London
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Poem Content Details
I
wander thro' each charter'd street,
Near
where the charter'd Thames does flow.
And
mark in every face I meet
Marks
of weakness, marks of woe.
In
every cry of every Man,
In
every Infants cry of fear,
In
every voice: in every ban,
The
mind-forg'd manacles I hear
How
the Chimney-sweepers cry
Every
blackning Church appalls,
And
the hapless Soldiers sigh
Runs
in blood down Palace walls
But
most thro' midnight streets I hear
How
the youthful Harlots curse
Blasts
the new-born Infants tear
And
blights with plagues the Marriage hearse
Summary
I
wander thro' each charter'd street,
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow,
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow,
The speaker begins "London" by
telling us a little story. He wanders through each "charter'd street"
that happens to be "near where the charter'd Thames does flow."
Hmm,
seems a little repetitive doesn't it? True, but this is probably because the
speaker really wants to emphasize this whole "charter'd" business.
Speaking
of which, that little word can mean a number of different things. In this context,
it has the sense of "confined" or "mapped out" or
"legally defined."
Hmm,
what do we mean by "legally defined"? Well, "charter" often
refers to a document issued by a government or political official that grants
certain rights or privileges, defines an entity, that sort of thing.
In
these lines "charter'd" evokes all of these different senses. The
speaker is suggesting that the streets of London, and even the Thames itself (the river that flows through London), are
increasingly the subject of government control.
Alternatively,
they are increasingly constricted, rigidly defined—in other words, not
"open" or "free."
Now
we should tell you that, in lots and lots of Blake's poems, both in the Songs
of Innocence and Experience and elsewhere, constriction, narrowness,
and the government are usually not the greatest of things. Blake is always
about openness, freedom, imagination.
To
summarize then: the speaker wanders through London, and notices that something
is amiss.
(History note: Just in case you wanted to know, here's an idea of what the Thames may have looked like in Blake's day.)
(History note: Just in case you wanted to know, here's an idea of what the Thames may have looked like in Blake's day.)
Lines
3-4
And
mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
And
sure enough, all those ominous hints in the word "charter'd" are made
much more explicit when the speaker, as he does now, tells us what he sees.
He
is able to "mark," or observe, in every face he meets, "marks of
weakness, marks of woe."
These
sad signs are on every face that he meets.
Well
that's not good, but what is the cause of these marks? Well, that's just it. He
doesn't tell us, at least not in these lines.
All
we learn is that society doesn't seem to be a good place—everybody seems worn
down, tired, hurt, in pain, etc.
Now,
there is one little funny thing about that word "mark" that you
should be aware of. Sometimes, it means to make a mark, or a note (as in your
bowling league: "Mark it zero, dude. Next frame.")
It
is possible that these "marks" aren't actually there in any real
sense, but that the speaker is marking them (imprinting them) on people he
sees. In other words, it's possible that these "marks" are just in
the speaker's head.
We
know this sounds totally bizarre and weird, but for a writer like Blake the
double meanings of words like "mark" are always at play. And besides,
Blake is a writer is always interested in the question of what is actually real
and what we make ourselves and pretend is real.
Think
of it kind of like a person on drugs: they may see things that they think are
really there, but aren't. Under the influence of the drug their brains convince
them such things are real.
Blake
himself actually saw tons of crazy stuff that he thought was real (like the
ghost of his brother), so this example isn't really that ridiculous.
In
fact, lots of people in the nineteenth century thought Blake was really, really
wacky. And in many ways, he really kind of was. We mean, could a totally sane,
normal, run-of-the-mill person really draw this.
So, it seems like a good idea to keep an eye on the issue of what is real and
what is not real in this poem.
Quick
form and meter check: The poem seems to be
written mostly in iambic
tetrameter. This means that each line contains four (tetra-) iambs.
tetrameter. This means that each line contains four (tetra-) iambs.
Or,
most lines do. Lucky for us, one of the few exceptions to the tetrameter
happens in this stanza. Line 4 contains only 7 syllables, which means we're one
short. OMG, what does this all mean? Head on over to "Form and
Meter"
to read a possible explanation. Don't worry. We'll still be here when you get
back.
Lines
5-8
In
every cry of every man,
In every Infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forg'd manacles I hear.
In every Infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forg'd manacles I hear.
In
a textbook display of anaphora, the speaker tells us in the second
stanza that he "hears" the "mind-forg'd manacles" in just
about everything.
The
speaker can hear "mind-forg'd manacles" everywhere.
That
sounds bad, but what are they? This phrase is very famous, and is not easy to
define.
First
up: "manacles." Those are shackles, irons, handcuffs, things like
that—really anything that confines, or constricts.
This
goes hand in hand with all that business about "charter'd" we
discussed in lines 1-4. The same goes for "ban." A ban, or
prohibition, is a form of restriction.
Meanwhile,
what about "mind-forg'd"? This is definitely kind of weird, and there
are a couple ways to understand it (we think).
