Browning, with his ground and lofty tumbling, Philip James Bailey, and Dobell, and a host more of mere mystics, and Kingsley, with his very disagreeable trumpet call, have so bewildered it, that this purling poetry, these mild pictures of a port-drinking dean, of middle age, and the wooing of a calm country curate, are entirely refreshing.

And we, too, should belie our own feelings, if we denied to this little poem a great deal of tenderness and probability. The picture of an amiable English country life, of a well-read young clergyman and three lovely daughters, of a well-to-do dean, living in a charming home, overgrown with vines and sweet-smelling flowers, and with green lanes winding about, and with all the accessories of the characteristic English landscape-this is surely a pleasant picture. And the feelings of a sensitive gentleman in love with a refined young lady, courteously courting her, and calmly arranging little ceremonial details with her worthy parent, the dean, over the after dinner glass of wine-this is all thoroughly English, and very well done. But, we cannot help it, it is all thoroughly droll, and we cannot speak seriously of the poem for five minutes.

The poet, who is understood to be Mr. Coventry Patmore, the author of other volumes of verse, has a cardinal defect in his philosophy of poetry, and that vitiates the whole work. It is very true that art deals with actual nature, but very untrue that every detail of actual nature is poetic. The "common things that round us lie," are only poetic when they are seen by a poet. Vaughan is not a poet. He feels the beauty of the tranquil life in which his lot is cast; but to perceive that a morning call on a summer morning is poetic, and so to describe it that it shall become poetry, are two very different things.

This is the Pre-Raphaelite mistake developed in poetry. You do not necessarily make a tree a work of art, because you carefully imitate it to the least reticulation of the leaf; and you have not written a poem merely because you have set the breakfast, and the drive, and the going to church, into rhyme and measure. Nor is this done with melody in "The Angel in the House." It is hard, unfluent, and unmusical. It is a deliberate perpetration of verse, yet, always with the

local English truth, and gentle purity of sentiment. Our first quotation shall be the very opening lines of the poem, in which Vaughan speaks as modestly of his own genius as poets are wont to speak upon commencing their great works.

"Mine is no winged horse to gain

The region of the spheral chime: He does but drag a rumbling wain, 'Cheer'd by the silver bells of rhyme: And if, at Fame's bewitching note, 'My homely Pegasus pricks an ear, "The world's cart-collar hugs his throat, 'And he's too wise to kick or rear.'

Nothing could be worse than the lines that follow. They are both awkward and obscure. Vaughan has just told his wife that he has found a subject for his poem:

"Then she: "What is it, Dear? The Life 'Of Arthur, or Jerusalem's Fall?' Neither your gentle self, my wife, 'Yourself, and love that's all in all. 'And if I faithfully proclaim

Of these the exceeding worthiness, 'Surely, the sweetest wreath of Fame

Shall, to your hope, my brows caress.'

This is forced into rhyme: and what follows is surely pure prose, and none the less so because it rhymes.

"The Dean talk'd little, but look'd on,

Of three such daughters justly vain:
What letters they had had from Bonn!
Said Mildred; and I told again
How the Bonn boys besieged the house,
In fury metaphysical,

Because I'd proved their Doctor Strauss
A myth, and not a man at all.
By Honor I was kindly task'd

To explain my never coming down,
"Twixt terms, from Cambridge; Mary ask'd
Were Kant and Goethe yet outgrown?
And, pleased, we talk'd the old days o'er;
And, parting, I for pleasure sigh'd.
To be there as a friend, (since more,)
Seem'd then, seems still, excuse for pride."

"Restless and sick of long exile

From those sweet friends, I rode to see The church-repairs; and, after awhile, Waylaying the Dean, was ask'd to tea. They introduced the cousin Fred

I'd heard of, Honor's favorite; grave, Dark, handsome, bluff, but gently bred, And with an air of the salt wave. He stared, and gave his hand, and I Stared too: then donn'd we smiles, the shrouds

Of ire, best hid while she was by,

A sweet moon 'twixt her lighted clouds." "Whether this Cousin was the cause

I know not, but I seem'd to see, The first time then, how fair she was, How much the fairest of the three. Each stopp'd to let the other go;

But he, being time-bound, rose the first.

