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Romantic value and the literary marketplace : Wordsworth, Scott, Shelley and Landon in the Keepsake,… Ferreira, Laila Mary 2010

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ROMANTIC
VALUE
AND
THE
LITERARY
MARKETPLACE:
WORDSWORTH,
SCOTT,
SHELLEY
AND
LANDON

IN
THE
KEEPSAKE,
1829




by


 Laila
Mary
Ferreira


B.A.
(Hons.),
Simon
Fraser
University,
2000
M.A.,
Simon
Fraser
University,
2002




A
THESIS
SUBMITTED
IN
PARTIAL
FULFILLMENT
OF
THE
REQUIREMENTS
FOR
THE
DEGREE
OF


DOCTOR
OF
PHILOSOPHY

 in

 The
Faculty
of
Graduate
Studies

 (English)

THE
UNIVERSITY
OF
BRITISH
COLUMBIA
(Vancouver)



December
2010



 ©
Laila
Mary
Ferreira,
2010




 
 ii
 Abstract
“Romantic
Value
and
the
Literary
Marketplace:
Wordsworth,
Scott,
Shelley
and
Landon
in
the
Keepsake,
1829”
is
an
investigation
of
mediations
of
value
in
the
Romantic
literary
marketplace.
I
focus
on
the
Keepsake
(1828‐1855),
the
most
commercially
successful
and
longest
running
of
the
nineteenth‐century
gift‐books
and
annuals.
I
approach
the
annual
as
embodying
the
flux
and
intersection
of
traditional,
commercial
and
aesthetic
ideas
of
value
at
a
time
when,
according
to
some,
they
were
well
on
their
way
to
being
established
as
separate
categories.
I
look
in
particular
at
the
writings
five
now
canonical
Romantic
era
writers
published
in
the
Keepsake:
William
Wordsworth’s
five
poems;
Walter
Scott’s
five
prose
pieces
and
one
play;
Mary
Shelley’s
fifteen
short
stories
as
well
the
original
pieces
that
she
contributed
on
behalf
of
Percy
Shelley;
and
Letitia
Elizabeth
Landon’s
twelve
poems
and
two
short
stories.
I
look
at
why
each
writer
was
drawn,
often
several
times
and
over
many
years
to
the
Keepsake
as
a
publication
venue.

My
overall
thesis
is
that
these
writers
engaged
with
the
Keepsake’s
refinements
of
the
annual
form
as
an
intervention
into
new
forms
of
virtual
sociability
made
available
in
the
literary
marketplace.
The
literal
and
virtual
exchanges
of
emotion
and
sensation
facilitated
by
the
Keepsake
allowed
readers
to
vicariously
experience
a
variety
of
values
as
they
were
embodied
within
the
 Keepsake’s
stories,
poems
and
art
and
by
the
form
of
the
Keepsake
itself.
This
experience
provided
the
raw
materials
for
writers’
reassessment
of
definitions
and
practices
of
value.
I
trace
how
these
four
writers
used
the
Keepsake
to
mediate
 
 iii
 their
experiments
with
aesthetics
and
commerce,
reading
and
writing
in
the
production
of
ideas
of
value
that
could
be
mobilized
into
the
future.
That
the
 Keepsake
offers
multiple
case
studies
of
Romantic
value
as
a
dynamic
idea
in
a
state
of
flux
opens
interpretive
possibilities
for
a
rethinking
of
how
value
was
understood
and
practiced
in
the
era,
including
how
ideas
of
value
and
forms
of
writing
and
print
inflected
one
another.



































 
 iv
 

 Table
of
Contents

Abstract ........................................................................................................................................................................ ii
Table
Of
Contents.................................................................................................................................................... iv
Acknowledgements..................................................................................................................................................v
Dedication .................................................................................................................................................................vii
Introduction
The
Keepsake,
Virtual
Sociability
and
Value................................................................................................. 1
Chapter
One
Pleasure
and
Choice:
Wordsworth
in
the
Keepsake ................................................................................29
Chapter
Two
Sensory
Exchange
and
Debt
in
Scott's
Keepsake
Stories.......................................................................53
Chapter
Three
Mary
Shelley
and
a
Collaborative
Literary
Practice.............................................................................101
Chapter
Four
City
Space
and
the
Literary
Marketplace:
Literalized
Value
in
Landon's
Urban
Poetics......................................................................................................................................................................142
Epilogue...................................................................................................................................................................170
Notes.........................................................................................................................................................................177
Bibliography..........................................................................................................................................................193
 
 v
 Acknowledgements


It
is
a
pleasure
for
me
to
acknowledge
all
of
the
people
who
have
supported
and
encouraged
me
over
the
years
I
have
worked
on
this
project.


I
would
first
like
to
thank
my
supervisory
committee:
My
supervisor
Professor
Miranda
Burgess,
who
I
first
emailed
with
a
string
of
ideas
in
early
2002
and
who,
on
the
basis
of
that
string,
agreed
to
support
my
application
to
UBC.
Since
then,
Professor
Burgess’s
commitment
to
me
and
to
this
project
has
been
a
constant
source
of
inspiration.
Her
extraordinary
intellectual
and
critical
generosity
can
be
found
in
all
of
the
best
ideas
and
moves
of
this
dissertation;
Professor
Alex
Dick,
whose
scholarship
and
critical
insight
has
deepened
and
strengthened
my
own;
and
Professor
Margaret
Linley
from
Simon
Fraser
University
who
first
introduced
me
to
the
literary
annuals
and
to
the
theories
of
media
and
technology
that
inspired
this
project.
I
am
truly
grateful
for
my
committee’s
time
and
effort.

I
would
also
like
to
thank
the
faculty
and
staff
of
the
English
Department
who
have
helped
me
to
overcome
the
different
challenges,
big
and
small,
that
I
have
encountered
over
the
years.

In
particular,
Professor
Mary
Chapman
has
been
an
invaluable
source
of
advice
and
support
throughout
my
time
at
UBC.



For
financial
support
I
thank
the
UBC
English
Department
and
the
Social
Sciences
and
Humanities
and
Research
Counsel
of
Canada.

 
 vi
 Finally,
my
deepest
gratitude
goes
to
my
family
and
friends
(you
know
who
you
are)
who
provided
me
with
the
emotional,
intellectual
and
moral
support
I
needed
to
complete
this
project.
I
especially
thank
my
parents
Jane
Degnan
and
Fernando
Ferreira,
for
believing
in
me
and
sacrificing
their
own
time
and
resources
to
see
me
succeed,
and
to
my
sons
Max
and
Kai,
whose
young
lives
have
been
shaped
by
this
project
and
who
have
so
lovingly
and
patiently
shared
their
mom
with
a
stack
of
musty
books
and
a
computer.

































 
 vii
 Dedication

 To
my
grandmother
(“nanny”)
 Lilian
Rosina
Degnan










































 

 1
 Introduction:
The
Keepsake,
Virtual
Sociability
and
 Value
 

 The
following
study
focuses
on
the
Keepsake
literary
annual,
the
most
commercially
successful
and
longest
running
of
the
nineteenth‐century
gift‐books
and
annuals.
My
reading
of
the
Keepsake
is
one
that
approaches
the
annual
as
a
Romantic
object—that
is,
I
suggest,
as
an
object
that
reflected
a
range
of
ideas
around
value,
some
radically
experimental,
in
circulation
at
the
time
of
the
 Keepsake’s
production.
According
to
my
reading,
the
individual
stories
and
poems
in
the
Keepsake
as
well
as
the
volumes
as
a
whole
were
sites
in
which
writers
and
readers
could
explore
the
possibilities
and
limitations
of
traditional
notions
of
value
(including
property)
and
new
commercial
ones
struggling
to
find
purchase.
I
argue
that
the
Keepsake
embodied
the
flux
and
intersection
of
traditional,
commercial
and
aesthetic
ideas
of
value
at
a
time
when,
according
to
some,
they
were
well
on
their
way
to
being
established
as
separate
categories.

The
organizing
claim
of
this
dissertation
is
that
in
the
Keepsake
categories
such
as
economic
or
imaginative,
commercial
or
Romantic
were
not
those
used
to
define
value
or
distinguish
between
forms
of
writing.
There
is
evidence,
and
I
will
bring
this
evidence
forward
in
the
following
four
chapters,
that
the
distinction
that
was
being
experimented
with
and
deployed
to
distinguish
between
literary
writing
and
other
forms
of
writing
was
literature’s
power
as
a
form
of
value
making
and
communication
that
was
the
result
of
its
unique
interactions
with
readers.
I
suggest
that
this
power
included
literature’s
blending
of
the
imagination
and
commerce
and
generating
of
what
I
call
the
Keepsake’s
virtual
sociability.
 

 2
 I
look
in
particular
at
the
contributed
poems,
essays
and
short
stories
of
five
now
canonical
writers—William
Wordsworth,
Percy
Shelley
(P.B.S),
Mary
Shelley,
Sir
Walter
Scott
and
Letitia
Elizabeth
Landon
(LEL)—to
the
Keepsake:

Wordsworth’s
“The
Triad,”
“The
Country
Girl,”
“The
Wishing‐Gate”
and
two
sonnets
(1829);
P.B.S’s
posthumously
published
“On
Love,”
and
“Fragments”
(1929);
the
fifteen
short
stories
of
Mary
Shelley
(1828‐1839);
Scott’s
five
prose
pieces
and
one
play
(1829‐1832);
and
the
twelve
poems
and
two
short
stories
of
LEL
(1829‐1836).1
Each
chapter
takes
up
the
question
of
why
one
of
these
major
writers
was
drawn,
often
several
times
and
over
a
sustained
period
of
time,
to
the
 Keepsake
as
a
publication
venue.
I
examine
each
writer’s
contributions
to
the
 Keepsake
in
context
with
the
words
and
actions
of
the
annual’s
editors
as
well
as
the
annual’s
ambiguity
not
only
as
a
form
but
a
measure
of
literary
value
in
itself.




 I
argue
that
writers
and
their
readers
engaged
with
the
Keepsake’s
refinements
of
the
annual
form
as
an
intervention
into
new
forms
of
feeling
and
modes
of
action
made
available
in
the
cultural
marketplace.2
As
readers
encountered
the
Keepsake,
and
as
they
responded
to
the
encouragement
to
personal
response
they
found
there,
they
also
participated,
I
contend,
in
new
forms
of
virtual
sociability.
The
literal
and
virtual
exchanges
of
emotion
and
sensation
facilitated
by
the
Keepsake
allowed
readers
to
experience
a
variety
of
values
as
they
were
embodied
within
the
Keepsake’s
stories,
poems
and
art
and
by
the
form
of
the
Keepsake
itself.
This
experience
provided
the
raw
materials
for
writers'
reassessment
of
definitions
and
practices
of
value.
The
form
and
content
of
the
Keepsake
manifested
interfacing
values,
as
manufactured
or
natural,
 

 3
 purchased
or
given,
feeling
or
thought,
for
example,
that
got
rid
of
the
“or”
in
a
struggle
to
define
a
modern
conception
of
literary
value.
In
this
way
the
Keepsake
dialogically
constructed
sociability
as
a
value
in
itself
and
became
an
alternative
medium
to
the
division
of
knowledge
that
was
occurring
around
it
and
which
was
having
the
effect
of
circumscribing
the
intimacy
and
connectivity
that
reading
did
entail
within
the
annual
and
could
entail
in
the
literary
marketplace
as
a
whole.

My
analysis
of
the
Keepsake,
its
literary
and
artistic
content
as
well
as
form,
supports
characterizations
of
the
Romantic,
as
an
era
and
ideology,
in
terms
of
experimentation,
radicalism
and
visionary
speculation.
My
analysis
also
supports
the
possibility
that
these
aspects
of
Romanticism
manifested
in
ways
that
do
not
fit
with
characterizations
of
nineteenth‐century
commerce
as
a
corrupting
force
in
the
production
and
reception
of
literature.
To
argue
that
the
Keepsake
materialized
a
Romantic
collaboration
between
writing
and
commerce
in
which
each
worked
to
refine
and
channel
the
individual’s
emotions
and
desires
is
both
to
benefit
from
Romantic
criticism
of
the
past
thirty
years
and
to
approach
the
era
from
a
different
direction.
In
order
for
this
new
approach
to
succeed
I
will
situate
it
in
terms
of
the
history
of
Romantic
and
annual
criticism
as
well
as
historical
interpretations
of
seventeenth‐
eighteenth‐
and
nineteenth‐century
economics
that
have
influenced
criticism
on
the
annuals.
I
will
also
ground
my
argument
in
critical
work
on
the
links
between
commerce
and
the
imagination
as
well
as
sociality,
reading
and
pleasure
in
the
Romantic
era.


 
 

 4
 Background

 It
is
necessary
at
this
point
to
explain
the
background
history
of
the
 Keepsake
itself.
Although
nineteenth‐century
literary
annuals
and
gift‐books
were
dismissed
by
reviewers
in
their
own
day
and
then
forgotten
by
literary
criticism
for
over
a
hundred
years
more,
their
immense
popularity
and
significance
in
the
careers
of
an
array
of
now
canonical
Romantic
writers,
particular
women
writers,
has
become
impossible
to
ignore.3
Recovery
work
on
the
annuals
has
led
to
studies
into
what
they
can
tell
us
about
how
current
as
well
as
historical
configurations
of
Romanticism,
its
ideologies
and
subjectivities,
are
linked
to
economic
developments
of
the
nineteenth
century.
This
is
particularly
true
for
scholarship
on
the
intersections
of
literature,
material
culture
and
political
economy
during
the
eighteenth
and
nineteenth
centuries.4
The
story
of
the
nineteenth‐century
literary
annuals
and
gift‐books,
their
development
as
well
as
commercial
success,
is
now
a
common
feature
of
critical
writings
on
the
Romantic
era.
 According
to
scholarly
research
on
the
annuals,
Rudolph
Ackerman,
the
editor
of
the
popular
precursor
to
the
annuals
the
Repository
of
Arts,
Literature,
 Commerce,
Manufactures,
Fashions
and
Politics
(1809‐1828),
invented
the
annual
form
when
he
published
the
Forget
Me
Not,
a
Christmas
and
New
Year’s
Present
for
 1823.
Ackerman
combined
the
genre
of
the
German
Taschenbuch,
a
pocket
sized
almanac
containing
literary
works
and
blank
pages
for
personalization,
and
the
English
pocket,
manuscript
and
commonplace
books
to
create
the
beautifully
bound
and
illustrated
literary
annual
and
gift‐book
genre
(Renier
5‐6).
 

 5
 Commonplace
books
were
“blank
leaves
bound
in
fine
leather”
(Feldman
10)
in
which
people
could
paste
memorabilia
and
bits
of
verse
and
other
writing,
add
illustrations
or
paintings,
keep
notes,
and
comment
on
important
events
and
special
occasions
(St
Clair
224‐25;
Renier
5).
Pocket
books
were
smaller
versions
of
the
commonplace
and
were
used
for
more
practical
accounts
of
the
day’s
events,
expenses,
etc.
The
commonplace
books
were
privately
owned
and
circulated,
although
they
could
be
put
on
display
in
the
family
home
where
visitors
were
encouraged
to
contribute
their
own
comments,
poems
and
other
such
additions.
Writers
and
artists
of
the
day,
including
Wordsworth,
Byron
and
Coleridge,
were
often
asked
or
commissioned
to
include
extracts
of
their
work
or
provide
original
creations.
Ackerman’s
Forget
Me
Not
began
the
transformation
of
the
genre
by
turning
the
book
into
an
object
of
beauty,
removing
the
blank
pages
and
space
for
personalization
and
providing
more
literary
and
artistic
content.5











 The
literary
annuals
and
gift‐books
were
more
organized
and
overtly
commercial
than
the
commonplace
books
although,
as
Paula
Feldman
points
out,
both
“gathered
seemingly
disconnected
works
of
visual
and
verbal
art
in
a
cultural
artifact
that
articulates
the
sensibility
of
aspirations
of
both
giver
and
recipient”
(13).
The
annuals
are
understood
to
have
standardized
the
form
of
the
commonplace
books
and
turned
their
orientation
from
the
private
to
the
public
spheres.6
The
annuals
were
marketed
as
gifts
for
the
newly
moneyed,
middle‐class
consumer
and
played
upon
an
ideal
of
the
kinships
of
a
domestic
or
private
economy.
That
the
annuals
were
generated
out
of
the
commercial
marketplace,
however,
was
also
central
to
the
promotion
of
their
cultural
and
social
value.7
This
 

 6
 value
was
attributed
to
the
annuals’
acceleration
of
technological
and
cultural
innovations.
These
included
improvements
in
steel
plate
engraving
that
made
previously
inaccessible
fine
art
available
to
more
consumers
and,
as
a
result,
complicated
the
relations
between
writing
and
visual
art
in
the
era.

 The
Forget
Me
Not
immediately
appealed
to
consumers
and
once
the
Forget
 Me
Not
had
proved
itself
in
the
marketplace,
editors
and
publishers
scrambled
to
identify
and
experiment
with
the
formula.8
Although
they
were
extremely
popular
with
the
upper
and
middle
classes,
the
annuals
continued
to
be
too
expensive
for
most
consumers
earning
the
day’s
average
wages.
Annuals
ranged
in
prices
from
eight
shillings
to
four
pounds
depending
on
their
size,
binding
and
target
market.
Even
so,
a
range
of
secular
and
Christian
forms
of
the
books
proliferated
in
the
marketplace,
including
annuals
for
children
and
adolescents.
Not
all
of
these
ventures
found
their
audience,
however,
and
Anne
Renier’s
depiction
of
the
annuals
throughout
the
1820s
offers
a
distinctly
evolutionary
narrative
of
natural
selection.



 Annual
editors
and
publishers
were
in
a
heated
competition
to
continually
update
the
form
and
to
provide
readers
with
new
attractions
and
the
freshest
works
as
well
as
the
most
value
for
money.
Editors
began
to
look
for
new
ways
to
appeal
to
consumers
and
began
to
market
their
books’
value
as
measured
by
the
originality
of
their
content
and
the
financial
investment
in
their
production.
It
is
generally
agreed
that
by
the
emergence
of
the
Keepsake
in
1827,
the
annuals
had
taken
on
the
form
by
which
we
recognize
them
today—beautifully
bound,
pocket
or
octavo‐sized
books
filled
with
illustrations
by
the
best
artists
as
well
as
 

 7
 portraits
of
fashionable
ladies
and
idealized
children
and
animals,
elegant
literature
such
as
poems
and
stories
or
essays
and
“conversations”
on
art
and
culture.
In
the
Keepsake,
the
annual’s
editors
deliberately
play
with
the
dual
role
of
the
annual
as
both
fashionable
object
of
pleasurable
consumption
and
artistic
product
of
serious
consideration.
Reynolds,
for
example,
would
often
insert
his
own
short,
“silly”
poems
as
filler,
and
a
potentially
deliberate
contrast,
between
the
more
“serious”
works
of
authors
such
as
Wordsworth
and
Mary
Shelley.
Overall,
claims
Paula
Feldman,
annuals
such
as
the
Keepsake
contain
“examples
of
some
of
the
finest
writing
of
the
period”
(23)
and
certainly
the
finest
examples
of
engraved
art.











 The
Keepsake
became
the
most
successful
and
longest
running
annual
of
the
nineteenth
century.9
Heath
added
to
the
first
Keepsake
a
finely
illustrated
dedication
plate
by
Thomas
Stothard
and
a
frontispiece
by
Thomas
Lawrence,
“the
most
noted
portraitist
of
the
day”
(Feldman
15),
and
nineteen
engravings,
the
most
of
any
annual.
These
additions
accentuated
the
annuals’
social
function
as
elegant
gifts,
and
Heath
and
Reynold’s
offering
of
a
new,
larger
octavo
format
meant
that
the
consumer
could
more
easily
display
the
book
and
enjoy
its
illustrations.
The
crimson
binding,
opulent
illustrations
and
other
such
elegant
accessories
to
the
literature,
accentuated
the
pleasure
of
looking
at
and
touching
the
book
while
inviting
readers
to
explore
the
equally
sumptuous
and
refined
literary
content.
Heath
and
Reynolds
commissioned
improvements
to
engraving
and
print
technology
to
produce
the
highest
quality
illustration
plates,
bought
reams
of
crimson
silk
and
gilding
material
for
bindings
and
hired
the
best
painters,
 

 8
 illustrators
and
steel
print
engravers.
According
to
different
sources,
the
first
 Keepsake
sold
15,000
copies
and
the
1829
Keepsake,
at
least
20,000.10


 After
Heath’s
experiment
with
subscription
sales
as
well
as
the
anonymous
publishing
of
literary
content
in
the
debut
Keepsake,
Heath
and
Reynolds
decided
to
accentuate
the
quality
of
the
annual
in
relation
to
the
names
of
the
writers
who
contributed
their
works.
They
traveled
the
British
countryside
on
horseback,
seeking
out
high‐profile
writers
such
as
Scott,
Southey,
Coleridge
and
Wordsworth,
and
offering
these
writers
large
sums
of
money
for
original
poems
and
stories.
Although
most
annuals
simply
republished
works
already
found
in
rival
annuals,
originality
of
literary
content
became
central
to
the
Keepsake’s
aesthetic.
Heath
and
Reynolds
were
ruthless
in
their
insistence
that
writers
sign
contracts
guaranteeing
that
they
would
contribute
only
original
works
and
that
they
would
not
contribute
to
any
other
annuals
for
at
least
a
year
following.11

This
caused
problems
for
some
writers,
such
as
Wordsworth,
for
whom
an
author’s
ownership
of
his
work
and
right
to
it
as
his
own
intellectual
property
was
a
grave
concern.












 The
combining
of
these
literary
contributions
with
the
inclusion
of
more
(the
Keepsake
contained
at
least
nineteen
plates
an
issue)
and
better
quality
illustrations
than
any
other
annual
in
the
marketplace,
also
required
the
laying‐out
of
significant
sums
of
money.
Heath
and
Reynolds
described
their
financial
investment
as
the
foundation
of
the
annual’s
value
and
its
subsequent
longevity
in
the
life
of
the
nation.12

“In
a
speculation
so
extensive,”
declares
Reynolds
in
his
“Preface”
to
the
1828
edition,
“the
Proprietor
is
induced
to
hope
that
his
book
will
 

 9
 not
be
a
mere
fleeting
production,
to
die
with
the
season
of
its
birth,
but
live,
a
reputed
and
standard
work
in
every
well‐selected
library”
(iv).
Reynolds’
suggestion
that
good
taste
is
related
to
choice
and
discrimination
in
the
marketplace
situates
the
annual
as
not
only
a
participant
in
the
era’s
debates
about
value
and
agency
but,
indeed,
as
their
possible
solution.

The
Keepsake
embodied
this
choice
and
offered
to
become
the
model
of
the
value
by
which
to
measure
the
value
other
works
of
literature
and
art.13
The
 Keepsake
also,
however,
defied
a
singular
definition
of
value.
By
treating
the
categories
of
high
and
low
or
serious
and
popular
with
irony,
the
annual
editors
invited
the
annual’s
readers
to
bring
into
play
their
own
sensory
and
intellectual
experiencing
of
art.14
According
to
Peter
Manning,
for
example,
the
annuals
“discomfitingly
expose
the
homology
between
the
productivity
of
the
Romantic
artwork,
the
Bildung
it
enacts
and
sponsors,
and
the
mysteriously
auratic
commodity”
(68).
Annual
editors
and
Romantic
writers
are
often
described
as
unconsciously
complicit
in
the
production
of
a
naturalized
ideal
of
beauty
and
taste
that
would
appeal
to
consumers
who
were
seeking
objects
by
which
to
signal
their
new
social
and
economic
mobility.15
That
a
connection
between
commerce
and
works
of
art
is
discomfiting,
especially
if
they
are
Romantic,
runs
throughout
the
scholarship
on
the
annuals
and
the
Keepsake
in
particular.16
This
dissertation
departs
from
such
studies
to
argue
that
Wordsworth’s,
Scott’s,
Shelley’s
and
Landon’s
interactions
with
the
Keepsake
were
complex
but
that
these
writers
embraced
them
as
important
to
their
literary
and
artistic
experience
and
practice.
 

 10
 

 The
majority
of
critical
work
on
the
annuals
condenses
the
literary
value
of
the
Keepsake
to
a
snapshot
that
looks
something
like
this:
after
being
financially
coerced
to
publish
in
the
Keepsake
literary
annual,
William
Wordsworth
called
the
annuals

“picture‐books
for
grown
Children”
(Letters
352);
the
nineteenth‐century
annuals
“functioned
in
ways
similar
to
the
modern‐day
Valentine’s
Day
card
and
coffee
table
book”
(Ledbetter
10).
This
snapshot
brings
into
play
two
important
aspects
of
criticism
on
the
Keepsake.
One
is
this
criticism’s
approach
to
contradictions
in
how
the
above‐named
writers
engaged
with
the
Keepsake
and
the
other
is
the
critical
interpretation
of
the
Keepsake’s
manifestations
of
literary
value,
both
as
form
and
content.

In
response
to
the
first
approach,
I
argue
that
the
contradictory
actions
and
statements
of
these
writers
in
relation
to
the
Keepsake
cannot
be
reduced
to
a
simple
rejection
of
the
annual’s
commercialism.
The
contributions
of
“quality”
writers,
such
as
Wordsworth
and
Coleridge,
to
books
seen
as
devaluing
British
art
and
literature,
however,
have
been
explained
as
a
momentary
lapse
of
integrity
in
the
face
of
overwhelming
economic
pressures
and
temptations.
Evidence
for
this
explanation
is
found
in
some
writers’
declarations
of
personal
contempt
for
the
 Keepsake
as
a
commercialization
of
true
art
and
literature.
This
includes
their
complaints
about
the
editors’
demands
of
contributing
writers
and
their
pandering
to
middle‐class
consumers.
These
representations
are
contradicted
by
the
energetic
and
exploratory
engagement
of
writers
with
the
Keepsake.
I
pay
particular
attention
to
what
writers
did
with
the
Keepsake
and
how
writers
represented
and
used
the
annual
as
a
venue
for
the
pleasurable
experiencing
of
art
 

 11
 and
the
imagination
of
what
I
call
virtual
sociability.
This
includes
their
exploration
of
the
kinds
of
writing
and
reading
practices
the
annual
had
the
potential
to
produce.

 











 Keepsake
criticism
has
struggled
to
incorporate
the
possibility
that
the
commercial
aspects
of
the
annual
were
integral
to
the
kinds
of
artistic
value
that
writers
were
able
to
produce
through
its
pages.
The
Romantic
ideology
continues
to
stand,
within
such
criticism,
as
a
testament
to
the
natural,
stable
value
of
the
Romantic
imagination
over
the
artificial,
contingent
value
of
the
marketplace.





The
assumption
that
literary
value
is
predicated
on
a
detachment
from
commerce
has
led
most
readings
of
the
Keepsake
to
conclude
that
the
ideological
value
of
the
annual
is
limited
to
the
writings
of
its
contributors
and
is
thus
split
from
its
circulation
in
the
marketplace.
Romantic
readers
and
writers
are
in
turn
reduced
to
pawns
of
an
economic
system
in
which
they
are
forced
to
participate.17

I
build
upon
critical
work
that
offers
a
counter
to
the
above
snapshot,
such
as
Cindy
Dickinson’s
study
of
the
materialities
of
the
annual
(“Creating
a
World
of
Books,
Friends,
and
Flowers”),
Leah
Price’s
of
the
annual
and
genre
(The
Anthology

 and
the
Rise
of
the
Novel:
From
Richardson
to
George
Eliot),
Isabelle
Lehuu’s
analysis
of
the
annual’s
trading
in
the
dual
economies
of
the
marketplace
and
sentiment
(Carnival
on
the
Page:
Popular
Print
Media
in
Antebellum
America)
as
well
as
Laura
Mandell’s
analysis
of
role
of
the
annuals
in
the
consolidation
of
the
Literary
(Misogynous
Economies:
The
Business
of
Literature
in
Eighteenth­Century
 Britain).
The
following
study
continues
in
the
direction
of
such
work
to
read
the
value
and
meaning
of
the
Keepsake
in
terms
of
the
annual’s
material
significance,
 

 12
 other
than
as
an
object
of
conspicuous
consumption
and
display.
The
perspective
of
this
dissertation
is
that
Wordsworth’s,
Scott’s,
Shelley’s
and
Landon’s
configurations
of
literary
value
in
the
Keepsake
implicitly
understood
profit
in
both
its
economic
and
cultural
senses.
This
could
include
an
aligning
of
the
annual’s
popularity
with
definitions
of
literary
quality
and
evocations
of
luxury
with
good
consumer
choice.


 Literary
and
Economic
Value

 To
understand
the
Keepsake
as
the
embodiment
of
the
intersection
of
literary
and
commercial
value
in
the
Romantic
era
or
of
the
personal
and
artistic
agencies
enabled
by
the
literary
marketplace,
however,
is
to
question
the
stability
of
categories
such
as
value
and
taste
and
even
art
and
fashion
in
the
Romantic
era
and
today.
Campbell,
for
example,
describes
the
defining
of
value
in
the
Romantic
era
as
a
struggle
between
a
bourgeois
placement
of
value
in
the
individual,
an
intuitive
taste
for
what
is
right
and
good,
and
an
aristocratic
definition
of
value
as
generated
by
society,
a
taste
moderated
according
to
“norms
and
conventions”
and
“an
elegantly
refined
style”
(159).
As
Pocock
and
Albert
Hirschman
have
argued,
these
two
definitions
of
value
were
actually
always
overlapping;
the
bourgeois
definition
of
the
autonomous
individual,
whose
value
lies
in
his
self‐possession,
developed
not
out
of
a
resistance
to
aristocratic
ideals
and
values
but
as
a
modification
of
them.

