Taylor Kuhlmann

E 379S

P1B

[1]

The Ghost of Cambridge Past

The night was chilling and uncomfortable. I could not stop thinking of the disappointment I felt. My tutors encouraged me to explore the world of poetry, but I could not understand it. Why did anyone write or read poetry? The tutors continuously told me that it could help me understand why I am here on earth and at Cambridge. But, how? My lack of sense of place haunted my tired mind. Contemplating my dilemma, I laid awake while the night sweats crawled through my sleeves and around my neck. The window had been left open and its curtain danced in the wind, swaying in and out. When I reached my arm to close it, I felt a hand stop me.

A husky but soothing voice spoke to me. “Do not close your window for we will be leaving through it in a moment.”

I rubbed my eyes and tickled the insides of my ears to make sure I was not seeing or hearing things. When I uncovered my eyes I saw what looked like the shadow of a man who was dressed in a long cloak and was holding a book; he stood over my bed.

“What? Who are you?”

“I’m the Ghost of Cambridge Past, of course. I have been watching you while you dream at night. You are restless. Something is bothering you—perhaps something that has to do with your academics?”

“Yeah, so! What are you doing here now, and while I’m awake?”

“I was once a student here at Cambridge and, like yourself, I too struggled to understand poetry. But I was fortunate to have some guidance from many of England’s greatest poets. Tonight I will give you the same opportunity.

“And what is that, Mr. Scary Ghost?

“Do not get smart with me, my boy. In my hand I have the answers to your problem. Among the pages of this book are the stories of many poets. Some of them lived here in this very dorm when they attended Cambridge. Tonight they will teach you about the joys one can find in poetry, its meaning, and its purpose.”

“How is that going to happen? You’re crazy!”

“We will visit the dorm rooms of three poets who, like yourself, studied at Cambridge; they are expecting you. They will offer insight to help you grasp the life of poetry. We must be going, for the night is short! There’s no time now for any more questions.”

The ghost took my hand and we flew through the window and up toward the stars. The wind kissed my skin as we charged through it. Then, I felt my feet land upon the branch of a tree.

“Where are we?” I questioned.

“We are now at Christ’s College.[2] You see that window? There sits young John Milton; he is revising one of his works. He will speak with you about poetry’s purpose in life. At this point in his life, he is beginning to refer to himself as a prophetic bard.[3] Milton believes that “he was destined to serve his language, his country, and his God as a poet”.[4]

The ghost tapped on the young scholar’s window and Milton looked up, beaming as he came over to greet us. “Hello! Come in. I am so pleased to make your acquaintance! Let me introduce myself. I am John Milton, Englishman and future author of a great English epic”.[5]

“It is a pleasure to meet you Mr. Milton.” My voice shook, revealing my confusion. I wondered how I was standing outside the window of John Milton. I have read his works but never could have fathomed that I would meet him in his dorm room at Cambridge.

“I understand you need some poetic guidance. Perhaps I can help. With a few lines, I will reveal to you the reason why I am a poet. ‘Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, and with forced finger rude, shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, compels me to disturb your season due; for Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. Who would not sing for Lycidas? He knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not float upon his watery bier unwept, and welter to the parching wind, without the meed of some melodious tear’.”[6]

After his grand recital I did not know what to say. I had read this poem many times, but hearing it from Milton himself rendered me speechless.

Milton began again, “You see, being a poet allows me to serve my language. I have a poetic mission[7] to write verse in such a way that makes the ear dance and the mind explore the beauty of our language. Also, I serve my country and my people. What I just performed is the first part of an elegy that I wrote about the death of a dear friend and fellow student, Edward King.[8] God rest his soul! It is an elegy written to remember and honor him. With this verse I speak for many who mourn the loss of Edward. I am a spokesman for the nation as a whole, devoted to public causes. Many of the causes I devote my time to have arisen out of personal concern—such as dear Edward’s death.[9] You must serve your generation and your fellow students of Cambridge. Write, write, write!”

