A Mouthful of Air: Poetry with Mark McGuinness

Episode 87 Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold   Mark McGuinness reads and discusses ‘Dover Beach’ by Matthew Arnold. https://media.blubrry.com/amouthfulofair/media.blubrry.com/amouthfulofair/content.blubrry.com/amouthfulofair/87_Dover_Beach_by_Matthew_Arnold.mp3 Poet Matthew Arnold Reading and commentary by Mark McGuinness Dover Beach By Matthew Arnold The sea is calm tonight.The tide is full, the moon lies fairUpon the straits; on the French coast the lightGleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!Only, from the long line of sprayWhere the sea meets the moon-blanched land,Listen! you hear the grating roarOf pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,At their return, up the high strand,Begin, and cease, and then again begin,With tremulous cadence slow, and bringThe eternal note of sadness in. Sophocles long agoHeard it on the Aegean, and it broughtInto his mind the turbid ebb and flowOf human misery; weFind also in the sound a thought,Hearing it by this distant northern sea. The Sea of FaithWas once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shoreLay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.But now I only hearIts melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,Retreating, to the breathOf the night-wind, down the vast edges drearAnd naked shingles of the world. Ah, love, let us be trueTo one another! for the world, which seemsTo lie before us like a land of dreams,So various, so beautiful, so new,Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;And we are here as on a darkling plainSwept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,Where ignorant armies clash by night.   Podcast Transcript This is a magnificent and haunting poem by Matthew Arnold, an eminent Victorian poet. Written and published at the mid-point of the nineteenth century – it was probably written around 1851 and published in 1867 – it is not only a shining example of Victorian poetry at its best, but it also, and not coincidentally, embodies some of the central preoccupations of the Victorian age. The basic scenario is very simple: a man is looking out at the sea at night and thinking deep thoughts. It’s something that we’ve all done, isn’t it? The two tend to go hand-in-hand. When you’re looking out into the darkness, listening to the sound of the sea, it’s hard not to be thinking deep thoughts. If you’ve been a long time listener to this podcast, it may remind you of another poet who wrote about standing on the shore thinking deep thoughts, looking at the sea, Shakespeare, in his Sonnet 60: Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,So do our minutes hasten to their end; Arnold’s poem is not a sonnet but a poem in four verse paragraphs. They’re not stanzas, because they’re not regular, but if you look at the text on the website, you can clearly see it’s divided into four sections. The first part is a description of the sea, as seen from Dover Beach, which is on the shore of the narrowest part of the English channel, making it the closest part of England to France: The sea is calm tonight.The tide is full, the moon lies fairUpon the straits; – on the French coast the lightGleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. And as you can hear, the poem has a pretty regular and conventional rhythm, based on iambic metre, ti TUM, with the second syllable taking the stress in every metrical unit. But what’s slightly unusual is that the lines have varying lengths. By the time we get to the third line: Upon the straits; – on the French coast the light There are five beats. There’s a bit of variation in the middle of the line, but it’s very recognisable as classic iambic pentameter, which has a baseline pattern going ti TUM, ti TUM, ti TUM, ti TUM, ti TUM. But before we get to the pentameter, we get two short lines: The sea is calm tonight.Only three beats; andThe tide is full, the moon lies fair – four beats. We also start to notice the rhymes: ‘tonight’ and ‘light’. And we have an absolutely delightful enjambment, where a phrase spills over the end of one line into the next one: On the French coast the light,Gleams and is gone. Isn’t that just fantastic? The light flashes out like a little surprise at the start of the line, just as it’s a little surprise for the speaker looking out to sea. OK, once he’s set the scene, he makes an invitation: Come to the window, sweet is the night-air! So if there’s a window, he must be in a room. There’s somebody in the room with him, and given that it’s night it could well be a bedroom. So this person could be a lover. It’s quite likely that this poem was written on Arnold’s honeymoon, which would obviously fit this scenario. But anyway, he’s inviting this person to come to the