When Mr. Coventry Patmore’s “Angel in the House” was first published, the “Athenæum” furnished the following unique criticism:
“The gentle reader we apprise, That this new Angel in the House Contains a tale not very wise, About a person and a spouse. The author, gentle as a lamb, Has managèd his rhymes to fit, And haply fancies he has writ Another ‘In Memoriam.’ How his intended gathered flowers, And took her tea and after sung, Is told in style somewhat like ours, For delectation of the young. But, reader, lest you say we quiz The poet’s record of his she, Some little pictures you shall see, Not in our language but in his:
| ‘While thus I grieved and kissed her glove, My man brought in her note to say Papa had bid her send his love, And hoped I dine with them next day; They had learned and practised Purcell’s glee, To sing it by to-morrow night: The postscript was—her sisters and she Inclosed some violets blue and white. ······ ‘Restless and sick of long exile, From those sweet friends I rode, to see The church repairs, and after a while Waylaying the Dean, was asked to tea. They introduced the Cousin Fred I’d heard of, Honor’s favourite; grave, Dark, handsome, bluff, but gently bred, And with an air of the salt wave.’ |
Fear not this saline Cousin Fred; He gives no tragic mischief birth; There are no tears for you to shed, Unless they may be tears of mirth. From ball to bed, from field to farm, The tale flows nicely purling on; With much conceit there is no harm, In the love-legend here begun. The rest will come another day, If public sympathy allows; And this is all we have to say About the ‘Angel in the House.’”
The Printer.
“The printer-man had just set up a ‘stickful’ of brevier, filled with italic, fractions, signs, and other things most queer; the type he lifted from the stick, nor dreamt of coming woes, when lo! a wretched wasp thought fit to sting him on the nose: the printer-man the type let fall, as quick as quick could be, and gently murmured a naughty word beginning with a D.”
My Love.
“I seen her out a-walking in her habit de la rue, and it ain’t no use a-talking, but she’s pumpkins and a few. She glides along in glory like a duck upon a lake, and I’d be all love and duty, if I only were her drake!”
The Solo.
“He drew his breath with a gasping sob, with a quivering voice he sang, but his voice leaked out and could not drown the accompanist’s clamorous bang. He lost his pitch on the middle A, he faltered on the lower D, and foundered at length like a battered wreck adrift on the wild high C.”