DOI Heft:
August 16, 1884
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17757#0091
84
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[August 16, 1884.
THE TOWN.
No. X.—The New House Beautiful.
“ The Rhodope that built the Pyramid ”
(The Laureate ’s here at odds with History’s Sire)
Proposed per-
chance to make
a mighty bid
For fame immor-
tal. Rod well
Fluke, Esquire
Knew little his-
tory, and what
he did
Was modern, yet
the Thracian
dame’s desire
Was his. Men
hope oblivion to
chouse
By building Pyra-
mids or a Big
House!
The latter seems
the modern
Cockney shape
Of the old Coptic fad. Fad is undying,
Although a very Proteus ; none escape
Its mystic influence, ’tis useless trying.
There still is left no little of the Ape
In Man, and Fluke, in everything high-flying,
Fad-bitten, but intent on wide renown,
Resolved to build the biggest house in Town.
Fluke was a “ brawny brute.” The phrase is Mallow’s,
Not mine, and Mallow was his toady sleek,
Who knew his tyrant’s soul, its depths and shallows,
And had a mordant tongue, although so meek.
But Fluke possessed the grace that all things hallows,
The Danae-dower that peers and pitmen seek.
Though Mallow’s phrase quite fitted, many a Duke
Was very well content to dine with Fluke.
Few knew his story ; a perspective dim
Makes no bad background for a portrait bold.
That big bull-throat, that jaw close-clenched and grim,
In wild old days when Fluke prospected gold
Had served him well. Now the last social whim
On this unpolished person had fast hold ;
As though his history held no scene more dark
Than tits with Cheyne Walk or Bedford Park.
Behold him, broadly built, of florid hue,
The throat of Hercules on shoulders square,
With cold wide-lidded eyes of staring blue
Scarlet-shot tigerishly, stiff rufous hair,
Big fingers lavishly beringed! But few
Could see him in a boudoir of Mayfair
Without some feeling of congruity’s lack,
As of a bison amidst bric-d-brac.
His scarf-pin shaped of a huge nugget, spake
Of days when fierce-eyed men hung on his word,
Eager the gold-vein’s track from him to take,
Or pistol him for failure. He had heard
Curses that nerves of iron well might shake,
Change into jubilant shoutings wild, absurd,
And still kept eye and trigger-finger steady,
For every shift of ruffian fortune ready.
Now cockneyfied, externally at least,
By seven sharp years of City speculation,
Fluke shone at fashionable rout or feast,
And, under Mallow’s skilful education,
Threw off the tiger, or so veiled the beast
Beneath a bland and burly ostentation
Of bonhomie that judges of the Town
Dubbed him good fellow with a touch of clown.
And why should Cymon not be beauty-stricken
By Chippendales as well as female charms F
Why should not Q-ueen-Anne-ism stir and quicken
A Polypheme like Gfalatea’s arms ?
Although Art-prate and Beauty-patter sicken
The non-hysteric soul whom gush alarms,
Satan to-day might rear—to fashion dutiful—
Instead of Pandemonium some House Beautiful.
Then why not Fluke ? who, if not quite demonic
In Milton’s sense or Goethe’s, yet was smitten
With yearnings gorgeously architectonic
As Lucifer’s. A palace vast, star-litten
To roof his head, struck him as not ironic.
Mannikins with the Big House mania bitten
Are modest as a snail which Paul’s huge dome
Should deem a shell fit for his snailship’s home.
How many acres, at how many pounds
Per foot square, were required for Fluke’s new shell,
How many hundred rooms, what grove-grown grounds,
What decorative splendours served to swell
The cost of that huge pile whose bulk and bounds
Fitted some Brobdingnagian hotel,
Might form a theme agreeable to chat on,
To Joseph Robins or to Joseph Hatton.
They were the talk of Town ; Mallow the able
Took care of that! The marbles and the gilt,
The cost of one big hall, of one small table,
These things taxed rumour on her tallest stilt,
Recalled the scenes of old romance and fable.
So gorgeous an abode was never built
Since Kubla Khan in his far Eastern home
Decreed of old that stately pleasure-dome.
Only this was not stately, simply big,
Barbaricallv big, unbeauteous, costly.
Why not ? The palace of a sceptred pig
Has ever proved a gilded stye. Fluke mostly
Inclined to the flamboyant, d la Tigg :
But those huge domes, for all their glitter ghostly,
Ne’er shone above their happy owner’s head,
For ere the pile was finished Fluke had fled.