“But, what if I cannot write a good rhyme?”

“Serve your language, and it will come. Look deep inside your soul and the words will flow out. Find a bench or a luscious meadow. Observe nature, observe your peers, and let your imagination take control of your pen. Whether you believe it or not, you know your language well. Now you must use it to create beautiful poetry. I wish you well.”

John Milton closed the window and continued his revisions. I turned to the ghost.

“Serve my language? What does he mean?”

“Perhaps our next stop will help you to understand what he means. Hold on!”

The wind brushed through my hair and the stars guided us through their sky until we were perched upon another tree branch in front of another dorm room. Behind the glass sat another young scholar.

“We are now at St. John’s College[10] and through that window is the young William Wordsworth. He will help reveal the beauty of language. Perhaps, then, you may be able to serve it.”

The young man looked up, noticed us, and came to open the window. “Welcome, welcome! I was just wondering when you would be arriving. I am William Wordsworth. Would you care for a drink? Oh, of course not. You are here to speak with me about my poetry. Much like you, I do get a bit bored with the Cambridge curriculum, but writing poetry keeps me interested.[11] I would like to read a bit of verse from my poem Composed Upon Westminster Bridge. It may help you to understand the beauty of nature that the language of poetry can reveal. ‘Earth has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by a sight so touching in its majesty: This city now doth like a garment wear the beauty of morning; silent, bare, ships, towers, domes, theaters, and temples lie open unto the fields, and to the sky; all bright and glittering in the smokeless air’.[12] Now, what did you get out of that?”

“You like London in the morning?”

“Yes, but there is so much more! Can you not imagine the misty garment that the city wears in the mornings and the brightness of the morning sun? Language reveals such beauty when it is descriptive and lucid. Think about what something bright and glittering looks like. What does a city look like wearing a garment of beauty? Imagine the light air and bright sun draping the tops of the buildings with awesome beauty. Much of my poetry reveals how I am amazed with the beauty of nature. Because I cannot begin every morning upon Westminster Bridge, I like to start off the day at a special place here on the campus, gazing upon the buildings and the morning dew which drapes them so eloquently. I see the sunlight that beams through their corridors. Look to nature for inspiration. Then you will begin to write the truth and reveal a little part of yourself. Try to wake early in the morning and look at the buildings on campus. What do they look like? How does the light hit them? How does that make you feel when you see it? Find your special place and then write about it; you can share with audiences what it is that you find beautiful and with your lofty language they will understand how it makes you feel.”

And with that advice, we said our good-byes. The young man closed the window and diligently began to work again. The ghost waited for my response.

“Now I understand better what Milton meant when he said that poetry is a way of serving one’s language. But, I still do not feel like I am any good at it.”

“All I have to say, my boy, is that practice is the key to success. And with practice comes revision. And with revision comes enjoyment from pride in what you have accomplished. You must keep at it! But hold onto your thoughts until our next and final stop.”

The evening sky greeted us a third time and we once again landed in a tree in front of a window.

“We are now at Trinity College.[13] There is the window of the young Alfred, Lord Tennyson. I know you have studied his works, for he was the most popular poet of his time. He was the Poet of the People; during his time every household had a collection of his works on their bookshelf.[14] Alfred will teach you that poetry is a mode of reflection—whether that be reflection upon an event, self-reflection, or reflection upon another person’s life.”

The ghost tapped on this young scholar’s window and Tennyson happily stood up to open it and greet us.

