The loaded word “charter’d” – changed from the first draft’s politically empty “dirty” – is used in a critical sense, and Blake’s contemporary readers would no doubt have picked up on it. The use of this loaded word – repeated to sharpen the ironic point that the streets, the very river itself, are privately owned – suggests the oppressive nature of early capitalism, in which the Whig alliance of merchants, rising finance capitalists and some of the most powerful landed aristocrats who did not need to lean on the crown for power, were busy accumulating capital via taxation and the establishment of a national debt, thus transferring wealth from the majority to the minority. As the narrator wanders, he marks, notices, the suffering population:
Marks of weakness, marks of woe”
The repetition of “marks” is emphatic; the Londoners are branded with visible signs of sickness and misery. The subtle shift from “mark” used as a verb in line 3 to a noun in line 4 binds the narrator to those he sees, showing he is not a disinterested observer but one of the sufferers himself. No-one is immune. This is a picture of a whole society in chains, and the tightness of the poem’s structure – especially in the formal second verse – emphasizes this feeling of entrapment. The move from visual to aural description makes turning away, escape, impossible – ears cannot be shut. In the second verse, this commonality of suffering is hammered home by the pounding rhythm, stressing the word “every”, five times:
“In every voice, in every ban,
The cumulative effect of this verse enacts the narrator’s helplessness. The “I” figure doesn’t appear till the very end of the verse, as if he has been overwhelmed by the sounds of human torment. The sense of imprisonment is made absolutely plain in the phrase “mind-forg’d manacles” – literally, metal restraining cuffs, devised by the mind of man to subjugate people by physical force, such as the prisoners languishing in Newgate; but also, metaphorically, mental chains imprisoning through ideological acceptance of the status quo. After the dirge of passivity in: “In every cry of every Man / In every Infant’s cry of fear”, we are jolted by the phrase into a sudden moment of analysis, of understanding. The tone of anger and condemnation rises, and in the third verse, the long list of accusatory examples has an unstoppable momentum. The verse begins, as if in mid-sentence:
“How the Chimney-sweeper’s cry
How the youthful Harlot’s curse
Blasts the new-born Infant’s tear
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.”
It is no longer daytime, but midnight. The harlot is a young victim, like the boy sweep. She has been robbed of the chance to love her baby, because it is the result of commerce, not love, and because its existence only brings her increased poverty. She passes her own misery onto her child, and that child, like her, will pass its misery onto further generations. Her curse, like the sweep’s cry and the soldier’s sigh, has actual effects. Like “mind-forg’d manacles”, “Marriage hearse” is a fantastically potent phrase, reverberating with meanings: the two words are linked oxymoronically, with the notion of joyous, fruitful marriage undermined by its grim apotheosis, death by venereal disease. The phrase also fillets bourgeois marriage in all its hypocrisy, the husband routinely unfaithful to his wife, and suggests the sterile death-in-life of the wedded state. Marriage has become the funeral of love, the death of freedom. By striking at the family, the poem attacks the reproductive system of society itself. The harlot’s curse does more than make the baby cry; it destroys bourgeois complacency. It’s a fitting end; the poem’s final line has the incantatory power of a curse itself, with the rhyme shutting the lid on the poem once the build-up of hard alliterative sounds (black’ning, blood, Blasts, blights and plagues) has reached its crescendo.
London begins with the economic system, couched in that abstract, legalistic word “charter’d”, protected by its “bans” (laws), and moves to its consequences – the selling of bodies and souls within a sealed system of commercial exploitation. Yet, though the poem describes claustrophobic trappedness, paradoxically it does not feel defeatist. This is an anti-vision poem, but it implies that a vision is needed, and this lifts it out of despair. Its rising anger, reaching its height in the Shakespearean last line, is like a battle cry, or at least the precursor to one. It doesn’t just catalogue the woes, but by ordering the encounters, reveals their cause and their inter-connection. It shows the power of articulation both in the victims’ utterances – the sweep, soldier and harlot marking the city, by black’ning, splashing their blood, infecting it – and in the poem’s own rhetorical eloquence.