According
to
Pocock,
the
monolithic
ideology
of
liberal
humanism
that
is
understood
to
have
dominated
Britain
(and
then
the
world)
since
its
emergence
in
 

 13
 the
eighteenth
century
masked
its
contingency
upon
the
immediate
conditions
of
its
articulation.
The
model
of
commercial
humanism
and
liberalism
transformed
itself
throughout
the
seventeenth,
eighteenth
and
nineteenth
centuries
because
it
was
internally
structured
to
accommodate
and
incorporate
competing
economic
and
political
systems,
such
as
those
of
the
landed
aristocracy
and
the
monarchy,
into
its
most
basic
drive
for
economic
growth
and
geographic
expansion.


 The
core
shared
by
both
aristocratic
and
bourgeois
perspectives
on
value,
according
to
Pocock,
was
the
individual’s
relationship
to
property,
whether
mobile
or
land‐based.
The
liberal
ideology,
for
example,
articulated
the
conviction
that
the
unfixing
of
property
from
the
private
realm
would
liberate
the
individual’s
purchasing
power
and
so
his
ability
to
form
his
own
identity
and
self‐worth
amid
the
despotisms
of
the
aristocratic
ruling
class.
Pocock
argues
that
the
promoters
of
liberal
humanism
failed,
however,
to
provide
the
individual
with
“a
personality
adequate
to
participation
in
self‐rule,
with
the
result
that
the
attempt
to
ground
sovereignty
in
personality
was
not
thoroughly
carried
out”
(Pocock,
Virtue
45).
C.B.
Macpherson
claims
that
this
failure
played
out
in
liberal
humanism’s
continued
reliance
on
an
aristocratic
investment
in
the
ownership
of
property
as
the
regulator
of
value
(263‐277).
Pocock,
on
the
other
hand,
claims
that
the
contradictions
imbedded
in
liberal
humanism,
including
the
combining
of
its
own
definition
of
value
with
that
of
traditional
power
structures,
can
be
explained
by
its
sharing
of
republican
ideals,
particularly
of
the
individual
and
their
practicing
of
virtue,
with
its
political
rivals.
Liberal
humanism,
Pocock
claims,
is
ultimately
successful
at
transforming
these
republican
ideals
into
a
hybrid
value
necessary
 

 14
 for
the
new
political
economy
it
was
promoting.
This
was
a
value
organized
around
a
belief
in
commerce’s
ability
to
refine
and
channel
the
individual’s
private
feelings,
thoughts
and
desires.
Pocock’s
and
Albert
Hirschman’s
theories
on
forms
of
valuation
are
formed
in
relation
to
their
tracing
of
the
figure
of
the
classical‐aristocratic
hero
and
definitions
of
interest
in
the
seventeenth‐
and
eighteenth‐century
development
of
a
commercial
marketplace.



 These
critics
describe
the
idealisms
of
liberal
humanism
as
embodied
by
the
man
of
political
economy,
or
what
Caroline
Robbins
calls
the
Commonwealthman.
According
to
Robbins,
Commonwealthmen
were
men
of
great
thought
and
action,
“asserters
of
liberty”
who
“kept
alive
political
ideas
which
proved
suitable
and
useful
for
a
great
new
republic”
(386).
They
possessed
many
of
the
qualities
of
the
medieval
knight:
his
personification
of
“self‐dominion”
(Robbins
386)
and
personal
liberty,
dedication
to
the
greater
good,
interest
in
the
sufferings
of
the
poor
or
“oppressed”
(Robbins
386),
faith
in
the
right
and
the
good
and
his
commitment
to
acting
on
this
faith,
even
to
the
death.
As
Hirschman
points
out,
however,
the
transformation
of
the
reviled
figure
of
the
seventeenth‐century
economic
man,
self‐interested
and
rational,
into
Robbins’
Commonwealthman,
liberal
humanism’s
version
of
the
aristocratic,
self‐sacrificing
and
benevolent
hero,
involved
blending
bourgeois
and
aristocratic
definitions
of
economic
interest
in
terms
of
the
self‐serving
and
selfish
and
the
communal
and
benevolent
(386).18


 Hirschman
claims
that
the
self‐interest
of
commerce
was
painstakingly
transformed
into
a
moderating
passion
that
would
benefit
mankind
by
regulating
and
taming
unruly
social
forces
such
as
the
despotic
monarchies
formerly
running
 

 15
 Europe
and
Britain
(9‐66).
The
transformation
was
made
material
in
the
body
of
the
man
of
commerce
and
trade.
Unlike
the
“heroic
virtues
and
violent
passions”
of
the
aristocratic
knight
who
pursued
only
glory,
the
trader
modified
his
emotions
and
desires
through
the
pursuit
of
interests
that
which
would
benefit
the
nation
(63).
The
heroic
ideal
remained
but
in
a
more
refined
form
that
was
more
easily
accommodated
to
the
needs
of
not
only
the
commercial
economy
but
the
needs
of
a
liberal
humanist
society.
“The
by‐product
of
individuals
acting
predictably
in
accordance
with
their
economic
interests,”
writes
Hirschman,
“was
therefore
not
an
uneasy
balance,
but
a
strong
web
of
interdependent
relationships”
(51‐52).
Interest
or
self‐interest
in
both
its
emotional
and
economic
manifestations
became
the
source
of
new
networks
between
people
and
an
ideal
of
the
nation
modeled
on
politeness
and
manners
(52).












 Pocock
makes
a
similar
argument
about
the
coalescence
of
a
classical
“ideal
of
the
citizen,
virtuous
in
his
devotion
to
the
public
good”
and
his
“independence
of
any
relation
which
might
render
him
corrupt”
(48)
with
the
“’monied
interest’
of
stock
holders
and
office
holders”
(48).
This
was
an
uneasy
merger
because
the
exchanges
and
dependencies
of
commerce,
such
as
the
trading
of
credit,
could
not
accommodate
the
necessary
requirements
for
the
individual’s
independence
of
thought
and
of
body,
such
as
the
ownership
of
fixed
property
and
arms,
necessary
for
virtue.
Commerce
depended
upon
the
exchanges
of
fixed
and
moveable
property
such
as
credit
and
so
the
corruption
of
economic
man
was
guaranteed.
Thus,
in
much
the
same
way
that
the
man
of
commerce
was
transformed
into
a
heroic
figure
through
the
transformation
of
interest,
virtue
was
“redefined”
so
as
 

 16
 to
release
it
from
that
which
was
impeding
it
from
accommodating
a
new
political
economy.
Commerce’s
economic
and
social
exchanges
were
no
longer
understood
as
a
corruption
of
the
high
ideals
and
artistry
of
the
heroic
ideal
and
virtuous
citizen
but
as
their
facilitator.
“The
social
psychology
of
the
age,”
writes
Pocock,
“declared
that
encounters
with
things
and
persons
evoked
passions
and
refined
them
into
manners;
it
was
preeminently
the
function
of
commerce
to
refine
the
passions
and
polish
the
manners”
(49).



 Although
republicanism
itself
was
not
concerned
with
issues
of
writing
and
literature,
I
argue
that
the
nineteenth
century’s
experiments
with
writing
and
value,
including
the
Keepsake’s
aesthetics
as
well
as
its
marketing
as
both
a
gift
and
standard
of
artistic
value,
develops
out
of
this
hybrid
seventeenth‐century
republican
ideal
of
virtuous
citizenship
as
defined
by
the
circulation
of
commodities
in
the
social
realm.
The
Keepsake’s
combination
of
aesthetic
and
commercial
appeal
is
then
a
self‐conscious
remediation
of
traditional
and
newer
forms
of
valuation
that
serve
to
mobilize
a
stable
form
of
literary
value
that
is
like
property
but
also
knows
itself
to
be
a
figuration
of
it.
For
scholars
such
as
William
St
Clair,
who
turn
the
arguments
of
economic
historians
such
as
Macpherson
to
literary
studies,
the
Keepsake
was
the
embodiment
of
a
commercialized
system,
dependent
on
possession
as
a
public
display
of
value,
that
led
to
insidious
forms
of
social
and
intellectual
and
political
control.19
 


 A
significant
body
of
print
culture
criticism
attends
to
the
categories
that
Pocock
and
Hirschman
illustrate,
persisted
and
were
simply
renamed
in
the
eighteenth
and
nineteenth
centuries.
This
was
the
language
of
difference
between
 

 17
 an
intellectual,
disinterested
realm
of
literature
and
the
commercial,
self‐interested
realm
of
a
bourgeois
economy
that
was
naturalized
as
value
within
literature
of
the
era
as
well
as
the
discourse
of
literary
criticism.
Scholarship
attuned
to
this
language
coincides
with
the
more
specific
scholarly
work
that
opens
its
readings
of
the
annuals
to
Romantic
definitions
of
value
that
are
not
based
on
the
interests
of
the
self‐sufficient
individual
or
privately
owned
property.20

 Martha
Woodmansee,
for
example,
identifies
and
critiques
the
roots
of
the
distinction
between
the
imagination
and
commerce
in
the
historically
situated
creation
of
the
category
of
“fine
art”
and
its
naturalization
by
“[t]hose
who
make
an
occupation
of
reflecting
on
it…as
if
it
were
universal
and
timeless”
(1).
According
to
Woodmansee,
the
category
of
fine
art
was
configured
so
that
value
became
intrinsic
to
the
art
work
itself,
thus
liberating
art
from
the
utilities
that
it
traditionally
served,
such
as
the
giving
of
pleasure
or
the
reflection
of
nature.
Consumers
were
also
categorized
and
controlled
through
their
ability
to
access
and
properly
experience
fine
art,
as
opposed
to
productions
of
the
popular
marketplace
such
as
the
Keepsake.
The
consumer’s
engagement
with
fine
art
became
the
measure
of
not
only
the
individual’s
value
as
a
participant
in
culture
but
a
measure
of
his
or
her
value
in
the
community
at
large,
an
index
of
their
income
and
access
to
education.
Woodmansee
illustrates
how
the
aesthetics
of
disinterest
and
language
of
value
thrown
round
the
arts
was
“invented
to
stem
the
commercialization
of
literature”
(4)
and
to
protect
the
property
of
those
writers
and
theorists
who
found
their
work
abandoned
by
consumers
or
threatened
by
 

 18
 other
genres
finding
success
in
the
marketplace.
The
ideal
of
the
detached
Romantic
imagination
and
artistic
aesthetic,
distinct
from
commercial
and
social
concerns,
shielded
writers
and
artists
from
the
corrupting
demands
of
the
marketplace.


 Woodmansee’s
analysis
of
how
literary
and
artistic
criticism
participated
in
the
production
of
fine
art
as
the
idea
of
value
by
which
the
worth
of
all
things
and
people
could
be
measured
is
useful
in
understanding
the
history
of
annual
criticism.
This
includes
the
ways
in
which
criticism
on
the
Keepsake
continues
to
interpret
the
annual
and
its
literary
and
artistic
content
in
relation
to
its
value
as
a
status
object.
The
annual’s
ability
to
synthesize
the
cultural
capital
of
fine
art
with
a
popular
and
commercially
successful
venture
has
very
rarely
been
approached
from
any
other
angle.
According
to
my
argument,
the
Keepsake
brought
together
different
values
from
within
and
without
the
marketplace
and
provided
the
space
for
an
exploration
of
these
values,
some
of
which
use,
critique
and
reconfigure
the
artistic
value
described
by
Woodmansee.
Although
the
category
of
fine
art
and
its
definition
of
value
has
been
assimilated
by
the
rhetoric
and
scholarly
practices
of
literary
criticism
and
used
to
define
Romantic
literature,
the
Keepsake
provides
evidence
that
it
was
not
the
only
mode
of
practicing
value
at
that
time.


 In
her
study
of
the
connection
between
developments
in
writing
throughout
the
eighteenth
and
nineteenth
century,
Mary
Poovey
argues
that
Romantic‐era
definitions
of
value,
particularly
literary
value,
and
assumptions
about
who
could
do
the
defining
were
heavily
contested
throughout
the
nineteenth
century.
The
Romantic‐era
split
between
Literature
and
other
kinds
of
 

 19
 writing,
such
as
economic
writing,
was
achieved
with
great
difficulty
(Poovey
301‐305).
Poovey
argues
that
it
was
the
increased
competition
between
forms
of
writing
and
print
in
the
marketplace
that
ultimately
led
to
the
creation
of
Literature
as
a
category
and
as
the
standard
against
which
all
other
writing
could
be
defined
and
measured.
Literature
established
its
distinction
by
absorbing
the
imagination
and
positioning
itself
as
a
superior
value,
abstracted
from
commerce
and
eluding
“that
other
kind
of
value
that
Literary
writing
continued
to
have,
as
a
commodity
priced
by
market
forces”
(Poovey
2).
Poovey
argues
that,
by
the
middle
of
the
nineteenth
century,
the
value
that
Literary
writing
had
assigned
itself
was
dismissed
for
the
more
practical
“facts
and
information”
of
economic
writing,
thus
completing
Britain’s
transition
into
a
fully
bourgeois,
capitalist
society
(Poovey
2).


 I
argue
that
in
the
Keepsake,
the
value
that
Poovey
ascribes
to
Literature
was
only
one
standard
amongst
many
that
writers
were
using
to
distinguish
Literature
and
its
functions
from
other
kinds
of
writing
in
the
marketplace.
The
ecology
of
writing
in
the
Keepsake
suggests
that
the
interactions
between
different
forms
of
writing
available
in
the
marketplace
cannot
be
simplified
to
a
competition
between
writing
that
was
imaginative
and
writing
that
was
“facts
and
information”‐based.
Just
as
the
Keepsake
merged
artistic
and
economic
concerns
to
create
a
variety
of
possible
definitions
of
value,
different
writings
in
the
 Keepsake,
such
as
short
stories,
poems,
elegant
essays,
travelogues,
literary
sketches
and
character
studies,
indicate
a
deliberate
and
often
playful
combination
of
facts
and
imagination
on
the
part
of
writers.

 

 20
 
 The
Keepsake’s
Sociability

 Gillian
Russell’s
and
Clara
Tuite’s
Romantic
Sociability
(2006)
is
a
seminal
text
in
Romantic
criticism’s
turn
toward
the
possibility
that
the
Romantic
era
and
more
specifically
its
marketplace
can
be
understood
through
the
concepts
of
community,
conversation
and
shared
experience,
including
pleasure.
The
sociabilities
that
Russell’s
and
Tuite’s
collection
explores
cross
a
range
of
material,
imaginative
objects,
acts
and
spaces.
The
critical
work
that
I
look
at
in
this
section
participates
in
Russell’s
and
Tuite’s
challenging
of
previously
held
understandings
of
sociability
in
the
Romantic
era
including
the
role
of
commodities
in
this
sociability.


 Scholars
such
as
anthropologist
Mary
Douglas
and
economist
Baron
Isherwood
have
studied
public
consumption,
including
the
circulation
of
commodities,
such
as
the
purchasing
of
objects
in
the
marketplace,
and
the
giving
of
objects
as
gifts,
as
central
to
the
organization
of
communities.
Consumerism,
they
argue,
is
a
mode
of
communication
that
functions
to
organize
individuals
by
group
(xxi‐xxiv).
They
see
consumption
as
integral
to
social
relationships
that
are
organized
not
around
the
protection
of
property
but
the
pursuit
of
communication
and
information.
Even
though
this
study
does
not
agree
that
all
social
interactions
are
mediated
through
consumption,
Douglas
and
Isherwood’s
argument
is
useful
for
this
study’s
claim
that
Romantic‐era
popular
literature
such
as
the
annual
was
a
space
in
which
writers,
artists,
readers
and
viewers
experimented
with
the
social
in
terms
of
new
objects
of
consumption
and
modes
of
communication.

 

 21
 

 My
reading
of
the
Keepsake
and
its
literary,
social
and
economic
functions
is
informed
by
Deirdre
Lynch’s
and
Andrea
Henderson’s
configuration
of
the
Romantic
era
marketplace
as
an
amorphous
space
and
undefined
set
of
behaviours
with
which
people
could
experiment
in
terms
of
new
modes
of
political
and
social
agency
as
well
as
configurations
of
value.
In
her
contribution
to
 Romantic
Sociability,
Lynch
argues
that
political
actions
and
social
connections
were
made
through
the
simple
act
of
handling
and
trying
on
a
glove
in
the
public
space
of
the
shop
(“Counter
Publics”
221‐224).
According
to
Henderson,
the
emotional
and
physical
pleasures
of
desiring
a
glove
that
one
couldn’t
have
could
be
a
powerful
act
of
cooptation—taking
the
limitations
of
the
marketplace
and
using
them
to
push
at
the
boundaries
of
feeling
and
thought
in
the
private
sphere
(Henderson
1‐27).

 Like
Lynch
and
Henderson,
Colin
Campbell
departs
from
the
focus
of
Pocock,
Hirschman
and
Macpherson
on
the
importance
of
private
property
in
the
conceptualizing
of
value
in
the
Romantic
era.
In
so
doing,
these
critics
establish
a
different
kind
of
role
for
the
Romantic
object
than
as
an
empty
sign
of
the
individual’s
worth.
This
study’s
interest
in
how
the
Keepsake
acted
as
a
venue
for
the
artistic
exploration
of
different
models
of
value
benefits
from
the
work
of
critics
who
explore
how
the
commodity’s
imagined
effects,
such
as
their
mediation
of
social
connections,
rather
than
their
possession
shaped
both
the
marketplace
and
a
Romantic
sensibility.
My
reading
of
Romantic
objects
such
as
popular
publications
like
the
Keepsake,
and
their
relevance
in
the
literary
marketplace,
as
 

 22
 producing
value
through
their
purchase
and
consumption,
however,
differs
from
the
conclusions
of
the
above
critics.


 Campbell
proposes
a
hedonistic
theory
of
consumerism
that
positions
modern
consumption
as
the
development
of
utilitarian
and
puritan
ideologies
that
involved
economics,
sensibility,
imagination,
romantic
love
and
pleasure
(Spirit
of
 Modern
Consumerism).
The
blending
of
consumer
desire
and
imagination
that
Campbell
describes
makes
sense
in
terms
of
the
Keepsake’s
experimental
merging
of
its
material
value
in
the
marketplace
with
its
value
as
a
work
of
art.
According
to
Campbell’s
argument,
taste
and
value
were
established
in
relation
to
the
consumer’s
desire
for
an
object
and
his
or
her
ability,
through
the
imagination,
to
control
the
meaning
or
the
effects
of
objects.
According
to
Campbell,
aesthetic
standards
are
always
in
flux
because
fashion,
and
the
desire
for
fresh
pleasures,
exercises
control
over
the
process
of
generating
aesthetic
value
(175‐177).
To
own
and
physically
manipulate
the
object
was
secondary
to
the
possible
pleasures
of
the
act
of
Romantic
imagining.
In
fact,
owning
the
object
soon
led
to
consumers’
seeking
of
more
novel
products
onto
which
they
could
transpose
their
needs
and
desires.
Value
and
meaning
lies
in
the
consumer’s
imagining
of
the
pleasurable
effects
of
the
commodity.
The
relations
between
objects
and
individuals
are
mediated
through
this
imagining,
rather
than
the
object
itself
(92‐95)














 Lynch,
in
her
book
The
Economy
of
Character:
Novels,
Market
Culture
and
 the
Business
of
Inner
Meaning,
also
describes
a
powerful
experience
of
pleasure
in
readers’
combined
resistance
and
giving
over
to
the
forces
defining
their
relations
with
themselves
and
their
community.
The
looking
at,
touching
and
yearning
for
 

 23
 objects
in
the
marketplace
generates
a
pleasurable
imagining
without
end.
As
people
try
on
and
discard
an
array
of
identities
in
the
marketplace,
they
are
creating
a
new,
commercialized
subjectivity
(181)
that
is
either
always
in
a
state
of
creation
or
too
layered
and
dense
to
find
reflection.
Personal
property
cannot
fully
define
the
self
nor
can
the
commodity
fully
capture
or
manifest
ones
identity
for
others
to
read
and
understand.
Consumers
are
left
open
to
superficial
misreadings
and
“social
identifications
not
of
the
individual’s
making”
(186).
In
the
terms
of
Lynch’s
argument,
consuming
the
Keepsake
could
be
a
pleasurable
act
of
self‐making
as
well
as
giving
over
to
the
identities
and
measures
of
value
that
will
be
read
into
the
act
by
others—a
play
with
the
superficial
and
internal
qualities
of
the
self.
The
Keepsake’s
mixing
of
public
and
private
consumption
engages
with
what
Lynch
describes
as
a
suspension
of
individual
agency
and
identity
“between
the
me
and
the
not‐me”
(186)
in
the
cultural
marketplace.
According
to
Lynch,
the
era’s
vacillations
between
economic
systems
played
out
in
the
struggle
on
the
part
of
readers
to
construct
an
identity
that
was
both
self‐sufficient
and
social.

 The
above
two
studies
are
useful
rethinkings
of
the
economic
in
the
shaping
of
genres
and
values
as
well
as
of
reader
identities
in
the
Romantic
era.
Campbell,
however,
is
ultimately
unable
to
conceptualize
a
productive
connection
between
the
literary
values
and
ideals
of
Romanticism
and
the
demands
of
the
consumer.
Campbell
is
still
operating
under
a
definition
of
Romanticism
as
inherently
anti‐economic.
Lynch
focuses
her
attention
on
one
aspect
of
literary
criticism
and
its
analysis
of
how
writers
and
readers
used
the
materialities
of
the
annuals,
including
their
artistic
content
and
the
consumer
and
artistic
practices
 

 24
 they
generated.
The
literary
annuals
are
described
in
terms
of
what
has
been
seen
as
their
modeling
of
a
definition
of
“bad
reading,”
that
which
failed
“to
read
through
the
books’
materiality
to
the
meaning
within”
(Economy
149),
and
“bad
readers”,
those
who
“judged
books
by
their
covers…[and
who]
got
hung
up
on
the
commodifiable
body
of
the
text”
(Economy
149).
Although
Lynch
is
critical
of
this
Romantic‐period
understanding
of
books
and
reading,
her
argument
still
finds
the
Romantic
imagination
within
a
type
of
reading
removed
from
the
body
of
the
individual
reader
and
the
commercial
aspects
of
literary
production.
The
following
study
reads
the
Romantic
imagination
within
the
variety
of
sensory
and
affective
experiences,
social
and
political
commentaries
and
modes
of
consumer
practice
that
I
argue
are
explored
in
the
Keepsake’s
literary
content.
I
investigate
the
different
ways
that
the
“body
of
the
text”
was
conceived
in
the
Romantic
era
and
in
the
Keepsake.


 Of
particular
interest
to
this
study
is
Andrea
Henderson’s
claim
that
in
the
Romantic
era,
the
not‐owning
of
property
or
of
a
desired
object,
fixed
or
mobile,
worked
positively
to
establish
the
individual’s
social
identity.21
Henderson
turns
what
St
Clair
described
as
commercialism’s
disabling
of
reader
agency
into
the
very
stuff
by
which
readers
understood
themselves
and
others.
She
looks
at
the
trope
of
masochism
and
self‐denial
in
Romantic‐era
literature
as
a
returning
to
the
hierarchies
of
a
traditional
order
and
as
“a
way
of
wanting”
from
within
the
bourgeois,
capitalist
economic
system.
This
was
a
system
that
promised
the
unlimited
satisfaction
of
individual
desire
as
well
as
“power
enough
for
everyone”
(38)
but
did
not
deliver
on
this
promise
in
the
everyday
life
of
the
individual.
As
a
 

 25
 reflection
on
the
contradictory
tendencies
of
the
commercial
economy,
Romantic‐
era
writers
began
to
represent
desire
in
terms
of
dissatisfaction
and,
more
particularly,
the
painful
pleasures
of
self‐denial
such
as
the
subordination
of
the
individual’s
desires
to
those
of
others.
Desire
became
a
space
in
which
configurations
of
power
and
economics
were
in
constant
flux
and
change.

 Because
value,
according
to
Henderson,
was
established
through
desire
rather
than
the
object,
consumers
didn’t
need
to
possess
the
desired
thing
or
person
(19).
Taste,
value
and
pleasure
were
measured
against
the
constant
withholding
of
satisfaction
rather
than
on
acts
of
consumption
(23).
“Desiring
without
hope
of
gratification,”
writes
Henderson,

“was
regarded
by
contemporaries
as
the
sign
of
a
willingness
to
dream
and
to
risk;
it
seemed
to
set
its
practitioner
apart
from
the
mundane
world
of
getting
and
spending”
(27).
Writers,
claims
Henderson,
“contemplated
the
possibility
that
the
consumer
might
find
it
most
satisfying
to
remain
in
a
speculative
posture,
money
in
hand;
the
goal
of
the
consumer
was
no
longer
simply
to
buy,
but
to
shop”
(23).
Shopping,
the
central
activity
of
the
commercial
economy,
was
an
act
of
imagination
by
which
objects
were
idealized
as
“capable
of
providing
infinite
satisfaction
even
as
they
withhold
that
satisfaction”
(23).

 Henderson
situates
consumerism
in
the
mind
and
the
imagination,
as
do
Campbell
and
Lynch,
and
so
abstracts
the
value
of
publications
like
the
annuals
and
commercial
practices
such
as
shopping
from
their
material
effects
and
pleasures.
Their
arguments
are
useful
in
releasing
the
value
of
the
Keepsake
from
the
fixity
of
the
popular,
bourgeois
commodity
and
object
of
conspicuous
 

 26
 consumption.
I
am
left
wondering,
however,
about
the
configurations
of
value
that
objects
of
desire,
rather
than
the
desire
itself,
are
embodying
if
they
are
inconsequential
to
the
meanings
of
consumer
practices.
What
is
this
value
in
terms
of
the
annuals?

Furthermore,
if
reader
and
consumer
agency
is
abstracted
from
action,
such
as
actually
purchasing
a
desired
dress
or
painting
or
reading
an
annual,
is
the
Romantic
imagination
and
its
practicing
of
value
still
essentially
a
transcendence
of
the
real
or,
by
extension,
of
physical
pleasure?

If
so,
then
what
motivated
writers,
“serious”
writers,
to
publish
in
the
annuals
and
to
engage
so
brazenly
in
such
a
commercial
publication?
In
my
attempt
to
answer
these
questions
I
have
concluded
that
the
production
and
practice
of
value
within
the
 Keepsake
is
inextricable
from
the
production
and
practice
of
agency
in
the
Romantic
marketplace.
We
cannot
abstract
either
from
the
material
or
the
imaginative
aspects
of
purchasing
and
handling,
giving
and
receiving,
producing
and
consuming
the
Keepsake.











 Chapter
Summary

 In
the
chapters
that
follow,
I
study
the
experimentations
of
William
Wordsworth,
Percy
Shelley,
Mary
Shelley,
Sir
Walter
Scott
and
Letitia
Elizabeth
Landon
with
literary
form
and
value
within
the
Keepsake.
The
first
chapter
interprets
Wordsworth’s
publication
in
the
Keepsake
as
an
opportunity
for
the
poet
to
explore
notions
of
value
through
the
pleasures
and
choices
offered
to
readers
in
the
literary
marketplace.
I
argue
that
Wordsworth’s
negotiations
with
annual
editors
and
his
contribution
of
five
poems
to
the
Keepsake
are
a
part
of
the
 

 27
 literary
labour
that
he
models
in
his
Keepsake
poems.
This
was
a
labour
that
was
built
out
of
the
pleasures
of
the
literary
marketplace
as
embodied
by
the
annual
and
that
would
teach
readers
how
to
manage
their
desires
and
make
good
choices
as
literary
consumers.
The
tastes
and
choices
that
Wordsworth
defines
as
good
would
then
serve
to
position
his
poetry
as
the
moderating
centre
of
the
literary
marketplace
itself
.

 In
my
second
chapter
I
argue
that
the
Keepsake
provided
Scott
with
a
venue
uniquely
suited
to
his
career‐long
experiments
with
multisensory
writing
as
a
model
of
literary
value.
The
Keepsake’s
invitation
to
readers
to
participate
in
the
definition
of
the
annual’s
function
and
value
in
the
literary
marketplace
reflected
Scott’s
emphasis
on
the
importance
of
readers
and
their
reading
practice
in
the
liberation
of
writing
from
the
stasis
and
silence
of
the
printed
page.
Scott
utilizes
the
literacy
of
his
readers
in
regards
to
the
new
forms
of
communication
and
expression
proliferating
in
both
private
and
public
spaces
to
build
a
form
of
multisensory
writing
as
well
as
an
experimental
reading
community.
Form
and
content
could
together
generate
a
value
that
would
situate
literature
at
the
centre
of
the
structures
of
modern
life
into
the
future.

 My
third
chapter
shows
how
Shelley
further
embodies
a
definition
of
literary
value
by
creating
from
within
the
Keepsake
a
self‐aware
reading
practice
that
engaged
the
virtual
sociabilities
generated
by
the
annual.
Shelley
does
so
as
the
means
by
which
to
materialize
in
her
writing
the
emotional
and
intellectual
exchanges
necessary
for
the
effective
production
and
consumption
of
literature.
Shelley’s
stories
explore
the
technologies
of
representation
and
forms
of
writing
 

 28
 necessary
to
access
the
full
potential
of
these
exchanges
to
bring
people
together
and
to
manifest
revolutionary
change
in
the
individual
and
society.
Shelley
situates
literary
value
in
writings’
ability
to
provide
practitioners
with
the
ability
to
exploit
and
manage
this
potential.
Shelley
also
situates
the
responsibility
for
this
management
on
writers
and
readers
and
their
use
of
a
self‐aware
and
self‐conscious
reading
practice.

 The
dissertation
concludes
with
a
reading
of
Landon’s
urban
poetics
in
the
 Keepsake.
I
argue
that
Landon
spatializes
the
literary
marketplace
and
embodies
value
as
the
city.
To
embody
value
within
the
literary
marketplace
and
to
geographically
situate
the
literary
marketplace
as
urban
space
meant
that
literary
writing
as
well
as
its
producers
and
consumers
had
to
be
able
to
adapt
and
change
with
the
varieties
and
rapid
transformations
of
the
city.
Landon
builds
this
flexibility
into
her
own
literary
practice
and
the
form
and
content
of
her
annual
writings
to
create
a
modern
Romantic
definition
of
literary
value
as
generated
out
of
the
literary
marketplace.








