A Dissertation upon Roast Pig by Charles Lamb, British Literature, BA English, 2023 - 2024 syllabus, University of Madras

A Dissertation upon Roast Pig 

by Charles Lamb

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Author:
Charles Lamb (1 775-1 834) one of the most engaging personal essayists of all the writers of English Literature. He wrote his essays under the pen name Elia. The circumstances of his personal life were harsh and even tragic. Charles and his sister Mary Ann both suffered periods of mental illness, and Charles spent six weeks in a psychiatric hospital during 1795. After 1799 they lived together and collaborated on several books for children, publishing in 1807 their famous Tales from Shakespeare. Lamb began publishing his Essays of Elia in the London Magazine in 1820.

About Prose:
In September, 1822, Charles Lamb published his classic essay "A Dissertation upon Roast Pig" in London Magazine under the pen name of Elia. This is an essay that shows Lamb at his humorous best. It is full of fun from beginning to end. Lamb uses various devices that to portray a humorous account of the origin of mankind's practice of roasting pigs besides giving an insight into his own temperament and tastes.
 
Text:
       Mankind, says a Chinese manuscript, which my friend M. was obliging enough to read and explain to me, for the first seventy thousand ages ate their meat raw, clawing or biting it from the living animal, just as they do in Abyssinia to this day. This period is not obscurely hinted at by their great Confucius in the second chapter of his Mundane Mutations, where he designates a kind of golden age by the term Cho-fang, literally the Cooks' holiday. The manuscript goes on to say, that the art of roasting, or rather broiling (which I take to be the elder brother) was accidentally discovered in the manner following: The swineherd, Ho-ti, having gone out in the woods one morning, as his manner was, to collect masts for his hogs, left his cottage in the care of his eldest son Bo-bo, a great lubberly boy, who being fond of playing with fire, as younkers of his age commonly are, let some sparks escape into a bundle of straw, which kindling quickly, spread the conflagration over every part of their poor mansion, till it was reduced to ashes. Together with the cottage, (a sorry antediluvian makeshift of a building, you may think it), what was of much more importance, a fine litter of new-farrowed pigs, no less than nine in number, perished. China pigs had been esteemed a luxury all over the East, from the remotest periods that we read of. Bo-bo was in the utmost consternation, as you may think, not so much for the sake of the tenement, which his father and he could easily build up again with a few dry branches, and the labour of an hour or two, at any time, as for the loss of the pigs. While he was thinking what he should say to his father, and wringing his hands over the smoking remnants of one of those untimely sufferers, an odour assailed his nostrils, unlike any scent which he had before experienced. What could it proceed from?—not from the burnt cottage—he had smelt that smell before—indeed this was by no means the first accident of the kind which had occured through the negligence of this unlucky young firebrand. Much less did it resemble that of any known herb, weed, or flower. A premonitory moistening at the same time overflowed his nether lip. He knew not what to think. He next stooped down to feel the pig, if there were any signs of life in it. He burnt his fingers, and to cool them he applied them in his booby fashion to his mouth. Some of the crumbs of the scorched skin had come away with his fingers, and for the first time in his life (in the world's life indeed, for before him no man had known it) he tasted—crackling! Again he felt and fumbled at the pig. It did not burn him so much now, still he licked his finger from a sort of habit. The truth at length broke into his slow understanding, that it was the pig that smelt so, and the pig that tasted so delicious; and surrendering himself up to the newborn pleasure, he fell to tearing up whole handfuls of the scorched skin with the flesh next it, and was cramming it down his throat in his beastly fashion, when his sire entered amid the smoking rafters, armed with retributory cudgel, and finding how affairs stood, began to rain blows upon the young rogue's shoulders, as thick as hailstones, which Bo-bo heeded not any more than if they had been flies. The tickling pleasure which he experienced in his lower regions, had rendered him quite callous to any inconveniences he might feel in those remote quarters. His father might lay on, but he could not beat him from his pig, till he had fairly made an end of it, when, becoming a little more sensible of his situation, something like the following dialogue ensued:
            "You graceless whelp, what have you got there devouring? Is it not enough that you have burnt me down three houses with your dog's tricks, and be hanged to you, but you must be eating fire, and I know not what—what have you got there, I say?"
"O father, the pig, the pig! do come and taste how nice the burnt pig eats."
The ears of Ho-ti tingled with horror. He cursed his son, and he cursed himself that ever he should beget a son that should eat burnt pig.
Bo-bo, whose scent was wonderfully sharpened since morning, soon raked out another pig, and fairly rending it asunder, thrust the lesser half by main force into the fists of Ho-ti, still shouting out, "Eat, eat, eat the burnt pig, father, only taste—O Lord,"—with such-like barbarous ejaculations, cramming all the while as if he would choke.
Ho-ti trembled every joint while he grasped the abominable things wavering whether he should not put his son to death for an unnatural young monster, when the crackling scorching his fingers, as it had done his son's, and applying the same remedy to them, he in his turn tasted some of its flavour, which, make what sour mouths he would for a pretence, proved not altogether displeasing to him. In conclusion (for the manuscript here is a little tedious) both father and son fairly sat down to the mess, and never left off till they had despatched all that remained of the litter.
 