First,
it might help to think of "mind" in a very general, historical sense,
as in "the late eighteenth century mind" or something like that. In a
way, "mind" refers to the larger set of historical
circumstances—intellectual, political, and the like—that collectively make up
"London" in the later eighteenth century. It is some combination of
the Industrial Revolutionand the politics that lead to
"charter'd" streets, among other things, that creates the
"manacles" that shackle the people the speaker sees.
So
that's one way to see this, but what about some of those "other" ways
to understand these lines?
We
told you in our summary of lines 1-4 that Blake likes to blur the line between
imagination and reality. Well, the whole "mind-forg'd" business again
reminds us that one particular speaker is viewing everything. It's entirely
possible that these "manacles" he supposedly sees are the product of
his own "mind." In this sense, the manacles aren't real but,
potentially, "forg'd" by his own mind. Hmm, intriguing.
Alternatively,
it is even possible that these manacles aren't "real" or tangible in
the same way as handcuffs, but are rather more like mental shackles. In other
words, the speaker may be claiming that the evils he sees aren't tangible, like
"marks of weakness" or "marks of woe," but rather
intangible in the way that a mindset or way of thinking is.
Putting
this another way, you could say that the thing that really imprisons or
manacles the people the speaker meets is not something obvious like poverty or
disease, but the way they think, the way they approach life.
From
this perspective, the solution is simply a matter of changing the way one looks
at things, turning one's "mind" into a source of freedom rather than
confinement.
Phew.
That's a whole lot packed into just a few words isn't it?
But
hey, in our "Nutshell" and "Why Should I Care?" sections we promised to prove
to you that these little kiddy poems of Blake's were really, really complex.
Following our lead now?
Lines
9-10
How
the Chimney-sweeper's cry
Every blackning Church appalls;
Every blackning Church appalls;
Things
start to get just a wee bit trickier in the poem's third stanza. Don't worry,
we said "wee bit," and we meant "wee bit."
The
key here is that you have to pretend the word "hear" is still
floating around somewhere. In other words, the speaker also "hears"
how the chimney-sweeper's cry "appals" "every blackning
Church."
Yes,
"appalls" is the verb that goes with "chimney-sweeper's
cry." It's weird that it occurs at the end of the line, but that's okay.
This is poetry.
A
chimney sweeper, or a chimney sweep, is, or was, exactly that: somebody that
cleans chimneys. Back in Blake's day, this wonderful, disgusting, dirty,
dangerous job was usually reserved for children, as you can read about here.
Did
we say kids? Yes, kids, usually really young ones. These little kids went down
the chimneys to clean them because they were small enough to fit, and hence
ideal for the task. You see, there weren't really any child labor laws, more
like none whatsoever. While eventually kids received protection from this
sanctioned abuse (there's really no other way to describe it), it lasted long
enough. Chimney sweeping was a really dangerous job. Most of the kids that were
lucky enough to do the work were orphans (often under the protection of the
church), and they usually didn't bathe very often and were thus dirty for days
on end.
Besides
being really icky, soot, as you may have guessed, is also very carcinogenic.
Lots of kids got lots of cancer from spending so much time working in it.
Also,
the risk of going down a chimney to clean it, Santa Claus style, and then
getting stuck was totally real, if not common, or always likely. So, just add this
to the whole cancer thing.
Anyway,
as we mentioned, this job usually fell to orphans in the care of the church and
other religious institutions, which explains why the speaker mentions a
"blackning Church."
Speaking
of that church, let's make sure we're on the same page with that word
"blackning." That word just means "blackening," but it's
not clear if the church is becoming blacker (i.e., in a state of blackening) or
blackening other things (like little kids).
Come
to think of it, they're both kind of the same thing. The church, which was
partly responsible for this whole chimney sweeping business, was responsible
for "blackening" those little kids.
It
made them both literally blacker (they were covered in soot) but also metaphoricallyblacker, in the sense of less
innocent and closer to death (death is often associated in poetry and elsewhere
with the color black).
Because
the church is involved in this deplorable practice, it, as an institution, is
becoming blacker—less good, pure, and devoted to the betterment of humanity.
All
of this brings us back to that strange word "appalls." We'll admit,
it's a funny word to use here—and not funny as in hilarious, but funny as in strange.
It seems to have the sense of "shames" or "casts aspersion
on," or something like that. The chimney sweepers cry, the church is
partly responsible for it, therefore that cry shames the church.
Note:
it is possible that the church is appalled by the cries, in the sense of
shocked, but this seems less likely, given the church's historical ties to the
practice.
And
we wouldn't be doing our job if we didn't tell you that Blake was really,
really against child labor. Side note: is anybody actually pro child
labor (aside from The Simpsons' Mr. Burns, that is)?
Anyway,
chimney sweeping was one of Blake's go-to points of attack when it came to the
whole child labor business, but also, as we see here, when it came to attacking
his own historical moment. This chimney sweeping stuff irritated him so much
that he wrote two poems about it, one each in the Songs of Innocence and
the Songs of Experience. You can read about those poems right here and here.