 

 29
 Chapter
One
 Pleasure
and
Choice:
Wordsworth
in
the
Keepsake
 

 In
1828,
Wordsworth
accepted
an
offer
of
100
guineas
from
Reynolds
and
Heath,
in
exchange
for
contributing
twelve
pages
of
verse
to
their
annual.
This
agreement
was
the
culmination
of
five
years
of
correspondence
between
Wordsworth
and
Reynolds
and
other
annual
editors
such
as
Alaric
Watts,
editor
of
the
Literary
Souvenir,
and
Allan
Cunningham,
editor
of
The
Anniversary,
in
which
Wordsworth
was
repeatedly
courted
to
submit
works
to
their
publications.
Most
critics
agree
that
Wordsworth
only
contributed
to
the
Keepsake
because
of
the
amount
of
money
Reynolds
offered
the
poet.22
In
contrast,
I
read
Wordsworth’s
contradictory
representations
of
his
publication
in
the
Keepsake
as
a
part
of
what
he
saw
as
an
opportunity
to
use
the
Keepsake
as
a
scene
of
experiments
in
value.

In
particular
he
experiments
with
establishing
the
preeminence
of
his
poetry
in
the
literary
marketplace
and
among
the
variety
of
ideas
of
value
and
forms
of
writing
and
print
that
could
be
found
there.

I
will
look
at
Wordsworth’s
correspondence
with
annual
editors
and
his
five
Keepsake‐published
poems—“The
Triad,”
“The
Country
Girl,”
“A
Gravestone
Upon
the
Floor
in
the
Cloisters
of
Worcester
Cathedral,”
“A
Tradition
of
Darley‐Dale,
Derbyshire”
and
“The
Wishing‐Gate”—
to
argue
that
Wordsworth
worked
to
incorporate
the
drives
and
demands
of
the
literary
marketplace
into
an
idea
of
Romantic
value
that
would
in
turn
proffer
a
centre
for
the
literary
marketplace
itself.
Wordsworth,
I
claim,
situates
his
poetry
in
this
centre
and
frames
it
with
what
he
suggests
is
the
literary
labour
necessary
to
regulate
the
boundaries
of
 

 30
 writing,
print
and
commerce.
My
readings
have
found
that
Wordsworth
enacts
two
necessary
components
of
this
labour
from
within
his
correspondence
with
annual
editors
and
his
Keepsake
poems:
the
regulation
of
desire
in
the
marketplace
and
the
cultivation
of
the
choice‐making
abilities
of
the
Keepsake’s
readers.23

Wordsworth
repeatedly
refers
to
the
pleasures
involved
in
writing
and
reading
his
poetry
and
links
these
pleasures
to
the
choices
that
writers
and
readers
must
make
in
terms
of
their
participation
in
the
literary
marketplace.24


 My
analysis
of
Wordsworth’s
Keepsake
poems
as
a
part
of
Wordsworth’s
development
of
a
particular
model
of
literary
work
is
informed
by
Clifford
Siskin’s
influential
writings
on
the
connection
between
the
development
of
“Literature”
as
a
hierarchical
category
of
writing
and
of
“Profession”
as
a
hierarchical
category
of
labour.
According
to
Siskin’s
formulation,
Wordsworth’s
attempt
to
establish
the
poet’s
authority
and
poetry’s
value
in
the
plethora
of
writing
available
in
the
literary
marketplace
involved
his
shaping
of
the
work
of
writing
into
a
discipline
and
a
“vocation”
that
privileged
the
poet
as
“a
member
of
the
best
profession”
(105)
engaging
in
the
best
work,
writing.
Wordsworth,
Siskin
argues,
valorized
writing
as
a
profession
that
disciplined
the
individual
and
his
desire
into
a
narrowed
“deep
developmental
self”
(106).


 The
literary
labour
that
I
argue
Wordsworth
models
through
his
negotiations
with
annual
editors
and
his
contributions
to
the
Keepsake
works
to
discipline
readers
and
their
desires
in
the
literary
marketplace.
What
Andrea
Henderson
would
call
the
painful
pleasures
of
such
a
discipline
involved
not
the
satisfaction
of
the
reader’s
own
desire
to
consume
the
annual
and
the
poem
and
 

 31
 the
desire
of
the
poet
that
his
poem
be
consumed
but
the
pleasurable
disciplining
of
that
desire,
as
Wordsworth
illustrates
in
“The
Triad,”
through
a
continual
cycle
of
selection.
Where
Wordsworth
differs
from
Henderson’s
idea
of
deferred,
painful
desire,
however,
is
that
the
reader
achieves
pleasure
through
a
choice
that
is
ultimately
and
necessarily
satisfied
by
the
reading
of
the
poem
itself.

Although
the
poet
and
the
poem
retain
a
value
that
is
singular
in
its
association
with
a
particular
kind
of
writer
and
literary
form,
they
must
be
responsive
and
adapt
to
the
changing
desires
and
demands
of
those,
such
as
readers
and
publishers,
who
make
up
the
literary
marketplace.

Wordsworth’s
interest
in
the
role
of
pleasure
in
the
labours
of
writing
and
reading
poetry
is
evident
from
the
1800
and
1802
“Preface”
to
Lyrical
Ballads.
In
the
“Preface,”
for
example,
pleasure
involves
an
obligation
of
work
on
the
part
of
the
writer
and
the
reader,
as
they
both
must
cultivate
a
position
in
the
literary
marketplace.
The
choices
involved
in
cultivating
this
position
must
be
produced
through
the
individual
reader’s
“own
feelings
genuinely,
and
not
by
reflection
upon
what
will
probably
be
the
judgment
of
others”
(270).
Wordsworth
is
calling
for
his
readers
to
trust
their
judgment
to
the
literary
pleasures
he
offers
them
but
he
is
also
suggesting
that
this
judgment
requires
work
on
their
part
and
is
only
really
fulfilled
through
a
response
to
his
poetry.

Wordsworth
further
defines
what
I
will
call
the
“pleasurable
work”
of
choice
in
the
Keepsake
as
the
poet’s
and
reader’s
holding
together
of
the
content
and
the
metrical
form
of
the
poem
to
truly
experience
its
pleasurable
effects.
Readers
are
taught
through
the
process
of
reading
the
Keepsake
poems
(and,
as
in
 

 32
 the
case
of
“The
Country
Girl,”
looking
at
the
illustrations)
how
to
manage
their
desires
in
the
literary
marketplace
and
to
choose
and
read
well.
Thus,
pleasure
in
Wordsworth’s
Keepsake
poems
arises
out
of
a
poetically
regulated
encounter
with
the
literary
marketplace.
By
regulation,
however,
Wordsworth
does
not
indicate
that
poetic
form
should
distance
readers
from
the
pleasures
offered
by
poem
or
the
process
of
its
selection.
In
the
“Preface”
Wordsworth
claims
“[t]he
poet
writes
under
one
restriction
only,
namely,
that
of
the
necessity
of
giving
immediate
pleasure
to
a
human
Being”
(257).
Wordsworth’s
emphasizing
of
“immediate
pleasure”
is
a
framed
as
a
response
to
those
critics
“who
talk
of
Poetry
as
a
matter
of
amusement
and
idle
pleasure;
who
will
converse
with
us
as
gravely
about
a
taste
for
Poetry,
as
they
express
it,
as
if
it
were
a
thing
as
indifferent
as
a
taste
for
Rope‐dancing,
or
Frontiniac
or
Sherry”
(257).


 Pleasure,
for
Wordsworth,
is
integral
to
the
deeper
emotional
and
intellectual
experience
of
the
poem
and
“a
taste
for
Poetry”
is
something
integral
to
the
health
of
the
individual,
not
simply
a
form
of
amusement,
although
it
is
that
as
well.
Wordsworth
continues
on
to
link
poetic
value
to
its
production
of
an
“immediate”
and
not
a
heavily
mediated
experience
of
pleasure.
He
writes:
let
this
necessity
of
producing
immediate
pleasure
be
considered
as
a
degradation
of
the
Poet’s
art.
It
is
far
otherwise.
It
is
an
acknowledgment
of
the
beauty
of
the
universe,
an
acknowledgment
the
more
sincere,
because
it
is
not
formal,
but
indirect;
it
is
a
task
light
and
easy
to
him
who
looks
at
the
world
in
the
spirit
of
love:
further,
it
is
a
homage
paid
to
the
native
and
naked
dignity
of
man,
 

 33
 to
the
grand
elementary
principle
of
pleasure,
by
which
he
knows,
and
feels,
and
lives,
and
moves.
(258)
Pleasure
is
stimulated
in
readers
by
poetry.

Poetry’s
gentle
regulation
of
this
experience
is
internalized
by
the
solitary
reader
so
as
to
become
a
natural
and
seamless
aspect
of
that
“by
which”
this
reader
“knows,
and
feels,
and
lives,
and
moves.”
Wordsworth
furthers
his
claims
in
the
“Preface”
to
establish
poetry’s
special
administration
of
pleasure
in
his
Keepsake
poems
as
a
work
engaged
by
the
annual
poet
and
reader.
In
choosing
the
Keepsake,
readers
and
writers
are
brought
into
a
pleasurable
literary
labour
that
is
not
abstracted
from
the
literary
marketplace
or
the
cravings
and
desires
it
evokes
but
is
mediated
and
refined
by
Wordsworth’s
poetry.

 Pleasure
and
Poetic
Labour

 

 Wordsworth’s
poems
in
the
Keepsake
take
readers
through
the
pleasurable
process
of
desire
and
choice
in
relation
to
the
annual
and
engage
them
in
the
necessary
work
by
which
those
desires
and
choices
would
establish
the
poem
as
the
embodiment
of
literary
value.
This
section
addresses
the
contradictions
in
Wordsworth’s
dealings
with
the
annuals
and
his
exploration
of
the
Keepsake’s
ability
to
satisfy
what
Jill
Barker
describes
as
his
“desire
to
earn
a
just
financial
reward
for
his
poetical
labours”
and
his
“high‐minded
notions
of
the
integrity
of
his
work”
(391).
I
argue
that
Wordsworth
shapes
these
contradictions
into
a
viable
literary
practice
and
value
that
consists
of
a
particular
type
of
literary
 

 34
 labour.25

This
is
a
labour
that
brings
together
the
pleasures
of
literary
production
and
consumption
in
both
the
Keepsake
and
Wordsworth’s
individual
poems.
Wordsworth’s
contradictory
negotiations
with
annual
editors,
including
his
statement
in
a
letter
to
Allan
Cunningham
that
if
“high
prices
given
to
writers
could
secure
good
matter
it
would
be
found
in
the
Keepsake,
but…it
was
far
from
certain
that
would
be
the
case”
(Later
Years
(LY)
680),
highlights
the
complexities
of
Wordsworth’s
relationship
with
the
literary
marketplace.
Wordsworth
recognized
the
lucrative
aspects
of
the
annuals
as
well
as
the
possible
gap
between
definitions
of
value
in
terms
of
economics
and
definitions
of
value
in
terms
of
literary
production
and
consumption.
Wordsworth’s
engagements
with
the
annuals
illustrate
his
attempt
to
bring
these
two
values
together
and
to
develop
a
management
strategy
by
which
Wordsworth
could
privilege
his
name
and
his
works
in
terms
of
the
financial
and
cultural
profits
that
the
annual
offered.
This
included
establishing
an
added
value
for
his
poems
over
that
of
the
other
contributed
works
and
the
annual
itself.
This
added
value
was
the
pleasure
of
the
personal
and
financial
exchanges
required
for
both
the
production
and
the
consumption
of
the
annual
and
the
literary
labour
and
the
pleasurable
choices
that
the
poems
themselves
modeled.
In
this
way,
the
value
of
his
works
benefited
from
but
did
not
need
to
depend
on
the
“high
prices”
that
he
was
paid.


 What
Wordsworth
critics
have
read
as
Wordsworth’s
reluctance
to
mix
the
necessity
of
“matters
of
trade”
with
his
authorial
persona
might
be
more
accurately
understood
as
his
trying
out
of
different
kinds
of
work
and
definitions
of
literary
value
in
a
new
business
of
poetry.
Wordsworth
also
practices
and
forces
 

 35
 the
annual
editors
to
engage
in
the
kind
of
pleasurable
work
and
deferred
desire
of
his
Keepsake
poems.
The
entire
process
of
negotiating
with
the
annual
editors
and
then
writing
to
the
annual
form
was
a
chance
for
Wordsworth
to
experiment
with
notions
of
artistic
production
and
literary
value
in
relation
to
the
agency
and
value
of
the
poet
himself.
The
labour
that
Wordsworth
develops
in
these
negotiations
required
an
intimacy
that
reflected
the
intimacy
that
he
later
produced
in
his
poems
between
readers
and
writers
as
they
exchanged
the
different
pleasures
of
producing
and
consuming
poetry.


 The
letters
that
Wordsworth
exchanged
with
Alaric
Watts,
Alan
Cunningham
and
Frederick
Reynolds
illustrate
Wordsworth’s
explorations
of
this
literary
labour
and
its
attendant
pleasures
and
tastes
in
relation
to
the
relationship
between
the
poet
and
those
who
control
the
publication
and
dissemination
of
his
work.
Wordsworth’s
letters
from
the
period
of
November
1823
to
December
1831
indicate
that
Wordsworth
and
the
annual
editors
fully
blended
friendship,
personal
favour
and
obligation
with
their
financial
and
professional
negotiations.
High‐minded
ideals
facilitated
their
“matters
of
trade”
and
vice
versa
in
a
variety
of
combinations
that
changed
over
time.
Wordsworth
plays
with
various
roles
throughout
these
negotiations,
including
genius
poet
and
loyal
friend,
professional
writer
and
skilled
opportunist
as
well
as
master
manipulator
of
editors,
readers
and
critics.

Both
the
editors
and
Wordsworth
manipulate
different
kinds
of
exchanges
ranging
from
the
gift
to
the
financial
trade,
from
friendship’s
offering
to
business
contract.
Cunningham,
who
was
the
clerk
of
the
works
in
Francis
Chantrey’s
 

 36
 London
sculpting
studio,
had
made
and
gifted
busts
for
Wordsworth;
Reynolds
and
Wordsworth
shared
the
symptoms
of
and
remedies
for
their
various
physical
ailments;
and
Wordsworth
and
Watts
established
a
professional
connection
when,
on
the
recommendation
of
Maria
Jane
Jewsbury,
Watts
negotiated
a
new
contract
for
Wordsworth
with
Hurst
and
Robinson.26
Even
as
Wordsworth’s
relationship
with
Reynolds
soured,
the
poet
did
not
turn
away
from
the
annual
as
a
form
of
publication.27
Once
Wordsworth
released
himself
from
his
obligations
to
Reynolds,
for
example,
he
contributed
a
sonnet
to
his
friend
Alaric
Watts.

 Wordsworth
knew
that
he
could
benefit
financially
by
publishing
in
the
 Keepsake
and
that
he
could
also
benefit
in
terms
of
the
increased
exposure
the
annual
and
the
popular
literary
marketplace
could
provide.
Thus,
Wordsworth
refuses
Cunningham’s
insistent
invitation
to
publish
in
The
Anniversary
not
only
because
it
would
break
the
terms
of
his
contract
with
the
publishers
of
the
 Keepsake,
but
because
“they
[the
Keepsake’s
publishers]
pay
for
my
name
fully
as
much
as
for
my
verses;
and
this
would
sink
in
value,
according
to
the
frequent
use
made
of
it”
(LY
680).
It
is
clear
here
that
Wordsworth
was
acutely
aware
of
what
Pierre
Bourdieu
termed
“cultural
capital”
and
the
potential
role
of
the
Romantic
poet
in
the
exchanging
and
accoutrement
of
such
a
capital
in
the
nineteenth‐century
(Distinction).


 Wordsworth’s
transformations
of
his
personae
as
a
poet,
businessman
and
friend
served
to
test
his
“capital”
within
the
different
determinations
of
value
embodied
by
the
Keepsake.
In
the
spring
of
1828,
Cunningham
offered
Wordsworth
a
bronze
bust
of
the
poet
in
exchange
for
one
of
his
poems.
 

 37
 Cunningham
tried
to
establish
leverage
in
his
negotiations
with
Wordsworth
by
emphasizing
their
friendship
and
utilizing
Wordsworth’s
own
self‐construction
as
a
poet
unsullied
by
economic
exchange.
He
wrote:

 
 Pay
me
in
such
coin
as
your
heart
and
imagination
stamp
and
I
shall

 
 be
enriched.
Take
up
your
pen
and
pay
me
with
verse—a
far
better

 
 coin
than
minted
gold.
Then
behold
a
miracle!

a
Scottishman

 
 prefers
true
poetry
to
current
cash.
(Cunningham,
LY
592)
Cunningham
worked
to
transform
poetry
into
a
material
more
valuable
than
gold
or
cash.
Wordsworth,
however,
evaded
Cunningham’s
offer
“as
a
mode
of
remuneration
too
indefinite”
(LY
592)
and
once
again
situated
literary
value
according
to
the
exchanges
and
fluctuations
of
the
literary
marketplace.
Later
that
year,
Wordsworth’s
representation
of
his
contract
with
Reynolds
changed.
Writing
as
a
businessman
and,
equally,
as
a
friend,
he
described
their
arrangement
as
a
matter
of
integrity.
If
he
were
to
accept
Cunningham’s
offer,
Wordsworth
explained,
it
would
be
a
betrayal
of
Reynolds,
who
has
paid
him
considerably
more.
“I
would
most
gladly
meet
your
wishes
as
a
Friend,”
he
wrote
to
Cunningham,
“but
I
must
not
break
my
word”
(LY
680)
or
financial
contract
with
Reynolds.
So
Wordsworth
would
give
Cunningham
his
work
as
a
gift
to
a
friend,
but
not
under
the
current
conditions
of
the
literary
marketplace.
In
this
way,
Wordsworth
adapts
his
reasons
for
choosing
the
Keepsake
over
the
other
annuals
to
the
demands
of
the
moment.












 Alaric
Watts
was
particularly
angry
about
Wordsworth’s
decision
to
publish
in
the
Keepsake
as
Wordsworth
had
declined
to
submit
anything
to
Watts’
 

 38
 Souvenir
on
the
grounds
that
the
poet
had
a

“general
rule”
against
publishing
in
such
books.
Watts
complained
to
mutual
acquaintances
that
Wordsworth
was
marketing
the
Keepsake
at
the
expense
of
other
annuals,
including
Watts’
own.
Although
Wordsworth
argued
in
a
letter
to
Reynolds,
“[h]ow
he
could
think
me
capable
of
anything
so
presumptuous,
so
ungentlemanly,
and
so
ungenerous,
I
can’t
conceive”
(LY
693),
it
is
also
true
that
Wordsworth
promoted
the
Keepsake
to
his
friends,
found
an
appreciative
audience
amongst
his
family,
and
even
distributed
the
annual’s
prospectuses
amongst
a
“large
party
of
people
of
rank”
at
Lowther
Castle
(LY
693).
Wordsworth
was
not
ashamed
to
promote
the
literary
annual
with
which
he
was
aligned,
but
his
negotiations
with
the
annual
editors
suggest
that
he
did
not
want
to
commit
to
a
set
definition
of
value—according
to
his
high
price
or
the
literary
quality
of
his
works—either.

 As
Wordsworth’s
letters
with
his
editor‐friends
progress,
we
can
see
Wordsworth
more
openly
acknowledge
a
process
in
which
the
author
must,
as
he
writes
to
Maria
Jane
Jewsbury,
make
hard
choices
and
“hard
bargains.
Humility
with
these
Gentry
is
downright
simpleness”
(LDW
52).
Wordsworth’s
ability
to
“trade”
with
the
annual
editors
becomes
more
skilled
and
displays
a
conviction
in
the
right
of
the
poet
to
garner
both
economic
and
cultural
capital
through
the
literary
marketplace.
“The
proprietors
of
some
of
these
works,”
Wordsworth
points
out,
“have
made
large
sums
by
them,
and
it
is
reasonable
that
the
writers
should
be
paid
in
some
proportion”
especially,
as
Wordsworth
notes,
the
writing
“forms
but
a
small
part”
of
the
annual
in
relation
to
the
“immense
number”
of
steel
engravings
the
annuals
include
(LY
593).
Steel
plate
engravers,
for
example,
were
 

 39
 themselves
paid
well
while
it
was
the
writing,
Wordsworth
implies,
that
would
contribute
to
the
annual’s
cultural
importance.



 The
“value
of
works
of
imagination”
is
in
constant
flux
and
ultimately
unpredictable,
so
the
poet
and
the
poem
must,
as
Wordsworth
notes,
maintain
the
upper
hand
by
being
able
to
engage
the
literary
marketplace’s
fluctuations
of
value
(LY
381).
Although
the
Keepsake
offered
the
highest
economic
return
on
his
contributions
as
well
as
the
most
aesthetically
attractive
packaging
and
the
maximum
number
of
new
readers,
Wordsworth
needed
to
create
a
literary
practice
that
would
ensure
that
he
would
get
the
most
out
of
the
literary
marketplace.
In
his
Keepsake
poems,
Wordsworth
mirrors
his
choice
to
publish
in
the
Keepsake
with
the
individual
reader’s
choice
to
purchase
the
annual
and
read
his
poems.
Wordsworth
further
develops
the
pleasures
and
the
labour
that
this
choice
involves
as
well
as
his
reader’s
skills
at
making
those
choices
in
his
poem
“The
Country
Girl.”











Perhaps
the
most
intriguing
aspect
of
Wordsworth’s
participation
in
the
 Keepsake
is
his
agreeing
to
produce
a
poem
according
to
an
already
completed
illustration
titled
“The
Country
Girl”
by
James
Holmes.28

In
a
letter
to
Mary
and
Dora
Wordsworth,
Wordsworth
states:










 I
have
written
one
little
piece,
34
lines,
on
the
Picture
of
a
beautiful










 Peasant
Girl
bearing
a
Sheaf
of
Corn.
The
Person
I
had
in
mind
lives
near
the
Blue
Bell,
Tillington—a
sweet
Creature,
we
saw
her
when
going
to
Hereford.
(LY
590)

 

 40
 In
this
quotation,
Wordsworth
personalizes
the
illustration
to
meet
with
his
own
experience.
Wordsworth
plays
with
a
definition
of
literary
“inspiration”
as
something
that
is
spontaneous
and
effortless
and
something
that
can
be
produced
through
work.
The
work
of
writing
in
“The
Country
Girl”
becomes
a
pleasurable
exchange
of
memory,
imagination,
and
of
seeing
the
“beautiful
Peasant
Girl”
(LY
590)
in
the
illustration
gathered
within
the
form
of
the
poem
by
the
poet.


 When
Wordsworth
reprinted
“The
Country
Girl”
in
his
collected
works,
he
changed
the
name
of
the
poem
to
“The
Gleaner,”
thus
bringing
attention
back
to
the
poem’s
concern
with
labour
that
is
lessened
without
the
accompanying
illustration.29
A
gleaner,
however,
is
someone
who
is
allowed
to
enter
the
fields
after
the
reapers
and
gather
the
corn
that
has
been
left
behind.
Although
the
gleaner’s
work
is
secondary,
like
that
of
the
reader,
and
is
unproductive,
in
that
it
doesn’t
generate
a
marketable
commodity
such
as
that
of
the
men
in
the
fields,
it
will
provide
nourishment
for
the
girl
in
the
illustration
and
those
who
“give
utterance
to
the
prayer/That
asks
for
daily
bread”
(33‐4)
as
well
as
for
the
poet
and
the
reader.












 The
illustration
itself
faces
the
poem
and
focuses
on
a
young
peasant
girl
leaning
against
a
fence
with
her
head
resting
on
her
hand,
her
sidelong
gaze
directed
at
the
viewer
and
her
apron
lifted
to
hold
a
sheaf
of
corn.
She
looks
as
if
she
is
waiting
for
the
reapers
in
the
fields
that
make
up
the
background
of
the
illustration
to
finish
their
work.
In
the
poem,
the
poet‐narrator
describes
the
illustration
as
an
“Arcadian”
space
and
the
girl’s
erotic
posture
as
drawing
the
 

 41
 viewer‐poet
into
a
youthful
engagement
with
classical
mythology
and
a
pastoral
idealization
of
rural
life:











 That
happy
glean
of
vernal
eyes,











 Those
locks
from
summer’s
golden
skies,
















 




That
o’er
thy
brow
are
shed;











 That
cheek—a
kindling
of
the
morn,











 That
lip—a
rose‐bud
from
the
thorn,
















 




I
saw;
and
Fancy
sped











 To
scenes
Arcadian,
whispering,
through
soft
air.
(1‐7)
In
this
stanza,
the
painting
of
the
girl
stimulates
desire
and
tempts
the
reader
with
the
abandonment
of
reason
and
truth
for
the
sensibility
of
the
poetic.
The
world
of
the
poem
is
one
filled
with
“bliss
that
grows
without
a
care;/Of
happiness
that
never
flies”
and
where
“love
never
dies”
(8‐10).
The
poet
is
no
longer
speaking
about
the
illustration,
however,
for
his
“Fancy”
has
sped
away
from
the
portrait
to
“scenes
Arcadian”
that
exist
within
his
cultural
memory.


 The
poet
describes
a
process
of
producing
art
that
idealizes
the
artistic
subject
and
of
consuming
art
that
can
only
perceive
what
should
be
instead
of
what
is.
As
I
will
show,
this
process
is
mirrored
in
the
youth
of
“The
Triad,”
whose
“trembling
fancy”
renders
him
an
insubstantial
participant
in
the
poetic
vision.
In
“The
Country
Girl,”
the
poet’s
enactment
of
poetic
sensibility
as
he
encounters
the
illustration
of
the
peasant
girl
leads
him
away
from
the
illustration
itself
to
clichéd
perceptions
and
desires
that
evade
the
work
he
needs
to
do
to
translate
the
girl
in
the
illustration
into
words.
 

 42
 









 In
the
first
line
of
the
second
stanza
Wordsworth
turns,
as
if
turning
a
page,
from
the
depiction
of
the
maiden
of
the
first
stanza
towards
the
young
woman
on
whom
the
artist
has
based
his
illustration.
Wordsworth
asks,
“[w]hat
mortal
form,
what
earthly
face,/Inspired
the
pencil,
lines
to
trace”
(17‐18)
and
points
the
reader
to
the
realities
of
the
girl’s
situation.
She
must
work
and
she
is
weary.
He
thus
pulls
the
poem’s
reader
away
from
an
engagement
with
the
illustration
that
is
concerned
only
with
pleasure
and
that
separates
the
reader
from
the
work
that
Wordsworth’s
poetry
demands
and
the
country
girl
implies.
Wordsworth
writes,
“had
thy
charge
been
idle
flowers,/Fair
Damsel,
o’er
my
captive
mind,/to
truth
and
sober
reason
blind,/’Mid
that
soft
air,
those
long‐lost
bowers,/The
sweet
illusion
might
have
hung
for
hours!”
(22‐25).
The
girl’s
“charge,”
however,
is
not
“idle
flowers”
but
is
the
“tell‐tale
sheaf
of
corn”
(26)
that
awakens
the
viewer‐poet,
and
now
reader,
to
a
system
of
exchange
between
labour,
economics
and
aesthetic
value:











 ‐‐‐‐Thanks
to
this
tell‐tale
sheaf
of
corn,










 That
touchingly
bespeaks
thee
born











 Life’s
daily
tasks
with
them
to
share,











 Who,
whether
from
their
lowly
bed











 They
rise,
or
rest
the
weary
head,











 Do
weigh
the
blessing
they
entreat











 From
heaven,
and
feel
what
they
repeat,











 While
they
give
utterance
to
the
prayer











 That
asks
for
daily
bread.
(26‐34)
 

 43
 The
corn
that
the
girl‐gleaner
holds
reminds
the
poet
and
the
reader
of
the
work
that
they
must
do
as
create
meaning
and
worth
in
both
the
work
of
art
and
their
own
activities
in
the
literary
marketplace.
The
poem
is
as
vital
as
corn
to
the
life
and
health
of
the
nation.
Both
the
sheaf
of
corn
and
the
blessings
asked
for
by
the
peasants
can
be
“weighed”
(29)
and
measured
according
to
the
daily
bread
it
provides
and
so
can
the
poem
itself.
The
poem’s
profits
depend
on
how
many
pages
of
the
annual
it
can
fill
and
how
successful
it
is
in
distributing
its
literary
work
but
most
importantly,
on
how
it
is
valued
by
those
who
receive
it.











 The
result
of
the
poet’s
awakening
in
the
second
stanza
is
a
poem
that
depicts
both
the
work
of
its
creation
and
its
value.
This
poem
is
offered
as
the
form
in
which
the
work
of
producing
value
can
be
done.
Such
work
is
explicitly
connected
to
the
“daily
tasks,”
(28)
“weary
head[s]”
(30)
and
prayers
for
“daily
bread”
(33‐34)
of
the
girl
and
the
peasants
in
the
field
behind
her.
Wordsworth
opens
the
reader
to
the
stakes
of
literary
work
and
the
potential
of
the
illustration
itself
to
generate
meaning
and
worth.
The
poet
will
shape
the
poem
and
the
reader
will
process
the
poem
to
generate
the
“daily
bread”
by
which
the
poet
will
be
able
to
continue.
By
centralizing
the
image
of
corn
in
“The
Country
Girl”,
Wordsworth
indicates
that
the
full
resonance
of
the
artistic
product
can
only
occur
when
the
poem
is
read
in
tandem
with
the
illustration.
The
poet’s
address
to
the
girl
herself—“bespeaks
the
born”—also
creates
a
direct
and
intimate
exchange
between
the
subject
of
the
poem
and
the
poet
and
reader.

The
poet
and
reader
must
remain
flexible
within
the
exchanges
and
collaborations
the
work
of
producing
and
reading
the
poem
require.
The
reader
 

 44
 must
be
able
to
rely
on
the
poet
to
teach
him
or
her
how
to
manage
the
desires
and
the
pleasures
offered
by
the
poem
and
to
make
the
right
choices
in
the
literary
marketplace.
“The
Country
Girl”
takes
the
reader
through
the
pleasurable
work
that
will
be
needed
to
mobilize
the
value
of
Wordsworth’s
poetics.