Bo-bo was strictly enjoined not to let the secret escape, for the neighbors would certainly have stoned them for a couple of abominable wretches, who could think of improving upon the good meat which God had sent them. Nevertheless, strange stories got about. It was observed that Ho-ti's cottage was burnt down now more frequently than ever. Nothing but fires from this time forward. Some would break out in broad day, others in the night-time. As often as the sow farrowed, so sure was the house of Ho-ti to be in a blaze; and Ho-ti himself, which was the more remarkable, instead of chastising his son, seemed to grow more indulgent to him than ever. At length they were watched, the terrible mystery discovered, and father and son summoned to take their trial at Pekin, than an inconsiderable assize town. Evidence was given, the obnoxious food itself produced in court, and verdict about to be pronounced, when the foreman of the jury begged that some of the burnt pig, of which the culprits stood accused, might be handed into the box. He handled it, and they all handled it, and burning their fingers, as Bo-bo and his father had done before them, and nature prompting to each of them the same remedy, against the face of all the facts, and the clearest charge which judge had ever given,—to the surprise of the whole court, townsfolk, strangers, reporters, and all present—without leaving the box, or any manner of consultation whatever, they brought in a simultaneous verdict of Not Guilty.
The judge, who was a shrewd fellow, winked at the manifest iniquity of the decision; and, when the court was dismissed, went privily, and bought up all the pigs that could be had for love or money. In a few days his Lordship's town house was observed to be on fire. The thing took wing, and now there was nothing to be seen but fires in every direction. Fuel and pigs grew enormously dear all over the district. The insurance offices one and all shut up shop. People built slighter and slighter every day, until it was feared that the very science of architecture would in no long time be lost to the world. Thus this custom of firing houses continued, till in process of time, says my manuscript, a sage arose, like our Locke, who made a discovery, that the flesh of swine, or indeed of any other animal, might be cooked (burnt, as they call it) without the necessity of consuming a whole house to dress it. Then first began the rude form of a gridiron. Roasting by the string, or spit, came in a century or two later, I forget in whose dynasty. By such slow degrees, concludes the manuscript, do the most useful, and seemingly the most obvious arts, make their way among mankind.
Without placing too implicit faith in the account above given, it must be agreed, that if a worthy pretext for so dangerous an experiment as setting houses on fire (especially in these days) could be assigned in favour of any culinary object, that pretext and excuse might be found in roast pig.
Of all the delicacies in the whole mundus edibilis, I will maintain it to be the most delicate—princeps obsoniorum.
I speak not of your grown porkers—things between pig and pork—those hobbydehoys—but a young and tender suckling—under a moon old—guiltless as yet of the sty—with no original speck of the amor immunditiæ, the hereditary failing of the first parent, yet manifest—his voice as yet not broken, but something between a childish treble, and a grumble—the mild forerunner, or præludium, of a grunt.
He must be roasted. I am not ignorant that our ancestors ate them seethed, or boiled—but what a sacrifice of the exterior tegument!
There is no flavour comparable, I will contend, to that of the crisp, tawny, well-watched, not over-roasted, crackling, as it is well called—the very teeth are invited to their share of the pleasure at this banquet in overcoming the coy, brittle resistance—with the adhesive oleaginous—O call it not fat—but an indefiable sweetness growing up to it—the tender blossoming of fat—fat cropped in the bud—taken in the shoot—in the first innocence—the cream and quintessence of the child-pig's yet pure food—the lean, no lean, but a kind of animal manna—or, rather, fat and lean (if it must be so) so blended and running into each other, that both together make but one ambrosian result, or common substance.
Behold him, while he is doing—it seemeth rather a refreshing warmth, then a scorching heat, that he is so passive to. How equably he twirleth round the string!—Now he is just done. To see the extreme sensibility of that tender age, he hath wept out his pretty eyes—radiant jellies—shooting stars—
See him in the dish, his second cradle, how meek he lieth!—wouldst thou have had this innocent grow up to the grossness and indocility which too often accompany maturer swinehood? Ten to one he would have proved a glutton, a sloven, an obstinate, disagreeable animal—wallowing in all manner of filthy conversation—from these sins he is happily snatched away—
Ere sin could blight, or sorrow fade,
Death came with timely care—
his memory is odoriferous—no clown curseth, while his stomach half rejecteth, the rank bacon—no coalheaver bolteth him in reeking sausages—he hath a fair sepulchre in the grateful stomach of the judicious epicure—and for such a tomb might be content to die.
He is the best of sapors. Pineapple is great. She is indeed almost too transcendent—a delight, if not sinful, yet so like to sinning, that really a tender-conscienced person would do well to pause—too ravishing for mortal taste, she woundeth and excoriateth the lips that approach her—like lover's kisses, she biteth—she is a pleasure bordering on pain from the fierceness and insanity of her relish—but she stoppeth at the palate—she meddleth not with the appetite—and the coarsest hunger might barter her consistently for a mutton chop.
 
