Status Updates From The Angel in the House

this is bad.

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.

Question: Is this quotation the origin of that idea of cavemen conking women over the head with their clubs and dragging them off? If not, where did that creepy idea come from? Discuss.

She prattles like a child at play.
Perchance, when all her praise is said,
He tells the news, a battle won,
On either side ten thousand dead.
"Alas!" she says; but, if 'twere known,
She thinks, "He's looking on my face!"

WHY would a grown-ass woman being this big an idiot be such a freakin' turn-on to this Victorian dork? If you're sexually attracted to childish women, THERE'S SOMETHING WRONG WITH YOU.

There's nothing left of what she was;
Back to the babe the woman dies,
And all the wisdom that she has
Is to love him for being wise.

OH GAG ME WITH A MONOGRAMMED SILVER SPOON

Okay, this is a beautiful line:

For love is like a ghost, and brooks
Only the chosen seer's eye.

There are a few gems like this, embedded in tediously overwrought Victorian verse.

The narrator is trying to get up the nerve to propose to his beloved as they walk together one evening:

Her dress, that touch'd me where I stood,
The warmth of her confided arm,
Her bosom's gentle neighbourhood,
Her pleasure in her power to charm;

WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL, DUDE???

My bosom is too petite to have a whole neighborhood of its own. Maybe a front porch, but that's all.

But still she flies. Should she be won,
It must not be believed or thought
She yields; she's chased to death, undone,
Surprised, and violently caught.

Okay, NO. This is supposed to be the mindset of a young woman who's playing head-games with her suitor. Or something. Either way, EW.

He just had a whole long chapter about squeezing a woman's hand as they were dancing, and then spending the rest of the night hoping and praying she'll forgive him for being such a cad. Um.

Bit of a contrast to 50 Shades, that. Although to tell the truth, I'm not sure which book's creepier.

Until tomorrow, friends...

Our Manly Hero is talking with his beloved's dad and asking permission to court her and win her hand in marriage. When The Beloved wanders over a minute later, he thinks how freakin' adorable it is that she has no idea what kind of plans just passed between him and her dad.

EW.

Okay, this is nice:

He does not rightly love himself
Who does not love another more.

Note: I am still slogging away at this. It's just so intensely boring, I can't find anything good to quote as an update. Plus I keep getting headaches from all the eye-rolling I'm doing.

Okay -- how many people know what a "guerdon" is without checking the dictionary?

(doesn't raise hand)
(at all)

I thought I was decently acquainted with Victorian English, but WOW did people talk funny back then.

(P.S. It means "reward or recompense." I would have guessed "one of those weird pieces of armor the ancient Greeks wore, or maybe it was the ancient Egyptians.")

For joy of her he cannot sleep;
Her beauty haunts him all the night

Even I have to admit that's rather lovely. And fairly accurate, if I remember my teenage years correctly.

WOW, is this poem weird. He keeps describing this woman as someone "whose daisy eyes had learn'd to droop."

I don't even know what that means. I think it's supposed to be a compliment, but...how? WHY???

"Her daisy eyes had learn'd to droop" –
Dear sir, please tell me what this means.
I think that you are full of poop.
Your poem makes me want to screams.

Oh, and he's talking about where all these perfect women live, and how many in each city:

At Berlin three, one at St. Cloud,
At Chatteris, near Cambridge, one,
At ely four, in London two,
Two at Bowness, in Paris none,
And, last and best, in Sarum three.

Apparently, 19th-century poet Coventry Patmore wants the world to know that he has hoes in different area codes.

Okay. This guy is talking about trying to find the perfect woman -- his "predestinated mate."

And, in the records of my breast,
Red-letter'd, eminently fair,
Stood sixteen, who, beyond the rest,
By turns till then had been my care.

He's narrowed it down to SIXTEEN women???