 Pleasure
and
Choice

 The
form
and
content
of
the
Keepsake,
as
it
manifests
the
variety
of
new
and
emerging
literary
forms
and
attendant
pleasures
circulating
in
the
literary
marketplace,
allows
Wordsworth
to
explore
choice
as
the
specific
kind
of
work
that
will
come
to
regulate
the
literary
marketplace
itself.
In
this
section
I
will
look
at
how
Wordsworth’s
Keepsake
poems
explore
the
ways
in
which
the
Keepsake
can
bring
together
the
desires
of
the
annual’s
readers
and
their
conscious
discernment
or
what
he
calls
“a
taste
for
Poetry”
(“Preface”
257).
Although
this
is
true
of
all
of
his
contributed
poems,
“The
Triad”
and
“The
Wishing
Gate”
exemplify
the
literary
pleasure
that
Wordsworth
suggests
is
essential
to
the
work
of
choosing
well.
In
“The
Triad,”
for
example,
Wordsworth
highlights
the
importance
of
pleasure
for
both
the
reader
and
the
poet
in
his
delineations
of
taste
and
enactments
of
choice.30

“The
Triad”
was
originally
titled
“The
Promise”
(a
title
that
evokes
the
same
suggestions
of
intimacy
and
obligation
as
the
annual
titles
such
as
the
Keepsake,
 The
Forget­Me
Not,
The
Souvenir
and
The
Anniversary).
The
women
in
the
poem
are
modeled
on
Edith
Southey,
Dora
Wordsworth
and
Sara
Coleridge
and
“The
Promise”
was
meant
to
be
a
tribute
to
these
three
important
women
in
 

 45
 Wordsworth’s
life.
Most
critics
have
read
this
poem
as
Sara
Coleridge
did
thirty
years
later:
“It
is
just
what
he
came
into
the
poetical
world
to
condemn,
and
both
by
practice
and
theory
to
supplant;
it
is,
to
my
mind,
artificial
and
unreal.
There
is
no
truth
in
it
as
a
whole…The
poem
always
strikes
me
as
a
mongrel
and
amphibious
thing,
neither
poetical
nor
ideal”
(Transactions
117‐118).
That
“The
Triad”
read
for
Coleridge
as
something
unqualifiable
and
without
an
identifiable
form
reflects
the
poem’s
exploration
of
desire
and
choice,
pleasure
and
work
in
the
production
of
an
idea
of
literary
value
and
commercial
practice
that
would
ensure
the
legacy
of
Wordsworth’s
poetry
in
terms
of
economic
and
cultural
longevity.
The
indecisiveness
of
the
poet’s
protagonist
is
reflected
in
the
form
of
the
poem
as
it
manifests
the
varieties
of
the
literary
marketplace.31
Choice
in
this
poem
is
a
complex
and
contradictory
process
that
responds
to
the
particular
pleasures
of
the
moment
in
which
it
is
engaged.












 The
poet
of
“The
Triad,”
for
example,
asks
to
be
shown
“the
noblest
Youth
of
present
time/Whose
trembling
fancy
would
to
love
give
birth”
(1‐2)
so
that
he
can
mate
him
with
the
best
of
British
femininity.
The
poet,
however,
immediately
turns
away
from
the
present
to
masculine
ideals
of
the
ancient
past
and
distant
future.
He
asks
for
a
young,
virile
“God
or
Hero”
who
has
“[r]eturn’d,
to
seek
a
consort
upon
earth”
(4),
or

“[t]he
brightest
Star
of
ages
yet
to
be”
(6).
As
a
result,
the
youth
in
the
poem
is
as
insubstantial
as
the
“half…image”
and
“half…abstract
meaning”
(390)
that
Coleridge
complained
in
the
Biographia
Literaria
made
up
the
modern,
ornamental,
commercial
poetry.
“The
Triad”
is
also
an
obvious
reference
to
the
classical
Greek
myth
of
“The
Judgment
of
Paris”
with
its
themes
of
display
 

 46
 and
choice
as
well
as
its
reference
to
the
enduring
importance
of
classically
mythology
to
Western
culture.32

The
poet
in
“The
Triad”
first
conjures
the
vision‐like
youth
and
then
brings
before
the
youth
a
vision
of
three
different
women
whose
characteristics
and
personalities
he,
one
by
one,
describes
for
the
youth.


 Unlike
the
mythical
figures
that
they
reference,
or
the
youth
himself,
these
three
women
could
be
someone
that
the
poem’s
reader
knows
or
could
touch
and
possess,
like
the
annual.
All
three
combine
physical
beauty
with
intelligence,
wit,
emotional
depth
and
“insight
as
keen
as
frosty
star”
(146)
and
all
three
are
skillful
participants
in
culture
through
music,
dance
and
literature.
Although
these
women
are
not
goddesses
and
do
not
have
mythical
powers
or
magical
promises
to
offer
the
youth,
they
have
other
mortal
gifts
and
talents:
I
will
not
fetch
the
Naiad
from
a
flood

 
Pure
as
herself—(song
lacks
not
mightier
power),

 
Nor
leaf‐crown’d
Dryad
from
a
pathless
wood,

 
Nor
Sea‐nymph
glistening
from
her
coral
bower;‐‐

 
Mere
Mortals,
bodied
forth
in
vision
still


 
Shall
with
Mount
Ida’s
triple
luster
fill

 
The
chaster
coverts
of
a
British
hill.
(8‐14)
The
poet/match‐maker
of
“The
Triad”
displays
three
modern
versions
of
ideal
femininity
grown
not
out
of
classical
mythology
but
“the
chaster
coverts
of
a
British
hill”
(14).
The
poet
displays
a
modernized
beauty
to
the
youth
and
the
reader
(instead
of
the
idealized
and
inaccessible
beauty
of
myth)
and
allows
them
to
experience
this
beauty
up
close
and
in
a
personal
way.

 

 47
 
 The
poet
attempts
to
facilitate
an
emotional
and
physical
connection
between
the
youth
and
the
maidens.
He
encourages
the
youth’s
“[b]reathless”
and
“unabated
craving”
(26)
much
as
the
annual
editors
works
to
heighten
the
desires
and
cravings
of
consumers.
The
poem’s
readers
are
on
the
other
hand
encouraged
to
moderate
their
reactions
to
the
pleasures
of
the
literary
marketplace
through
the
work
of
reading
the
poem
and
the
judgment‐making
skills
that
the
poem
cultivates
in
them.
Although
the
women
in
the
poem
are
“mute”
and
their
subjectivities
restricted
to
the
descriptions
of
the
poet
narrator,
for
example,
and
although
they
“Appear!”
by
obeying
the
poet’s
“command”
(13)
there
is
no
guarantee
that
any
of
them
will
accept
the
youth.
It
isn’t
only
the
youth
and
the
reader
who
have
the
power
to
choose
in
the
poem.
The
role
of
the
women
in
the
poem
comes
down
to
their
making
a
choice
independent
of
the
authority
of
the
poet.
Wordsworth
suggests
that
it
is
this
independence
of
choice
that
the
poem
works
to
develop
in
the
annual
readers.
In
this
way,
once
the
poem
is
released
to
the
fluctuations
of
the
literary
marketplace,
readers
will
be
able
to
engage
the
processes
necessary
to
activate
the
idea
of
value
by
which
the
poem
will
regulate
the
literary
marketplace
itself.

 Choice
and
Wordsworth’s
Literary
Legacy


 Wordsworth
criticism
assumed
that
Wordsworth’s
publication
in
the
 Keepsake
was
a
momentary
weakness
before
the
overwhelming
promises
of
editors
for
fame
and
wealth,
basing
this
assumption
on
the
poet’s
contradictory
representations
of
the
annuals
and
of
his
own
publication
in
the
Keepsake.
For
 

 48
 example,
in
a
letter
to
Jane
and
Dora
Wordsworth
Wordsworth
claims
that
“his
main
inducement
for
closing
with
Mr.
Reynold’s
offer
for
the
Keepsake”
(LY
590)
was
the
substantial
expenses
generated
by
his
brother
John.
Wordsworth’s
earlier
claim
in
a
letter
to
Alan
Cunningham
that
he
only
submitted
to
the
Keepsake
because
he
was
obliged
to
Reynolds
for
providing
him
with
effective
eye‐drops
(LY
584)
as
well
as
his
insistent
request
that
Cunningham
keep
Wordsworth’s
deals
with
the
annuals
out
of
any
public
discussion—he
writes,
“[a]ll…my
natural
feelings
are
against
appearing
before
the
Public
in
this
way”
(LY
593)—also
seems
to
support
an
understanding
of
Wordsworth’s
fundamental
aversion
to
having
his
work
aligned
with
commercial
concerns.


 Peter
Manning
points
out,
however,
that
Wordsworth
was
revitalized
by
his
participation
in
the
Keepsake.
As
Wordsworth
claims
in
a
letter
to
Reynolds,
“I
am
rather
rich,
having
produced
730
verses
during
the
last
month
[November]—after
a
long
fallow”
(LY
692).
Some
of
these
poems,
including
The
Egyptian
Maid,
went
on
to
make
up
the
bulk
of
Yarrow
Revisited,
and
Other
Poems,
while
others,
including
those
submitted
to
the
Keepsake,
were
revised
and
included
in
his
 Collected
Works
of
1845.33

The
literary
marketplace
could
both
inspire
productivity
for
Wordsworth
and
extend
the
longevity
of
his
poems
as
they
moved
through
the
literary
marketplace
in
different
books
and
collections
to
embody
the
Romantic
literary
canon
itself.34
The
choices
that
the
annual
readers
made
in
the
literary
marketplace
would
have
a
lasting
effect
on
Wordsworth’s
literary
legacy.

 “A
Tradition
of
Darley‐Dale,
Derbyshire”
and
“Messimerus”
are
both
poems
about
choices
and
their
lasting
effects.
“A
Tradition”
is
a
sonnet
about
two
 

 49
 brothers
who
separate
from
one
another
to
pursue
their
life’s
“courses”
(6).
Before
they
leave,
the
brothers
climb
a
local
hill
and
“Nor
one
look
more
exchanging,
grief
to
still/Or
feed”
they
each
plant
“A
chosen
tree”
(5).
The
brothers
never
return
either
to
one
another
or
to
the
area
in
which
they
were
born
but
the
tree
stands
as
a
“fond
memorial”
(9)
of
their
lives.


 “A
Tradition”
could
be
interpreted
as
a
story
about
the
loss
of
a
rural
form
of
life
that
has
forced
these
young
men
to
leave.
The
eagerness
with
which
the
brothers
“like
two
newborn
rivers”
and
“in
opposite
directions
urged
their
way/Down
from
the
far‐seen
mount”
(7‐8)
belies
such
an
interpretation.
The
trees
that
they
chose
and
that
they
planted
then
stand
as
a
material
expression
of
their
life
and
their
relationship
as
well
as
their
choice
of
tree
and
life
path.
Although
the
brothers
die
without
seeing
one
another
again
and
are
only
reunited
“in
the
sea/That
to
itself
takes
all‐Eternity”
(13‐14),
the
trees
grow
“[a]nd
now
entwine
their
arms”
(10)
in
a
positive
memorial
of
how
their
lives
and
their
choices
have
affected
the
landscape
over
their
lifetimes
and
after
their
deaths.


 Wordsworth
describes
an
entirely
different
memorial
in
the
sonnet
“A
Gravestone
Upon
the
Floor
in
the
Cloisters
of
Worcester
Cathedral,”
written
after
he
and
Mary
Wordsworth
had
visited
the
Cathedral
(Curtis,
Last
Poems
436).
The
sonnet
begins
with
the
word
“Messerimus!”
engraved
on
a
real
gravestone
in
the
walkway
of
Worcester
Cathedral.
The
word
and
its
negative
meaning
are
described
as
standing
“to
separate/From
all”
(4‐5)
the
person
“who
lies
beneath”
(6)
both
in
death
and,
it
is
implied
by
both
the
epitaph
and
the
poem,
in
life.
Like
the
brothers
in
“A
Tradition,”
however,
this
isn’t
a
fate
or
a
memorializing
imposed
 

 50
 by
others.
Only
the
one
buried
underneath
the
stone
“[c]ould
thus
have
dared”
to
chosen
such
a
terrible
epitaph
and
unfortunate
“burial
place”
so
close
to
the
“cloistral
steps”
that
“ever
foot
might
fall
with
heavier
tread,/Tramping
upon
his
vileness”
(12‐13).
Although
this
monument
to
the
life
of
the
“wretched
One”
who
lies
beneath
is
negative
in
its
connotations
it
is
also
a
positive
manifestation
of
the
dead
man’s
own
choices.
He
both
chooses
how
he
is
remembered
and
controls
how
others
receive‐‐“with
heavier
tread”‐‐his
legacy.

 The
legacy
of
literary
work
that
Wordsworth
builds
in
the
Keepsake
attempts
to
cultivate
the
pleasure
of
the
marketplace
and
the
desires
of
his
readers
through
the
work
involved
in
making
good
choices.
Pleasure,
however,
can
play
a
passive
as
well
as
an
active
role
in
readers’
experience
of
Wordsworth’s
poems
in
the
Keepsake.
“The
Wishing
Gate,
”
for
example,
as
a
poem
and
as
a
real
gate
in
“the
vale
of
Grasmere,”
acts
as
a
sanctuary
for
the
solitary
reader
in
the
middle
of
the
Keepsake.
In
“The
Wishing
Gate,”
the
wishing
gate
and
the
land
around
it,
an
area
often
visited
by
the
Wordsworths
between
Rydal
and
Grasmere
“also
known
to
the
Wordsworth
as
‘Sara’s
gate’”
(Curtis,
Last
Poems
437),
materialize
what
Wordsworth
depicts
as
poetry’s
timeless
and
universal
role
as
a
space
of
hope,
imagining
and
restitution.
The
pleasures
offered
by
“the
land
of
Wishes”
are
mired
in
the
superstitious
thinking
of
the
past.
They
endure,
however,
even
after
“magic
lore”
has
“abjured
its
might”
(13)
and
the
rational,
scientific
thinking
of
the
modern
age
has
gained
dominance.
If
these
“superstitions
of
the
 heart”
no
longer
played
a
part
in
our
experience
and
representation
of
the
world
“[h]ow
poor,
were
human
life!”
(12).

 

 51
 
 The
poem
draws
the
reader
into
its
pages
in
order
to
receive
their
“Wishes”
(7)
and
“Desires”
(41)
just
as
the
wishing
gate
entices
“even
the
stranger”
to
recline
on
the
nearby
grass
and
hope
and
dream
of
“his
Belov’d”
(36).
The
pleasures
it
offers
are
infectious—“The
infection
of
the
ground
partakes”
(34)—and
infuse
every
reader
and
person
who
enters
its
landscape.
Even
though
these
pleasures
are
ultimately
unproductive
in
terms
of
the
rapid
pace
and
“turmoil”
(56)
of
modern
life
they
are
vital
to
the
emotional
and
intellectual
vitality
of
the
reader.


 In
a
reflective
response
to
disparaging
criticisms
of
modern
poetry
and
other
forms
of
literary
publication
such
as
the
Keepsake
as
overly
concerned
with
pleasure,
Wordsworth
defends
pleasure
as
a
positive
channel
for
the
reader
to
access
their
deeper
desires
and
thoughts.
“[W]hy,”
Wordsworth
asks,
“should
conscious
spirits
fear/The
mystic
stirring
that
are
here,/The
ancient
faith
disclaim”
(37‐39)
or
“scorn”
those
who
if
“by
ceaseless
pains
outworn,/Here
crave
an
easier
lot;/If
some
have
thirsted
to
renew/A
broken
vow,
or
bind
a
true/With
firmer,
holier
knot”
(43‐48).
The
wishing
gate
and
“The
Wishing
Gate”
act
as
a
neutral
space
in
which
people
can
share
and
be
bound
together
by
their
desires,
emotions
and
thoughts
as
well
as
the
act
of
reading.
The
“conscious”
and
educated
reader
of
the
Keepsake
can
participate
in
these
pleasures
without
fear
because,
Wordsworth
assures
them,
“[t]he
local
Genius”
of
the
space,
“ne’er
befriends/Desires
whose
course
in
folly
ends,/Whose
just
reward
is
shame”
(40‐42).

 

 52
 In
“The
Wishing
Gate”
Wordsworth
articulates
choice
as
a
labour
that
engages
the
pleasures
of
the
popular
literary
marketplace.

This
choice
is
manifested
in
the
Keepsake
and
the
restorative
qualities
of
Wordsworth’s
poems.
Readers
are
given
permission
to
explore
their
own
desires
and
to
experience
the
imaginative
and
material
pleasures
offered
by
the
poem
and
in
exchange
situate
Wordsworth
and
his
poem’s
modeling
of
value
as
the
organizing
centre
of
the
literary
marketplace.













 





 

 53
 Chapter
Two
 Sensory
Exchange
and
Debt
in
Scott’s
Keepsake
Stories35
 

 
The
premise
of
this
chapter
is
that
Scott’s
publication
in
the
Keepsake
is
a
part
of
his
experiments
with
technologies
of
representation
already
available
in
the
literary
marketplace.
These
experiments
include
the
alignment
of
different
kinds
of
print
and
multiple
sensory
modalities
in
both
the
production
and
consumption
of
writing.
The
ways
in
which
the
Keepsake
interfaced
forms
of
writing
and
illustration
with
the
tactile
qualities
of
silk
and
embossed
leather
created
the
ideal
venue
for
the
expression
of
what
I
call
Scott’s
multisensory
writing;
that
is,
Scott
uses
the
annual
to
experiment
with
the
potential
of
print
to
support
a
multimodal
process
of
reading
and
writing
that
incorporates
a
range
of
sensory
stimulations.
I
also
argue
that
the
idea
of
literary
value
that
Scott
explores
through
this
multisensory
writing
is
developed
in
relation
to
the
Keepsake’s
very
particular
economic
and
artistic
circulations.36
In
other
words,
this
chapter
approaches
Scott’s
multisensory
Keepsake
stories
as
embracing
the
economic
and
technological
forces
that
influenced
their
creation.
In
particular,
I
suggest
that
Scott,
his
stories
in
the
Keepsake
and
their
readers
are
bound
by
a
virtual
exchange
of
investment
and
return,
debt
and
repayment
that
is
facilitated
through
the
stories
and
instantiated
by
the
annual.
These
are
investments
of
intellectual
and
creative
labour
that
will
fulfill
the
demands
of
both
the
literary
marketplace
and
the
writings
themselves.
The
experimental
literary
community
and
practice
that
I
see
Scott
gathering
through
the
virtual
exchanges
enabled
by
the
annual
and
the
multiple
modalities
of
his
 

 54
 Keepsake
stories
is
drawn
from
the
popular
marketplace
and
its
more
sensational,
tendencies
but
works
to
ensure
the
centrality
of
literature
as
the
embodiment
of
value
in
the
cultural
life
of
Britain.37

In
this
way,
Scott
reflects
Wordsworth’s
incorporation
of
readers
and
the
pleasures
of
commerce
into
the
poetic
processes
(of
work
and
choice)
by
which
he
hopes
to
establish
his
poetry
as
a
stable
model
of
value
in
a
volatile
literary
marketplace.
Whereas
Wordsworth’s
poems
in
the
Keepsake
engage
in
a
kind
of
poetic
disciplining
of
his
readers,
however,
Scott’s
emphasize
the
mutual
engagements
of
writers
and
readers
in
the
production
and
consumption
of
writing
and
of
value.
Scott’s
stories
work
to
stimulate
the
physical
and
cognitive
responses
of
annual
readers
through
a
writing
that
is
distinguished
from
other
kinds
of
print
in
that
it
requires
an
intellectual
processing
of
sensory
stimulation.
These
definitions
of
literature
and
literary
value
are
regulated
by
the
collaboration
between
the
aesthetic
of
the
annual
and
the
commercial,
credit
economy
in
which
Scott
was
immersed.

 













 As
Caroline
McCracken‐Flesher
points
out,
Scott
knew
that
these
were
dangerous
speculations
that
could
ultimately
lead
to
his
devaluation
(65).
I
argue
that
Scott
answered
this
risk
by
positioning
himself
as
a
model
of
the
author
and
publisher
best
able
to
manage
the
collaboration
above.
To
do
so,
Scott
maintained
an
active
participation
in
all
levels
of
the
literary
production
process.
This
made
it
possible
for
Scott
to
experiment
with
different
forms
of
writing
as
well
as
saturate
the
available
literary
markets
from
the
most
popular
to
the
most
exclusive.
It
is
through
the
Keepsake,
however,
that
Scott
completes
the
model
of
a
reading
 

 55
 community
and
mode
of
reading
that
were
receptive
to
the
innovations
of
the
marketplace
and
that
would
ultimately
shape
the
marketplace
according
to
their
own
values
and
desires.
The
receptivity
that
was
key
to
the
effectiveness
and
the
longevity
of
this
reading
community
and
its
literary
practices
depended
upon
the
openness
of
Scott’s
writings
to
a
range
of
readers
and
their
different
engagements
with
texts.
Scott’s
enthusiastic
participation
in
the
production
of
good
quality
but
cheap
editions
of
his
work,
such
as
the
illustrated
Magnum
Opus
editions
of
his
Waverley
novels,
as
well
as
his
staggering
ability
to
produce
publishable
work
in
short
periods
of
time
is,
I
argue,
a
part
of
his
continued
engagement
with
the
popular
literary
marketplace
and
its
readers
as
a
site
of
value.


 The
opportunities
of
Scott’s
multisensory
writing
also
included
a
freedom
from
that
which
Scott
portrays
in
his
Keepsake
publications
as
the
limitation
of
writing
and
its
effects
to
the
page.
Katherine
Sutherland
argues
that
Scott
turned
to
the
affective
“primitivity”
of
music
and
poetry
to
escape
the
clinical
modernization
of
literature.
According
to
this
argument,
Scott
was
concerned
that
“the
restricted
(and
written)
language
of
prose
loses
in
passion
and
social
cohesion
what
it
gains
in
reason
and
specialized
precision”(Sutherland,
“Fictional
Economies:
Adam
Smith,
Walter
Scott
and
the
Nineteenth‐Century
Novel”
121).
Although
my
reading
of
Scott
as
a
self‐consciously
modern
writer
is
at
odds
with
Sutherland’s
description
of
a
historical
Scott,
her
argument
is
helpful
in
understanding
why
Scott
was
drawn
to
multisensory
writing
and
why
he
would
use
his
multisensory,
popular
publications
to
define
his
career.
By
tracing
Scott’s
blending
of
the
oral,
the
visual
and
the
written
in
terms
of
the
form
and
content
of
 

 56
 his
stories
in
the
Keepsake,
this
chapter
will
explore
the
significance
of
Scott’s
definition
of
literature
and
his
establishment
of
literary
value
as
a
multisensory
process.
 
 The
Keepsake
and
the
Magnum
Opus:
Experimental
Reading
Communities

 I
argue
that
it
is
through
the
openness
of
his
multisensory
writing
that
Scott
creates
a
different
kind
of
hierarchy
than
one
based
on
a
classed
segregation
of
the
literary
marketplace.38
Accessing
Scott’s
publications,
for
example,
would
have
required
a
basic
reading
education.
Although
Scott
would
have
been
able
to
depend
upon
a
fairly
large
number
of
skilled
readers,
there
was
another
large
group
of
non‐readers
who
would
have
known
his
poems,
stories
and
novels
through
recitation
or
annotated
and
illustrated
chapbooks.39
Most
important
to
Scott’s
multisensory
writing,
then,
was
not
so
much
the
ability
to
read
as
the
ability
to
process
and
interpret
the
diversity
of
print
available
in
the
marketplace
as
well
as
the
new
kinds
of
cultural
events
and
spectacles
in
the
public
sphere.40

Scott
can
be
seen
as
exploring
a
literacy
that
could
capitalize
on
the
creative
and
social
possibilities
of
his
multimodal
writing
in
the
service
of
literary
value.
Scott
further
develops
this
multisensory
literacy
or
reading
practice
in
the
Magnum
Opus
edition
of
his
Waverly
novels.
The
following
section
reads
Scott’s
Keepsake
writings
in
relation
to
the
illustrated
and
extensively
annotated
Magnum
Opus.


 I
want
to
propose
that
Scott’s
consistent
engagements
with
the
literary
marketplace
are
related
to
his
just
as
consistent
experimentation
with
the
multimodal
potential
of
writing
and
print.
Scott
constructed
his
career
through
 

 57
 lucrative
literary
speculations
and
risky
experimentations
with
print
that
led
to
his
firmly
established
celebrity
as
a
Scottish
man
of
letters.41
When
Robert
Cadell
convinced
Scott
to
republish
and
remarket
the
Waverley
novels
in
a
cheaply
priced
but
lavishly
illustrated
edition,
the
results
not
only
made
the
Waverley
novels
more
accessible
for
the
average
consumer
but
also
encouraged
the
same
kind
of
sensory
interactions
and
virtual
sociabilities
as
the
Keepsake.
The
added
annotations
also
invited
an
intellectual
work
that
would
more
closely
meet
the
literacy
that
Scott
introduces
in
his
Keepsake
publications.


 The
Magnum
differed
in
form
and
price
from
Scott’s
previous
novel
length
publications.
Its
volumes
were
to
be
issued
on
a
monthly
basis
from
1829‐1831
and
sold
at
vastly
below
the
cost
of
previous
novel‐length
publications.42

As
Jane
Millgate
observes,
Robert
Cadell’s
five
shilling
editions
of
Scott’s
novels
created
a
situation
in
which
“ordinary
readers
could
hope
to
become
owners
of
their
own
sets
of
the
Waverley
novels”
(2).
Ian
Duncan’s
argument
that
to
purchase
a
Waverley
novel
was
to
purchase
one’s
historical
identity
in
the
British
nation
is
particularly
relevant
here.
According
to
Duncan,
in
Scott’s
novels
"historical
being
can
only
be
rationally
possessed,
recognized
as
romance‐‐as
a
private
aesthetic
property,
in
the
imagination,
materially
signified
by
the
book
we
are
holding"
(Duncan,
Modern
Romance
61).
This
claim
can
be
extended
to
include
not
only
the
content
of
the
Waverley
novels
but
also
the
multisensory
aspects
of
their
manifestation
in
the
Magnum
edition.
The
Magnum’s
saturation
of
the
literary
marketplace
worked
to
position
Scott’s
definition
of
literary
value
in
the
void
opened
by
the
decline
of
the
landed
aristocracy
and
primogeniture.

 

 58
 
 We
must
ask
if
and
how
these
publications
differ
from
the
similarly‐
oriented
and‐marketed
Keepsake.
Like
the
Magnum
editions,
the
annuals
manipulated
a
desire
for
novelty
by
focusing
on
the
visuality
as
well
as
the
originality
of
their
literary
contributions.43

At
thirteen
shillings
or
two
pounds,
twelve
shillings,
the
Keepsake
was
more
expensive
than
a
Magnum
edition
and,
as
a
gift‐book
and
commodity,
involved
a
very
public
economic
and
social
exchange.
Reader
reception
and
use
of
Scott’s
illustrated,
multisensory
writings
is
difficult
to
document.
Scott’s
emphasis
on
both
the
private
and
public
circulation
of
stories
in
his
Keepsake
writing,
however,
indicate
that
he
encouraged
a
range
of
reading
practices
that
included
performing
or
reading
aloud
in
the
family
home
as
well
as
the
attendance
of
public
cultural
events.
Scott
encouraged
this
kind
of
function
for
the
Magnum
as
well.
Although
the
Keepsake’s
sales
were
less
than
the
thirty‐to
thirty‐five‐thousand‐a‐month
sales
of
each
Magnum
volume,
they
still
sold
over
15,000
copies
on
their
first
run.
The
Keepsake
was
clearly
a
part
of
the
same
marketing
and
publishing
stream
as
the
Magnum.










 Both
the
Keepsake
and
the
Magnum
were
published
to
make
money,
but
the
authority
and
position
that
Scott
worked
to
establish
as
a
novelist
and
public
figure
as
well
as
the
tone
and
direction
of
the
Magnum’s
annotations
are
at
once
strengthened
by
and
lend
legitimacy
to
his
collected
novels
in
ways
that
the
 Keepsake
and
its
unconnected
bits
and
pieces
of
writing
and
illustrations
could
only
recreate
through
an
aura
of
aristocratic
exclusivity.
According
to
Millgate,
Scott’s
hands‐on
annotation
and
organization
of
the
Magnum
Opus
“was
implicitly
assigning
to
fiction
a
status
previously
reserved
for
poetry
and
drama,
and
to
the
 

 59
 productions
of
a
living
author
a
treatment
normally
accorded
only
to
the
achievements
of
the
great
masters
of
the
past”
(vii).

Scott
thus
created
a
pre‐emptive
distinction
between
his
participation
in
the
literary
annuals
and
his
publication
of
the
Magnum.
In
so
doing,
he
generated
a
difference
in
value
between
his
own
multisensory
writing
and
the
annual
as
a
whole.
Nevertheless,
the
content
of
the
Magnum
consisted
of
illustrated
novels
and
tales,
intensively
revised
and
annotated
by
the
author
himself.
The
annual
was
made
up
of
a
collection
of
unconnected
short
stories,
poems,
essays
and
illustrations
over
which
the
editor
and
not
the
author
had
control.
Scott’s
own
critical
assessment
of
the
annuals
were
that
their
prints
were
“beyond
comparaison
beautiful”
but
that
the
“letterpress
[w]as
indifferent
enough”
(Journal
421)
as
opposed,
we
can
assume,
to
those
works
over
which
he
had
authorial
and
editorial
control.44

In
his
January,
30th
1828
journal
entry,
Scott
also
describes
a
visit
from
Heath
and
Reynolds.
Their
object,
Scott
explains,
was
to
offer
him
an
eight‐
hundred‐pound‐a‐year
position
as
contributing
editor
of
the
Keepsake
literary
annual
and
a
four‐hundred‐pound‐a‐year
salary
if
he
submitted
seventy
to
one
hundred
pages
of
text.
According
to
Scott,
however,
“to
become
a
stipendiary
Editor
of
a
Newsyear
gift‐book
is
not
to
be
thought
of,
nor
could
I
agree
to
work
for
any
quantity
of
supply
to
such
a
publication”
(Scott,
Journal
421,
emphasis
added).
Scott’s
tone
suggests
that
the
annuals
were
of
a
different
class
of
publication
than
his
own
work,
and
he
supplements
this
suggestion
with
a
calculation.
The
profit
offered
by
the
annuals,
in
terms
of
economics
and
cultural
 

 60
 capital,
is
considerably
less
than
what
he
could
accrue
in
publishing
a
novel.
I
suggest
that
Scott
distances
himself
from
the
figure
of
the
annual
editor
and
draws
a
line
between
his
own
literary
activities
and
those
of
Reynolds
and
Heath
in
a
move
to
ensure
the
continued
success
of
his
unique
embodiment
of
value.