Pig—let me speak his praise—is no less provocative of the appetite, than he is satisfactory to the criticalness of the censorious palate. The strong man may batten on him, and the weakling refuseth not his mild juices.
Unlike to mankind's mixed characters, a bundle of virtues and vices, inexplicably intertwisted, and not to be unravelled without hazard, he is—good throughout. No part of him is better or worse than another. He helpeth, as far as his little means extend, all around. He is the least envious of banquets. He is all neighbors' fare.
I am one of those, who freely and ungrudgingly impart a share of the good things of this life which fall to their lot (few as mine are in this kind) to a friend. I protest I take as great an interest in my friend's pleasures, his relishes, and proper satisfactions, as in mine own. "Presents," I often say, "endear Absents." Hares, pheasants, partridges, snipes, barn-door chickens (those "tame villatic fowl"), capons, plovers, brawn, barrels of oysters, I dispense as freely as I receive them. I love to taste them, as it were, upon the tongue of my friend. But a stop must be put somewhere. One would not, like Lear, "give everything." I make my stand upon pig. Methinks it is an ingratitude to the Giver of all good flavours, to extra-domiciliate, or send out of the house, slightingly (under pretext of friendship, or I know not what), a blessing so particularly adapted, predestined, I may say, to my individual palate—It argues an insensibility.
I remember a touch of conscience in this kind at school. My good old aunt, who never parted from me at the end of a holiday without stuffing a sweetmeat, or some nice thing, into my pocket, had dismissed me one evening with a smoking plum-cake, fresh from the oven. In my way to school (it was over London Bridge) a gray-headed old beggar saluted me (I have no doubt at this time of day that he was a counterfeit). I had no pence to console him with, and in the vanity of self-denial, and the very coxcombry of charity, schoolboy-like, I made him a present of—the whole cake! I walked on a little, buoyed up, as one is on such occasions, with a sweet soothing of self-satisfaction; but before I had got to the end of the bridge, my better feelings returned, and I burst into tears, thinking how ungrateful I had been to my good aunt, to go and give her good gift away to a stranger, that I had never seen before, and who might be a bad man for aught I knew; and then I thought of the pleasure my aunt would be taking in thinking that I—I myself, and not another—would eat her nice cake—and what should I say to her the next time I saw her—how naughty I was to part with her pretty present—and the odour of that spicy cake came back upon my recollection, and the pleasure and the curiosity I had taken in seeing her make it, and her joy when she sent it to the oven, and how disappointed she would feel that I had never had a bit of it in my mouth at last—and I blamed my impertinent spirit of almsgiving, and out-of-place hypocrisy of goodness, and above all I wished never to see the face again of that insiduous, good-for-nothing, old gray impostor.
Our ancestors were nice in their method of sacrificing these tender victims. We read of pigs whipt to death with something of a shock, as we hear of any other obsolete custom. The age of discipline is gone by, or it would be curious to inquire (in a philosophical light merely) what effect this process might have towards intenerating and dulcifying a substance, naturally so mild and dulcet as the flesh of young pigs. It looks like refining a violet. Yet we should be cautious, while we condemn the inhumanity, how we censure the wisdom of the practice. It might impart a gusto—
I remember an hypothesis, argued upon by the young students, when I was at St. Omer's, and maintained with much learning and pleasantry on both sides, "Whether, supposing that the flavor of a pig who obtained his death by whipping (per flagellationem extremam) superadded a pleasure upon the palate of a man more intense than any possible suffering we can conceive in the animal, is man justified in using that method of putting the animal to death?" I forget the decision.
His sauce should be considered. Decidedly, a few bread crumbs, done up with his liver and brains, and a dash of mild sage. But, banish, dear Mrs. Cook, I beseech you, the whole onion tribe. Barbecue your whole hogs to your palate, steep them in shalots, stuff them out with plantations of the rank and guilty garlic; you cannot poison them, or make them stronger than they are—but consider, he is a weakling—a flower.

