A letter to you from…

There’s much to embrace from everything around us. We watch and learn from a very young and tender age. Let me introduce myself to you: Born on August 6, 1809, in Somersby, Lincolnshire, England, I was the fourth of twelve children. At the age of twelve I wrote a 6000 lined epic poem. Maybe I loved writing and that’s what I decided to pursue in my life. My father, the Reverend George Tennyson, tutored me and my brothers in classical and modern languages. In the 1820s, however, father began to suffer frequent mental breakdowns that were exacerbated by alcoholism. One of my brothers had violent quarrels with father, another was later confined to an insane asylum, and another became an opium addict. Life sometimes is a tad bit difficult I would think. There is a field by a river. There’s a road running through the field that leads to Camelot, the legendary castle of King Arthur. From the road we see an island in the middle of the river, the Island of Shalott. On the island is a little castle, which is the home of the mysterious Lady of Shalott. People pass by the island all the time, on boats and barges and on foot, but they never see the Lady. Quite often though magically almost, people working in the fields around the island will hear her singing an eerie song. We move inside the castle on the island, and we see the Lady herself. She spends her days weaving a magic web, and she knows she is cursed, forbidden to look outside. So instead she watches the world go by in a magic mirror. She sees shadows of the men and women who pass on the road, and she weaves the things she sees into her web. She is “half sick” of this life of watching and weaving… One day the sturdy Sir Lancelot rides by the island, covered in jewels and shining armor. When his image appears in the mirror, the Lady is so completely captivated that she breaks the rule and looks out her window on the real world. When she does this and catches a glimpse of Lancelot and Camelot, the magic mirror cracks. But she sees the beautiful meadows and the fields of barley and rye, the beauty of the skies above and nevertheless the image of the handsome Sir (Written on the request for Victorian Era authors and poets, by A. S. Fernando) Dear Madam, I have found your regular “Letter to you from...” in the ET quite interesting. My congratulations to you on your masterpieces! I think there could be many readers like me keen to read letters from Victorian era women authors like Jane Austen and George Elliot. And I hope you will give your kind consideration to their interest too.

I escaped home in 1827 to attend Trinity College, Cambridge. In that same year, my brother Charles and I published Poems by Two Brothers. Although the poems in the book were mostly juvenilia, they attracted the attention of the “Apostles,” an undergraduate literary club led by Arthur Hallam. I am not afraid to admit I was tremendously shy and the “Apostles” Lancelot. When the mirror cracks she understands the fatality of her actions. Knowing that everything has come to its end; the Lady finds a boat by the side of the river and writes her name on it. After looking at Camelot for a while she lies down in the boat and lets it slip downstream. She drifts down the river, singing her final song, her blood slowly running cold while she stares at the darkening sky, the seagulls crying and when it starts to drizzle. She chants softly and mourning the pain of ending slowly engulfing her. She dies before she gets to Camelot, with her skin pale white and eyes dark wholly. The people of Camelot come out to see the body of the Lady and her boat, afraid to touch the mysterious creature. Lancelot comes about and witnesses the incident aghast, looking at the beautiful maiden he slowly utters a prayer.

To live in a story and weave the magic around it, is a gift. To be able to create what others cannot is a sign indicating it’s your life’s calling. Never let it go. Even by taking risks, if that means you have to give your whole life for it step in and you will see wonders happen. The beauty in mysteries is that many understand it in different ways. Whatever you may perceive about the Lady of Shalott, may it entertain you, educate you or simply tease your brain.

Long live literature, Alfred Lord Tennyson Thanking you. Yours faithfully, A.S.Fernando . provided me, much needed friendship and confidence as a poet. Hallam and I became the best of friends; we toured Europe together in 1830 and again in 1832. Hallam suddenly died in 1833. It was a tremendous shock to me and I wrote a tribute to him: In Memoriam and many of my other poems are also tributes to Hallam. I respected him and he On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And through the field the road runs by To many-towered Camelot; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott. Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Through the wave that runs for ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four grey walls, and four grey towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott. By the margin, willow-veiled, Slide the heavy barges trailed By slow horses; and unhailed The shallop flitteth silken- sailed Skimming down to Camelot: But who hath seen her wave her hand? Or at the casement seen her stand? Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott? Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to towered Camelot: And by the moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers “‘ Tis the fairy Lady of Shalott.” There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colours gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, was true and loyal to me and I learnt about life and all other peculiar aspects of life from him.

Without much ado I would say this, the above is a very short introduction about me. I prefer not much to go in to detail about my work published, but among the work loved by many are Idylls of Kings, In memoriam, Charge of the Light Brigade, crossing the bar and many others.

Now I would like to bring your attention to this piece of mine. This is the work about the Lady of Shalott. This is purely fanciful, but much to your amusement is about the new-born love for something, for someone in the wide world from which she has been so long excluded, takes her out of the region of shadows into that of realities. And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott. And moving through a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot: There the river eddy whirls, And there the surly village- churls, And the red cloaks of market girls, Pass onward from Shalott. Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, Or long-haired page in crimson clad, Goes by to towered Camelot; And sometimes through the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two: She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott. But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror’s magic sights, For often through the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights And music, went to Camelot: Or when the moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed; “I am half sick of shadows,” said The Lady of Shalott.