The Angel in the House

The poem was an idealised account of Patmore's courtship of his first wife, Emily Augusta Andrews (1824–1862), whom he married in 1847 and believed to be the perfect woman.

It begins with a preface in which the poet, called Felix Vaughan in the book, tells his wife that he is going to write a long poem about her.

It proceeds in a series of short lyrics, representing Felix's reflections on his beloved, and on the nature of ideal femininity.

The poem describes his struggle to overcome these feelings and to concentrate all his love on his wife, who also expresses her own doubts in letters to her mother.

Honoria helps Jane by her own example, and in the end Frederick overcomes his doubts and feels complete devotion to his wife.

The poem is often studied primarily for its unadulterated and in-depth look at the common life of middle class lifestyles in Victorian England.

[2] Its detailed accounts stem from Patmore's belief that the routine machinations of everyday life are prime subject for the illuminations of the poet.

Due to his close accounts and evaluations, the role of woman in the poem exemplifies the Victorian theory of separate spheres.

Following the publication of Patmore's poem, the term angel in the house came to be used in reference to women who embodied the Victorian feminine ideal: a wife and mother who was selflessly devoted to her children and submissive to her husband.

Images were also created with this name, including Millais' portrait of Patmore's wife Emily, and Julia Margaret Cameron's photograph of an enraptured girl.

Virginia Woolf satirised the ideal of femininity depicted in the poem, writing that "She [the perfect wife] was intensely sympathetic.

But when I look on her and hope To tell with joy what I admire, My thoughts lie cramp'd in narrow scope, Or in the feeble birth expire; No skill'd complexity of speech, No simple phrase of tenderest fall, No liken’d excellence can reach Her, the most excellent of all, The best half of creation’s best, Its heart to feel, its eye to see, The crown and complex of the rest, Its aim and its epitome.

Nay, might I utter my conceit, 'Twere after all a vulgar song, For she's so simply, subtly sweet, My deepest rapture does her wrong.