Summary:

‘A Dissertation upon Roast Pig’ is one of Lamb’s funniest and most fanciful essays. It has two parts. In the first part, Lamb gives an account of how people in China discovered the custom of roasting pigs.
A Chinese boy by name Bo-bo was asked to take care of the swine-herd by his father Ho-ti. The boy was fond of playing with fire, while he was playing with fire a spark fell on the thatch and caught fire. Nine young pigs were burnt to death. Bo-bo, smelt an alluring smell from the burnt pigs. He touched one to know if it was still alive. He burnt his fingers. To cool it, he put his fingers in his mouth. Thus, he tasted the meat sticking in his fingers. It was delicious, so he started eating it with great interest. When the father came back, he noticed his son who eating burnt flesh of pigs. He was horrified and he started to beat his son. The son persuaded the father to taste some burnt flesh of pigs. After tasting the roasted pig, the father cooled down, and praised his son. Their after, Ho-ti’s cottage caught fire often to eat roasted pork. The matter was reported to the judge by the neighbours. The father and the son were put on trial. The Jury who enquired the case, tasted the burnt pig and declared the father and the son were not guilty. They gave permission to all the people to eat the roasted pig. Pigs and fuel soon became very expensive. At last someone invented the gridiron and houses were prevented from fire.
In the second part, Lamb, expresses his love for the roast pig. He says that old pigs are not tasteful as the taste of a month old pig. He calls it ‘animal manna’. He becomes poetical in describing the sight of a young pig being roasted. After being roasted it lays so meekly on the plate. He does not have any pity for the suffering pig. Pine apple is tasty but it cannot satisfy hunger. But the roast pig is not only tasty but also satisfies one’s hunger. Moreover, all its parts are useful. When it is served, no one complain of getting a less tasty portion than another. Lamb is ready to share anything with his friends except the roast pig. He shares an anecdote about his boyhood. Once he gave a beggar the plum cake presented to him by his aunt. Later he felt that he had betrayed her. He would feel similar regret if he shared the pig with anybody.
     The suckling pig was whipped to death in the past. This appears very cruel. Lamb feels that it is not necessary as the flesh of a young pig is tender enough. He ends the essay with a reference to the sauces which should accompany the roast pig. He is against using onion and garlic, as they are too strong for the delicate flesh of a young pig.

