Romantics

Today saw my return to University which began with The Romantic Century; a module being taught by my favourite lecturer, whom the few of us who actually appreciate, affectionately refer to as The Prof. He is wonderfully enthusiastic about his subject and refreshingly unabashed in his praise; in describing the authors he loves he uses the most passionate, literary language and often plunges headlong into emotional readings of them. In his assignments he seems as interested in the quality of the prose as he does the extensiveness of the research, something I fear is secondary to many scholars on the strength of the modern journals I read last year.

In his good natured optimism, and faith in those put in front of him, he has a tendency to assume a level of knowledge and understanding simply not present in many of his students, and consequently alienates more of them than he invigorates. Selfishly, I hope he never tones it down or aims for "the lowest common denominator" (ugh!) since I find his tutorials thoroughly inspiring.

Today he asked rhetorically: "... and who can have grown up in this country and be unfamiliar with the beautiful poetry of Thomas Gray? The immortal lines of his Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard?" Everybody nodded sagely of course, but I knew that I hadn't come across Gray until last year, and I'd be willing to wager there were plenty in that room who were hearing of the poet for the first time.

This set me thinking about the modern day disconnection we English have from our own culture, and how this manifests itself in our attitudes and behaviour. It certainly rang true for my own desire to live somewhere the sun shines more frequently - how much of that dream comes from a lack of identification with my home? Would I feel the same had William Cowper been on the curriculum at school? (In place perhaps of some worthy, yet less immediately relevant, American author)

ENGLAND, with all thy faults, I love thee still-
My country! And, while yet a nook is left
Where English minds and manners may be found,
Shall be constrain'd to love thee. Though thy clime
Be fickle, and thy year most part deform'd
With dripping rains, or withr'd by a frost,
I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies,
And fields without a flow'r, for warmer France
With all her vines...