Whither none knew save Mallow the astute,
Whose nest was neatly feathered. Mallow smiled
At all allusions to the “ brawny brute,”
But when his company were safely “tiled,”
Could tell queer tales of him. The wild pursuit
Of wealth and whim—things seldom reconciled—
Had led him through strange courses to a crash
Scarce equalled in the chronicles of Smash.
Balclutha’s halls were not more desolate
Than was Fluke’s Folly. Vulgar Beckfokd, he
Aimed apishly at such Neronian state
As strikes a shallow-souled Society.
The Golden House Art-Barnums emulate,
Mammon’s mixed rout of rank and rascalry
Complete in flaunting profitless parade,
That reeks of lucre and that stinks of trade.
Less love of Beauty than desire of Show
Inspires the new ambition of the Town.
Such souls love Loveliness as old De Ckoave
Loves his superb young wife. To take her down
To dinner, swells will thaw the ice and snow
Of Fashion’s boreal “ repose.” The clown
Who builds a palace huge for an hotel,
May claim to worship Beauty just as well.
She serves the aspiring huckster at his need,
That is she draws his guests and fills his coffers.
Her shrine is one at which keen Cockney Greed
And worldly Vanity make lavish proffers.
Fluke failed, but many of his sort succeed,
And then how dumb are moralists and scoffers!
Swelling R.A., swell-tradesman, swollen Duke
Are sometimes motived much like Rodwell Fluke.
Rhodope ’s dust, and Kubla Khan ’s a vision,
Fonthill’s a shade and Solomon a shadow;
Gone are all glories of all haunts Eiysian,
Castles in air, and towers in El Dorado:
But—worthy of more resolute derision—
We to ambition coarse and flaunting fad owe
The new “ House Beautiful,” Ideal bold
Conceived by Vanity, grossly shaped by Gold !
From the Northern District.
“ Hokkibly dry work, speechifying in this weather,” said a Great
Orator last week to a humble but gushing admirer.
“Dry!” returned his satellite, wishing to overflow with wit.
“It oughtn’t to be dry, for I’ve been drinking in every word
you’ve uttered.”
“Ah, indeed!” replied the Great One, “then I suppose you’ve
been making a draught of my speech.”
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[August 16, 1884.
THE TOWN.
No. X.—The New House Beautiful.
“ The Rhodope that built the Pyramid ”
(The Laureate ’s here at odds with History’s Sire)
Proposed per-
chance to make
a mighty bid
For fame immor-
tal. Rod well
Fluke, Esquire
Knew little his-
tory, and what
he did
Was modern, yet
the Thracian
dame’s desire
Was his. Men
hope oblivion to
chouse
By building Pyra-
mids or a Big
House!
The latter seems
the modern
Cockney shape
Of the old Coptic fad. Fad is undying,
Although a very Proteus ; none escape
Its mystic influence, ’tis useless trying.
There still is left no little of the Ape
In Man, and Fluke, in everything high-flying,
Fad-bitten, but intent on wide renown,
Resolved to build the biggest house in Town.
Fluke was a “ brawny brute.” The phrase is Mallow’s,
Not mine, and Mallow was his toady sleek,
Who knew his tyrant’s soul, its depths and shallows,
And had a mordant tongue, although so meek.
But Fluke possessed the grace that all things hallows,
The Danae-dower that peers and pitmen seek.
Though Mallow’s phrase quite fitted, many a Duke
Was very well content to dine with Fluke.
Few knew his story ; a perspective dim
Makes no bad background for a portrait bold.
That big bull-throat, that jaw close-clenched and grim,
In wild old days when Fluke prospected gold
Had served him well. Now the last social whim
On this unpolished person had fast hold ;
As though his history held no scene more dark
Than tits with Cheyne Walk or Bedford Park.
Behold him, broadly built, of florid hue,
The throat of Hercules on shoulders square,
With cold wide-lidded eyes of staring blue
Scarlet-shot tigerishly, stiff rufous hair,
Big fingers lavishly beringed! But few
Could see him in a boudoir of Mayfair
Without some feeling of congruity’s lack,
As of a bison amidst bric-d-brac.
His scarf-pin shaped of a huge nugget, spake
Of days when fierce-eyed men hung on his word,
Eager the gold-vein’s track from him to take,
Or pistol him for failure. He had heard
Curses that nerves of iron well might shake,
Change into jubilant shoutings wild, absurd,
And still kept eye and trigger-finger steady,
For every shift of ruffian fortune ready.