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A Red, Red Rose by Robert Burns, British Literature, BA English, 2023 - 2024 syllabus, University of Madras

A Red, Red Rose by Robert Burns

Click above link for poem explanation

Poet:

Robert Burns (1759-1796) was an eminent Scottish poet and lyricist. He was titled the ‘National Poet of Scotland’. He is best known as a pioneer of the Romantic Movement for his lyrical poetry.

His father was a tenant farmer, and Burns worked as a ploughboy. He grew up poor but well-read and began writing poetry in Scottish dialect. As an adult, he was as unsuccessful as his father in making a living at farming. In 1791, however, he quit farming for good and moved his family to the nearby town of Dumfries. Never in good health, on the morning of July 21, 1796, he died in Dumfries at the age of 37. Famous works of his include, “To A Mouse”, “Address to the Devil”, and “A Red Red Rose”.

 

About Poem:

"A Red, Red Rose" was published in 1794 and has become one of his most treasured works.  It’s actually a love song that is normally published as a poem. The title of the poem is also written as "My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose".  It has a ballad structure that is consisting of four-line stanzas with a loose ABAB rhyme scheme. This romantic love poem portrays the speaker expressing deep affection for their beloved.    

 

Poem:

 

O my Luve is like a red, red rose

   That’s newly sprung in June;

O my Luve is like the melody

   That’s sweetly played in tune.

 

So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

   So deep in luve am I;

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

   Till a’ the seas gang dry.

 

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,

   And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;

I will love thee still, my dear,

   While the sands o’ life shall run.

 

And fare thee weel, my only luve!

   And fare thee weel awhile!

And I will come again, my luve,

   Though it were ten thousand mile.

 

Summary:

            The poem ‘A Red, Red Rose’ has been composed by a Scottish poet Robert Burns. It is a lyrical ballad that describes the speaker’s lovable feelings for his beautiful beloved. So strong is the speaker’s passion for his beloved. With the help of literary devices, the poet has sketched a very clear and realistic picture of his beloved. It has four stanzas in which he poured his deep feeling of love.

            In the first stanza, the speaker of the poem begins by comparing his beloved to “A Red, Red Rose”. The poet draws a comparison of his love to that of a fresh, young red rose that has just bloomed in the spring. Similarly, he compares her to a melody that is played with the soft tune. The speaker thinks of his beloved as an attractive, fresh and delicate red rose of June. He thinks of her as the most beautiful woman of the world who is as sweet as melody and as beautiful as a red rose.

            In the second and third stanzas, the speaker praises her beauty. He is fully influenced by her therefore he is in very deep love with her. He doesn’t want to stay away from her. He wants to be in the connection of deep love for a very long period of time. He loves her until the seas of earth go dry and the rocks melt with the sun. He loves her until the end of human life.

            He wants to love her until the gang of earthly seas go dry and the rocks melt with the sun. He loves her until his life ends. After a short break, he wants to be with her regardless of whether the ride is ten thousand miles long or long. The speaker devotes his life to his loved one, who is pretty stunning.

            In the last stanza, the speaker talks about temporary separation but he is not so pessimistic about that. He is so hopeful to meet her and wishes a good life and bright future to his beloved. He farewells her at the time of temporary separation but he promises to meet very soon though the journey is ten thousand miles. He vows to be with her by defeating the challenges which are very tough. He makes her say goodbye.