window and listen. And what does this person hear? Well, helpfully, the speaker tells us: Listen! you hear the grating roarOf pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,At their return, up the high strand,Begin, and cease, and then again begin,With tremulous cadence slow, and bringThe eternal note of sadness in. Isn’t that just great? The iambic metre is continuing with some more variations, which we needn’t go into. And the rhyme is coming more and more to the fore. Just about every line in this section rhymes with another line, but it doesn’t have a regular pattern. Some of the rhymes are close together, some are further apart. There’s only one line in this paragraph that doesn’t rhyme, and that’s ‘Listen! You hear the grating roar’. If this kind of shifting rhyme pattern reminds you of something you’ve heard before, you may be thinking all the way back to Episode 34 where we looked at Coleridge’s use of floating rhymes in his magical poem ‘Kubla Khan’. And it’s pretty evident that Arnold is also casting a spell, in this case to mimic the rhythm of the waves coming in and going out, as they ‘Begin, and cease, and then again begin,’. And then the wonderful last line of the paragraph, as the waves ‘bring / The eternal note of sadness in’. You know, in the heart of the Victorian Age, when the Romantics were still within living memory, poets were still allowed to do that kind of thing. Try it nowadays of course, and the Poetry Police will be round to kick your front door in at 5am and arrest you. Anyway. The next paragraph is a bit of a jump cut: Sophocles long agoHeard it on the Aegean, and it broughtInto his mind the turbid ebb and flowOf human misery; So Arnold, a classical scholar, is letting us know he knows who Sophocles, the ancient Greek playwright was. And he’s establishing a continuity across time of people looking out at the sea and thinking these deep thoughts. At this point, Arnold explicitly links the sea and the thinking:                                     weFind also in the sound a thought,Hearing it by this distant northern sea. And the thought that we hear when we listen to the waves is what Arnold announces in the next verse paragraph, and he announces it with capital letters: The Sea of FaithWas once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shoreLay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. And for a modern reader, I think this is the point of greatest peril for Arnold, where he’s most at risk of losing us. We may be okay with ‘the eternal note of sadness’, but as soon as he starts giving us the Sea of Faith, we start to brace ourselves. Is this going to turn into a horrible religious allegory, like The Pilgrim’s Progress? I mean, it’s a short step from the Sea of Faith to the Slough of Despond and the City of Destruction. And it doesn’t help that Arnold uses the awkwardly rhyming phrase ‘a bright girdle furled’ – that’s not going to get past the Poetry Police, is it? But fear not; Arnold doesn’t go there. What comes next is, I think, the best bit of the poem. So he says the Sea of Faith ‘was once, too, at the full’, and then: But now I only hearIts melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,Retreating, to the breathOf the night-wind, down the vast edges drearAnd naked shingles of the world. Well, if you thought the eternal note of sadness was great, this tops it! It’s absolutely fantastic. That line, ‘Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,’ where the ‘it’ is faith, the Sea of Faith. And the significance of the line is underlined by the fact that the word ‘roar’ is a repetition – remember, that one line in the first section that didn’t rhyme? Listen! you hear the grating roar See what Arnold did there? He left that sound hovering at the back of the mind, without a rhyme, until it came back in this section, a subtle but unmistakeable link between the ‘grating roar’ of the actual sea at Dover Beach, and the ‘withdrawing roar’ of the Sea of Faith: Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Isn’t that the most Victorian line ever? It encapsulates the despair that accompanied the crisis of faith in 19th century England. This crisis was triggered by the advance of modern science – including the discoveries of fossils, evidence of mass extinction of previous species, and the theory of evolution, with Darwin’s Origin of Species published in 1859, in between the writing and publication of ‘Dover Beach’. Richard Holmes, in his wonderful new biography of the young Tennyson, compares this growing awareness of the nature of life on Earth to the modern anxiety over climate change. For the Victorians, he writes, it created a ‘deep and existential terror’. One thing that makes this passage so effective is that Arnold has already cast the spell in the first