 Although
Scott
worked
to
portray
himself
as
an
antiquarian,
collector
and
recorder
of
the
past,
his
multisensory
writings
provide
evidence
that
Scott
was
just
as
invested
in
the
shaping
of
a
modern
culture
as
the
Keepsake’s
editors.
I
claim
that
Scott’s
Keepsake
stories
actually
worked
to
prepare
the
precedent
for
the
Magnum
and
the
edition’s
desired
effects.
According
to
McCracken‐Flesher,
one
of
these
desired
effects
was
the
openness
that
multimodal
writing
created
between
Scott
and
his
readers
(Possible
Scotlands:
Walter
Scott
and
the
Story
of
 Tomorrow
181‐184).
It
is
through
this
writing
that
Scott
establishes
an
entirely
modern
literary
aesthetic
and
value.


 Investments
and
Returns:
Models
of
Exchange 

 In
this
section
I
will
build
upon
my
suggestion
in
the
introduction
that
Scott’s
experiments
with
definitions
of
value
in
his
multisensory
writings
are
connected
to
his
exploration
of
economic
exchange,
such
as
debt
and
return,
as
a
mode
of
community
formation.
The
aesthetic
embodied
by
the
Keepsake
in
particular
is
created
out
of
disparate
pieces
of
writing,
print
and
illustration
that
model
the
circuit
of
exchange,
debt
and
obligation
between
the
author
and
reader
and
text
Scott
strives
for
in
his
multimodal
writings.
The
fragmentary
nature
of
the
form
and
content
of
both
the
Keepsake
and
Scott’s
Keepsake
stories
is
able
to
 

 61
 recreate
and
then
continually
disturb
and
break
open
this
circuit
so
that
it
can
be
reset
in
new
contexts
and
situations.
Scott’s
stories
in
the
Keepsake
reveal
a
fascination
with
how
the
exchanges
created
by
multisensory
writing
mirror
those
of
debt
and
credit
in
the
configuration
of
a
new
reading
community.

According
to
Yoon
Sun
Lee,
for
example,
Scott’s
conceptualization
of
“the
Nation”
in
his
historical
novels
is
one
of
sociability
generated
by
debt
and
sympathy.
Scott
represents
communities
that
are
bound
together
by
a
continual
accumulation
and
multiplication,
partial
payment
and
collection
of
debts.
Lee
argues
that
Scott
“describes
his
relationship
with
the
reader
as
the
payment
of
a
debt.
But
rather
than
paying
it
off
as
efficiently
as
possible,
Scott
defers
and
draws
attention
to
his
tardy,
incomplete
payment”(237).
If
we
extend
this
argument
to
the
terms
of
Scott’s
Keepsake
publications,
literature
and
its
readers
are
a
part
of
a
system
of
investment,
credit
and
repayment
that
represents
itself
in
the
terms
of
a
gift
economy.
This
is
an
economy
that
can
continually
adapt
itself
to
the
changing
dynamics
of
debt,
of
giving
and
receiving.













 To
further
develop
this
reading
of
debt
and
community
in
Scott’s
multisensory
writings
we
must
turn
to
Scott’s
identification
of
the
link
between
the
domestic
debts
that
he
has
accumulated
over
the
Christmas
holiday
season
and
his
contribution
to
the
Keepsake.
This
link
exemplifies
what
Scott
configured
as
a
cycle
of
private
making
and
spending
and
public
credit
and
debt
on
the
level
of
both
economics
and
his
own
relationship
with
his
readers.
Scott
didn’t
want
to
become
indebted
to
the
annual’s
editors
but
he
did
frame
his
eventual
agreement
with
Heath
and
Reynolds
with
the
claim
that
he
would
consider
gifting
them
“a
 

 62
 trifle
for
nothing”
(Journal
421).
Even
though
he
decided
to
“sell
them
an
article
[or
five]
for
a
round
price”
(Journal
421),
he
modeled
the
exchange
on
the
type
of
gift
giving
used
in
the
marketing
of
the
annual.
A
cycle
of
indebtedness
and
repayment
was
designed
to
bind
Scott
both
to
the
annual
and
to
its
readers
as
well
as
to
create
value
out
of
their
investment
of
time,
money
and
intellectual
energy.

 Scott’s
calculation
of
the
profits
from
the
imaginative
energy
and
effort
invested
in
his
multisensory
writings
is
not
only
configured
in
monetary
terms,
such
as
the
end
cost
of
the
publication
or
its
economic
return,
but
upon
his
sense
of
accomplishment
and,
most
importantly,
his
success
in
pleasing
the
public.
Before
he
agrees
to
contribute
to
the
Keepsake,
for
example,
Scott
reflects
on
his
recently
written
Chronicles
of
the
Canongate
and
the
state
of
his
own
value
in
the
marketplace.
He
writes:
The
1st
Volume
of
the
Chronicles
is
now
in
Ballantyne’s
hands
all
but
a
leaf
or
two.
Am
I
satisfied
with
my
exertions?—So
so—Will
the
public
be
pleased
with
them?
Umph.
I
doubt
the
bubble
will
burst.
While
it
is
current
however
it
is
clear
I
should
stand
by
it
(Journal
421).
Scott
seems
to
be
making
what
Kathryn
Sutherland
describes
as
a
conflation
of
“the
artistic
process
with
the
production
process”
and
so
an
equation
of
“the
labour
investment
of
the
imagination
with
the
economic
value
of
the
produced
commodity”
(“Fictional
Economies”
101).
Scott
identifies
the
power
of
the
reading
public
over
the
success
or
failure
of
his
literary
career
and
emphasizes
the
exchanges
between
author
and
reader
in
the
production
of
literary
value.
 

 63
 Although
Scott
acknowledges
his
vulnerability
before
the
public
in
this
diverse
field
he
also
displays
a
confidence
not
only
in
his
ability
to
influence
the
opinions
of
his
readers
but
also
in
their
ability
to
discern
whether
what
he
gives
them
is
good
enough.
He
indicates
a
belief
that
the
quality
of
his
exertions
will
have
a
direct
effect
on
the
quality
of
the
public’s
reception
and
so
on
the
quality
of
the
work’s
critical
and
economic
success.
He
will
unconditionally
“stand
by”
the
work
and
assert
his
paternal
authority
throughout
the
work’s
production,
distribution
and
reception
despite
his
reservations
about
his
“So,
so”
creative
investment
and
the
possible
“Umph”
of
the
reading
public.45

 According
to
Scott
scholars
such
as
John
Sutherland
and
Jane
Millgate,
debt
not
only
inspired
a
whole
new
level
of
creativity
and
productivity
for
the
writer
but
also
produced
a
confidence
in
his
own
ability
to
generate
a
literary
value
that
will,
in
McCracken‐Flesher’s
terms,
be
both
responsive
to
the
future
and
moderate
its
direction
(Possible
Scotlands
61‐113).46
The
economic
crisis
of
1825
that
sent
Scott’s
estate
into
insolvency
and
set
his
resolve
to
write
and
publish
himself
out
of
debt
has
been
well
documented
and
analyzed
(Sutherland,
The
Life
of
Walter
 Scott:
A
Critical
Biography;
Millgate,
Scott’s
Last
Edition:
A
Study
in
Publishing
 History).
Scott’s
own
portrayal
of
his
publication
in
the
highly
successful
Keepsake
literary
annual
as
an
opportunity
to
“settle
the
few
accompts
which,
will
I
nill
I,
have
crept
in
upon
this
new
year”
(Journal
421‐22)
is
just
one
of
the
many
references
to
debt
and
its
consequences
that
saturates
Scott’s
writings
from
the
1820s.
Scott’s
suggestion
that
he
would
never
“agree
to
work
for
any
quantity
of
supply
to
such
a
publication”
(Journal
421)
as
the
Keepsake
is
complicated
by
the
 

 64
 fact
that
he
actually
did
contribute
a
“quantity
of
supply”
and
original
work
to
the
annual
and
that
he
embraced
his
encounters
with
the
popular
marketplace
through
the
annual.
It
is
through
the
Keepsake,
after
all,
that
Scott
was
able
to
publish
his
writings
without
being
financially
responsible
for
their
success
or
failure.
The
annual
also
allowed
Scott
to
write
outside
of
the
expectations
and
demands
of
his
large
estate
and
to
explore
the
level
of
debt
and
return
that
he
had
the
potential
to
generate
with
readers.








 The
reluctance
that
Scott
displays
in
his
exchanges
with
the
Keepsake
editors
seems
to
be
rooted
in
an
awareness
that
his
economic
and
cultural
profit
in
the
annual
is
the
direct
result
of
his
obligations
to
a
third
party
that
is
not
his
reader.
Like
Wordsworth,
Scott
struggles
to
maintain
some
control
over
his
works
and
to
enforce
his
literary
authority
as
he
conducts
trade
with
Heath
and
Reynolds.
Also
like
Wordsworth,
he
explores
and
transforms
definitions
of
literary
value
in
the
process.
After
revising
the
terms
of
their
contract
so
that
it
was
made
clear
that
the
editors
were
indebted
to
Scott
for
entertaining
their
proposal,
Scott
agreed
to
give
the
editors
one
hundred
pages
of
“some
trifling
thing
or
other”
(Journal
421)
in
exchange
for
five
hundred
pounds.
Scott
also
insisted
that
the
copyright
devolve
to
him
after
three
years
and
that
he
would
have
the
final
say
in
how
the
pieces
were
handled.
This
agreement
was
forged
during
three
days
of
Scott’s
baiting
and
evading
of
the
two
literary
speculators,
after
which
Scott
appeared
to
be
impressed
with
the
persistence
and
business‐like
ingenuity
of
the
pair.
47
The
“trifling
thing
or
other”
that
Scott
promised
Heath
and
Reynolds
came
to
include
two
stories
ejected
by
Robert
Cadell
from
the
Chronicles
of
the
 

 65
 Canongate
series
that
Scott
considered
to
be
good,
“My
Aunt
Margaret’s
Mirror”
and
“The
Tapestried
Chamber”,
as
well
as
the
“Description”
described
above
and
two
original
“sketches”
of
“Scottish
stories
for
subjects
of
art”
(Journal
442)
titled
“The
Death
of
the
Laird’s
Jock”
and
“A
Highland
Anecdote”
(1832).12
Scott
includes
the
dramatic
piece
The
House
of
Aspen:
A
Tragedy
(1830)
after
Heath
continues
to
badger
Scott
for
the
required
number
of
pages
to
fulfill
the
deal.


 In
both
the
negotiations
around
his
submissions
and
the
works
themselves,
Scott’s
publication
in
the
Keepsake
forces
himself
and
his
readers
to
look
at
the
effects
that
their
engagements
with
different
print
forms
have
on
their
subjectivities
and
literary
practices.
This
claim
takes
on
a
particular
significance
when
we
look
at
the
origins
of
“My
Aunt
Margaret’s
Mirror”
and
“The
Tapestried
Chamber”
in
the
Chronicles
of
the
Canongate
series.
I
turn
to
this
collection
to
understand
Scott’s
configuration
of
literary
value
out
of
the
exchanges
of
debt
and
the
sensory
experiencing
of
print.

 Debt
and
the
Chronicles






 The
debt
that
forces
Scott’s
hand
in
his
writings
and
publications
after
1825
results
in
worthwhile
and
genuine
offerings
to
the
public.
Included
in
these
offerings
is
the
tale
of
Chrystal
Croftangry,
the
framing
narrative
intended
for
“Mirror”
and
“Chamber.”
Croftangry’s
story
articulates
a
connection
between
debt
and
multisensory
writing
as
a
redefinition
of
a
modern
literary
value
that
is
more
fully
developed
in
the
Keepsake
and
then
in
the
Magnum.
Scott’s
Keepsake
stories
and
essays
build
upon
the
Croftangry
narrative
to
play
out
the
possibilities
of
 

 66
 multisensory
writing
and
the
giving
and
receiving
it
involves
on
an
intellectual
and
emotional
level
and
one
that
involves
the
imagination
and
the
economic
arena.
In
this
way,
Scott’s
multisensory
writing
models
a
visionary
and
radical
Romanticism
that
I
argue
in
my
dissertation
introduction
is
a
part
of
the
Keepsake.
Scott
plays
out
the
potential
of
this
Romanticism
in
his
multisensory
writings
and
also
its
dangers
if
not
controlled
or
confined
within
hierarchies
of
value.


 Neither
Robert
Cadell
nor
James
Ballantyne
liked
“Mirror”
and
“Chamber”
and
they
encouraged
Scott
to
include
a
short
novel
in
the
Chronicles
instead.48
Heath
and
Reynolds’
offer
created
an
opportunity
for
Scott
to
make
money
from
the
stories
as
well
as
to
rework
and
reframe
them
within
a
publication
that
could
sustain
their
explorations
of
literary
form
and
value.
Scott
depicts
his
“converting
the
Tale
of
the
Mysterious
Mirror
into
‘Aunt
Margaret’s
Mirror’”
as
an
amusement
that
will
serve
to
unload
“goods”
that
he
cannot
“afford
to
have…thrown
back
upon…[his]
hands”
(Journal
457).
Instead
of
reclaiming
the
obligation
of
the
stories,
Scott
uses
them
to
pay
off
more
debts
and
so
makes
good
on
his
investment.
Still,
Scott
claims
that
the
“tale
is
a
good
one
and
is
said
actually
to
have
happened
to
Lady
Primrose,
my
great
grand‐mother
having
attended
her
sister
on
the
occasion”
(Journal
457).
Croftangry
also
mirrors
Scott’s
personal
experiences
and
his
construction
of
the
modern
author.









 Croftangry’s
life
story
begins
with
the
classic
tale
of
a
young
lord
who,
through
a
wild
and
dissipated
life,
drags
his
family
estate
into
debt
and
foreclosure.
Croftangry
is
forced
to
flee
to
the
Holyrood,
Canongate
area
of
Edinburgh,
a
section
of
the
city
retained
as
“an
asylum
from
civil
debt”
(Scott,
 

 67
 Chronicles
15).
Young
Croftangry,
frustrated
and
suffocated
by
his
confinement,
waits
while
his
only
remaining
benefactor,
a
barrister
who
is
aided
by
a
sympathetic
solicitor,
sells
off
the
estate,
disentangles
Croftangry
from
his
debts
and
liberates
him
once
again.
Croftangry
leaves
the
country
and
spends
the
middle
years
of
his
life
conducting
mysterious
overseas
ventures
that
make
him
rich.
On
his
return
home,
Croftangry
finds
his
benefactor
senile
and
unable
to
recognize
or
engage
with
his
old
friend.
Cut
off
from
his
one
meaningful
relationship,
Croftangry
seeks
out
old
friends
and
acquaintances
who
he
finds
have
taken
up
a
range
of
contemporary
interests,
from
reliving
their
youth
and
embarrassing
themselves
in
“public
assemblies”
to
engaging
in
“science
and
letters,”
philosophy
and
“the
fashionable
experiments
of
the
day”
(22).
“Some,”
claims
Croftangry,
“took
to
reading,
and
I
was
one
of
them”
(22).


 Linked
to
this
taking
up
of
reading
is
a
retreat
from
fashionable
society
and
a
turn
to
antiquities
or
a
“study
of
the
olden
times”
(Scott,
Chronicles
22).
Croftangry
claims
that
his
antiquarian
interests
were
sparked
by
the
return
of
remnants
of
his
family
estate‐‐
“the
old
family‐bible.
.
.
two
or
three
other
mouldy
volumes,
a
couple
of
sheep‐skin
bags,
full
of
parchments
and
papers,
whose
appeareance
was
by
no
means
inviting”
(23).
Within
the
volumes
and
parchments
and
papers
is
the
narrative
of
Croftangry’s
grandfather
on
the
history
of
his
family
name
and
estate.
Croftangry
is
left
feeling
guilty
and
ashamed
at
having
been
the
medium
through
whom
his
family
line
and
its
ties
to
the
land
were
lost.
Croftangry’s
interest
in
the
recuperation
of
his
family
history
and
home
is
thus
revived.
Croftangry
attempts
to
repurchase
the
estate.
Upon
visiting
the
area
and
 

 68
 finding
the
occupants
less
than
hospitable
to
the
memory
of
the
young
lord
who
left
them
without
income
and
proper
management,
he
realizes
that
a
life
in
the
country
will
not
fulfill
his
current
interests
and
ambitions.
Instead
of
returning
to
the
path
and
plan
of
his
ancestors,
Croftangry
retraces
his
own
steps
to
the
Canongate
and
settles
there
to
read,
set
up
an
antiquarian
shop
and
to
write.







 Debt
doesn’t
destroy
Croftangry’s
ancestral
past
but
it
does
force
him
to
break
the
lineage
and
to
forge
a
new
future
that
is
distinctly
tied
to
the
literary.
Croftangry
describes
his
particular
suitability
for
literature
in
the
following
terms:
I
am
a
borderer
also
between
two
generations,
and
can
point
out

more
perhaps
than
others
of
those
fading
traces
of
antiquity
which
are
daily
vanishing;
and
I
know
many
a
modern
instance
and
many
an
old
tradition.
(50)


The
writer
is
a
rogue
figure
who
has
the
perspective,
knowledge
and
talent
to
pick
and
choose
the
“traces”
of
the
past
and
the
“modern
instance”
to
create
an
anthology
of
literary
history.
But
not
all
publications
have
an
affinity
for
this
particular
“borderer.”
Croftangry
rejects
the
possibility
of
publishing
a
periodical
because
the
form
is
not
“easily
extended
in
circulation
beyond
the
quarter
in
which
it
was
published”
(52)
and
his
ambition
is
that
his
“compositions,
though
having
their
origin
in
this
Valley
of
Holyrood,
should
not
only
be
extended
into
those
exalted
regions.
.
.
but
also
that
they
should
cross
the
Forth,
astonish
the
Long
Town
of
Kirkaldy,
enchant
the
skippers
and
coalliers
of
the
East
of
Fifth,
venture
even
into
the
classic
arcades
of
St
Andrews,
and
travel
as
much
farther
to
the
north
as
the
breath
of
applause
will
carry
their
sails.
As
for
a
southward
 

 69
 direction,
it
is
not
to
be
hoped
for
in
my
fondest
dreams”
(52).
The
perfect
medium
for
such
an
ambitious
reach
is
the
“compact
book”
whose
advantages
are
like
“the
range
of
a
gun
loaded
with
hail‐shot,
against
that
of
the
same
piece
charged
with
an
equal
weight
of
lead
consolidated
in
a
single
bullet”
(52).
Books
are
better
because
they
can
spread
further.
Instead
of
locating
value
in
a
deeper
infiltration
of
one
reader,
Croftangry
situates
literary
value
in
the
wide
reach
of
his
books
as
well
as
the
expansive,
multisensory
reading
process
necessary
for
his
writings.
There
is
a
richness
to
Croftangry’s
ambition
that
reflects
Scott’s
use
of
the
“compact
book”
and
the
illustrated,
condensed,
cheap,
rapidly
flowing,
flipping,
passing
and
sharing
of
the
writing
forms
he
created
to
reach
every
nook
and
cranny,
hearth
and
study,
shack
and
castle
of
the
British
nation.








 This
reach
and
the
ability
to
entertain
and
influence
his
readers
came
about
in
the
Canongate
through
a
series
of
debts
that
force
the
writer
out
of
the
past.
These
debts
are
repaid
through
the
reciprocal
relationship
between
the
reader
and
author,
as
well
as
the
author
and
those
who
provide
him
with
the
tales
that
make
up
his
book.
Reading
in
the
Canongate
is
itself
privileged
as
the
central
modern
activity,
along
the
lines
of
discoveries
in
science
and
technology,
through
which
the
past
will
be
translated
and
the
future
ensured.
Reading
and
writing
are
equalized
in
Croftangry’s
ironic
description
of
modern
storytelling:

I
am
glad
to
be
a
writer
or
a
reader
in
1826,
but
I
would
be
most
interested
in
reading
or
relating
what
happened
from
a
half
a
century
to
a
century
before.
We
have
the
best
of
it.
Scenes
in
which
 

 70
 our
ancestors
thought
deeply,
acted
fiercely,
and
died
desperately,
are
to
us
tales
to
divert
the
tedium
of
a
winter’s
evening”
(54).

Modern
comforts
and
modern
printing
and
distribution
abilities
turn
the
past
into
stories
that
can
be
told
by
and
enjoyed
by
those
whose
daily
work
is
done
and
who
have
more
leisure
time
than
their
deeply
thinking
and
fiercely
acting
ancestors.
The
relationship
between
the
author
and
the
reader
as
well
as
the
success
of
the
book
depends,
however,
upon
the
reader’s
assessment
of
the
value
of
the
book
that
the
author
has
offered
him.
This
reader
has
the
power
to
“judge
for
himself,
and
proceed,
or
send
back
the
volume
to
the
bookseller,
as
his
own
taste
shall
determine”
(55).
Scott’s
framing
narrative
forces
us
to
look
at
the
ways
in
which
the
effects
of
writing
and
reading
are
limited
by
the
reader’s
power
of
understanding
and
discernment.
He
also
illustrates
how
writing’s
dependence
upon
those
powers
endangers
the
autonomy
and
the
effectiveness
of
the
writer,
unless
they
are
put
to
the
service
of
value.
Even
if
Scott’s
stories
reach
beyond
the
seas,
the
history
they
recreate
can
be
reduced
to
“tales
to
divert”
and
kitsch
in
the
solitary
moment
of
reading.
The
ironic
tone
in
which
Croftangry
writes
this
passage
points
to
both
the
whimsy
of
the
modern
reader
and
Scott’s
intention
to
establish
a
value
and
a
role
for
literature
that
would
both
expand
and
channel
the
reader’s
powers
of
discernment
as
they
look
both
at
the
past
and
into
the
future.

 Multisensory
Writing:
“Death
of
the
Laird’s
Jock”
 
In
Croftangry’s
narrative
as
well
as
his
writings
in
the
Keepsake,
Scott
grapples
with
the
potential
of
new
technologies
of
representation
to
generate
 

 71
 more
dynamic
interactions
between
print
and
writing.
I
will
now
move
to
a
reading
of
what
Scott
called
one
of
his
“literary
sketches,”
in
which
he
transcribes
an
oral
tale
or
illustration,
or
sometimes
both,
into
writing.
It
is
important
to
note
that
many
of
the
stories
and
poems
in
the
Keepsake
were
accompanied
by
illustrations
that
authors
were
given
ahead
of
time
and
asked
to
use
as
the
inspiration
for
their
writings.
Scott,
however,
wrote
“the
Laird’s
Jock”
on
a
request
from
editors
Charles
Heath
and
Frederick
Reynolds
to
“point
out
a
subject
for
the
pencil”
(186).
That
Heath
and
Reynolds
asked
Scott
to
provide
them
with
a
piece
of
writing
from
which
an
artist
could
then
produce
an
illustrated
work
suggests
that
Scott’s
writings
were
recognized
as
being
particularly
receptive
to
other
technologies
of
representation.
Heath
and
Reynold’s
request
also
suggests
that
Scott
was
recognized
as
being
capable
of
not
only
producing
but
also
managing
a
unique
sensory
exchange
between
these
technologies
as
well
as
between
the
annual
and
its
readers.

 For
this
sensory
exchange
to
succeed,
however,
it
had
to
overcome
what
Scott
describes
in
“the
Laird’s
Jock”
as
the
specialization
of
the
senses
and
their
separate
functions
in
the
processing
of
information.
Scott’s
multisensory
writings
work
to
pull
together
already
formed
sensory
modalities
as
well
as
to
generate
more
in
a
process
that
involved
stimulating
the
senses
and
imagination
as
well
as
the
memories
and
desires
required
by
the
act
of
reading.
In
this
way,
Scott
awakens
the
reader
to
their
role
in
a
multisensory
practice
of
reading
and
value.
The
historical
subject
of
“the
Laird’s
Jock,”
is
the
Laird
of
Mangerton
or
John
Armstrong,
who
is
described
as
entrenched
in
the
clan
system
of
Scotland
and
 

 72
 determined
to
create
a
legacy
out
of
his
ideals.
For
the
Laird
these
ideals
include
a
violent
masculinity,
“the
warlike
renown”
of
the
Scottish
clans
materialized
in
his
powerful
body
and
in
his
infamous
two‐handed
sword
(Scott,
“the
Laird’s
Jock”
190‐191).
The
story
that
the
sketch
tells
is
of
a
famous
duel
between
a
skilled
English
swordsman
named
Foster
and
the
Laird’s
son,
the
young
brave
Armstrong.
According
to
Scott’s
telling,
when
the
Englishman
challenges
the
clan
to
send
him
their
best
swordsman
for
a
duel,
the
young
Armstrong
accepts.
The
Laird
is
so
overcome
with
“joy”
at
the
prospect
of
defeating
the
English
that
he
gives
his
son
the
“celebrated”
sword.
The
Laird
does
so
even
though
he
knows
that
his
son
was
“scarce
yet
entitled
by
age
and
experience
to
be
intrusted”
(190)
with
such
a
responsibility.
Although
the
sketch
includes
extensive
detail
on
the
desires
and
emotions
of
the
Laird
both
before
and
after
the
duel,
the
duel
itself
is
swift.
The
young
Armstrong
is
unable
to
manage
the
sword
or
fulfill
the
Laird’s
legacy
and
is
killed
in
one
short
sentence.
“It
is
needless
to
describe
the
struggle,”
writes
Scott,
“the
Scottish
champion
fell”
(191).
The
central
moment
of
the
tale
is
the
Laird’s
reaction
to
the
death
of
son
and
the
defeat
of
the
clan
as
seen
in
the
illustration
by
Henry
Corbould
that
accompanies
the
tale.

 In
Scott’s
multisensory
writings
how
one
reads
has
repercussions
in
terms
of
the
reader’s
memory
and
subjectivity.
In
particular,
Scott
suggests
that
how
we
see,
hear
and
process
information
from
the
past
will
have
significant
effects
on
how
we
shape
the
future.
In
the
introduction
to
“the
Laird’s
Jock,”
Scott
compares
oral
and
visual
communication:

 

 73
 
 
 although
poetry
and
painting
both
address
themselves
to
the
same

object
of
exciting
the
human
imagination,
by
presenting
to
it
pleasing
or
sublime
images
of
ideal
scenes;
yet
the
one
conveying
itself
through
the
ears
to
the
understanding,
and
the
other
applying
itself
only
to
the
eyes,
the
subjects
which
are
best
suited
to
the
bard
or
tale‐teller
are
often
totally
unfit
for
painting,
where
the
artist
must
present
in
a
single
glance
all
that
his
art
has
power
to
tell
us.
(186)
Scott
supplements
this
discussion
of
the
power
of
the
heard
and
the
seen
with
instructions
for
the
story’s
illustrator,
Henry
Corbould,
on
how
to
compose
the
drawing
so
that
the
emotional
response
of
the
Laird
to
his
son’s
death
will
be
highlighted
and
made
“sufficiently
intelligible
at
the
first
glance”
(192).
If
Corbould
still
doesn’t
think
that
the
reader
will
comprehend
“the
nature
of
the
conflict”
Scott
suggests
he
might
include
“the
pennon
of
Saint
George
being
displayed
at
one
end
of
the
lists,
and
that
of
Saint
Andrew
at
the
other”
(192).
In
the
earlier
passage,
the
emotion
of
the
moment
can
be
conveyed
through
the
eye
more
quickly
and
in
a
more
concentrated
form
than
through
the
ear.
Hearing
is
associated
with
the
understanding
and
seeing
with
emotion.
“The
artist,”
claims
Scott,

“can
neither
recapitulate
the
past
nor
intimate
the
future”
(186).
In
other
words,
our
eyes
can
only
grasp,
just
as
the
artist
can
only
convey,
“[t]he
single
 now”
(186).
The
illustration
is
trapped
in
the
static
dimensions
of
the
page,
unlike
the
bard’s
oral
telling
of
the
same
scene.
The
bard
can
extrapolate
from
the
 

 74
 arrested
moment
to
create
an
experience
that
will
meet
the
desires
and
the
understandings
of
his
listeners
across
time.


 This
description
of
the
different
senses
and
their
processing
of
information
calls
attention
to
its
own
contradictions
in
that
reading
and
writing
are
notably
absent.
The
readers
are
left
asking
how
seeing,
including
the
“single
glance”
and
its
subsequent
emotional
reaction,
is
related
to
the
seeing
and
understanding
involved
in
the
writing
and
reading
of
“the
Laird’s
Jock.”
They
are
also
left
asking
how
hearing’s
production
of
understanding
is
related
to
the
silence
of
the
printed
page
and
the
written
tale.
The
answer,
implicit
in
this
passage
and
detailed
in
the
following
literary
sketch
is
a
multisensory
literary
practice
that
liberates
writing
and
print
from
representations
of
the
past
that
limit
their
potential
to
shape
a
modern
sensibility.