"A voice, the sweeter for the grace

Of suddenness, while thus I dream'd,
'Good-morning!' said or sang. Her face
The mirror of the morning seem'd.
Her sisters in the garden walk'd,

And would I come? Across the Hall
She took me; and we laugh'd and talk'd
About the Flower-show, and the ball.
Their pinks had won a spade for prize;
But that was gallantly withdrawn
For Jones on Wiltshire Butterflies :'

How rude! And so we paced the lawn,
Close-cut, and, with geranium-plots,
A rival glow of green and red;
Then counted sixty apricots

On one small tree. The sweet hour sped; And I rode slow 'tward home, my breast A load of joy and tender care: And this delight, which life oppress'd,

To fixed aims grew, that ask'd for pray'r: And I reach'd home, where, whip in hand And soil'd bank-notes all ready, stood The Farmer who farm'd all my land, Except the little Park and Wood. And, with the accustom'd compliment Of talk, and beef, and frothing beer, I, my own steward, took my rent. Three hundred pounds for half the year: Our witnesses the Maid and Groom,

We sign'd the lease for seven years more, And bade Good-day. Then to my room

I went, and closed and lock'd the door.
And cast myself down on my bed,
And there, with many a blissful tear,
I vow'd to love and pray'd to wed
The Maiden who had grown so dear;"

"The Ladies rose. I held the door,

And sigh'd, as her departing grace
Assured me that she always wore
A heart as happy as her face;
And, jealous of the winds that blew,
I dreaded, o'er the tasteless wine,
What fortune momently might do

To hurt the hope that she'd be mine. Towards my mark the Dean's talk set; He praised my Notes on Abury.' Read when the Association met

At Sarum; he was glad to see
I had not stopp'd, as some men had,
At Wrangler and Prize Poet; last,
He hoped the business was not bad

I came about: then the wine pass'd.
A full glass prefaced my reply:

I loved his daughter, Honor: he knew My estate and prospects: might I try

To win her? In his eyes tears grew. He thought 'twas that. I might he gave His true consent, if I could get Her love. A dear, good Girl! she'd have Only three thousand pounds as yet: More by-and-by. Yes, his goodwill

Should go with me: he would not stir:

He and my father in old time still

Wish'd I should one day marry her; But God so seldom lets us take

The road we think our best, when it lies In steps that either mar or make

Or alter others' destinies,

That, though his blessing and his prayer Had help'd, should help, my suit, yet he Left all to me, his passive share

Consent and opportunity.

My chance, he hoped, was good: I'd won Some name already; friends and place Appear'd within my reach; but none

Her mind and manners would not grace. Girls love to see the men in whom

They invest their vanities admired: Besides, where goodness is, there room For good to work will be desired."

But the after dinner interview with the dean is the best. It is undoubtedly from nature. It is redolent of the dining

room.

It is the "old particular" and the crusted port view of the passion of love. The tender young Vaughan, by the most crafty and subtle stroke of introducing his farmer with soiled banknotes, to pay his half yearly rent of three hundred pounds, had already let us into the secret that he had an income of six hundred a year, unincumbered, we may be sure, for this veracious bard would surely have given us a strophe or two, to recount the details of mortgages, and other liabilities, had any such been in the case. He is a sly fox, young Vaughan, with his three college honors, and his Notes on Abury." Is he not a man as well as a poet, and can poets, even, cut the butcher with impunity? He falls in love with Honoria, counts up his bills receivable, makes a note of them in our hearing, and then goes to dine at the Close. He knows what the dean's question will be. He is fully prepared to answer-" Young man! what are your prospects?" Here, reverend and dear sir, this lease for seven years, in semi-annual payments of three hundred pounds, witness my maid and groom." No poetry was ever closer to fact than this. Is this the kind of fact, or treatment, that makes poetry? The author of "Notes on

66

Abury" might have shortened the whole matter thus:

"Six hundred pounds a year I had :"

I told the dean: he sipped, nor sighed, But said, "Dear sir, I'm very glad,

The dear, good girl shall be your bride."

