
|
Thou little Child, yet glorious
in the might |
|
Of heaven-born freedom on thy
being's height, |
|
Why with such earnest pains
dost thou provoke |
|
The years to bring the
inevitable yoke, |
|
Thus blindly with thy
blessedness at strife? |
|
Full soon thy soul shall have
her earthly freight, |
|
And custom lie upon thee with
a weight, |
|
Heavy as frost, and deep
almost as life! |
|
|
|
O
joy! that in our embers |
|
Is
something that doth live, |
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That
nature yet remembers |
|
What
was so fugitive! |
|
The thought of our past years
in me doth breed |
|
Perpetual benediction: not
indeed |
|
For that which is most worthy
to be blest— |
|
Delight and liberty, the
simple creed |
|
Of childhood, whether busy or
at rest, |
|
With new-fledged hope still
fluttering in his breast:— |
|
Not
for these I raise |
|
The
song of thanks and praise; |
|
But
for those obstinate questionings |
|
Of
sense and outward things, |
|
Fallings
from us, vanishings; |
|
Blank
misgivings of a Creature |
|
Moving about in worlds not
realized, |
|
High instincts before which
our mortal Nature |
|
Did tremble like a guilty
thing surprised: |
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But
for those first affections, |
|
Those
shadowy recollections, |
|
Which,
be they what they may, |
|
Are yet the fountain-light of
all our day, |
|
Are yet a master-light of all
our seeing; |
|
Uphold us,
cherish, and have power to make |
|
Our noisy years seem moments
in the being |
|
Of the eternal Silence: truths
that wake, |
|
To
perish never: |
|
Which neither listlessness,
nor mad endeavour, |
|
Nor
Man nor Boy, |
|
Nor all that is at enmity with
joy, |
|
Can utterly abolish or
destroy! |
|
Hence
in a season of calm weather |
|
Though
inland far we be, |
|
Our souls have sight of that
immortal sea |
|
Which
brought us hither, |
|
Can in
a moment travel thither, |
|
And see the children sport
upon the shore, |
|
And hear the mighty waters
rolling evermore. |
|
|
|
Then sing, ye birds, sing,
sing a joyous song! |
|
And
let the young lambs bound |
|
As
to the tabor's sound! |
|
We in thought will join your
throng, |
|
Ye
that pipe and ye that play, |
|
Ye
that through your hearts to-day |
|
Feel
the gladness of the May! |
|
What though the radiance which
was once so bright |
|
Be now for ever taken from my
sight, |
|
Though
nothing can bring back the hour |
|
Of splendour
in the grass, of glory in the flower; |
|
We
will grieve not, rather find |
|
Strength
in what remains behind; |
|
In
the primal sympathy |
|
Which
having been must ever be; |
|
In
the soothing thoughts that spring |
|
Out
of human suffering; |
|
In
the faith that looks through death, |
|
In years that bring the
philosophic mind. |
|
|
|
And O ye Fountains, Meadows,
Hills, and |
|
Forebode not any severing of
our loves! |
|
Yet in my heart of hearts I
feel your might; |
|
I only have relinquish'd one delight |
|
To live beneath your more
habitual sway. |
|
I love the brooks which down
their channels fret, |
|
Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they; |
|
The innocent brightness of a
new-born Day |
|
Is
lovely yet; |
|
The clouds that gather round
the setting sun |
|
Do take a sober colouring from an eye |
|
That hath kept watch o'er
man's mortality; |
|
Another race hath been, and
other palms are won. |
|
Thanks to the human heart by
which we live, |
|
Thanks to its tenderness, its
joys, and fears, |
|
To me the meanest flower that
blows can give |
|
Thoughts that do often lie too
deep for tears. |
|
The most famous poets of the romantic period produced some of the greatest poetry in the English Language and led a Bohemian lifestyle that may have been more extravagant than their poetry. These poets were John Keats (1795 –1821), George Gordon (Lord) Byron (1788 – 1824), and Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 –1822).
Knowing that he was dying of Tuberculosis, John Keats often wrote of immortality, including what may be the greatest poems ever written, Ode on Grecian Urn.
After looking at the immortal figures on a ancient Greek vase, he concludes with these famous lines:
"Beauty is truth; truth,
beauty--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.“ (1819)
WHEN I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high piled books, in charact'ry,
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And feel that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!
That I shall never look upon thee
more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love;—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think,
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. (1818)
Lord Byron was most famous for long narrative poems, such as Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (1818) and Don Juan (1824), but his personal life was most interesting.
Lord Byron's life featured
extravagant living, numerous love affairs, debts, separation, and allegations
of incest and sodomy. He was famously described by Lady Caroline Lamb as
"mad, bad, and dangerous to know." In addition to writing, he fought
led
Byron’s friend, Percy Bysshe Shelley wrote a several classic poems, such as “Ode to a Skylark,” and “Adonais,” but my favorite is “Ozymandias” (1818)
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: `Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear–
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.'
“Mad
Shelley,” as he was called by students at Eton, who made fun of him, was later
expelled from
Deserting
his wife, he eloped with Mary and her fifteen year old stepsister Jane “Clair” Claimont. They maintained a ménage à
trois with in various parts of
In
the summer of 1816 Claire urged that they should go to
There, one cold housebound evening, they visited with Lord Byron’s physician, John William Polidori (1795–1821).
After reading aloud from the Tales of the Dead, Byron suggested that they each write a ghost story.