 The
literary
sketch
itself
emphasizes
the
physical
and
emotional
responses
of
the
characters
to
one
another
and
the
importance
of
the
senses,
particularly
seeing
and
hearing,
for
communicating
emotional
experience
and
for
the
processing
of
the
present
in
relation
to
the
past
(191).
The
Laird,
for
example,
insists
on
attending
the
duel,
despite
his
age
and
ill
health,
and
presents
himself
to
the
Scottish
and
British
soldiers
who
provide
the
“list”
or
ringed
barrier
for
the
space
within
which
the
duel
will
take
place.
All
eyes
turn
to
the
Laird
as
he
sits
swathed
in
blankets
on
the
rock
that
overlooks
the
scene
just
as
the
reader’s
eyes
are
drawn
to
the
image
of
the
Laird
in
the
illustration.
The
visual
image
of
the
Laird’s
shrunken
and
“wasted
frame”
doesn’t
match
“the
paragon
of
strength
and
manly
beauty”
that
the
old
men
remember.
For
the
new
generation
of
Scottish
 

 75
 youth,
the
Laird
is
a
living
monument
of
the
past.
They
“gazed
on
his
[the
Laird’s]
large
form
and
powerful
make,
as
upon
some
antediluvian
giant
who
had
survived
the
destruction
of
the
deluge”
(191).


 It
is
sound
that
draws
the
soldiers
and
other
spectators,
including
the
reader,
back
from
the
figure
of
the
Laird
and
a
contemplation
of
the
past
to
the
present
moment—“the
sound
of
trumpets
on
both
sides
recalled
the
attention
of
every
one
to
the
lists”
(191).
It
is
also
sound
that
then
breaks
the
bounds
of
time
and
space
as
well
as
human
emotion
and
expression.
When
his
son
falls
Armstrong
“uttered
a
cry
of
indignation,
horror,
and
despair,
which
tradition
says,
was
heard
to
a
preternatural
distance,
and
resembled
the
cry
of
a
dying
lion
more
than
a
human
sound”
(191).
In
the
terms
set
out
by
Scott
in
the
story’s
introduction,
this
sound
will
also
extend
a
preternatural
distance
out
of
the
printed
page
into
the
reader’s
understanding.
The
knowledge
produced
through
the
combined
processes
of
reading
the
tale
and
of
looking
at
the
illustration
will
manage
this
extension.
Just
as
there
is
a
schism
between
memory
and
reality,
past
and
present
in
the
Scottish
soldiers
and
citizens
seeing
the
Laird,
there
is
a
disjunction
between
the
information
that
the
Laird’s
cry
as
well
as
the
illustration
and
written
story
convey
to
the
reader.
This
disjunction
creates
an
ambiguity
around
the
message
of
the
piece
as
a
whole
that
requires
sensory
work
on
the
part
of
the
reader
to
resolve.


 The
illustration,
combined
with
the
accompanying
“explanation,
that
the
piece
represented
a
soldier
beholding
his
son
slain,
and
the
honour
of
his
country
lost”
(192),
will
guide
the
viewers
to
the
conclusion
that
they
are
witnessing
a
 

 76
 poignant
scene
of
Scotland’s
loss
at
the
hands
of
the
English.
The
written
story,
however,
emphasizes
the
Laird’s
obsession
with
military
honour
and
violence
and
links
it
to
a
pattern
of
paternal
abuse
and
misuse
of
authority.
Although
the
Laird
is
described
as
dying
of
heartbreak
three
days
after
the
event,
it
becomes
clear
only
through
the
combined
reading
of
the
story,
studying
of
the
dramatic
illustration
and
hearing
of
the
Laird
that
the
passion
conveyed
in
the
single
moment
of
the
illustration
is
the
despair
of
a
man
“who
saw
his
country
dishonoured,
and
his
sword,
long
the
terror
of
their
race,
in
possession
of
an
Englishman”
(191)
and
not
the
despair
of
a
man
whose
only
son
has
been
killed.
The
dynamic
sensory
experience
created
by
“the
Laird’s
Jock”
as
“literary
sketch”
extends
the
reader’s
understanding
beyond
conventional
expectations
of
the
Scottish
tale
and
writing
itself.
“Death
of
the
Laird’s
Jock”
becomes
not
a
romantic
portrayal
of
Scottish
traditions,
but
a
pointed
sensory
disruption
of
such
a
portrayal
itself.49

 Although
historical
moments
are
consistently
presented
in
Scott’s
Keepsake
publications
as
well
planned
and
performed
spectacles,
they
are
so
presented
as
to
disturb
the
façade
of
print
and
to
open
the
reader
to
the
complexities
underlining
the
narrative
of
the
spoken,
written
and
illustrated
moment.
Scott’s

“Description
of
the
Engraving
Entitled
a
Scene
at
Abbotsford,”
for
example,
is
a
literary
interpretation
of
Landseer’s
still‐life
painting
of
the
dog
Maida.
The
Scottish
hybrid
dog
is
surrounded
by
the
“armour
and
military
weapons…characteristic
of
the
antiquarian
humour
of
the
owner
of
the
mansion”
(260).
Scott’s
love
and
desire
for
his
dog
is
a
part
of
his
love
and
desire
for
antiquarian
relics
of
the
 

 77
 Scottish
tales
upon
which
his
literary
career
was
founded.
A
sense
of
Scottish
identity
as
history
is
gathered
within
the
hearth
of
“The
Author
of
Waverley”
and
on
the
wall
of
the
painting’s
owner
“the
Right
Honourable
William
Adam,
Lord
Chief
Commissioner
of
the
Jury
Court
in
Scotland”
(261).
It
is
through
their
possession
that
Maida,
Abbotsford
and
the
painting
become
symbols
of
Scottishness.
Heath
and
Reynolds
knew
that
their
acquisition
of
the
painting
would
contribute
to
the
authority
of
the
annual
simply
because
of
the
prestige
associated
with
Scott’s
role
in
the
gathering,
preserving
and
telling
of
Scotland’s
history.

This
history,
however,
is
shown
in
its
slow
deterioration.
The
accompanying
literary
sketch
reveals
that
the
portrait
is
of
an
aged
Maida
who
dies
six
weeks
after
its
rendering
and
that
not
all
of
the
antiquarian
objects,
described
through
the
words
of
Burns
as
“nick‐nackets,”
are
authentic.
“The
hawks,”
writes
Scott,
“are
the
gratuitous
donation
of
Mr.
Landseer
whose
imagination
conferred
them
on
a
scene
where
he
judged
they
would
be
appropriate;
as
that
of
the
artist
liberally
added
a
flock
of
sheep
to
attend
the
shepherdess
in
the
Vicar
of
Wakefield’s
family
picture”
(261).
The
supposedly
stable
representations
of
Scottish
history,
its
families
and
objects,
are
produced
out
of
a
manipulation
of
the
senses
and
understanding.
By
translating
Landseer’s
painting
into
print
both
as
a
visual
object
and
literary
subject,
Scott
links
his
antiquarian
and
authorial
activities
as
well
as
the
images
and
objects
of
the
past
with
a
modern
cultural
practice
and
definition
of
value
based
on
the
form
and
effects
of
his
multisensory
writing.

 

 78
 
 It
is
interesting
to
note
that
the
multimodal
aspects
of
Scott’s
Keepsake
stories
have
a
precedent
in
the
earlier‐published
The
Bride
of
Lammermoor.
In
the
prefatory
framing
of
this
novel,
the
narrator
describes
the
written
and
printed
tale
as
a
translation
of
rough
sketches
made
by
the
mediocre
artist
Dick
Tinto.
These
sketches
were
themselves
a
visual
“manuscript”
of
an
oral
tale
told
to
Tinto
by
an
old
woman
of
the
Lammermoor
region.
The
gothic
romance
of
the
subject
and
the
orality
of
the
tale
make
it
particularly
suited
to
the
medium
of
the
pencil,
but
the
intentions
and
effects
of
the
tale
changes
as
it
adapts
to
the
abilities
and
needs
of
each
new
form.
Tinto
himself
notes
the
difference
when
he
claims
that
the
author’s
page
is
filled
with
“mere
chat
and
dialogue”
(8)
as
opposed
to
scene
and
action.
In
this
way,
Scott
continues
to
highlight
both
the
possibilities
and
the
difficulty
in
the
production
of
a
form
of
writing
that
could
combine
the
features
and
effects
of
a
range
of
sensory
responses.


 Scott’s
continued
description
of
his
stories
as
literary
“sketches”
that
have
been
transcribed
from
the
oral
by
the
pencil
adds
to
the
multisensory
modalities
of
his
work.
50
The
absence
or
silent
inactivity
of
writing
and
reading
in
the
introduction
to
“the
Laird’s
Jock”
is
interrupted
by
writing’s
ability
to
incorporate
sound
and
other
technologies
of
representation
and
print’s
ability
to
extend
the
range
of
its
effects.
Scott
produces
a
literary
spectacle
and
reading
practice
of
continual
dissolution
and
resolution
that
stimulates
the
full
range
of
the
reader’s
capabilities.
Scott
exploits
the
annual’s
bringing
together
of
different
forms
of
exchange
and
representation
and
the
different
senses
they
evoke
to
create
a
 

 79
 modern
sensibility
that
is
released
from
the
“single
now”
and
allowed
to
move
into
the
future.


 Cooperating
Senses:
The
Building
of
a
Reading
Practice

 The
building
of
a
modern
literary
practice
and
value
in
Scott’s
Keepsake
writings
involves
a
system
through
which
the
senses
will
be
brought
into
a
cooperative
relationship.
Sound
in
these
writings
opens
the
mind
to
a
new
processing
of
the
visual
but
the
visual
can
only
be
experienced
as
illusion
until
it
is
completed
by
the
rationality
and
reality
of
the
written.51
Scott
assumes
responsibility
as
the
mediator
of
this
system
and
imbeds
the
reader
in
a
powerful
sensory
experience
that
is
contained
by
the
written
but
that
allows,
through
the
reading
process
itself,
for
the
reader’s
self
expression.
The
reader’s
ability
to
discern
and
interpret
the
information
received
through
the
multimodality
of
Scott’s
Keepsake
stories
comes
from
an
inner
resource
that
combines
the
reader’s
imagination
with
the
reader’s
memories
and
is
receptive
to
changes
in
the
reader’s
life
and
environment.
In
Canongate
and
“My
Aunt
Margaret’s
Mirror,”
Scott
calls
this
inner
resource
“taste”
and
suggests
that
it
must
be
shaped
by
Scott
himself
and
practiced
through
the
reading
of
his
works.


 

 Croftangry
points
out
that
in
his
younger
days
his
relationship
with
the
land
was
based
on
how
it
could
serve
his
interests
and
it
was
this
relationship
that
dictated
what
and
how
he
remembered.
As
his
education
and
maturity
increase,
his
memories
change,
“these
ideas
recalled,
by
degrees,
pictures,
of
which
I
had
since
learned
to
appreciate
the
merit”
(26),
and
new
memories
are
created.
The
 

 80
 traditional
stories
and
legends
that
Croftangry
accesses
through
his
antiquarian
pursuits
colour
the
spaces
and
places
where
he
spent
his
youth.
“It
is
not,”
writes
Croftangry,
 to
be
supposed
that
these
finished
landscapes
became
visible
before
the
eyes
of
my
imagination,
as
the
scenery
of
the
stage
is
disclosed
by
the
rising
of
the
curtain.
I
have
said,
that
I
had
looked
upon
the
country
around
me,
during
the
hurried
and
dissipated
period
of
my
life,
with
the
eyes
indeed
of
my
body,
but
without
those
of
my
understanding.
(27)

The
understanding
is
a
process
of
constant
change
as
the
physical
act
of
seeing
merges
with
that
of
memory
and
imagination.
Scott
hints
that
this
merging
is
manifested
in
the
reader’s
taste,
which
is
awakened
by
the
senses
and
then
reconstructed
“piece
by
piece,
as
a
child
picks
out
its
lesson”
(27).
The
process
by
which
Croftangry’s
memory
is
revived
and
restored
is
the
same
process
by
which
Croftangry
will
gather,
select,
edit
and
“complete”
the
stories
of
Scotland’s
past.
These
stories,
in
their
otherness
as
well
as
their
disparateness
and
individuality,
will
be
made
whole
and
complete
through
the
natural
taste
of
the
author‐editor.
A
value
is
thus
established
by
which
the
past
will
be
reconstructed
and
the
present
and
the
future
represented.
As
Scott
points
out
in
“Mirror,”
however,
one
sensory
modality
can
enhance
or
destroy
the
effectiveness
of
the
other
through
a
blurring
of
perception.


 “My
Aunt
Margaret’s
Mirror”
consists
of
three
narratives
arranged
like
concentric
circles
with
the
mirror
and
its
vision
at
the
centre.
I
will
call
the
first
 

 81
 narrator
Croftangry
as
it
was
his
narration
that
Scott
originally
intended
to
encompass
those
of
Aunt
Margaret
who
recalls
the
story
of
the
mirror
as
originally
experienced
in
the
seventeenth
century
and
told
by
the
third
narrator,
Lady
Margaret
Bothwell.
The
tale
of
the
mirror
is
of
a
dissolute
husband,
Sir
Philip
Forester,
an
abused
and
desperate
wife,
Lady
Forester,
nee
Falconer,
and
her
bold
and
audacious
sister,
Lady
Margaret
Bothwell.
Debts
from
his
dissipated
activities
lead
Sir
Philip
to
volunteer
like
his
brother‐in‐law
Captain
Falconer
for
the
allies
in
the
War
of
Spanish
Succession
despite
the
pleadings
of
his
wife
to
remain
safely
in
Scotland.
When
Sir
Philip
fails
to
send
news
to
his
anxious
wife
as
to
his
well‐being
she
seeks
out
the
services
of
the
newly
arrived
Doctor
Baptista
Damiotti
who,
it
was
rumoured,
could
for
a
not
“inconsiderable”
sum
“tell
the
fate
of
the
absent
and
even
show
his
visitors
the
personal
form
of
their
absent
friends,
and
the
action
in
which
they
were
engaged
at
the
moment”
(24).
Although
Lady
Bothwell
discourages
her
sister
from
associating
with
Damiotti,
Lady
Forester
insists
and
so
Bothwell
accompanies
her
to
Damiotti’s
chambers.
The
vision
that
is
revealed
in
Damiotti’s
mirror
and
that
is
later
corroborated
by
a
letter
from
the
Earl
of
Stair
is
of
their
brother
interrupting
the
marriage
of
Sir
Philip,
who
has
quit
the
army
because
of
debts
accrued
through
gambling,
to
a
young
Dutch
woman
and
of
his
being
killed
by
Sir
Philip
in
a
subsequent
duel.
Lady
Forester
never
recovers
from
the
shock
of
this
information
and
although
Sir
Philip
makes
one
last
appearance
before
the
unforgiving
Lady
Bothwell
he
dies
in
exile.


 Croftangry
introduces
the
story
through
a
reflection
on
how
on
visiting
his
Aunt
Margaret
on
their
familial
estate
one
day
he
experiences
a
crisis
of
identity
 

 82
 and
understanding.
This
pasturage
once
owned
by
Croftangry’s
father
has
been
“sold
by
patches
to
remedy
distresses”
and
debts
that
were
accumulated
during
“an
attempt
by
commercial
adventure
to
redeem
his
diminished
fortune”
(2‐3).
The
subsequent
leveling
of
woods,
digging
of
holes
and
constructing
of
buildings
interrupt
Croftangry’s
ability
to
“look
back
on
the
past”
as
it
is
preserved
in
the
land
“without
interruption”
(3).
Only
a
small
“woodland
foot‐path”
remains
untouched
and
it
is
this
path
that
Croftangry
describes
taking
three
times
a
week
to
the
home
of
his
Aunt
Margaret.


 The
associations
and
memories
of
the
walk
overwhelm
Croftangry
on
this
day
and
he
states,
“that
species
of
comparison
between
the
thing
I
was
and
that
which
I
now
am,‐‐it
almost
induces
me
to
doubt
my
own
identity”
(4).
There
is
an
impossible
disjunction
between
the
past
and
the
present
and
between
the
changes
to
the
landscape
around
him
and
his
memories
of
friends
and
family
(4).
The
disjunction
threatens
to
trap
Croftangry
in
memory
and
an
endless
loop
of
past
events
and
emotions
that
will
overlay
the
present
moment.
The
mirroring
that
occurs
in
this
story
between
the
past
and
the
present
(Aunt
Margaret)
and
the
present
and
the
future
(the
tale
of
the
mirror
as
told
by
Lady
Bothwell)
creates
a
setting
in
which
the
present
dissolves
and
so
dissolves
those
within
it.52
The
environment,
and
the
stories
imprinted
upon
it
by
the
memory,
communicates
identity
to
Croftangry
as
he
moves
within
it.
As
the
mirroring
between
his
memories
and
the
real
is
distorted,
this
communication
is
threatened,
until
he
comes
to
a
physical
remnant
of
the
past,
the
“honey‐suckle
porch
of
Aunt
Margaret’s
dwelling”
(4).
Although
seeing
Aunt
Margaret
and
her
home
restores
 

 83
 Croftangry’s
subjectivity,
it
is
seeing
itself
that
threatens
the
dissolution
of
both
memory
in
the
loss
of
landscape
and
the
present
moment
in
a
non‐existent,
idealized
past.
Aunt
Margaret’s
manor
house,
set
in
the
middle
of
a
transforming
landscape,
has
only
the
longevity
of
Aunt
Margaret
to
secure
it.







 The
house
and
its
occupant
are
living
relics
of
the
past
upon
which
the
events
of
history
have
been
marked.
Aunt
Margaret,
however,
doesn’t
embody
a
particular
stereotype
of
Scotland
or
Scottish
history,
as
an
era,
age
or
fashion,
but
instead
retains
“a
style
peculiar
to
the
individual
Aunt
Margaret”
(5).
She
is
described
as
a
“well‐constructed
piece
of
mechanics”
(5)
that
undertakes,
day
after
day,
the
domestic
actions
and
operations
for
which
she
was
intended.
Like
a
gothic
automaton,
she
functions
as
“the
prop
of
a
fallen
family”
(6)
or
an
intermediary
between
better
days
and
the
present,
as
she
sits
in
the
window
of
the
manor
house.
Her
automatic
and
unwilled
routines
and
sensibilities
remain
unaltered
by
the
changes
to
the
family
and
the
family
land
around
her.
These
actions
sustain
and
give
her
purpose
but
they
also
indicate
the
inflexibility
and
rigidity
of
a
mechanical
reconstruction
and
replaying
of
the
past
as
it
encounters
the
present
and
the
future.
As
both
Aunt
Margaret
and
the
narrator
have
no
interest
in
stopping
the
present
deterioration
of
the
family
name
and
estate
and
have
no
prospects
for
the
future
they
spend
their
time
reliving
memories
of
days
gone
by.
The
endurance
of
these
memories
is
entirely
dependent
upon
the
environment
and
the
maintenance
of
particular
forms
of
architecture,
cultural
expression
and
social
organization.
Because
familial
debts
have
rendered
this
maintenance
 

 84
 impossible,
the
story
begins
to
explore
different
ways
of
inhabiting
memory
and
the
self.


 It
is
the
discovery
of
a
gravestone
bearing
the
name
of
“Margaret
Bothwell,
1585”
by
a
local
farmer
that
interrupts
her
nostalgia
and
reveals
a
distinction
between
Aunt
Margaret’s
rational
and
emotional
knowledge.
The
discovery
of
this
gravestone
invokes
Aunt
Margaret’s
superstitious
sensibilities
and
an
emotional
unearthing
of
her
intense
Scottish
nationalism
(7).
Margaret
Bothwell
is
Aunt
Margaret’s
“namesake”
as
well
as
the
namesake
of
her
grandmother
and
narrator
of
the
“tale
of
the
MYSTERIOUS
MIRROR.”
Aunt
Margaret
is
inspired
to
recall
this
story
as
well
as
the
romantic
narratives
“full
of
plaids,
pibrochs,
and
claymores”
(9)
that
have
defined
her
later
years.
Aunt
Margaret’s
attraction
to
an
idealized
Scottish
past
is
beyond
her
control
and
seems
to
reflect
the
state
of
the
general
reader
as
“they
were
sometimes
operated
upon
by
feelings,
sometimes
by
principle”
(9).
This
state
naturally
progresses
to
the
heightened
senses
and
emotional
responses
of
telling,
hearing
or
reading
a
ghost
story.








 According
to
Aunt
Margaret
the
“female
imagination”
is
hard
wired
to
respond
to
these
conditions
as
illustrated
by
women’s
sensitivity
to
the
physical
and
emotional
sensations
evoked
by
a
ghost
story
(11).
Aunt
Margaret
claims
that
there
are
times
when
the
past
creates
a
crisis
in
the
experience
of
memory
that
is
both
enjoyable
and
painful.
Ghost
stories
can
generate
this
crisis
by
allowing
for
a
heightened
physical
experience
of
the
past
as
it
enters
the
imagination.
The
narrator
interprets
Aunt
Margaret’s
daily
immersion
in
the
“waking
dreams”
of
her
memories
as
a
preference
for
“the
twilight
of
illusion
to
the
steady
light
of
 

 85
 reason”
(10).
Aunt
Margaret’s
description
of
superstition
and
its
effects
suggest
that
she
is
describing
a
multisensory
receptivity
to
the
constructedness
of
all
moments
across
time.
Aunt
Margaret
links
this
receptivity
to
women’s
complex
relationship
with
modes
of
self‐reflection,
particularly
with
mirrors
and
mirroring
(11),
as
they
relate
to
the
construction
of
identity.


 Women,
according
to
Aunt
Margaret’s
formulation,
both
desire
and
fear
reflections
because
they
are
attuned
to
the
resonances
of
experience
beyond
the
present
moment
and
the
single
act
or
event.
“All
women
consult
the
looking‐glass
with
anxiety,”
she
claims,
“before
they
go
into
company;
but
when
they
return
home,
the
mirror
has
not
the
same
charm.
The
die
has
been
cast—the
party
has
been
successful
or
unsuccessful,
in
the
impression
which
she
desired
to
make”
(11).
Mirrors
not
only
aid
women
in
their
shaping
of
themselves
for
public
consumption,
they
are
constantly
threatening
to
reflect
something
that
is
unrecognizable
and
out
of
one’s
control.
Aunt
Margaret
states:

 
 I,
myself,
like
many
other
honest
folks,
do
not
like
to
see
the
black

front
of
a
large
mirror
in
a
room
dimly
lighted,
and
where
the
reflection
of
the
candle
seems
to
lose
itself
in
the
deep
obscurity
of
the
glass,
than
to
be
reflected
back
again
into
the
apartment.
That
space
of
inky
darkness
seems
to
be
a
field
for
Fancy
to
play
her
revels
in.
She
may
call
up
other
features
to
meet
us,
instead
of
the
reflection
of
our
own;
or.
.
.
some
unknown
form
may
be
seen
peeping
over
our
shoulder.”
(12)


 

 86
 It
is
important
to
notice
that
this
moment
of
unwilled
scrying
or
fortune
telling
is
inextricably
tied
to
the
“mysteries
of
the
dressing‐table”
(11).
The
dim
lighting
that
would
be
most
flattering
to
the
female
face
could
also
result
in
a
distortion
so
strong
that
one
could
no
longer
be
recognized
as
one’s
self.


 The
concentric
reflections
created
by
the
candle
light
in
the
mirror,
like
the
concentric
narratives
of
the
story
itself,
trigger
a
response
in
the
imagination
to
range
beyond
the
boundaries
of
the
drawing
room
to
the
unknown
“space
of
inky
darkness”
that
both
terrifies
and
demands
the
occupation
of
its
viewer.
Rationality
alone
cannot
contain
the
sensory
effects
of
this
experience
and
so
the
author
must
both
evoke
and
take
control
of
the
potential
of
such
effects
to
liberate
the
reader’s
understanding
from
the
stasis
of
print.
Scott
must
re‐border
the
stimulated
imagination
with
his
multisensory
writing
and
definition
of
literary
value.
“My
Aunt
Margaret’s
Mirror”
is
concerned
with
the
channels
by
which
information
is
conveyed
and
regulated.
When
women
are
forced
to
open
themselves
to
these
secret
channels
they
are
corrupted
or
rendered
unconscious.
It
is
then
the
job
of
the
written
to
bring
them
back
to
their
senses.

 Scott’s
portrayal
of
the
role
of
Doctor
Damiotti
is
of
a
kind
of
multisensory
mediator
of
information
and
author‐like
facilitator
of
communication
between
different
worlds
and
times.
A
finely
tuned
manipulation
of
sensory
stimulation
is
integral
to
Damiotti’s
psychic
practice
just
as
it
is
to
Scott’s
writing.
Celeste
Langan
points
to
the
unique
role
of
silence
and
sound
in
Damiott’s
conjuring
of
the
vision
in
the
mirror.
Although
the
Doctor
appears
in
the
dress
of
a
professional
man
of
medicine
and
receives
the
Ladies
Forester
and
Margaret
Bothwell
in
a
brightly
lit
 

 87
 apartment,
Damiotti
has
them
led
through
a
series
of
passages
and
entrances
and
half
dark
apartments
to
the
inner
sanctum
of
“the
man
of
art”
(26).
They
are
then
given
a
mysterious
warning
on
the
dangers
of
speaking
during
the
vision
and
are
forbidden
from
uttering
even
“a
single
word”
(27).
The
evocation
and
then
translation
of
the
vision
will
require
the
same
silent
concentration
that
reading
demands
of
its
participants.








 An
unrecognizable
“strain
of
music,”
however,
sets
the
stage
for
the
arrival
of
Damiotti
in
exotic
costume
and
the
mirror
in
which
is
reflected
a
strange
trio:
“two
naked
swords
laid
crosswise;
a
large
open
book,
which
they
conceived
to
be
a
copy
of
the
Holy
Scriptures,
but
in
a
language
to
them
unknown;
and
beside
this
mysterious
volume.
.
.
a
human
skull”
(32).
That
a
book
should
be
involved
in
the
magical
transcendence
of
communication
out
of
the
ordinary
realms
of
human
possibility
recalls
the
book
of
the
wizard
Michael
Scott
in
The
Lay
of
the
Last
 Minstrel.
The
book
of
Michael
Scott
overpowers
the
affects
of
everyone
who
looks
at
or
touches
its
cover
and
renders
them
insensible.
Its
contents
can
also
bestow
its
possessor
with
the
ability
to
shape‐shift
and
take
on
the
identity
of
others.
In
much
the
same
way,
the
content
of
the
mirror,
both
when
empty
and
filled
with
a
vision,
threatens
to
stretch
the
identity
and
the
sensibility
of
the
reader‐viewer
beyond
the
point
at
which
it
could
return
to
the
present
time
and
space.
Lady
Bothwell
describes
the
vision
as
blurring
the
division
between
the
piece
of
art
and
the
real
and
of
bringing
artistic
representation
to
life
(34).


 Orality
endangers
a
print
experience
generated
through
the
written
and
manifested
in
the
visual.
When
Lady
Forester
is
unable
to
control
herself
and
 

 88
 makes
an
exclamation
the
vision
reacts
like
a
“reflection
offered
by
a
deep
and
calm
pool,
when
a
stone
is
suddenly
cast
into
it,
and
the
shadows
become
dissipated
and
broken”
(34).
The
exclamation,
as
an
“imperfect
utterance,”
fails
to
completely
destroy
the
resolution
of
the
vision,
but
causes
the
mirror
to
become
a
fragile
portal
to
an
interiority
that,
like
reading,
is
reliant
on
complete
environmental
stillness.
The
glass
of
the
mirror
has
transformed
from
something
reflective
into
a
substance
both
liquid
and
solid
that
can
be
entered
into,
not
only
with
words,
but
also
with
the
body.
It
threatens
the
complete
submersion
of
the
reader‐viewer.










 The
depiction
of
this
moment
in
the
accompanying
illustration
suggests
that
the
vision
is
an
illusion
orchestrated
by
Damiotti.
The
reflection
literally
becomes
“smoke
and
mirrors”
as
a
mist
or
smoke
frames
its
form.
Damiotti
gestures
and
glares
warningly
at
the
two
women
who
are
in
the
physical
posture
of
shock
and
surprise.
The
sword
and
human
skull
takes
a
centre
point
in
the
illustration
and
evoke
either
the
dangers
of
learning
too
much,
too
fast
and
without
the
proper
contextual
information
and
emotional
preparation
or
the
dangers
of
repeating
the
violent
legacies
of
the
past.
The
reader
of
the
annual,
who
has
access
to
the
vision
in
both
its
visual
and
textual
forms,
models
a
mode
of
interpretation
and
understanding
that
involves
the
processing
of
information
through
multiple
sensory
modalities
that
are
themselves
refined
through
the
act
of
writing
and
reading.







 Rational
explanations
of
the
vision,
such
as
that
Damiotti
was
a
spy
and
was
ability
to
access
the
information
in
the
vision
before
Lady
Forester,
work
only
to
 

 89
 “strain
incredulity”
(Celeste
Langan,
“Telepathos:
Medium
Cool
Romanticism”
21).
Even
the
most
rational
and
firm
mind
of
Lady
Bothwell
“remained
in
great
doubt
on
the
subject,
and
much
disposed
to
cut
the
Gordian
knot
by
admitting
the
existence
of
supernatural
agency”
(“Mirror”
40).
To
process
multisensory
representations,
the
mind
must
reach
outside
of
the
rational
to
something
beyond
articulation.
The
dangers
of
such
an
experience
are
exemplified
by
the
“violent
and
sudden
shock
on
the
nerves”
that
Lady
Forester’s
body
and
mind
undergo
upon
experiencing
the
vision
in
the
mirror.
Are
the
effects
a
result
of
the
“unnaturalness”
of
the
transmission?

Are
they
simply,
as
Damiotti
suggests
“the
consequence
of
seeking
knowledge
by
mysterious
means”
(“Mirror”
36)?