We are strictly following Vaughan's advice, given in the fourth part of the Accompaniments" to the first part of the first division of the poem. It is headed, aptly, "The Poet's Humility:"

"Nor verse, nor art, nor plot, nor plan,

Nor aught of mine here's worth a toy :
Quit praise and blame, and, if you can,
Do, Critic, for the nonce, enjoy.
Moving but as the feelings move,
I run, or loiter with delight,
Or stop to mark where gentle Love

Persuades the soul from height to height. Yet, know, that, though my words are gay

As David's dance, which Michal scorn'd, If rightly you peruse the Lay,

You shall be sweetly help'd and warn'd."

We are enjoying, and we are certainly warned; but the humility we do not discern, either in these lines, or in all the others. It is clear enough that the Reverend Mr. Vaughan thought he had made a very pretty poem-and so he had; "The Angel in the House" is a very pretty poem, indeed; and we have no doubt that hundreds of cultivated country curates could make a similar present to their wives, on each happy nuptial anniversary. The only mistake is in presenting it to the public. The description of private incidents, as such, is of no public interest. It is only when they are illuminated by universal feelings and thoughts, that their history becomes literature. Has Mr. Vaughan, in all his reading, never read Dante's "Vita Nuova," or "Petrarch," or Mrs. Browning's "Sonnets from the Portuguese," or "In Memoriam"? is the way in which the master-passion of an individual becomes literature, and a precious treasure to the world. His grocery bill and his wife's income are unimportant and impertinent; nor does the incessant mention of trivial details make the story more real.

That

It would, however, be very unjust to the reader, who has not seen the poem, to leave him to suppose that there are no better things in it than we have quoted. It is all affected; but it has a great deal of a kind of pretty innocence and gentle emotion. Here is, perhaps, the truest poetry in the book.

1.

"When ripen'd time and chasten'd will Have stretch'd and tuned for love's accords

The five-stringed lyre of life, until

It vibrates with the wind of words; And Woman,' 'Lady,' 'She.' and 'Her' Are names for perfect Good and Fair, And unknown maidens, talk'd of, stir

His thoughts with reverential care; He meets, by heavenly chance express, His destined wife: some hidden hand Unveils to him that loveliness

Which others cannot understand.
No songs of love, no summer dreams
Did e'er his longing fancy fire
With vision like to this: she seems
In all things better than desire.
His merits in her presence grow,

To match the promise in her eyes,
And round her happy footsteps blow
The authentic airs of Paradise.
For love of her he cannot sleep;

Her beauty haunts him all the night: It melts his heart, it makes him weep For wonder, worship, and delight."

2.

"Twas half my home six years ago:

The six years had not alter'd it: Red-brick and ashlar, long and low, With dormers and with oriels lit; Geranium, lychnis, rose array'd

The windows, all wide open thrown;
And some one in the Study play'd

The Wedding March of Mendelssohn.
And there it was I last took leave:

'Twas Christmas: I remember'd now The cruel girls, who feign'd to grieve, Took all the Christmas down; and how The laurel into blazes woke

The fire, lighting the large, low room, A dim, rich lustre of old oak

And crimson velvet's glowing gloom." These extracts fairly present the claims of "The Angel in the House." It, certainly, has none of the faults of obscurity and turgidity that are urged against most recent poems; but then, it has none of their virtues, none of their subtle thought, rich imagination, and stately or tender music. While, on the one hand, it never sinks below prose, yet, on the other, it never rises into poetry. It wants entirely the poetic aura, that indescribable quality, which no praise enhances and no blame destroys. We call that quality genius, or inspiration; but these words explain nothing. The poetry of a poem always remains as indescribable as the tone of a picture. It is the singing quality in it. It is that which makes the bald facts poetic. It is that which makes Wordsworth's Lucy Gray" a poem, and refuses the name to Dr. Darwin's "Botanic Garden." Since Wordsworth, Tennyson deals more with common life than any other famous English poet, and we quote, from his last volume, a passage, which shows how true poets treat the familiar facts of to-day. It is from "The Brook, an Idyl," and one of the most exquisite idyls in literature. Mark how plain the fact, and how pure the poetry:

"My dearest brother, Edmund, sleeps Not by the well-known stream and rustic spire,

But unfamiliar Arno, and the dome

Of Brunelleschi: sleeps in peace; and he,
Poor Philip, of all his lavish waste of words
Remains the bare P. W. on his tomb:
I scraped the lichen from it: Katie walks
By the long wash of Australasian seas,
Far-off, and holds her head to other stars,
And breathes in converse seasons. All are
gone."

William Allingham is a name that we have been wont to associate with that of Coventry Patmore and a certain Mr. Edmund Reade, who statedly publishes

poems in England, which rarely survive to reach this country. There is no reason for this association of names, except the fact that all of the gentlemen have published various volumes, which seem to be better than "the poetry of the million," and yet not good enough to give the authors rank as acknowledged poets.

Mr. Allingham's present volume consists partly of revised and partly of new poems. In the beginning of his preface, he alludes to a volume "now withdrawn," and, at the close, speaks of "future pages that may better deserve" the perusal of his friends. This volume may, therefore, not improperly be regarded as a finger thrust in the world's button-hole, to hold its attention, until that attention shall be commanded by a greater interest. Mr. Allingham is an Irishman, and we learn from his preface that five of the songs have had an Irish circulation, "as ha'penny ballads," and they are so good that we are sure the world will willingly wait while he sings, and easily believe that he who sings so well now, will sing no worse, by-and-by. There is so much genuine music in this volume, so much pathos, such a sparkling fancy, flowing to such a dancing rhythm, a poetic sensitiveness so true and tender, that, although we cannot suppose Mr. Allingham will ever be a great poet, he will, certainly, always be a very pleasant minstrel, so long as he confines himself to the themes that especially suit his talent. His fancy is very affluent. His ear is very true. He is essentially a song or ballad writer, as we hope our readers will be convinced by what we shall quote :

"THE FAIRIES.
"A NURSERY SONG.
"Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,

And white owl's feather.

"Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds

Of the black mountain lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs, All night awake.

the rest.

Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will,

Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.

"Her eyes like mountain water that s flowing on a rock,

How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many a shock.

Red rowans warm in sunshine, and wetted with a show'r,

Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its pow'r.

"Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up,

Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup,

Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine;

It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine.

"The dance o' last Whit Monday night exceeded all before,

No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor;

But Mary kept the belt of love, and O but she was gay!

She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away.

"When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete,

The music nearly kill'd itself, to listen to her feet;

The fiddler moan'd his blindness, he heard her so much praised,

But bless'd himself he wasn't deaf when once her voice she raised.

"And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung,

Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue;

But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands,

And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands.

"Oh, you're the flower o' womankind in country or in town:

The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down.

If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright,

And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right.

Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall!

O might we live together in a cottage medn and small;

With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall!

"O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress;

It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less.

The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low;

But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go!

"The Girl's Lamentation," "The Maids of Elden Mere," and others we would gladly quote. Such fancies as these are not uncommon in the book:

"Wild Rose! delicately flushing

All the border of the dale;
Art thou like a pale cheek blushing,
Or a red cheek turning pale ?"

and again :

"Shadows which are not of sadness, Touch her eyes and brow above, As pale wild roses dream of redness, Dreams her innocent heart of love." "The Music-Master" is an old story, not very well told.

Hereafter, we shall not associate Mr. Allingham's name with Mr. Edmund Reade's, but with the sparkling raciness and variety of a true Irish nature, quick in poetic sympathy, and melodious in its expression.