Shelley’s and Byron’s work was not very successful, but Polidori wrote “The Vampyre,” about a vampire obviously modeled after Lord Byron himself, named Lord Ruthven. For this work, John William Polidori is credited with being the father of vampire fiction. (Bram Stoker wrote Dracula eighty years later.)
Mary’s story was the most successful. Married by the time the third edition was published, she used the name Mary Shelley.
Things soon went sour for Shelley. That autumn, his first wife died, and he became very ill. Keats died in 1821, and Mary suffered a miscarriage. Then on July 8, 1822, Shelley was found dead at the age of 29, drowned. With Lord Byron in attendance, his body was cremated at the beach.
Curiously, Shelley’s heart did not burn. Byron gave it to Mary, who wrapped it in a shroud and carried it with her for the rest of her life. (Some scientists have suggested it was probably Shelley’s liver, which often survives cremation.)
Later the heart was buried
in a full sized coffin at the
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749 –1832) was a great German writer and scientist.
Published in 1774, The Sorrows of Young Werther is a somewhat autobiographical novel about a young man, frustrated in love, who commits suicide.
A favorite of Napolean’s, the novel started the phenomenon known as the "Werther-Fieber" in which Young men throughout Europe began to dress in the clothing described for Werther in the novel. It also led to some of the first known examples of copycat suicide; supposedly more than 2,000 readers committed suicide
Goethe’s most famous work was Faust (1816-1832), the most famous version of the classic tale of a man who sells his soul to the devil.
Unlike Christopher Marlowe’s Dr. Faustus, who uses his powers to pull silly pranks, Goethe’s Faust concerns a man’s conflict with good and evil, with his strong sexual needs versus his moral upbringing. Mephistopheles makes a bet with God that he can bring down God’s favorite human, but giving him anything he wants.
Faust’s powers cause his love, Margarete (Gretchen) to murder both her mother and her illegitimate child and to eventually die in prison. Later, he is involved with Helen of Troy, Greek Gods, and war. Eventually, God takes the good part of his soul to Heaven.
Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827), for awhile a student of Mozart’s, was considered the first Romantic composer.
Like other artists of the Romantic Period, Beethoven made up his own rules, changed music to satisfy his own vision. He wrote longer symphonies for larger orchestras, built musical motifs on rhythm as well as melody, and used much more complicated development of a musical theme (not unlike a novelist developing characterization.)
He is also said to have put his own
feelings and frustrations into his music, trying to make. Consider, on the next
slide, how “The Moonlight Sonata” (1801) tries to sound like moonlight on
Or think about the little girl for whom Beethoven wrote “Fur Elise” (1810) as an exercise for her to practice on the piano . . .
In his famous 9th Symphony (1822-24), Beethoven used Friedrich Schiller’s poem “An die Freude” (Ode to Joy), and set it to music, using singers as part of the orchestra. (The famous deaf story happened at the first performance.)
Just for the sake of comparison, let’s view a Turner painting while we listen . . .
In the famous 5th symphony (1807-8), Beethoven focuses more on rhythms than melody. (Note—this famous piece played a key role in World War II.)
In the final movement, we heard the same rhythm developed into an almost different, yet still related piece.
Curiously, Beethoven was a student of Mozart, while Franz Peter Schubert (1797-1828) studied with Mozart’s old rival, Antonio Salieri.
Although his famous “Unfinished Symphony” (1822) is well known, Schubert’s greatest contribution to music is in the development of Lieder, individual songs for vocalists.
“Ellens Gesang III” (1825) is a love song based on Tennyson’s Lady of the Lake.
“The Brook’s Lullaby” from Goethe’s “The young lord and the miller-maid” (1824)
Sleep thou! Baby mine,
In thy cradle rocking;
Soft wings pause and shine
'Round thy pillow white.
Hush! While thy mother sings
Songs of olden fancy;
Morn drops down from God,
On the creeping night.
Low to thee, my dear!
Bends thy mother humming;
Stars shine silver, dear!
In the dusky sky.
Fears shall not mar thy sleep;
No sound shall awake thee;
Sleep; my baby, sleep;
'Till the dark creeps by.
"Der Erlkönig" from a poem by Goethe, depicts the death of a child assailed by a supernatural being, the "Elf King", in a 1782 opera entitled Die Fischerin, must have been used hundreds of times to tell us the bad guy is here.
Francisco José de Goya (1746 –1828) will be the final artist we discuss in the Romantic era, because much of his work goes beyond Romanticism and leads to Realism.
In his famous work,The Third of May 1808: The Execution of the Defenders of Madrid (1814), we do not see the idealistic, glorious world of the Romantic, nor do we see the twisted, suffering with hope of “The Raft of the Medusa. Instead, we see real people being murdered.
The Family of Charles IV, 1800
The Nude Maja (La Maja desnuda) (1800) had no pretense to allegorical or mythological meaning, and was simply profane, creating a terrible scandal.
The Clothed Maja (La Maja vestida) was painted after he refused to paint clothing over his original painting.
In his later years, using oil
paints and working directly onto the walls of his dining and sitting rooms,
Goya created intense, haunting works with dark themes, such as
Saturn devouring his son 1819, and “Fight with Cudgels” 1820-23
Remembering the honest, realistic images of Goya, and the darkness of his later vision, we shall move on to the Realistic Movement in Chapter 18.