turesque character, the vigour of their word-painting being as undeniable as, upon one side, a certain hectic quality, or upon the other, an imperfect sense of rhythm. At their best, as, for instance, in "The River," one seems to detect a weak solution of Christabel:
Beneath the mossy ivied bridge
The River slippeth past:
The current deep is still as sleep
And yet so very fast!
There's something in its quietness
That makes the soul aghast.…
In 1845, just a year after his son's little triumph, Peter George Patmore was overtaken by financial troubles and left England. It meant a radically new era for Coventry. Practically penniless, he was now left dependent upon his own resources; while the hot-house atmosphere of sympathetic and uncritical praise was simultaneously withdrawn. So the young swimmer made his plunge, and contrived to prove that he was not of the sinking sort. None the less, it was a year of arduous struggle, Patmore's work for the current Reviews scarcely sufficing to pay for the humble lodgings which he and a younger brother occupied together. "Who is your lean young friend with the frayed shirt-cuffs?" inquired Monckton Milnes one evening of Mrs. Procter, when the impecunious poet had been dining at her house. But after reading the early verses and learning more of their author, the future Lord Houghton made brave reparation for this "heartless flippancy." Through his assistance, Coventry obtained, in 1846, the post of assistant librarian at the British Museum, and the friendship thus opened up proved thenceforth of mutual profit.
It was during those grey days that Patmore
