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Updated: June 2, 2025
This is the conclusion of the happily wedded heroes of Bayard Taylor's A Poet's Journal, and of Coventry Patmore's The Angel in the House; likewise of the poet in J. G. Holland's Kathrina, who excuses his waning inspiration after his marriage: She, being all my world, had left no room For other occupation than my love. ... I had grown enervate In the warm atmosphere which I had breathed.
We propose, however, to occupy ourselves with the matter rather than the mode of Patmore's utterance; with that truth which he conceived himself to have apprehended in a newer and clearer light than others before him; and this, because he does not stand alone, but is the representative and exponent of a certain school of ascetic thought whose tendency is diametrically contrary to that pseudo-mysticism which we have dealt with elsewhere, and have ascribed to a confusion of neo-platonic and Christian principles.
As to the pre-eminence of that state in which the spiritual excellencies of marriage and virginity are combined, Catholic teaching is quite clear and decided; in this, as in other points, Patmore's untaught intuitions, and instincts his mens naturaliter catholica had led him, whither the esoteric teaching of the Church had led only the more appreciatively sympathetic of her disciples, from time to time, as it were, up into that mountain of which St.
Ruskin knew nothing personally of these young innovators, and had not at first sight wholly approved of the apparently Puseyite tendency of Rossetti's "Ecce Ancilla Domini," Millais' "Carpenter's Shop," and Holman Hunt's "Early Christian Missionary," exhibited the year before. And at Coventry Patmore's request he went to the Academy to look at the pictures in question.
The same story is told in Coventry Patmore's Departure to us the most magic of all the great little poems. But in Departure it is the woman who is called. ... Again and again in the Appassionata, the word comes to the woman, saying that she will be greater if she speeds him on his way. She will not hear.
"Some day I'll read you Pompilia, little Suzanne," said Bocqueraz. "Do you know Pompilia? Do you know Alice Meynell and some of Patmore's stuff, and the 'Dread of Height'?" "I don't know anything," said Susan, feeling it true. "Well," he said gaily, "we'll read them all!" Susan presently poured his tea; her guest wheeling his great leather chair so that its arm touched the arm of her own.
Browning's "Aurora Leigh," Owen Meredith's "Lucile," and Coventry Patmore's "The Angel in the House," to mention works of very different quality and calibre, may be regarded more properly as novels than as poems.
And this leads us to the consideration of a difficulty connected with another point of Patmore's doctrine of divine love.
But though they were in this dangerous field of the past, he did not once betray a sign of feeling, not even when, poring over Coventry Patmore's poems, her hand touched his, and she read the lines which they had read together so long ago, with no thought of any significance to themselves: "With all my will, but much against my heart, We two now part.
The art that utters an intellectual action so courageous, an emotion so authentic, as that of Mr. Coventry Patmore's poetry, cannot be otherwise than consummate. Often the word has a fulness of significance that gives the reader a shock of appreciation. This is always so in those simplest odes which we have taken as the heart of the author's work.
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