[This Victorian Web version of The Angel in the House is based on the Project Gutenberg e-text, which was produced by David Price (e-mail ccx074@coventry.ac.uk), from the 1891 Cassell & Company edition. GPL created the html, added links, and made corrections in the text after comparing it with other editions.]




I. The Nursling of Civility.

Lo, how the woman once was woo'd;
     Forth leapt the savage from his lair,
And fell'd her, and to nuptials rude
     He dragg'd her, bleeding, by the hair.
From that to Chloe's dainty wiles
     And Portia's dignified consent,
What distance! Bat these Pagan styles
     How far below Time's fair intent!
Siegfried sued Kriemhild. Sweeter life
     Could Love's self covet? Yet 'tis snug
In what rough sort he chid his wife
     For want of curb upon her tongue!
Shall Love, where last I leave him, halt?
     Nay; none can fancy or forsee
To how strange bliss may time exalt
     This nursling of civility.


II. The Foreign Land

A woman is a foreign land,
     Of which, though there he settle young,
A man will ne'er quite understand
     The customs, politics, and tongue.
The foolish hie them post-haste through,
     See fashions odd, and prospects fair,
Learn of the language, 'How d'ye do,'
     And go and brag they have been there.
The most for leave to trade apply,
     For once, at Empire's seat, her heart,
Then get what knowledge ear and eye
     Glean chancewise in the life-long mart.
And certain others, few and fit,
     Attach them to the Court, and see
The Country's best, its accent hit,
     And partly sound its polity.


III. Disappointment

'The bliss which woman's charms bespeak,
     I've sought in many, found in none!'
'In many 'tis in vain you seek
     What only can be found in one.'


The Friends.


Frank's long, dull letter, lying by
     The gay sash from Honoria's waist,
Reproach'd me; passion spared a sigh
     For friendship without fault disgraced.
How should I greet him? how pretend
     I felt the love he once inspired?
Time was when either, in his friend,
     His own deserts with joy admired;
We took one side in school-debate,
     Like hopes pursued with equal thirst,
Were even-bracketed by Fate,
     Twin-Wranglers, seventh from the First;
And either loved a lady's laugh
     More than all music; he and I
Were perfect in the pleasant half
     Of universal charity.


From pride of likeness thus I loved
     Him, and he me, till love begot
The lowliness which now approved
     Nothing but that which I was not,
Blest was the pride of feeling so
     Subjected to a girl's soft reign.
She was my vanity, and, oh,
     All other vanities how vain!


Frank follow'd in his letter's track,
     And set my guilty heart at ease
By echoing my excuses back
     With just the same apologies.
So he had slighted me as well!
     Nor was my mind disburthen'd less
When what I sought excuse to tell
     He of himself did first confess.


Each, rapturous, praised his lady's worth;
     He eloquently thus: 'Her face
Is the summ'd sweetness of the earth,
     Her soul the glass of heaven's grace,
To which she leads me by the hand;
     Or, briefly all the truth to say
To you, who briefly understand,
     She is both heaven and the way.
Displeasures and resentments pass
     Athwart her charitable eyes
More fleetingly than breath from glass,
     Or truth from foolish memories;
Her heart's so touch'd with others' woes
     She has no need of chastisement;
Her gentle life's conditions close,
     Like God's commandments, with content,
And make an aspect calm and gay,
     Where sweet affections come and go,
Till all who see her, smile and say,
     How fair, and happy that she's so!
She is so lovely, true, and pure,
     Her virtue virtue so endears,
That often, when I think of her,
     Life's meanness fills mine eyes with tears--'
'You paint Miss Churchill! Pray go on--'
     'She's perfect, and, if joy was much
To think her nature's paragon,
     'Tis more that there's another such!'


Praising and paying back their praise
     With rapturous hearts, t'ward Sarum Spire
We walk'd, in evening's golden haze,
     Friendship from passion stealing fire.
In joy's crown danced the feather jest,
     And, parting by the Deanery door,
Clasp'd hands, less shy than words, confess'd
     We had not been true friends before.

Last updated 8 August 2004