            We find the speaker promising his love to return in the final two lines, even though the journey is too long (ten thousand miles) and takes a very long time. It is a poem of comparing, admiring, hoping and promising.

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The Pulley by George Herbert, British Literature, BA English, 2023 - 2024 syllabus, University of Madras

B.A English Literature
British Literature
1st Year 1st Semester

 The Pulley - George Herbert

Poet:

      George Herbert was born in Montgomery, Wales, on April 3, 1593. Herbert was educated at Westminster school and Trinity College, Cambridge. His first verses to be published, in 1612, were two memorial poems in Latin on the death of Prince Henry, the heir apparent.

       At Bemerton, George Herbert preached and wrote poetry; helped rebuild the church out of his own funds; he cared deeply for his parishioners. He came to be known as “Holy Mr. Herbert” around the countryside.

       Herbert’s poems are characterized by a precision of language, a metrical versatility, and an ingenious use of imagery or conceits that was favored by the metaphysical school of poets.

 

About Poem:

The Pulley was also published in Herbert's 1633 collection The Temple. The piece takes place in the moment God is creating mankind, and features dialogue by God Himself. The poem is formatted into 4 stanzas, divided into quintains (groups of five lines). The rhyme scheme used in the first three stanzas of the poem is ‘ababa’ while that of the fourth stanza is ‘abcba’. 

 

Poem:

 

When God at first made man,

Having a glass of blessings standing by;

Let us (said he) poure on him all we can:

Let the worlds riches, which dispersed lie,

Contract into a span.

 

So strength first made a way;

Then beautie flow’d, then wisdome, honour, pleasure:

When almost all was out, God made a stay,

Perceiving that alone of all his treasure

Rest in the bottome lay.

 

For if I should (said he)

Bestow this jewell also on my creature,

He would adore my gifts in stead of me,

And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature.

So both should losers be.

 

Yet let him keep the rest,

But keep them with repining restlessnesse:

Let him be rich and wearie, that at last,

If goodnesse leade him not, yet wearinesse

May tosse him to my breast.

 

Summary:

In the opening verse of ‘The Pulley’, George Herbert discusses the origin of humanity (first made man). The poem is built around the conceit of imagining God in the process of making human beings. It has echoes of the story of creation in the opening of the Bible, the first chapter of the Book of Genesis. (Herbert uses the word “man” in the sense of “humankind” as was typical of all writers in his era.)

The poem imagines God adding different qualities to this new creation, pouring them in as a cook might pour ingredients in a cake. He is a generous Creator. All His blessings, all the world’s riches, are given to humankind, except for one.

“Rest” in the Christian tradition is one of God’s gifts. Jesus said “Come to me all that are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11.28) “Rest” is also used as a picture of the destiny God promises to those who walk in His way, a picture of heaven. It is a precious “jewel”.

God pauses before He adds this final gift. If He gives this, people may “adore my gifts instead of me”. Some commentators have seen this as God being manipulative, not giving human beings the gift of rest so as to make them turn to Him. Herbert’s response is in the final line of that verse. If someone finds satisfaction in God’s gifts and does not come to know God Himself, then both God and the person are impoverished, “both should losers be”.

He starts the final verse with a pun playing on another meaning of the word “rest” - “remainder, what is left”. Human beings are both richly endowed, but also “wearie” – dissatisfied, tired of what they have. And this weariness tosses – flings – them into God’s embrace, like a restless, unhappy child wanting to be hugged and flinging itself into its father’s arms.

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Ode On Solitude - by Alexander Pope, British Literature, BA English, 2023 - 2024 syllabus, University of Madras

 BA English

1st Year 2nd Semester

British Literature

Ode On Solitude - by Alexander Pope

Poet :

Alexander Pope (21 May 1688 - 30 May 1744) was considered one of the eighteenth century's most significant English poets. He is best known for his satirical and discursive poetry. His famous works include The Rape of the Lock, The Dunciad, An Essay on Criticism, etc.