“Hello! Long night it has been for the two of you, yes? Hopefully I will help you make some final sense of all that you have been learning about poetry tonight. I am Alfred, Lord Tennyson and I am part of a group at Cambridge called The Apostles; we devote our lives to poetry.[15] Much of poetry is used as a way to reflect upon life. My poem Ulysses is a poem of self-reflection. ‘All times I have enjoyed greatly, have suffered greatly. I am become a name; for always roaming with a hungry heart much have I seen and known. I am part of all that I have met. We are not now that strength which in old days moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are—one equal temper of heroic hearts, made weak by time and fate, but strong in will to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield’.[16] You see, I use my poetry to reflect upon who I am, where I have been, and who I have met. I have traveled far, known many people, and seen many amazing sights. You also have places to reflect upon and you must take the time to explore where you have been, who you have known, and what you are doing here at Cambridge. Find your passion! Explore the churches, wander through the gardens, or spend the afternoons conversing with your friends. From these experiences you will know what your passions are and you will discover the joy in writing about them. And, as Milton told you, use your language as a way to serve others, England, and God. Use that language in such a way that you reveal the beauty in it. Use it to reveal a part of yourself, by reflecting upon things you have experienced on this earth, whether beautiful or grim.”

There were no more words spoken from the mouth of the great poet. I sat in awe as he shut the window and settled back into his chair. Without a word, the ghost took my hand and within a short moment we were in my room again.

“So what did you learn tonight?”

“What didn’t I learn? I learned that poetry is the way that these men express their feelings. I always knew that, but in a different sense. Before I just thought that they liked to talk about daisies and roses—as if it really mattered. But, now I realize that the beauty they find in a flower reflects the beauty they find in life, in themselves, and in our English language. Thank you, ghost!”

“You did well tonight, my boy. Now I expect to see improvement! Just remember: serve, reveal, and reflect.”

The sun woke me with intense joy and a feeling of great confusion as it beamed through my opened window. What a strange dream I had! I sat up, stretched my arms up into the cool morning breeze, and looked to the outside world. It was glorious! The tree tops soaked in the sun’s pure rays and I could smell it. The birds sang a good-morning tune. Students strolled lightly upon the green fields of this beautiful campus. And, thoughts of poetry filled my refreshed mind as I thought of the men in my dream. I thought of a quote I had once read by Wordsworth: “I ask [myself] what is meant by the word ‘poet’. And what language is to be expected from him? He is a man speaking to men: a man, it is true, endued with more lively sensibility, more enthusiasm and tenderness, who has greater knowledge of human nature, and a more comprehensive soul, than are supposed to be common among mankind; a man pleased with his own passions”.[17]

I dressed myself and stepped out of the dorm. I walked through a courtyard and watched students resting upon its grass-blanket.

As I looked out into the open yard, I thought of the beauty of this place and my good fortune to be a student here. I thought of a verse that my tutor often recites to me: ‘Man’s as perfect as he ought; his knowledge measured to his state and place, his time a moment, and a point his space. If to be perfect in a certain sphere, what matter, soon or late, or here or there? The blest today is as completely so, as who began a thousand years ago…Hope springs eternal in the human breast; man never is, but always to be blest…And passions are the element of life. The general ORDER, since the whole began, is kept in Nature, and is kept in man’.[18]

Those words, spoken by Alexander Pope in his “An Essay On Man”, were clearer now. I felt a connection with Nature. I realized that passion is what kept the poets of the past at peace with Nature and mankind. I continued to explore the campus grounds in hope of finding some inspiration from Nature. Then, my pen could take control of my soul. I thought of Milton, Wordsworth, and Tennyson and how their wisdom related to Pope’s “An Essay On Man”. I thought of how blessed I am to walk through the Cambridge courtyards every day and of how blessed I am to be surrounded by other scholars who have a passion for serving our language. I thought of every life form that makes up this universe and its “ORDER”.

I took off my shoes and walked through the open yard, feeling each individual blade of grass softly greet the bottoms of my feet. My soul soaked in the sun. I saw the trees in a way that I had never seen them before. And I smelled the beauty of the flowers as I watched bumble bees flying around them, exploring their depths.

I took a pen and paper out of my backpack and sat down on the friendly lawn. How could I begin? I wanted to write some of my own verse—something that could reveal the great value of my night with the poets.