Now cockneyfied, externally at least,
By seven sharp years of City speculation,
Fluke shone at fashionable rout or feast,
And, under Mallow’s skilful education,
Threw off the tiger, or so veiled the beast
Beneath a bland and burly ostentation
Of bonhomie that judges of the Town
Dubbed him good fellow with a touch of clown.
And why should Cymon not be beauty-stricken
By Chippendales as well as female charms F
Why should not Q-ueen-Anne-ism stir and quicken
A Polypheme like Gfalatea’s arms ?
Although Art-prate and Beauty-patter sicken
The non-hysteric soul whom gush alarms,
Satan to-day might rear—to fashion dutiful—
Instead of Pandemonium some House Beautiful.
Then why not Fluke ? who, if not quite demonic
In Milton’s sense or Goethe’s, yet was smitten
With yearnings gorgeously architectonic
As Lucifer’s. A palace vast, star-litten
To roof his head, struck him as not ironic.
Mannikins with the Big House mania bitten
Are modest as a snail which Paul’s huge dome
Should deem a shell fit for his snailship’s home.
How many acres, at how many pounds
Per foot square, were required for Fluke’s new shell,
How many hundred rooms, what grove-grown grounds,
What decorative splendours served to swell
The cost of that huge pile whose bulk and bounds
Fitted some Brobdingnagian hotel,
Might form a theme agreeable to chat on,
To Joseph Robins or to Joseph Hatton.
They were the talk of Town ; Mallow the able
Took care of that! The marbles and the gilt,
The cost of one big hall, of one small table,
These things taxed rumour on her tallest stilt,
Recalled the scenes of old romance and fable.
So gorgeous an abode was never built
Since Kubla Khan in his far Eastern home
Decreed of old that stately pleasure-dome.
Only this was not stately, simply big,
Barbaricallv big, unbeauteous, costly.
Why not ? The palace of a sceptred pig
Has ever proved a gilded stye. Fluke mostly
Inclined to the flamboyant, d la Tigg :
But those huge domes, for all their glitter ghostly,
Ne’er shone above their happy owner’s head,
For ere the pile was finished Fluke had fled.
Whither none knew save Mallow the astute,
Whose nest was neatly feathered. Mallow smiled
At all allusions to the “ brawny brute,”
But when his company were safely “tiled,”
Could tell queer tales of him. The wild pursuit
Of wealth and whim—things seldom reconciled—
Had led him through strange courses to a crash
Scarce equalled in the chronicles of Smash.
Balclutha’s halls were not more desolate
Than was Fluke’s Folly. Vulgar Beckfokd, he
Aimed apishly at such Neronian state
As strikes a shallow-souled Society.
The Golden House Art-Barnums emulate,
Mammon’s mixed rout of rank and rascalry
Complete in flaunting profitless parade,
That reeks of lucre and that stinks of trade.
Less love of Beauty than desire of Show
Inspires the new ambition of the Town.
Such souls love Loveliness as old De Ckoave
Loves his superb young wife. To take her down
To dinner, swells will thaw the ice and snow
Of Fashion’s boreal “ repose.” The clown
Who builds a palace huge for an hotel,
May claim to worship Beauty just as well.
She serves the aspiring huckster at his need,
That is she draws his guests and fills his coffers.
Her shrine is one at which keen Cockney Greed
And worldly Vanity make lavish proffers.
Fluke failed, but many of his sort succeed,
And then how dumb are moralists and scoffers!
Swelling R.A., swell-tradesman, swollen Duke
Are sometimes motived much like Rodwell Fluke.
Rhodope ’s dust, and Kubla Khan ’s a vision,
Fonthill’s a shade and Solomon a shadow;
Gone are all glories of all haunts Eiysian,
Castles in air, and towers in El Dorado:
But—worthy of more resolute derision—
We to ambition coarse and flaunting fad owe
The new “ House Beautiful,” Ideal bold
Conceived by Vanity, grossly shaped by Gold !
From the Northern District.
“ Hokkibly dry work, speechifying in this weather,” said a Great
Orator last week to a humble but gushing admirer.
“Dry!” returned his satellite, wishing to overflow with wit.
“It oughtn’t to be dry, for I’ve been drinking in every word
you’ve uttered.”
“Ah, indeed!” replied the Great One, “then I suppose you’ve
been making a draught of my speech.”