Oh thank goodness for that. Second chance out and we've got something that looks much like a winner, 'The Toys' by Coventry Patmore (1823-96). For context, the key thing in readings of Patmore seems to be gender politics, in particular the significance of his poem 'The Angel in the House' (1854-62), a study of marriage, which contained a highly influential account of idealised Victorian womanhood. While Patmore's ideas of femininity are not the subject of the poem today, the notion of the ideal woman does seem relevant. It's worth noting, on this point, that 'The Toys' was originally published in a volume, The Victories of Love (1862), that included a section of 'The Angel in the House'
To take the second first, the religious aspect to the poem enters early on, with "having my law the seventh time disobey'd". While seven is obviously a proper biblical number for all sorts of reasons, I suspect that, here, a specific allusion is being made to Matthew 18:21-22. This is the bit where Peter asks Jesus how many times he should forgive the sins of his brother, and whether seven times is the charm. Jesus replies that he should forgive not "Until seven times: but, Until seventy times seven". The Matthew author is perhaps making reference to Proverbs 24:16, where it is asserted that a just man may fall seven times and still yet rise again. On this reading the poem seems to suggest that, in punishing his son as he does, the narrator has made a moral mistake.
The feminine motif enters the poem at this point. The reason given for the narrator's conduct is that his son's mother is dead. There is a certain blunt brilliance to the delivery of this news, particularly poignant because of its autobiographical nature. Patmore's first wife, born Emily Andrews, did indeed die, in 1860, when Patmore's youngest son was around two years old. 'The Toys' seems to have been first published in 1862, and is so dealing with a new grief. In the poem, the fact of the absence seems defining. The narrator's conduct is apparently wholly explained by the absence of his wife. One might initially call this mere Victorian misogyny, and I'm sure there's a helping of that in there, but I think there is something more interesting too.
Victorian romantic love was, in significant part, connected to the notion of the union of souls. While such love was in some sense genderless, then, a heteronormative culture will inevitably require that the standard union is between the soul of a man and the soul of a woman. The notion that a complete soul requires both masculine and feminine elements does not seem too great a stretch from this point.
"So what?", you ask? Well, I think this becomes interesting when considered in respect of the God perspective invoked at the end of the poem. One might argue that a shift is represented from the Old Testament hypermasculine God of Proverbs, who allows 7 transgressions (and those only to the just), to the New Testament God of Matthew, who provides at least 490 chances to be forgiven, and whose nature is less emphatically male. Jesus as feminiser is hardly a new concept, but it's interesting to detect an echo of it here. The plea, in the narrator's prayer, for mercy, taken with the implication that a just and good God would feel sorry for the childishness of humanity, reinforces the notion that what is presented is not simply an account of hope about the nature of God, but rather an argument for what that nature might or must be.
Moving on from speculation, I have really only a little to say about the thing that moves me the most in this piece, which is its account of the distractions and treasures arranged near the child's head for comfort. We all reach out for comforts in life. We're OK while we're being distracted. For many of us, it can seem like distraction is all we have. We have disposed of the Father, with his "great commanded good", there is no possibility of ultimate forgiveness for our sins or for our pitiable triviality. It's a comfortingly depressing, anti-materialist and anti-modern reading. But you know what? Screw that.
This poem functions by taking the reality of human forgiveness and love and imposing them on an imagined creator. We should take this seriously; both represented aspects of life are real. Yes, our joys are as trivial as the toys of a child, but our responsibilities are as weighty as those we once placed on the shoulders of a god made in our image. The responsibilities were always ours. Growing up, as a person or as a culture, involves embracing both the triviality and the seriousness of existence, not insisting upon an idolatry that values one at the expense of the other. Only by being both the son and father is there any hope for the human spirit.