 The
form
through
which
information
is
transmitted
takes
on
a
magical
power
in
this
story.
How
the
subject
sees,
hears
and
reads
will
be
challenged
and
time
itself
blurred
so
that
reader
will
be
opened
to
a
multitude
of
events
passing
through
time.
The
reader’s
understanding
will
not
hold
together
on
the
imagined
simultaneity
of
reality,
but
on
the
opening
of
the
present
to
alternative
dimensions
of
experience.
Scott’s
disruption
of
simultaneity
draws
upon
what
Damiotti
describes
as
an
exchange
and
shared
experience
between
the
author
of
the
vision
and
the
viewer.
Damiotti
refuses
to
take
responsibility
for
this
exchange
by
claiming
that
he
never
seeks
out
his
clients
but
responds
“to
those
who
invite
and
call
upon
him”
(“Mirror”
36)
and
that
he
only
accepts
monetary
payments
so
as
to
give
alms
to
the
needy.
The
visions
and
his
clients’
gratitude
are
depicted
as
a
mutual
giving
of
gifts.
Damiotti’s
representation
of
his
activities
mirrors
the
debts
and
obligations
that
circulate
around
Scott’s
formulation
of
the
production
and
 

 90
 reception
of
literature.
Scott’s
authorial
activities,
however,
include
a
careful
reconstruction
of
the
reader’s
sensibility
as
receptive
to
the
effects
of
the
multisensory
experience.
Scott
then
trains
this
sensibility
to
use
these
effects
according
to
the
boundaries
of
value.
The
form
of
the
story
itself,
with
its
three
narrative
frames
that
work
to
both
represent
and
contain
the
mirror
at
their
center,
takes
the
reader
on
an
educational
journey
that
mirrors
the
reading
practice
they
will
be
intended
to
take
with
them
into
the
future.


 Telling
Ghost
Stories:
“The
Tapestried
Chamber”






 Scott
struggles
to
generate
a
multisensory
experience
of
print
that
will
ensure
literature’s
value,
particularly
when
aligned
with
the
unexplainable
events
that
are
necessary
for
the
sensory
and
intellectual
stimulations
of
multisensory
writing.
In
“The
Tapestried
Chamber”
Scott
plays
with
what
he
depicts
as
the
something
that
is
lost
in
the
translation
of
the
orally
told
story
to
writing.
Scott
prefaces
the
central
ghost
story
with
a
discourse
on
the
benefits
of
the
oral
over
the
printed
in
the
telling
of
supernatural
events
in
particular.
In
“The
Chamber”
Scott
initially
overemphasizes
his
role
as
a
detached
medium
and
his
work
as
a
transition
point
between
a
story
told
(124)
and
a
story
written.
In
the
end,
multisensory
writing
generates
a
reading
process
of
continual
resolution
and
dissolution
that
liberates
writing
from
the
grip
of
an
aesthetics
and
understanding
confined
to
a
false
perception
of
the
past.

 Although
Scott
claims
that
“[t]he
following
narrative
is
given
from
the
pen,
so
far
as
memory
permits,
in
the
same
character
in
which
it
was
presented
to
the
 

 91
 author’s
ear”
(123),
he
also
admits
that
“the
particular
class
of
stories
which
turns
on
the
marvelous,
possesses
a
stronger
influence
when
told,
than
when
committed
to
print”
(123).
The
communal
dimensions
of
“a
circle
of
fire‐side
auditors”
who
respond
to
the
strong
“impression”
of
the
tale
and
that
sustain
and
contribute
to
the
energy
of
the
story‐teller
are
not
sustained
by
print.
Also
lost
are
the
teller’s
physical
manipulations
such
as
the
lowering
of
“his
voice
with
an
affectation
of
mystery
while
he
approaches
the
fearful
and
wonderful
part”
(123)
that
strengthen
the
impressions
that
the
material
makes
on
the
listener.
The
solitary
reading
of
a

“volume
taken
up
at
noonday,
though
rehearsing
the
same
incidents,
conveys
a
much
more
feeble
impression”
(123).
In
a
back‐handed
compliment,
Scott
describes
oral
storytelling
as
a
powerful
mode
of
communication
that
is
limited
in
its
effects
to
ghost
stories.
Scott
takes
hold
of
these
effects
and
expands
them
through
a
multimedia
written
and
printed
form.


 Scott’s
claim
that
he
is
acting
as
a
neutral
translator
of
the
oral
takes
an
interesting
turn
when
the
reader
realizes
that
the
tale
Scott
has
recorded
was
told
to
him
in
private
by
the
poet
Anna
Seward
with
all
of
the
dramatics
and
intonations
he
has
just
described.
Seward
provides
Scott
with
the
model
of
the
ideal
storyteller.
Her
extraordinary
“power
of
narrative
in
private
conversation”
(124)
becomes
the
means
by
which
Scott’s
writing
will
achieve
its
full
effect.
The
“powerful”
influence
of
her
narration
within
a
private
conversation,
abstracted
from
a
community
of
auditors
and
ensconced
in
the
domestic,
begins
to
shape
the
one‐on‐one
relationship
that
Scott
hopes
to
establish
between
himself,
his
writings
and
the
solitary
reader.
Scott
may
have
“studiously
avoided
any
attempt
 

 92
 at
ornament”
(123)
in
his
retelling
but
he
is
going
to
“rehearse”
the
oral
experience
through
his
pen
so
that
“read
aloud,
to
an
undoubting
audience
by
the
doubtful
light
of
the
closing
evening,
or,
in
the
silence,
by
a
decaying
taper,
and
amidst
the
solitude
of
a
half‐lighted
apartment,
it
[the
story]
may
redeem
its
character
as
a
good
ghost
story”
(124).
Through
this
tongue‐in‐cheek
depiction
of
the
scene
of
reading,
Scott
deliberately
draws
attention
to
reading
as
a
multisensory
event,
even
when
alone.








 The
setting
up
of
the
solitary,
although
climactic,
scene
in
the
story’s
tapestried
chamber,
takes
the
reader
on
a
journey
that
challenges
not
only
their
senses
and
perceptions
but
also
the
reading
practices
with
which
they
approach
the
story.
The
reader
in
“Chamber”
is
aligned
with
the
character
of
General
Browne,
a
“gentleman
of
high
consideration
for
family
and
attainments”
(125)
and
veteran
of
the
American
war.
Browne
travels
through
the
British
countryside
to
reacquaint
himself
with
the
land
from
which
he
has
been
so
long
removed.
These
travels
eventually
take
him
to
a
“small
country
town,
which
presented
a
scene
of
uncommon
beauty,
and
of
a
character
peculiarly
English”
(125).
As
Browne’s
eyes
range
over
the
buildings
and
landscape
before
him,
the
picture
forms
into
an
almost
perfect
representation
of
the
picturesque.
The
buildings
and
the
landscape
“intimating
neither
the
solitude
of
decay,
nor
the
bustle
of
novelty,”
with
“few
marks
of
modern
improvement”
such
as
dams
and
“towing‐path[s],”
starts
to
appear
suspiciously
staged.
It
as
if
the
perfect
tranquility
of
the
scene,
such
as
the
blending
of
the
ancient
and
the
new,
is
a
façade,
smoothing
over
the
blemishes
and
irregularities
of
the
past.

 

 93
 
 The
architecture
of
a
castle
that
Browne
spots
peeking
out
of
the
trees
embodies
the
various
stages
of
English
history.
The
castle
is
“as
old
as
the
wars
of
York
and
Lancaster,
but.
.
.
seemed
to
have
received
important
alterations
during
the
age
of
Elizabeth
and
her
successor”
(125).
The
towers
are
“rich
in
all
the
bizarrerie
of
the
Elizabethan
school,
while
the
simple
and
solid
strength
of
other
parts
of
the
building
seemed
to
show
that
they
had
been
raised
more
for
defence
than
ostentation”
(126).
The
castle
is
a
physical
manifestation
of
the
progression
of
the
nation
through
several
eras
to
the
present
and
bears
the
physical
impressions
of
the
different
concerns
of
various
owners
(125‐26).
Browne’s
sensibilities
are
aroused
and
he
decides
to
“inquire
whether
it
[the
castle]
might
not
deserve
a
nearer
view”
(126).
The
castle
could
contain
some
art
or
antiquities
of
interest
to
the
curious
tourist.


 Browne
is
pleased
to
discover
that
his
young
school
friend
Frank
Woodville
has
become
Lord
Woodville
of
this
very
castle.
Woodville
doesn’t
recognize
his
friend
at
first
and
it
is
here
that
we
get
our
first
suggestion
of
a
possible
disconnect
between
depth
and
surface,
representation
and
reality
in
the
story.
Lord
Woodville
stares
at
Brown
“as
at
a
stranger,
upon
the
countenance
of
his
friend,
on
which,
war,
with
its
fatigues
and
its
wounds,
had
made
a
great
alteration”
(127).
It
is
Browne’s
voice
and
not
his
face
that
signals
his
identity.
Once
their
friendship
has
been
renewed,
Browne
entertains
and
impresses
Woodville
and
his
friends
with
stories
of
his
days
of
military
action.
Browne
displays
himself
as
“the
brave
officer
and
the
sensible
man,
who
retained
possession
of
his
cool
judgment
under
the
most
imminent
dangers”
(129).
Both
Woodville’s
delayed
recollection
of
his
 

 94
 friend
and
the
consistent
emphasis
by
Scott
on
Browne’s
rational
sensibility
and
bravery
hint
at
the
events
to
come.







 At
the
end
of
the
evening
Browne
is
situated
in
a
“comfortable,
old‐fashioned
room”
(128)
that
to
unites
“a
modern
air
of
comfort
with.
.
.
venerable
antiquity”
(130).
The
room
is
the
perfect
balance
between
the
character
of
the
old
and
the
convenience
of
the
new.
Used
to
sleeping
on
the
cold,
hard
ground,
“[t]he
general
once
more
looked
round
him,
and
internally
congratulating
himself
on
his
return
to
peaceful
life,
the
comforts
of
which
were
endeared
by
the
recollection
of
the
hardships
and
dangers
he
had
lately
sustained,
undressed
himself,
and
prepared
for
a
luxurious
night’s
rest”
(131).
The
setting
for
Browne’s
night
of
supernatural
horrors
is
in
this
way
set.
By
the
morning,
the
façade
of
the
perfectly
preserved
past
has
unraveled.
Browne
does
not
experience
a
“luxurious
night’s
rest”
and
later
reveals
to
his
host
a
night
of
terror.






 
Browne
narrates
a
story
of
extremes
between
tranquility
and
overpowering
emotion.
Browne’s
peace
is
initially
disturbed
by
the
form
and
movement
of
a
woman
dressed
in
an
old‐fashioned
dress
or
sacque.
As
Browne
makes
himself
known
to
the
woman,
she
slowly
turns
and
reveals
herself
to
be
a
ghost
on
whose
face
“were
imprinted
the
traces
of
the
vilest
and
most
hideous
passions
which
had
animated
her
while
she
lived”
(136).
The
accompanying
illustration
captures
this
scene
as
its
most
highly
charged
and
concentrated
moment
of
suspense.
As
the
woman
turns
her
face
to
Browne,
he
is
transformed
from
the
stolid
soldier
into
the
quintessential
gothic
hero,
physically
overwhelmed
by
terror.53
The
officer
is
paralyzed
and
rendered
powerless
before
a
diabolical,
 

 95
 supernatural
force.
The
woman
makes
“as
it
seemed,
a
single
and
swift
stride
to
the
bed”
and
crouches
there,
mirroring
the
general’s
posture
and
pushing
“her
diabolical
countenance
within
half
a
yard”
(136)
of
the
general’s
face
“with
a
grin
which
seemed
to
intimate
the
malice
and
the
derision
of
an
incarnate
fiend”
(137).
Although
the
woman
never
speaks,
she
communicates
through
the
mute
contortions
of
her
face
and
body.


 Surprised
by
the
emotional
and
physical
violence
of
the
apparition
and
gripped
within
her
gaze,
Browne
states,
“all
firmness
forsook
me,
all
manhood
 melted
from
me
like
wax
in
the
furnace,
and
I
felt
my
hair
individually
bristle”
(137,
emphasis
added).
Browne
is
confronted
with
a
telepathic
communication
from
the
past
in
the
form
of
the
woman
and
it
has
dissolved
his
identity
and
ability
to
process
the
moment.
Browne
faints
and
on
awakening
to
the
sound
of
the
castle
clock
striking
one,
he
spends
the
rest
of
the
night
tormented
and
haunted
by
the
rawness
of
his
senses
and
his
physical
and
emotional
perceptions:

 
 I
will
not
pretend
to
describe
what
hot
and
cold
fever‐fits
tormented
me
for
the
rest
of
the
night,
through
broken
sleep,
weary
vigils,
and
that
dubious
state
which
forms
the
neutral
ground
between
them.
An
hundred
terrible
objects
appeared
to
haunt
me;
but
there
was
the
great
difference
betwixt
the
vision
which
I
have
described,
and
those
which
followed,
that
I
knew
the
last
to
be
deceptions
of
my
own
fancy
and
over‐excited
nerves.
(138)
Like
a
young
reader
of
the
gothic
novel
(recalling
the
experience
of
Catherine
Morland
in
Northanger
Abbey
and
William
Lovel
in
The
Antiquary),
Browne
is
so
 

 96
 paralyzed
with
fear
that
he
cannot
leave
his
bed
until
the
morning
light.
It
is
then
that
he
attempts
to
calm
his
nerves
with
fresh
air
and
the
prospect
of
escaping
the
Woodville
estate.







 Browne’s
self‐assured
engagements
with
the
landscape
and
with
others
are
“melted”
in
his
encounter
with
the
ghost.
All
at
once,
Browne’s,
as
well
as
the
reader’s,
assessments
of
his
friend,
the
castle
and
the
town
are
transformed.
Lord
Woodville,
on
seeing
his
friend’s
distress,
confesses
that
he
had
deliberately
placed
Browne
in
that
particular
room.
He
tells
Browne
that
the
chamber
had
been
boarded
up
for
over
a
hundred
years
due
to
the
general
belief
that
it
was
haunted.
Armed
with
rationality
and
in
need
of
more
space
for
entertaining,
Woodville
had
reopened
the
chamber.
Browne’s
visit
was
“the
most
favourable
opportunity
of
removing
the
unpleasant
rumour
which
attached
to
the
room”
(139)
and
so
Woodville
used
Browne
as
the
unwitting
subject
of
an
experiment
that
would
benefit
Woodville
himself.


 Although
Woodville
can
see
Browne’s
impatient
desire
to
leave
the
castle
that
has
so
unsettled
his
masculine
“firmness
and
courage”
(140),
he
insists
that
Browne
visit
the
castle’s
gallery.
Again,
an
ulterior
motive
is
revealed,
as
Woodville
coaxes
Browne
towards
a
particular
portrait.
The
truth
of
Browne’s
story
is
confirmed
for
he
identifies
the
woman
in
the
portrait
as
the
woman
who
visited
him
the
night
before.
She
is
an
“ancient
ancestress”
of
the
family,
of
“whose
crimes,
a
black
and
fearful
catalogue
is
recorded
in
a
family
history”
sealed
within
the
young
lord’s
“charter‐chest”
(142).
The
echoes
of
these
crimes,
including
 

 97
 “incest,
and
unnatural
murder”
(142),
find
an
outlet
only
in
the
sealed
writing
and
“fatal
apartment”
in
which
they
were
committed.


 General
Browne
has
been
rendered
a
conduit
for
the
powerful
desires
of
the
past
to
overcome
and
control
the
present.
These
desires,
like
Lady
Forester’s
imperfect
exclamation,
disturb
the
surface
of
perception
but
are
unable
to
fully
take
hold.
This
past,
in
the
monstrous
form
of
one
of
Scott’s
evil
and
“unnatural”
women,
creates
a
sensory
interface
with
the
real
of
history
that,
as
in
“Mirror,”
challenges
and
almost
destroys
the
understanding
of
its
receiver.
She
serves
to
shock
and
awaken
the
viewer‐reader
to
the
realities
behind
a
romanticized
history.
Scott
then
contains
these
awakening
senses
within
the
limits
of
the
multisensory
short
story.






 The
narrative
concludes
with
General
Browne
seeking
“in
some
less
beautiful
country,
and
with
some
less
dignified
friend,
forgetfulness
of
the
painful
night
which
he
had
passed
in
Woodville
Castle”
(142).
Even
though
Woodville
has
the
chamber
dismantled,
Browne,
like
the
reader,
won’t
forget.
The
process
of
his
understanding
and
his
mode
of
seeing,
hearing
and
feeling
has
been
imprinted
with
the
sensory
and
affective
form
of
the
woman.
The
aesthetic
allure
of
the
picturesque
and
legacy
of
aristocratic
sociability
will
always
include
the
horrors
of
the
Woodville
ancestress.
As
the
reader
of
the
Keepsake
draws
back
from
the
story,
her
nerves
on
edge
and
hair
on
end,
she
will
become
attuned
to
Scott’s
indication
of
the
necessity
of
an
authority
and
aesthetic
created
out
of
new
modes
of
perception.
These
modes
of
perception
will
not
require
the
masculine
rationality
or
courage
of
General
Browne
but
the
authorial
handling
of
Scott
and
the
 

 98
 receptiveness
of
the
female
reader.
Through
literature,
an
aesthetics
and
cultural
authority
gripped
by
a
false
perception
of
the
past
and
its
constructions
of
value
can
be
destroyed
in
a
multisensory
process
of
continual
resolution
and
dissolution.

 Multimodal
Economies


 The
debt
that
forced
Scott
to
experiment
with
new
forms
of
writing
was
both
an
inspiration
and
a
source
of
irritation
to
Scott.
The
aesthetic
he
works
toward
in
his
Keepsake
stories
is
a
phantasmagoria
of
sensory
experience
that
is
legitimized
and
controlled
by
his
specific
definition
of
literature.
The
difference
between
literature
and
other
forms
of
writing
is
established
by
the
way
in
which
the
media
experience
is
handled
by
the
author
or
editor
of
the
work.
Heath
and
Reynolds,
on
the
other
hand,
utilize
the
economic
opportunities
of
the
cultural
marketplace
without
taking
responsibility
for
the
cultural
experience
generated
by
their
actions.
They
fail
to
acknowledge
the
potential
of
their
readers,
other
than
as
necessary
for
the
generating
of
a
profit.

Although
the
Keepsake
resembles
other
publications
that
Scott
was
involved
with
at
the
time,
Scott’s
writings
suggest
that
he
believed
the
intentions
of
the
authors
and
the
authenticity
of
the
project
were
what
established
the
foundation
of
a
cultural
value
upon
which
the
reading
public
would
build.
Scott
was
annoyed
by
Heath’s
proposal
that
they
“set
off
his
engravings
for
the
magnum
opus
against
my
contributions
for
the
Keepsake”
(Scott,
Journal
524).
The
thought
that
his
work
should
even
compare
in
effort
or
value
to
Heath’s
engravings
sent
 

 99
 Scott
into
an
indignant
rage:

“A
pretty
mode
of
accounting
that
would
be—he
be
damnd”
(Scott,
Journal
524).


 Heath
and
Reynolds
were
men
grown
out
of
the
new
opportunities
of
the
literary
marketplace
and
they
contributed
to
the
growing
celebrity
and
authority
of
artists,
particularly
writers.
Heath’s
aforementioned
suggestion
that
the
success
of
Scott’s
Magnum
was
due
to
the
illustrations
and
plates
and
not
the
novels
themselves
“touches,”
Scott
claims,
“a
point
which
alarms
me”
(Journal
525).
Heath
has
critiqued
a
portrait
of
Scott
that
Sir
David
Wilkie
has
painted
and
originally
intended
for
the
Magnum.
It
does
not,
according
to
Heath,
meet
the
visual
standards
that
the
Magnum
should
strive
for.
Scott
is
forced
to
look
again
at
the
painting
with
newly
critical
eyes
and
is
highly
resentful.
The
friendship
between
Scott
and
Wilkie,
as
well
as
Wilkie’s
gifting
of
the
painting
to
Scott,
created
a
value
that
was
generated
out
of
a
personal
yet
economically
and
culturally
profitable
exchange
of
indebtedness:


Wilkie
behaved
in
the
kindest
way
considering
his
very
bad
health
in
agreeing
to
work
for
me
at
all
and
I
will
treat
him
with
due
delicacy
and
not
wound
his
feelings
by
rejecting
what
he
has
given
in
such
kindness.
(Journal
525)






In
the
end,
despite
Scott’s
defense
of
the
painting
and
his
friend,
Wilkie’s
portrait
was
consigned
as
the
“frontispiece
to
the
1820
reissue
of
Scott’s
Poetical
Works,
an
edition
with
a
far
smaller
circulation
than
that
magnum
and
for
whose
illustrations
no
large
claims
had
been
made”
(Millgate
19).
That
a
sense
of
gratitude
and
obligation
overpowered
Scott’s
professional
judgment
as
an
author
 

 100
 and
publisher
adds
an
interesting
dimension
to
the
intimacy
that
Scott’s
multimodal
writing
evokes
not
only
between
the
writer
and
reader
but
also
between
the
writer
and
his
medium.




















 

 101
 Chapter
Three
 Mary
Shelley
and
a
Collaborative
Literary
Practice

 This
chapter
reads
Mary
Shelley’s
Keepsake
contributions
as
important
within
her
body
of
work
for
the
way
she
intensifies
her
career‐long
reworking
of
the
literary
and
philosophical
legacy
of
her
parents
and
husband,
including
the
skeptical
literary
practice
that
Percy
Bysshe
Shelley
(P.B.S.)
developed
within
his
writing.54
P.B.S.’s
literary
practice,
for
example,
involved
a
retreat
into
the
creative
isolation
from
which
Shelley
attempts,
posthumously,
to
release
him
through
the
 Keepsake.
Shelley’s
stories
for
the
Keepsake
invest
in
the
abilities
of
her
readers
and
situate
literary
value
in
the
shared
effects
and
resonances
of
writing
and
reading
as
a
communal
act.


 I
argue
that
P.B.S.’s
essay
“On
Love”
(in
the
Keepsake
for
1829)
informs
Shelley’s
annual
writings
both
individually
and
as
a
body
of
work.
Writing,
P.B.S.
suggests
in
this
essay,
will
never
adequately
convey
our
love
for
another
or
release
us
from
love’s
narcissistic
compulsion
to
imagine
our
ideal
lover
as
ourselves.
Instead
of
facilitating
a
connection
between
individuals,
writing
becomes
another
mode
by
which
the
individual
becomes
isolated
and
disconnected
from
others.

By
placing
this
piece
in
the
Keepsake,
Shelley
draws
a
line
between
P.B.S.’s
portrayal
of
an
idealized,
inexpressible
love
and
the
aesthetics
and
exchanges
of
the
annual.
If
the
purchaser,
giftee
or
reader
seeks
through
the
annual
to
find
and
have
reinforced
[t]he
discovery
of
its
antitype;
the
meeting
with
an
understanding
capable
of
clearly
estimating
our
own;
an
imagination
which
should
enter
into
and
seize
upon
the
subtle
and
delicate
peculiarities
which
 

 102
 we
have
delighted
to
cherish
and
unfold
in
secret,
with
a
frame,
whose
nerves,
like
the
chords
of
two
exquisite
lyres,
strung
to
the
accompaniment
of
one
delightful
voice,
vibrate
with
the
vibrations
of
our
own
(48)

he
or
she
will
find
that
the
annual
serves
to
reinforce
a
whole
set
of
conventions
that
will
moderate
and
constrain
the
connections
between
people,
in
particular
between
the
lover
and
his
or
her
“beau
ideal.”55
In
this
way,
Shelley
makes
the
same
moves
as
Scott
towards
the
multimodal
possibilities
of
print
to
expand
the
effects
of
writing
and
to
generate
a
sociable
and
collaborative
reading
experience.
Shelley’s
approach
towards
her
readers
differs
from
both
Wordsworth’s
and
Scott’s,
however,
in
that
Shelley’s
takes
on
the
urgency
of
what
appears
in
her
stories
as
the
social
and
political
power
of
writing.
56
Vital
to
the
literary
practices
of
writing
and
reading
that
Shelley
explores
in
the
Keepsake
is
the
individual
reader’s
self‐consciousness
as
the
reader
navigates
the
sensory
and
intellectual
stimulations
of
new
technologies
of
representation.


 Shelley’s
Keepsake
stories
and
edited
works
explore
the
creative
possibilities
that
commerce
and
new
technologies
of
representation
generated
as
well
as
their
potential
dangers.
The
visual
and
literary
content
of
her
stories
continually
calls
her
and
her
readers
back
to
the
active
process
of
creating,
publishing,
purchasing,
gifting,
receiving
and
consuming
the
annual.
The
narrative
frameworks
themselves
highlight
how
reading,
viewing
a
painting
or
even
sight‐seeing,
renders
the
sensibility
and
understanding
of
the
audience
vulnerable
to
the
 

 103
 various
economic,
social
and
political
forces
that
vie
for
the
reader’s
cooperation.
Shelley
points
to
the
ways
the
forms
and
conventions
of
the
writing
they
consume
can
be
shaped
to
formalize
or
disrupt
social
norms
and
values.
This
danger
is
the
same
for
the
artist
and
writer
who
must
also
operate
within
such
forms
and
conventions.

Shelley,
I
contend,
builds
a
process
into
her
Keepsake
stories
that
works
to
regulate
writing’s
tendency
to
absorb
writers
and
readers
into
its
form
and
content.
The
Keepsake’s
use
of
print
and
different
forms
of
representation
could
then
produce
exchanges
that
would
allow
for
an
opening
and
fragmentation
of
the
self,
an
experiencing
of
the
world
through
one
other,
to
connect
with
other
people
and
one’s
self.
Shelley
presents
this
as
a
powerful
process
of
self‐awareness.
Value
is
then
produced
in
Shelley’s
stories
through
a
critical
distance
and
awareness
of
how
forms
of
representation
and
social
and
political
structures
can
shape
the
individual.
 


 
The
extension
of
the
inner
self
through
the
formal
aspects
of
writing,
Shelley
suggests,
is
necessary
for
the
development
of
the
self‐awareness
of
readers
as
individuals
and
members
of
a
reading
community.
This
involves
extending
the
body
and
its
senses
as
well
as
expanding
one’s
emotional
and
perceptual
range.
To
engage
in
such
a
process
effectively,
writers
and
readers
must
always
attend
to
the
modes
of
their
expression
and
receiving
of
information.
They
must
also
magnify
and
dissect
their
own
motivations
and
intentions
as
well
as
those
of
others
without
becoming
lost
in
the
process
or
seduced
by
the
promise
of
the
medium
to
reveal
and
complete
the
self.
Shelley’s
message
is
one
in
which
the
heightened
self‐ 

 104
 awareness
to
which
her
Keepsake
stories
guides
annual
readers
will
intensify
the
pleasure
of
making
and
consuming
literature.
As
she
provides
readers
with
states
of
suspended
disbelief,
skepticism,
passivity
and
active
participation,
Shelley
keeps
them
attuned
to
their
responses
and
reactions
as
well
as
those
of
the
writer.57

 The
printed
word
plays
off
these
responses
to
create
a
charged
exchange
of
information
and
affection
between
individuals.
Literature
is
distinguished
from
other
forms
of
writing
in
the
marketplace
and
defined,
in
Shelley’s
Keepsake
contributions,
according
to
the
collaborations
through
which
it
was
produced.
Literature
mirrors
the
exchanges
and
circulations
of
consumer
economics
and
includes
the
artist
and
audience
as
well
as
the
specificities
of
the
writing
in
which
they
are
engaged.

Shelley’s
model
of
literary
production
removes
the
author
from
the
centre
of
the
creative
moment
and
inserts
an
audience
with
whom
the
artist
must
necessarily
communicate
and
exchange
ideas,
energy,
and
emotion.
She
explores
the
ability
of
print
to
extend
readers’
thoughts
and
emotions
and
to
make
them
receptive
to
those
of
others.
This
involves
Shelley’s
revealing
her
own
hand
in
the
story’s
controlling
of
its
readers.
The
writing
must
remain
flexible
and
open
to
the
individual
reader’s
particular
engagement
with
the
work
as
well
as
the
unexpected
variables
that
will
operate
on
the
work’s
reception.
Literary
writing
generates
a
creative
collaboration
between
writers
and
readers
who
must
necessarily
work
together
to
manage
their
experience.
Through
this
kind
of
management,
print’s

interventions
in
the
cultural
and
social
spheres
are
made
more
effective.

 

 105
 
 The
collaborative
literary
practice
that
Shelley
produces
in
the
Keepsake
creates
a
model
of
literature
and
literary
value
by
which
readers
would
be
able
to
approach
and
evaluate
the
variety
of
print
forms
available
in
the
marketplace
and
to
identify
literary
writing.
Shelley
arms
writers
and
readers
with
the
knowledge
by
which
to
best
harness
literature’s
potential
and
to
diffuse
its
dangers.
Critics
such
as
Judith
Pascoe
have
made
similar
claims
about
Shelley
and
artistic
collaboration.
I
do
not,
however,
approach
Shelley’s
depiction
of
this
collaboration
or
the
value
that
it
produces
as
withdrawn
from
the
public
sphere
and
rooted
in
a
domestic
economy
and
its
relations.58
Rather,
I
argue
that
Shelley’s
experiments
with
a
variety
of
writing
forms
as
well
as
her
familial
training
in
the
publication
process
made
her
a
skillful
and
controlled
participant
in
the
literary
marketplace.
She
incorporates
these
skills
into
the
self‐awareness
that
her
stories
work
to
produce
in
readers.
This
self‐awareness
is
the
means
by
which
the
revolutionary
potential
of
print
and
the
exchanges
it
can
create
will
be
managed.
The
writing
and
reading
of
literature
will
both
transform
the
individual
and
provide
her
with
the
ability
to
choose
and
control
her
responses
to
forms
of
print.
In
Shelley’s
Keepsake
contributions,
print
has
the
potential
to
alter
our
physical,
emotional
and
intellectual
perceptions
but
just
as
important
is
how
we
understand
and
use
the
medium.