I wrote.

To the Men of Cambridge past,

Your ghosts we see,

In the lion on the shield[19], Strength,

In the green canopies that overhang the paths,

On which we stroll,

Eyes watching over this place,

Guiding us along the way,

In the statues: Milton, Wordsworth, Tennyson,

Dryden, Lewis, Newton[20],

From you we find truth,

In your delicate figurines,

Wisdom in your aging stone.

I put down my pen and continued to sit. As I closed my eyes and became one with this place, I listened to the “small birds twitter”, and “imagined the Blue sky prevailing”.[21]

I breathed in the crisp air and smiled.

Word Count: 2,966

Sources:

Abrams, M.H., ed. The Norton Anthology of English Literature: Seventh Edition. W.W. Norton and Company. New York: 2001.

Brooks, Cleanth, Warren, Robert Penn. Understanding Poetry, 4^th ed. Harcourt Brace College Publishers. Fort Worth: 1988.

Orgel, Stephen, ed., Goldberg, Jonathan, ed. John Milton. Oxford University Press. Oxford: 1991.

http://www.literature-web.net/tennyson

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alfred%2C_Lord_Tennyson
Christ’s College shield—Milton’s college

Christ’s College chapel

Christ’s college map

Christ’s College clock

St. John’s College shield—Wordsworth’s college

St. John’s front gate

St. John’s chapel

St. John’s chapel

Trinity College shield—Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s college

Trinity College

Trinity College, Neville’s court in the snow

Trinity College, Great Court

Trinity College, geography

University of Cambridge shield

Web Links for Cambridge History:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cambridge_University

http://www.christs.cam.ac.uk/info/history.shtml

http://www.joh.cam.ac.uk/about/history/

http://www.trin.cam.ac.uk/index.php?pageid=20

---

[1] This photo is of Great St. Mary’s Church, which is the center of Cambridge.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cambridge_University

[2] Abrams, M.H., ed. The Norton Anthology of English Literature: Seventh Edition. W.W. Norton and Company. New York: 2001 (p. 692); Milton attended Christ’s College at Cambridge

[3] A bard is a poet, especially a lyric poet (dictionary.com)

[4] Abrams, M.H., ed. The Norton Anthology of English Literature: Seventh Edition. W.W. Norton and Company. New York: 2001 (p. 692)

[5] The Norton Anthology of English Literature (p. 691)

[6] Orgel, Stephen, ed, Goldberg, Jonathan, ed. John Milton. Oxford University Press. Oxford: 1991. (p.39)

[7] The Norton Anthology of English Literature (p. 693)

[8] The Norton Anthology of English Literature (p.703)

[9] The Norton Anthology of English Literature (p. 703)

[10] The Norton Anthology of English Literature (p. 1425)

[11] The Norton Anthology of English Literature (p. 1425)

[12] Brooks, Cleanth. Warren, Robert Penn. Understanding Poetry, 4^th ed. Harcourt Brace College Publishers. Fort Worth: 1988. (p. 91)

[13]http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alfred%2C_Lord_Tennyson

[14] The Norton Anthology of English Literature (p.1916)

[15] The Norton Anthology of English Literature (p.1917)

[16] The Norton Anthology of Literature. (p. 1929-1930)

[17] The Norton Anthology of English Literature (p. 1443)

[18] The Norton Anthology of English Literature (p. 1155)

From An Essay on Man, by Alexander Pope

[19] If you look on the pages following, at the picture of Cambrdige, there is a yellow beast that looks like a lion that is on Cambridge’s shield.

[20] All of these men attended Cambridge. There is a list of famous scholars who went to Cambridge

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cambridge_University

[21] From Wordsworth’s Written in March

Brooks, Cleanth. Warren, Robert Penn. Understanding Poetry, 4^th ed. Harcourt Brace College Publishers. Fort Worth: 1988. (p. 74)