About Poem:

'Ode On Solitude' is a poem written by Alexander Pope. It was written in 1700. It consists of 20 lines divided into five quatrains having the rhyme scheme of ABAB. The poem is unique because Pope wrote it before his twelfth birthday. The poem - as the title suggests - is a description of solitude and how it is achieved. Every man craves solitude, but there are only a few ways to achieve it. The poet also describes what the bliss of solitude feels like and how he considers a person who has achieved it lucky.

 

Poem:

 Happy the man, whose wish and care

   A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air,

                            In his own ground.

 

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,

   Whose flocks supply him with attire,

Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

                            In winter fire.

 

Blest, who can unconcernedly find

   Hours, days, and years slide soft away,

In health of body, peace of mind,

                            Quiet by day,

 

Sound sleep by night; study and ease,

   Together mixed; sweet recreation;

And innocence, which most does please,

                            With meditation.

 

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;

   Thus unlamented let me die;

Steal from the world, and not a stone

                            Tell where I lie.

Summary: 

‘Solitude’ is the best stage of life. Mostly people connects it with loneliness but it not about being lonely but it is about being happy in the company of our self. In this poem Pope says that the solitude is the blessed thing of life.     

The Poets deepest desire is that he should have a few acres of his own land, where he is happy to live and work. He will be happy to breathe the air of his native land. It means that he is happy with what he has in his native place and he does not wish to have more. The poem talks about the freedom of responsibility to the society and social norms. Pope talks about the joy of a person who is in his native land and not bounded or forced with the rules. The poet should not be bounded by the rules of society and to answer the society.

In the second paragraph the poet simply means that the man is self-sufficient. He talks about the rights of the person and presents that how society interferes in the life of individuals. Relatives and society play a role of a barrier in the life of a person. A person should be free and when the person stops thinking about what society think, he is at the stage of solitude. The person should be free to think on his own, s/he does not need to satisfy all the expectation of society. His land, now shown to be a farm, provides for all of his needs — his herds provide him with milk, he is able to bake his own bread. In the summer, his trees provide ample shade, and in the winter the wood from those same trees can be lit to keep him warm. He has no need of anything beyond his own land.

By the third stanza, poet found that only those people can stay with happiness and talked about the life with good health and peace. These people do not care about the nagging and judgments of society. Those people do not need a lavish life for their enjoyment. The narrator considered this farmer blessed! Time almost doesn’t have meaning for this man; his world provides for all of his needs. Hours go by, days go by, years go by, and everything remains the same. The health the man is in at the beginning of this cycle is the health he remains in when it is finished. He has peace of mind which is a blessing for him.

The poet says that he sleeps a sound sleep. He is ignorant about the knowledge and competition in the world. It’s a strange idea and casts the character of the farmer in a different light. The people who are alone they do not need to care about what others think. The person with solitude has only the fear of his/her self only. Poet talks about his leisure life and ‘sound sleep’ with study and ease.

He says that desire for knowledge is everything but a study without pleasure and ease is worthless. Society wants everyone to be educated but joy should be connected with it, otherwise it is of no use.

In the final lines of poem poet wants the life of ‘unseen’ and ‘unknown’. He wants to hide himself from the world which gives pains and expects a lot. He wants to live in solitude until he dies. Not a stone should be carved on his grave, so that no one will know where he lies after death. Thus the poem reflects the harsh reality of society and condition of an individual.

Poet illustrates the theme of tranquility and contentment in the poem by highlighting the peaceful and fulfilling nature of a solitary life.

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A City Night-Piece by Oliver Goldsmith, British Literature, BA English, 2023 - 2024 syllabus, University of Madras

"A City Night-Piece."