As
for just what exactly these lines mean, well, get your metaphor caps on because
the speaker is leaving the literal behind.
Obviously,
a chimney-sweeper's "cry" can't really do anything physical to a
church, so we'll have to come up with some other kind of explanation.
Lines
11-12
And
the hapless Soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls.
Runs in blood down Palace walls.
If
you're expecting to have to carry that word "hear" again you can relax.
Here, the speaker simply states a fact, as a sort of addendum to his little bit
about the chimney sweeping stuff.
Now
he tells us that there's a "hapless" (i.e., unfortunate) soldier,
whose "sigh / Runs in blood down Palace walls." Well, cool.
We
didn't know sighs could actually run down walls in the form of blood.
You
didn't know that because it doesn't really happen. This is all part of a gnarly
metaphor.
The
basic idea is that the Palace, which is here a symbol for government, royalty, etc.,
has blood on its hands, so to speak.
Okay,
but what are we to do with these bizarre lines? Think of it like this. First,
the soldier sighs about something (his recent wartime experiences, his
government's military policy, etc.).
This
sigh, an exhalation of breath, is the expression of whatever is bothering or
upsetting the soldier. And we know that, because he's "hapless," he's
helpless to do anything about what's bothering him—except, you know, sigh in
blood.
The
sigh runs in blood because, well, it has to do with the palace—i.e. the
government that dictates policy in the first place.
It's
like the soldier exhales, an ineffectual, "hapless" gesture that
shows how powerless he is to change his situation. Instead, all he can do is
defend the all-powerful Palace, or (worse) enforce its orders with violence
(after all, soldiers tend to be trained to do that sort of thing).
And
so, the expression of both his discontent and powerlessness (the sigh) turns to
blood and runs down the palace walls. The Palace is marked by the bloodshed
that the solider would be forced to carry out. This image, then, is another reminder of the
"manacles" the speaker mentions in line 8. He says that these
restrictions are everywhere, but now in this stanza he's giving us two examples
to prove his point: the suffering chimney sweep and the solider—who as a tool
of the "Palace" (or government), is powerless to prevent himself from
causing the suffering ("blood") of others.
Lines
13-16
But
most thro' midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlot's curse
Blasts the new-born Infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.
How the youthful Harlot's curse
Blasts the new-born Infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.
The
poem's final stanza has arrived. After that whole business about
"mind-forg'd manacles," these are the most famous
lines in the poem.
The
speaker hears lots of things, but "most" of all he hears a youthful
harlot at midnight—not just any old harlot (prostitute), but one who is young
(sigh) and cursing a "new-born Infant's tear."
Okay,
so there's a foul-mouthed prostitute and a "new-born Infant." Is it
her child? Maybe, but we don't know for sure.
But
it doesn't really matter. The point the speaker is making is that babies are
born into a world where young women have become prostitutes (harlots), and
their tears (babies cry a lot) get cursed at instead of soothed.
("Blasts" here means something like "attacked" or
"assaulted," but in a very metaphorical way. It's like saying, "I
went out in the street and my ears were blasted by that guy next door's loud
lawnmower.")
In
addition to this whole business about children being born into a corrupt, dirty
world—cursing, harlots, blasting—there's something else going on. This same
harlot-curse, which "blasts" the baby's tear, also "blights with
plagues the Marriage hearse."
Again,
like that stuff earlier with the blood and the sighs, this is some really
gnarly metaphorical stuff.
The
words "blight" and "plague" are similar. They both refer to
disease—a plague is, well, a plague, whereas the noun "blight"
describes a kind of barrenness or infertility usually brought on by drought or
disease.
But
"blight" here is a verb, so we'll take it to mean something like
"tarnishes," even "mars" or "destroys."
Basically,
then, the harlot's curse, which is probably a symbol for her terrible life
experiences (much like the soldier's sigh is for his), totally ruins the
"marriage Hearse." The curse—the fact that there even is a youthful
harlot in existence—completely destroys the institution of marriage. It "plagues"
it, so to speak.
This
is why the speaker uses the semi-oxymoronic phrase "marriage
Hearse." We associate marriage with children, life, union.
A
hearse, obviously, symbolizes death. Marriage is a "hearse" because,
well, unmarried harlots are running around, babies seem to have no mothers (who
is the mother of this baby again?), and there are no fathers to be found.
Marriage
has been plagued, we might say, both figuratively and perhaps even
literally. How? Well, "plague" may possibly be a reference to
venereal disease, which definitely existed in Blake's day. The marriage hearse
may be blighted, potentially, by the transmission of whatever diseases the
harlot's profession has given her.
The
harlot, in other words, engages in prostitution, which gives her some kind of
sexual "plague," which she brings to her marriage (as well as the
marriages of her clients).
But
hey, marriage is already a "hearse" anyway (an institution of
death)—at least according to this speaker—so this just adds insult to injury.
So,
in the speaker's "London," life is not a bowl of cuddly babies and
happily-ever-after. Instead, it's disease, suffering, and misery.
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