"A revolution in locality": astronomical tropes in Emily Dickinson's poetry.

WITH THE EXCEPTION of botany, no science receives more attention in Emily Dickinson's poetry than does astronomy. That Amherst's recluse poet should know more than a little about the sun, moon, and stars may seem incongruous, considering her notorious reluctance to visit even the house next door, but astronomy did appeal powerfully to Dickinson's imagination, for several reasons. Astronomical concepts and discoveries provided a framework for her metaphysics, and in the astronomer's vocation she found an appropriate analogue for her work as a poet. Further, the rapidity with which astronomy overturned old habits of thinking taught Dickinson a lesson in the necessity of keeping herself intellectually flexible. Finally, Dickinson deployed tropes based upon astronomical concepts as part of an overall strategy aimed at achieving a preview of her salvation and ultimate resurrection in heaven.

Once considered chiefly an adjunct to marine navigation, astronomy matured during Dickinson's youth into a coherent scientific discipline. European and American universities enthusiastically built observatories, funded positions for astronomy faculty, and published scholarly papers. Long hours spent under telescopes produced important discoveries about the activity and periodicity of sunspots, the composition and structure of Saturn's rings, and the number and positions of both Jovian and Martian moons. Whenever possible, astronomers capitalized upon unusual phenomena such as total eclipses, planetary oppositions, and cometary visits to achieve better resolutions of distant objects and to make more accurate measurements. Expeditions traveled to California, Spain, and India to witness total solar eclipses and Transits of Venus. Halley's comet, aside from bringing Mark Twain into this world in 1835 and taking him back out again in 1910, was intensively studied and photographed. The sensational discovery of Neptune in 1846 signalled to the public mind that the sky was much larger, and human beings much smaller, than had been believed. Only Darwin's theories did more to compel an educated Victorian to re-evaluate humankind's significance in the universe.

Although Emily Dickinson grew up in the comparative isolation of rural western Massachusetts, institutions in which she received her education reflected this same burgeoning interest in astronomy. At Amherst Academy she took a class in astronomy, part of an unusually progressive curriculum that was a legacy of the reverend Dr. Edward Hitchcock, president of Amherst College and an early proponent of education for women. Later, during her last term at Mt. Holyoke Female Seminary, she read Olmsted's Compendium of Astronomy. Plainly, Dickinson had many opportunities to absorb at least a rudimentary knowledge of astronomy, but determining what impact it made upon her consciousness is another matter altogether. One measure of the keen interest she took in the natural sciences is the frequency with which she used scientific terms in her poems: William Howard observed in a study of Dickinson's diction that of the 770 words she borrowed from special sources, the largest group derived from contemporary technology or science (230). Nevertheless, Dickinson makes what Daniel J. Orsini calls a "Romantic Use of Science," so that in applying "the objective methods of science to her exploration of the phenomenal world, [Dickinson] evolves an ingenious strategy: she comes to use science both as counter to her spiritual ideals and as proof of their validity" (57, 63).

Romantic sentiments pervade an early poem critically important to understanding Dickinson's attitudes towards science's methods and its ends, "`Arcturus' -- is his other name -- " It is not a particularly pleasant poem to read. Before refining her skills as a writer Dickinson often affected a girlish, highly self-conscious poetic persona that can discourage readers from taking her seriously, perhaps because she did not yet wish to be taken very seriously. Despite its giddiness, however, this poem (#70 in the Johnson variorum edition) yields some important insights into Dickinson's fundamental discomfort both with science and with conventional Christianity:

"Arcturus" is his other name --

I'd rather call him "Star." It's

very mean of Science To go

and interfere!

I slew a worm the other day -- A

"Savan" passing by Murmured

"Resurgam" -- "Centipede"! "Oh

Lord-how frail are we"!

I pull a flower from the woods -- A

monster with a glass Computes the

stamens in a breath -- And has her in

a "class"!

Whereas I took the Butterfly

Aforetime in my hat -- He sits

erect in "Cabinets" -- The

Clover bells forgot.

What once was "Heaven" Is "Zenith"

now -- Where I proposed to go When

Time's brief masquerade was done Is

mapped and charted …