Two things really strike me here. The obvious things, of course. First, the accuracy and pathos of the description of childish fancy in the face of overmastering distress. Second, the difficulty and pain of governing others and punishing their sins, and the religious significance of this.The ToysMY little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyesAnd moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,Having my law the seventh time disobey'd,I struck him, and dismiss'dWith hard words and unkiss'd,—His Mother, who was patient, being dead.Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep,I visited his bed,But found him slumbering deep,With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yetFrom his late sobbing wet.And I, with moan,Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;For, on a table drawn beside his head,He had put, within his reach,A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone,A piece of glass abraded by the beach,And six or seven shells,A bottle with bluebells,And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art,To comfort his sad heart.So when that night I pray'dTo God, I wept, and said:Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath,Not vexing Thee in death,And Thou rememberest of what toysWe made our joys,How weakly understoodThy great commanded good,Then, fatherly not lessThan I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay,Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say,'I will be sorry for their childishness.'
To take the second first, the religious aspect to the poem enters early on, with "having my law the seventh time disobey'd". While seven is obviously a proper biblical number for all sorts of reasons, I suspect that, here, a specific allusion is being made to Matthew 18:21-22. This is the bit where Peter asks Jesus how many times he should forgive the sins of his brother, and whether seven times is the charm. Jesus replies that he should forgive not "Until seven times: but, Until seventy times seven". The Matthew author is perhaps making reference to Proverbs 24:16, where it is asserted that a just man may fall seven times and still yet rise again. On this reading the poem seems to suggest that, in punishing his son as he does, the narrator has made a moral mistake.
The feminine motif enters the poem at this point. The reason given for the narrator's conduct is that his son's mother is dead. There is a certain blunt brilliance to the delivery of this news, particularly poignant because of its autobiographical nature. Patmore's first wife, born Emily Andrews, did indeed die, in 1860, when Patmore's youngest son was around two years old. 'The Toys' seems to have been first published in 1862, and is so dealing with a new grief. In the poem, the fact of the absence seems defining. The narrator's conduct is apparently wholly explained by the absence of his wife. One might initially call this mere Victorian misogyny, and I'm sure there's a helping of that in there, but I think there is something more interesting too.
Victorian romantic love was, in significant part, connected to the notion of the union of souls. While such love was in some sense genderless, then, a heteronormative culture will inevitably require that the standard union is between the soul of a man and the soul of a woman. The notion that a complete soul requires both masculine and feminine elements does not seem too great a stretch from this point.
"So what?", you ask? Well, I think this becomes interesting when considered in respect of the God perspective invoked at the end of the poem. One might argue that a shift is represented from the Old Testament hypermasculine God of Proverbs, who allows 7 transgressions (and those only to the just), to the New Testament God of Matthew, who provides at least 490 chances to be forgiven, and whose nature is less emphatically male. Jesus as feminiser is hardly a new concept, but it's interesting to detect an echo of it here. The plea, in the narrator's prayer, for mercy, taken with the implication that a just and good God would feel sorry for the childishness of humanity, reinforces the notion that what is presented is not simply an account of hope about the nature of God, but rather an argument for what that nature might or must be.
Moving on from speculation, I have really only a little to say about the thing that moves me the most in this piece, which is its account of the distractions and treasures arranged near the child's head for comfort. We all reach out for comforts in life. We're OK while we're being distracted. For many of us, it can seem like distraction is all we have. We have disposed of the Father, with his "great commanded good", there is no possibility of ultimate forgiveness for our sins or for our pitiable triviality. It's a comfortingly depressing, anti-materialist and anti-modern reading. But you know what? Screw that.
This poem functions by taking the reality of human forgiveness and love and imposing them on an imagined creator. We should take this seriously; both represented aspects of life are real. Yes, our joys are as trivial as the toys of a child, but our responsibilities are as weighty as those we once placed on the shoulders of a god made in our image. The responsibilities were always ours. Growing up, as a person or as a culture, involves embracing both the triviality and the seriousness of existence, not insisting upon an idolatry that values one at the expense of the other. Only by being both the son and father is there any hope for the human spirit.
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