COVENTRY PATMORE.
The best known work of this poet “The Angel in the House,” published in 1855, was the subject of the following parody written by Shirley Brooks in 1860:
The Baby in the House.
By Poventry Catmore, author of the “Angel in the House,” etc.
The Doctor.
“A finer than your newborn child,”
The Doctor said, “I never saw,”
And I, but half believing, smiled
To think he thought me jolly raw.
And then I viewed the crimson thing,
And listened to its doleful squeal,
And rather wished the nurse would bring
The pap-boat with its earliest meal.
My wife remarked, “I fear, a snub,”
The Doctor, “Madam, never fear,”
“’Tis hard, Ma’am, in so young a cub
To say.” Then Nurse, “A cub! a Dear!”
The Glove.
“’Twere meet you tied the knocker up,”
The Doctor laughed, and said, “Good-bye.
And till you drown that yelping pup
Your lady will not close an eye.”
Then round I sauntered to the mews,
And Ponto heard his fate was near,—
Here few of coachmen will refuse
A crown to spend in beastly beer!
And then I bought a white kid glove,
Lucina’s last and favourite sign,
Wound it the knocker’s brass above,
And tied it with a piece of twine.
The Advertisement.
“But, Love,” she said, in gentle voice,
(’Twas ever delicate and low,)
“The fact which makes our hearts rejoice
So many folks would like to know.
My Scottish cousins on the Clyde,
Your uncle at Northavering Gap,
The Adams’s at Morningside,
And Jane, who sent me up the cap.
So do.” The new commencing life
The Times announced, “May 31,
At 16, Blackstone Place, the wife
Of Samuel Bobchick, of a son.”
The Godfathers.
“Of course your father must be one,”
Jemima said, in thoughtful tones;
“But what’s the use of needy Gunn,
And I detest that miser Jones.”
I hinted Brown. “Well, Brown would do,
But then his wife’s a horrid Guy.”
De Blobbins? “Herds with such a crew.”
Well love, whom have you in your eye?
“Dear Mr. Burbot.” Yes, he’d stand,
And as you say, he’s seventy-three,
Rich, childless, hates that red-nosed band
Of nephews—Burbot let it be.
The Godmother.
“We ought to ask your sister Kate,”
“Indeed, I shan’t,” Jemima cried,
“She’s given herself such airs of late,
I’m out of patience with her pride.
Proud that her squinting husband (Sam,
You know I hate that little sneak)
Has got a post at Amsterdam,
Where luckily he goes next week.
No, never ask of kin and kith.
We’ll have that wife of George Bethune’s,
Her husband is a silver-smith,
And she’ll be sure to give some spoons.”
The Christening.
“I sign him,” said the Curate, Howe,
O’er Samuel Burbot George Bethune,
Then baby kicked up such a row,
As terrified that Reverend coon.
The breakfast was a stunning spread,
As e’er confectioner sent in,
And playfully my darling said,
“Sam costs papa no end of tin.”
We laughed, made speeches, drank for joy:
Champagne hath stereoscopic charms;
For when Nurse brought our little boy,
I saw two Babies in her arms.
The Spoons.
By Coventry Flatmore.
’Tis six o’clock: at Jones’s house,
That stands in Russell Square,
And in his dining room there sit
The guests, while on a chair
That’s placed at top sits Jones himself;
Near him a loving pair.
His daughter Bertha and her swain
Young Chintip, who’s a clerk
In the War-Office, and who’s got
Good interest: Reader, mark
How snowy-white his shirt front is;
Not like his hair—that’s dark.
How happy looks the festive board!
The dishes too invite
Those present to begin; these do
As bid, with all their might;
Meanwhile the wine smiles and the cloth
Looks comfortably bright.
* * * * *
And so the Tailor goes to Jones
And says “I know that he
In six weeks’ time your loving childs’
Liege lord forsooth will be
And therefore p’rhaps you’ll pay the bill
Its all the same to me.”
“Such may have been the case,” says Jones.
“But now since he has spent
So much, he ne’er shall have my child;
I only willed consent
When all who did not dance stood still,
And Gent knew less of Gent.
“And as for your request, I pray
You list, sir: no one cares
To pay another person’s debts
Who gives himself such airs,
And so depart instanter, if
You’d not be kicked downstairs.”
* * * * *
When Chintip learned that Bertha was
Another’s bride, he swore
He should do some rash action in
His grief, that he no more
Could call her his—nor else her wealth,
Which last perplexed him sore.
For creditors now dunned alway
Each day without respite;
And he could ne’er meet their demands,
For he was cleared out-quite;
And they refused to be put off
Which on their part was right.
And so unto a Coffee-house
He went to take some tea;
And looking in the next box p’rhaps,
Saw spoons in number three
Therein his pocket with hands red
With guilt perhaps put he.
And when the white tied waiter came,
He talked about the skies
In low and silent tones perhaps,
That drown’d all the cries
Bawled in the street; the waiter though
Said “Sir I keep my eyes
Full-orbed about me and I saw
You take them spoons and so
You’ll perhaps be kind enough unto
The station house to go.”
* * * * *
And on the day on which his fate
In Newgate-list appears,
The lovely Bertha takes the Times
And reads “for seven years—”
Her rosy shoulders weep with grief,
Her tongue speaks only tears—
It was a very violent cold
That made her sight grow dim,
And o’er her shady eyes p’rhaps cast
A disagreeable film—
For Chintip figured as “Smith”
And so ’twas not for him.
From The Puppet Showman’s Album. Illustrated by Gavarni. No date.