 Critics
typically
overlook
these
features
of
Shelley’s
Keepsake
contributions
to
emphasize
the
financial
stability
that
the
literary
annuals
offered
her
as
a
writer
and
single
mother.59
Shelley’s
publication
in
the
annuals
is
also,
as
Charlotte
Sussman
points
out,
“usually
represented
as.
.
.
discontinuous
with
her
early
 

 106
 career”
(163).
Shelley
published
at
least
twenty‐one
stories
in
the
annuals
between
1823
and
1839.
Sixteen
of
these
stories
were
published
in
the
Keepsake
alone.
Shelley’s
participation
in
the
annuals
reflects
the
commitment
and
the
self‐conscious,
careful
participation
that
she
expected
of
her
readers.
Sussman
argues
that
“it
is
important
to
remember
that
Mary
Shelley
always
wrote
for
money”
(163)
and
that
Shelley’s
contributions
to
the
Keepsake
allowed
Shelley
to
situate
herself
and
her
late
husband,
their
names
and
works,
in
the
social
and
cultural
centre
of
things.60
Even
after
P.B.S’s
death,
her
controversial
past,
poverty
and
Timothy
Shelley’s
publication
restrictions
had
pushed
her
to
the
fringes
of
the
cultural
and
social
spheres,
the
Keepsake
“put
Shelley
in
the
company
of
the
other
leading
writers
of
her
day,
including
Wordsworth,
Scott,
Coleridge
and
Southey”
and
allowed
her
to
participate
in
“polite
society”
(Sussman
164).
Shelley’s
professional
relationship
with
Reynolds
was
intimate
and
friendly,
but
complicated
as
she
also
wrote
for
and
against
the
Keepsake
as
a
valuable
literary
form.61


 I
focus
the
following
readings
on
Shelley’s
original
contributions
to
the
 Keepsake
of
1829,
the
short
stories
“The
Sisters
of
Albano”
and
“Ferdinando
Eboli,”
as
well
as
her
submission
of
five
of
P.B.S.’s
unpublished
works
including
the
prose
piece
“On
Love”
and
three
verse
“Fragments”
titled
“Summer
and
Winter,”
“The
Tower
of
Famine”
and
“The
Aziola”
as
well
as
the
Preface
to
Essays,
Letters
From
 Abroad,
Translations
and
Fragments,
by
Percy
Bysshe
Shelley.62
I
will
also
draw
upon
three
additional
stories
published
in
the
Keepsake:
“Transformation”
(1837),
“The
Mortal
Immortal”
(1834)
and
“The
Parvenue”
(1838).63
I
hope
to
show
how
 

 107
 Shelley
mobilizes
value
through
her
Keepsake
stories
and
the
critical
distance
that
these
stories
were
designed
to
teach
annual
readers.

 Words
and
Transformation


 





Words
have
more
power
than
any
one
can
guess;
it
is
by
words
that
the
world’s
great
fight,
now
in
these
civilized
times,
is
carried
on;
I
never
hesitated
to
use
them,
when
I
fought
any
battle
for
the
miserable
and
oppressed.
People
are
so
afraid
to
speak,
it
would
seem
as
if
half
our
fellow‐creatures
were
born
with
deficient
organs;
like
parrots
they
can
repeat
a
lesson,
but
their
voice
fails
them,
when
that
alone
is
wanting
to
make
the
tyrant
quail.
(Shelley,
Lodore
316)

 Shelley’s
Keepsake
contributions
and
the
above
quoted
passage
articulate
a
belief
not
in
the
power
of
the
word
itself
but
in
its
power
as
a
medium
for
positive
action
and
change.
First
through
her
parents
and
then
through
personal
experience,
Shelley
learned
that
a
literary
life,
including
the
publication,
dissemination
and
marketing
of
ones
ideas
in
print,
had
the
potential
to
be
a
radical
act.
Along
with
a
faith
in
the
transformative
potential
of
words,
however,
Shelley
inherited,
as
did
other
writers
and
philosophers
of
late
Romanticism,
a
distrust
of
print
as
a
medium
for
violence.
An
increased
access
to
writing,
including
the
dissemination
of
this
writing
in
print,
was
viewed
as
an
integral
aspect
of
both
the
French
Revolution
and
the
brutal
shape
it
took
as
it
devolved
 

 108
 into
dictatorship.
The
violence
of
the
revolution
deflated
Godwin’s
arguments
about
writing’s
inherent
ability
to
perfect
the
mind.


 
In
the
Keepsake,
Shelley
contributes
to
these
debates
and
proposes
a
departure
from
the
Shelley‐Godwin‐Wollstonecraft
family
legacy
with
its
emphasis
on
words,
particularly
the
printed
word,
as
the
site
of
personal
and
social
transformation.
Shelley
instead
focuses
on
the
individual
reader
as
this
site
and
emphasizes
the
independence
of
thought
and
education
necessary
to
manage
the
power
of
words
effectively.
The
above
quoted
Fanny,
intensively
educated
in
 Lodore
(1835)
by
her
father
“to
guard
against
all
weakness,
to
make
her
complete
in
herself,
and
to
render
her
independent
and
self‐sufficient”
(156),
exemplifies
both
Shelley’s
ideal
user
of
words
and
the
necessity
of
education
in
her
creation.64
Through
Fanny,
Shelley
explicitly
draws
a
link
between
the
delivery
of
words
and
the
integrity
of
their
user.
In
Lodore,
the
narration
is
ultimately
unable
to
articulate
a
concrete
picture
of
Fanny’s
experiences
outside
of
the
plot
or
to
forsee
her
possible
future.
This
novel
and
her
original
and
edited
works
in
the
Keepsake,
point
to
the
inadequacies
of
the
conventional
use
of
words
and
forms
of
writing
in
the
accommodation
of
the
modern
writer
and
reader.

 In
her
own
stories,
Shelley
attempts
to
prepare
the
individual
for
the
skills
that
literary
writing
would
demand,
including
the
ability
of
readers
to
think
for
themselves
and
to
manage
the
energy
of
words
and
a
shared
reading
experience.
In
this
way,
Shelley’s
Keepsake
contributions
(along
with
her
novels)
both
address
and
dispute
the
distrust
with
which
Godwin
and
P.B.S
approached
print.
Godwin’s
skepticism
was
rooted
in
a
profound
antipathy
towards
the
more
ephemeral
 

 109
 forms
of
print
circulating
among
the
uneducated
lower
classes,
many
of
which,
he
felt,
incited
violence.
Godwin,
Clemit
argues,
went
so
far
as
to
turn
P.B.S.
away
from
a
direct
engagement
with
the
mass
public
and
a
"popular"
readership.
Clemit
suggests
that
Shelley's
attempts
to
intercede
in
the
Irish
situation
of
1813
through
pamphlet
writing—“a
direct
address
to
a
popular
audience”
(194)‐‐were
for
Godwin
an
irresponsible
attempt
to
influence
and
incite
a
large
or
"popular"
audience.
Clemit
claims
that
Godwin
sparked
P.B.S.’s
ultimate
retreat
from
any
contact
with
an
audience,
even
through
the
publication
of
books,
into
an
imaginative
and
intellectual
poetic
sphere
removed
from
political
action.
What
Clemit
describes
as
both
Godwin’s
and
then
P.B.S.’s
“belief
in
individual
judgment”
meant
“a
profound
distrust
of
collective
political
action”(193).

Shelley
instead
emphasized
collectivity
as
the
route
to
a
fully
formed
subjectivity.
Although
Shelley’s
contributions
to
the
Keepsake
resituate
the
imaginative
and
intellectual
spheres
at
the
centre
of
society
(including
its
economic
and
political
activities)
she
also
points
to
the
dangers
that
the
combination
of
print,
social
and
political
injustice,
anger,
and
a
lack
of
education
could
have
in
terms
of
the
provocation
of
violence.
She
turns
to
a
different
kind
of
“mass”
or
popular
audience
and
form
of
writing
that
was
ripe
for
the
kind
of
intellectual
experimentation
and
mental
perfectibility
that
Godwin
promoted.
These
weren’t
necessarily
middle‐class
readers
but
rather
readers
who
would
break
down
such
distinctions
through
knowledge,
just
as
Fanny
Durham,
born
into
poverty,
is
educated
to
become
a
fiercely
independent
woman
who
defies
traditional
configurations
of
gender,
class
and
intellectual
ability.
Words
are
the
 

 110
 means
by
which
the
individual
is
controlled
on
a
variety
of
levels
and
also
the
means
by
which
the
individual
can
work
to
re‐articulate
and
shape
themselves.


 In
Shelley’s
story
“The
Swiss
Peasant”
(Keepsake
1831),
for
example,
words
are
used
to
awaken
the
audience
to
their
experience
in
the
world
and
then
writing
is
used
to
circumscribe
the
energy
of
this
awakening
for
positive
change.
Shelley’s
story
illustrates
how
the
word,
in
the
printed
form
of
the
story
itself,
can
not
only
create
a
heightened
awareness
of
the
ties
of
love
and
hate
that
bind
people
but
also
generate
the
tie
itself.
“Swiss
Peasant”
begins
with
the
introduction
of
a
narrator
who
rejects
his
familiar
society
to
travel
and
find
solitude.
He
finds
himself
alone
and
lonely
in
Switzerland
“among
cold‐piercing
mountains”
(136)
with
only
one
book,
Byron’s
the
Prisoner
of
Chillon,
to
read
and
help
him
to
reflect
on
his
solitary
experiences.
In
an
attempt
to
follow
in
Byron’s
footsteps
and
to
“cheat
the
minutes
in
this
dim
spot”
(136)
the
narrator
begins
to
write
a
tale.
Unable
to
“invent”
or
“concoct”
a
fictional
tale
or
“lie,”
the
narrator
retells
a
story
narrated
to
him
by
Fanny
Chaumont,
the
heroine
and
the
subject
of
“Swiss
Peasant”
as
both
story
and
illustration
in
the
Keepsake.
Isolated
from
others
both
physically
and
philosophically,
the
narrator
learns
through
the
tale
to
look
behind
his
own
perception
of
the
things
and
people
around
him,
to
empathize
with
their
conception
of
their
own
experiences
and
to
create
a
connection
of
love
and
understanding.

Whereas
the
printed
word
is
unable
to
capture
the
“greatest
charm[s]”
of
the
tale’s
original
telling
in
the
form
of
Fanny
herself,
the
illustration
is
unable
to
capture
the
struggles
and
traumatic
events
of
her
life.
The
illustration’s
romantic
 

 111
 rendering
of
Fanny’s
figure
reflects
the
kind
of
romantic
variability
and
depth
of
emotion
that
the
narrator’s
companion
Ashburn
attributes
to
all
human
lives.
The
illustration,
however,
also
mirrors
the
detached,
conventional
perspective
with
which
the
narrator
looks
at
the
Swiss
countryside
and
people.
The
narrator
complains
to
Ashburn
“of
the
commonplace
and
ennui
of
life”
to
which
Ashburn
replies
that
“[n]o
living
being
among
us
but
could
tell
a
tale
of
soul‐subduing
joys
and
heart‐consuming
woes
worthy,
had
they
their
poet,
of
the
imagination
of
Shakspeare
or
Goethe”
(137).
The
narrator
scoffs
at
his
friend’s
suggestion
as
“pure
romance”
(137).
His
hearing
of
Fanny
and
Louis
Chaumont’s
story,
however,
forces
him
to
realize
that
it
is
not
only
his
superficial
reading
of
his
surroundings
or
Ashburn’s
romanticizations,
such
as
the
figure
of
Fanny
Chaumont
“descending
a
mountain
path”
with
her
son
in
full
Swiss
peasant
costume,
that
comes
between
the
individual
and
experience.
It
is
also
his
own
lack
of
commitment
to
generating
a
new
kind
of
perspective
that
will
more
profoundly
connect
him
to
his
environment.


 The
subsequent
events
illustrate
how
this
perspective
can
be
generated
through
the
concentrated
power
of
words
and
how
this
power
and
its
effects
can
be
channeled
and
redirected
for
positive
ends.
The
story’s
trouble
begins
when
the
hard‐working
and
long‐suffering
peasant
Louis
Chaumont
is
denied
marriage
to
the
beautiful
peasant
girl
Fanny
who
has
been
adopted
and
given
a
“bourgeois
education”
by
Madame
de
Marville,
Fanny’s
family
having
been
killed
in
a
freak
storm.
Fanny’s
adoptive
brother
Henry
is
also
in
love
with
the
young
maid
and
because
of
the
resulting
passions,
Monsieur
de
Marville
sends
both
men
away.
 

 112
 Resentful
of
his
and
his
family’s
treatment
by
their
feudal
lords,
Louis
rallies
the
local
peasantry
to
rebel
against
the
aristocrats
of
the
neighborhood.
They
attack
Monsieur
de
Marville’s
chateau.
The
visiting
Henry,
along
with
the
women,
including
Fanny,
attempts
to
escape.

When
Madame
de
Marville,
confronted
by
the
crowd,
calls
one
of
the
peasants
a
“canaille”
(Shelley’s
italics)
the
diffuse
and
unmanaged
anger
of
the
crowd
is
suddenly
focused—“The
word
was
electric.
The
fierce
passion
of
the
mob,
excited
by
the
mischief
they
were
about
to
perpetuate
now
burst
like
a
stream
into
this
new
channel”
(148).
The
crowd
threatens
to
destroy
the
small
group
of
aristocrats
until
Louis
Chaumont
appears
and,
remembering
his
love
for
Fanny,
demands
that
they
let
the
women
pass.
The
men
may,
however,
“deal
with
the
young
aristocrat
[Henry]
according
to
his
merits”
(149).
Unable
to
connect
the
words
of
the
man
in
front
of
her
with
Louis,
the
man
she
loves,
Fanny
attempts
to
access
his
humanity
by
claiming
that
Henry
is
her
husband.
She
appeals
to
the
crowd’s
sympathy
by
asking,
“Will
you
murder
one
who,
forgetting
his
birth,
his
duty,
his
honour,
has
married
a
peasant
girl—one
of
yourselves?”
(149).
Although
the
larger
crowd
is
unmoved,
Chaumont
has
an
immediate
and
intense
reaction.

One
word—“canaille”—
galvanizes
the
crowd
to
their
murderous
purpose
and
now
two
words
from
Fanny
unleash
a
powerful
love
in
Louis
that
connects
him
with
those
he
only
moments
before
considered
his
enemies:

“Even
so!”—the
words
died
on
her
lips
as
she
strove
to
form
them,
terrified
by
their
purport,
and
the
effect
they
might
produce.
An
inexplicable
expression
passed
over
Chaumont’s
face;
the
fierceness
 

 113
 that
jealousy
had
engendered
for
a
moment
was
exalted
almost
to
madness
and
then
faded
wholly
away.
The
stony
heart
within
him
softened
at
once.
A
tide
of
warm,
human,
and
overpowering
emotion
flowed
into
his
soul.
(149)
Louis’s
resentment
and
hatred
as
well
as
his
desire
for
revenge
are
unraveled
by
the
even
more
powerful
positive
emotions
that
words
have
the
potential
to
release.
With
much
difficulty,
Louis
overcomes
“the
awakened
passions
of
the
blood‐thirsty
mob”
(149)
and
rescues
the
small
group.
It
is
through
the
power
of
his
love
and
“his
energy,
his
strong
will”
that
he
is
able
to
“over[come]
all
opposition”
(149)
by
the
crowd.

At
this
moment,
Louis
realizes
that
not
only
the
feudal
lords
but
also
the
revolutionary
ideologies
and
words
under
which
he
has
been
acting
have
been
in
control
of
his
mind
and
his
body.
He
has
become
only
mindless
reaction.
This
realization
is
as
if
a
“veil”
has
been
“rent
before
his
eyes”:
The
rage
and
hate
which
he
had
sedulously
nourished
suddenly
became
his
tormentors
and
his
tyrants—at
the
moment
that
love,
before
too
closely
allied
to
them,
emancipated
itself
from
their
control.
Love,
which
is
the
source
of
all
that
is
most
generous
and
noble
in
our
nature,
of
self‐devotion
and
of
high
intent,
separated
from
the
alloy
he
had
blended
with
it,
asserted
its
undivided
power
over
him.
(151)

Louise
spends
the
following
years
as
a
soldier
in
a
battle
with
both
France’s
enemies
and
his
own
“fierce
spirit”
(151).
Louis
must
painfully
build
an
identity
 

 114
 and
personality
different
than
the
one
produced
through
the
words
such
as
“canaille”
that
have
been
imposed
on
him.
Upon
returning
to
the
area,
Louis
unknowingly
seeks
sanctuary
at
the
cottage
of
Fanny.
The
relationship
between
Louis
and
Fanny
is
subsequently
restored.

 Although
Louis
lacks
the
official,
bourgeois
education
of
Fanny,
his
newfound
perspective
on
himself
and
his
life
is
facilitated
by
words,
just
as
his
previous
oppression
had
been
enforced
through
their
use
in
the
form
of
orders
and
decrees.
Through
Louis,
the
narrator
and
the
story’s
readers
are
guided
to
an
awareness
of
their
connection
with
others
in
how
they
are
shaped
by
forces
around
them
as
well
as
their
own
inner
weaknesses.
Reading
the
story
becomes
a
mode
of
evaluating
themselves
as
well
as
taking
hold
of
their
own
thoughts
and
emotional
reactions
in
relation
to
those
of
others
and
to
the
various
forces
that
work
to
shape
them.


 Constraint
and
Limitation:
Form


 Shelley’s
contributions
to
the
Keepsake
explore
what
happens
when
both
social
and
literary
conventions
and
her
characters’
proscribed
identities
and
roles
come
up
against
experiences
that
challenge
these
forces
and
their
limitations.
Shelley
uses
a
particular
configuration
of
form,
as
the
boundaries
that
can
both
restrict
and
help
to
refine
and
express
our
emotional
and
intellectual
experiences,
to
draw
a
connection
between
two
important
aspects
of
her
model
of
a
self‐aware,
collaborative
reading
community:
the
formal
aspects
of
literary
writing
necessary
to
manage
the
powerful
potential
writing
has
to
enact
change,
particularly
in
 

 115
 relation
to
new
technologies
of
representation;
and
the
social
boundaries
that
are
needed
to
maximize
the
effectiveness
of
the
intimacies
and
exchanges
of
a
communal
literary
process.
Shelley’s
stories
in
the
Keepsake
suggest,
however,
that
readers
must
always
be
aware
of
these
limitations
of
form
and
be
willing
to
use
their
literary
practices
to
push
against
them.


 I
argue
that
Shelley
was
herself
a
skillful
and
disciplined
writer
who
experimented
with
the
constraints
in
which
all
artists
and
their
audiences
must
necessarily
operate.
Such
constraints
include
the
limitations
of
class
and
economics
on
education
and
vocation
and
the
gap
between
the
individual’s
emotions
and
ideas
and
the
technology
available
to
communicate
them.
Shelley
also
highlights
the
limitations
that
she
operates
under
as
a
contributor
to
the
 Keepsake.
For
example,
seventeen
of
her
stories
were
commissioned
to
accompany
already
completed
illustrations.
In
a
much
quoted
letter
to
Maria
Gisborne,
Shelley
complains
that
the
demands
of
the
annual
editors
to
shorten
her
work
suggest
that
“people
think
ideas
can
be
conveyed
by
intuition—and
that
it
is
a
superstition
to
consider
words
necessary
for
their
expression”
(245).
Restrictions
such
as
the
 Keepsake’s
strict
editorial
deadlines
and
limitations
on
length
and
subject
matter
clearly
mark
Shelley’s
stories.
Even
so,
they
did
not
did
not
impede
her
art
or
her
talent
but
contributed
to
the
condensed
energy
of
her
writing
and
its
intensification
of
the
emotional
and
imaginative
experiences
of
writers
and
readers.

 According
to
Shelley’s
model
of
a
self‐aware
literary
practice,
form
does
not
have
to
paralyze
the
individual
writer
and
reader
or
her
characters.
In
actuality,
 

 116
 form
as
exemplified
by
the
formal
dimensions
of
the
annual,
such
as
the
number
of
pages,
the
weight
and
the
size,
and
its
balancing
of
forms
of
representation,
such
as
the
combination
of
illustration
and
writing,
or
forms
of
writing,
such
as
short
stories,
poems
and
essays,
is
often
portrayed
in
her
work
as
necessary
and
valuable.
Form
can
regulate
writing
and
its
effects
as
well
as
facilitate
the
channels
by
which
writers
and
readers
collabourate
in
the
creative
moment.
Without
an
awareness
of
how
form
acts
on
and
within
the
individual,
however,
the
individual’s
identity,
their
emotional
and
intellectual
experiences,
can
become
like
that
of
Louis
in
“Swiss
Peasant,”
locked
within
a
set
of
beliefs.
 
The
organizing
narrative
of
“The
Sisters
of
Albano,”
published
in
the
 Keepsake
for
1829,
for
example,
connects
the
constraints
under
which
the
oral
story
is
told
and
then
written
to
those
under
which
the
characters
themselves
are
acting.
65
Shelley
constructs
the
story
so
as
to
deliberately
draw
the
attention
of
readers
to
the
process
of
writing
and
the
act
of
reading
as
a
limited
field.
The
written
story
begins
with
a
claustrophobic
sense
of
concentric
constrictions
of
form
and
time
with
the
oral
tale
and
the
listener
in
the
middle.
Encircling
this
middle
point
are
the
annual’s
restriction
of
space
as
well
as
the
narrator’s
limited
amount
of
time
in
Rome.
The
narrator’s
physical
engagements
with
the
land
as
well
as
her
hearing
and
retelling
of
the
tale
are
intensified
by
these
constraints
of
time
and
space
just
as
the
constraints
under
which
the
characters
live
intensify
their
passions
and
beliefs.







 
The
story’s
overarching
frame
is
the
accompanying
illustration
by
J.
M.
W.
Turner.
Shelley’s
writing
pushes
at
the
perspective
of
the
illustration
to
highlight
 

 117
 how
form
can
influence
how
we
see
and
interpret
the
physical
world
around
us.
The
narrator’s
literary
description
of
the
lake
of
Albano
is
painterly,
referencing
the
picturesque
perspective
of
the
illustration.
This
reference
involves
the
physical
elevation
and
detachment
of
the
narrator
and
their
fellow
travelers
(including
the
teller
of
the
story
Countess
Atanasia
D‐‐
and
her
two
children)
from
the
prospect
before
them
and
the
compositional
layering
and
balancing
of
the
scene.
The
description
and
the
individual
reader’s
experience
of
the
landscape
are
not
limited
to
the
generic
demands
of
the
illustration,
however,
for
they
interact
with
the
demands
and
restrictions
of
the
short
story
and
annual
itself.


 The
narrator,
for
example,
gazes
upon
the
scene
before
her
and
her
companions,
the
scene
that
is
also
depicted
in
the
illustration,
of
two
Italian
peasants
(one
a
hunter/farmer
and
one
a
“Contadina”)
who
are
themselves
looking
over
the
wares
of
a
peddler
that
include
“pictures
and
prints—views
of
the
country,
and
portraits
of
the
Madonna”(82).
The
narrator
is
inspired
by
this
doubling
of
herself
and
the
peasants
to
conjure
a
story.
She
states:
“One
might
easily
make
a
story
for
that
pair,”
I
said:
“his
gun
is
a
help
to
the
imagination,
and
we
may
fancy
him
a
bandit
with
his
Contadina
love,
the
terror
of
all
the
neighborhood,
except
of
her,
the
most
defenceless
being
in
it.”
(82)
At
this
point,
the
narrator
reveals
the
artistic
and
social
irresponsibility
of
the
romantic
perspective
by
which
she
reads
the
landscape
and
the
people
in
it.
The
activities
of
the
three
peasants
do
not
in
themselves
indicate
an
illicit
love
affair.
The
activities
of
the
individuals
in
the
painting
are
of
a
cultural
and
economic
 

 118
 exchange
that
reflects
the
dynamics
of
the
Keepsake
itself,
such
as
the
consumers’
perusing
of
the
annual’s
offerings
and
their
choosing
to
participate
in
the
shared
experience
of
owning
and
consuming
its
contents.

 The
Countess
thus
admonishes
the
narrator
for
her
reading
of
the
scene
and
draws
her
back
to
the
reality
of
what
she
is
saying:
“You
speak
lightly
of
such
a
combination.
.
.
as
if
it
must
not
in
its
nature
be
the
cause
of
dreadful
tragedies.
The
mingling
of
love
with
crime
is
a
dread
conjunction,
and
lawless
pursuits
are
never
followed
without
bringing
on
the

criminal,
and
all
allied
to
him,
ineffable
misery”
(82).
Love,
the
Countess
implies,
is
itself
hard
to
control
and
when
combined
with
actions
that
are
not
bound
by
the
laws
of
civilization
and
the
social
and
economic
exchanges
necessary
to
circumscribe
it,
there
can
only
be
a
tragedy.
To
remove
all
of
the
boundaries
around
experience,
the
Countess
implies,
such
as
the
framework
of
the
story
and
the
conventions
around
ways
of
seeing,
is
to
remove
its
context,
shape
and
meaning
and
leave
only
“ineffable
misery.”
Likewise,
the
imaginative
and
economic
exchanges
that
take
place
through
the
annual
have
only
a
limited
opportunity
to
dissolve
the
boundaries
between
people
and
generate
a
moment
of
communication
and
connection.
It
is
in
these
exchanges,
however,
that
such
a
moment
is
possible.
We
can
imagine
outside
of
such
boundaries
and
frameworks
but
any
expression
of
this
imagining
such
as
through
love
must
remain
within
a
set
of
forms
and
conventions.
 
 

 119
 




 Shelley’s
contributions
to
the
Keepsake
work
to
renew
these
forms
and
conventions
in
the
creation
of
a
modern
reading
experience.
The
narration
of
“Sisters”
dissolves
the
various
frames
in
which
the
story
is
situated
and
rebuilds
them
to
transform
the
demands
of
the
illustration
and
the
annual.
The
intangibility
of
the
Countess’s
memory
and
the
narrator’s
experience
of
hearing
the
tale
is
initially
brought
into
focus
through
writing.
It
is
at
the
moment
in
which
the
countess
agrees
to
tell
the
“real”
tale
of
the
Contadina
and
bandit
affair,
however,
that
the
boundaries
disappear
and
there
is
an
exchange
between
the
travelers,
the
oral
tale
and
the
form
of
writing
by
which
it
reaches
readers.
The
printed
product
is
mixed
with
the
physical
and
oral
dimensions
of
its
telling
such
as
the
Countess’s
body
and
style
of
speech
and
the
concurrent
transition
from
day
to
night
around
the
lake.
The
boundaries
of
form
outlined
above
are
loosened
enough
so
that
the
story
can
continue
through
the
twilight
of
the
landscape
to
a
retelling
that
is
tenuously
connected
to
the
original
framing
by
the
illustration,
the
Countess
and
her
memory.
The
tale
is
then
dependent
upon
both
readers
and
their
ability
to
navigate
and
reframe
the
narrative
layers
in
conjunction
with
the
illustration.

 This
reframing
can
be
linked
to
an
important
moment
in
the
narrator’s
description
of
the
lake
and
the
waters
of
the
Mediterranean
glimpsed
just
beyond
the
hills.
It
is
in
this
moment
that
living
without
boundaries
and
limits
is
understood
to
be
the
same
as
relinquishing
one’s
identity
to
them.
In
the
following
passage
the
narrator
describes
the
Mediterranean
as
a
young
bride
who
defines
herself
in
relation
to
her
new
husband:

 

 120
 The
waters,
reflecting
the
brilliancy
of
the
sky
and
the
fire‐tinted
banks,

beamed
a
second
heaven,
a
second
irradiated
earth,
at
our
feet.
The
Mediterranean
gazing
on
the
sun—as
the
eyes
of
a
mortal
bride
fail
and
are
dimmed
when
reflecting
her
lover’s
glance—was
lost,
mixed
in
his
light,
till
it
had
become
one
with
him.
(81)
This
loss
of
an
independent
identity,
particularly
of
a
woman
through
marriage,
and
the
type
of
exchange
illustrated
by
the
Mediterranean
and
the
sun
exemplifies
the
one
between
a
reader
and
writing
that
erases
all
physical,
emotional
and
intellectual
borders.
Like
the
bride
to
her
husband
and
the
Mediterranean
to
the
sun,
the
solitary
reader
loses
her
identity
and
becomes
only
a
mirror
image,
a
representation
of
the
writing’s
and
the
sun’s
physical
form.
There
is
no
receptacle
for
the
expression
of
the
bride
or
readers
themselves.66
The
tale
told
by
the
Countess,
however,
pulls
readers
back
to
an
awareness
of
themselves
as
physical
and
social
bodies
in
their
encounter
with
the
medium
and
their
absorption
by
the
act
of
reading.
It
also
pulls
readers
back
to
an
awareness
of
the
limitations
of
writing,
or
any
technology
of
representation,
without
the
collaboration
of
writers
and
readers.
The
economic
and
emotional
exchanges
displayed
in
the
illustration
and
translated
into
writing
remind
readers
of
their
own
agency
in
the
literary
process
demanded
by
Shelley’s
Keepsake
contributions
and
the
Keepsake
itself.
 
 Constraint
and
Limitation:
Physical
and
Imaginary

 Shelley’s
choice
of
contributions
encourages
the
Keepsake’s
readers
to
confront
the
abilities
and
limitations
of
print,
and
writing
in
particular,
to
act
as
a
 

 121
 medium
for
their
seamless
transition
into
another
self
and
world.
Shelley
works
to
show
readers
how
to
use
the
exchanges
and
circulations
of
both
writing
and
print
to
expand
the
self,
to
circulate
throughout
different
communities,
lives,
and
experiences
and
to
connect
with
others
without
either
losing
their
definition
or
being
transfixed
into
one
role
or
identity.
Shelley
warns
readers,
however,
that
the
boundaries
against
which
the
individual
defines
and
understands
the
self
can
become
either
so
fixed
or
so
unhinged
that
the
individual
is
rendered
unable
to
effectively
read
all
of
the
outward
markers
and
mediations
that
structure
his
or
her
life.
The
characters
in
“The
Sisters,”
for
example,
are
caught
between
resisting
and
surrendering
to
the
social,
political
and
religious
constraints
that
define
who
they
are.
“The
Sisters”
plays
with
these
markers
in
their
physical
states,
as
bodies
and
print,
and
imaginary
states,
as
in
social
and
land
divisions,
to
learn
more
about
how
peo