By Oliver Goldsmith

About Writer:

Goldsmith was born in Ireland and attended Trinity College, Dublin. His first years at Trinity were rocky. He showed no particular ability, indeed, he got himself involved in a riot and thereafter ran away. His brother was to catch up with him, and, eventually, Oliver returned to Trinity and was to receive his B.A. Next his family fixed him up with £50, so that he might go to London to study law; but, he did not make it to London as he lost the £50 at the gaming tables at Dublin. In 1752, Oliver went off to Edinburgh to study medicine, but, as Chambers points out, while there for the two years, he "was more noted for his social gifts than his professional acquirements." Goldsmith tried practising medicine, but it did not work for him. He turned to writing turning out essays and making contributions to the magazines of the day. In 1766 he came out with a novel, The Vicar of Wakefield; it was to make his reputation as a novelist. In 1773, he brought out the comedy She Stoops To Conquer, the second work for which Goldsmith will be remembered.

TEXT: 

The clock has just struck two, the expiring taper rises and sinks in the socket, the watchman forgets the hour in slumber, the laborious and the happy are at rest, and nothing wakes but meditation, guilt, revelry, and despair. The drunkard once more fills the destroying bowl, the robber walks his midnight round, and the suicide lifts his guilty arm against his own sacred person.

Let me no longer waste the night over the page of antiquity or the sallies of contemporary genius, but pursue the solitary walk, where Vanity, ever changing, but a few hours past walked before me, where she kept up the pageant, and now, like a froward child, seems hushed with her own importunities.

What a gloom hangs all around! The dying lamp feebly emits a yellow gleam; no sound is heard but of the chiming clock, or the distant watch-dog. All the bustle of human pride is forgotten; an hour like this may well display the emptiness of human vanity.

There will come a time when this temporary solitude may be made continual, and the city itself, like its inhabitants, fade away, and leave a desert in its room.

What cities, as great as this, have once triumphed in existence! had their victories as great, joy as just and as "Unbounded, and, with short-sighted presumption, promised themselves immortality! Posterity can hardly trace the situation of some; the sorrowful traveller wanders over the lawful ruins of others; and, as he beholds, he learns wisdom, and feels the transience of every sublunary possession.

"Here," he cries, "stood their citadel, now grown over with, weeds; there, their senate house, but now the haunt of every noxious,reptile; temples and theatres stood here, now only an undistinguished heap of ruin. They are fallen: for luxury and avarice first made them feeble. The rewards of the state were conferred on amusing and not on useful members of society. Their riches and opulence invited the invaders, who, though at first repulsed, returned again, conquered by perseverance, and at last swept the defendants into undistinguished destruction."

How few appear in those streets which, but some few hours ago, were crowded! and those who appear now no longer wear their daily mask, nor attempt to hide their lewdness or their misery.

But who are those who make the streets their couch, and find a short repose from wretchedness at the doors of the opulent? These are strangers, wanderers, and orphans, whose circumstances are too humble to expect redress, and whose distresses are too great even for pity. Their wretchedness rather excites horror than pity. Some are without the covering even of rags, and others emaciated with disease: the world has disclaimed them; society turns its back upon their distress, and has given them up to nakedness and hunger. These poor shivering females have once seen happier days and been flattered into beauty. They have been prostituted to the gay, luxurious villain, and are now turned out to meet the severity of Winter. Perhaps, now lying at the doors of their betrayers, they sue to wretches whose hearts are insensible, to debauchees who may curse but will not relieve them.

Why, why was I born a man, and yet see the sufferings of wretches I cannot relieve! Poor houseless creatures! the world will give you reproaches, but will not give you relief. The slightest misfortunes of the great, the most imaginary uneasinesses of the rich, are aggravated with all the power of eloquence, and held up to engage our attention and sympathetic sorrow. The poor weep unheeded, persecuted by every subordinate species of tyranny; and every law, which gives others security, becomes an enemy to them.

Why was this heart of mine formed with so much sensibility! or why was not my fortune adapted to its impulse! Tenderness, without a capacity of relieving, only makes the man who feels it more wretched than the object which sues for assistance. Adieu.

-- Oliver Goldsmith (1728-74).

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