DOI issue:
August 23, 1884
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17757#0103
96 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [August 23, 1884.
THE TOWN.
No. XL—“ Form.” A Legend of Modern London.
PART I.
“ Sidrophel’s Novice.” So Lord Uppercut
Christened the Painter’s protege,—most neatly,
Opined his toady, Hector Halibut.
The Novice graced his Poole-made vesture sweetly,
And save that his blue eyes
unclosed and shut
A little like a doll’s, he
hit completely
The exigences of the cur-
rent fashion
In dandies, which demand
not power or passion.
Whether the youth pos-
sessed them was not
proved.
About his avatar there
seemed some mystery;
Not long in London’s laby-
rinth he had moved,
And Sidrophel had not
revealed his history.
The Painter was respected
more than loved,
Having a temper with a
certain twist awry,
Which showed itself at
times in forms surprising
To those who ventured
upon catechising.
Those dark deep eyes so many things had seen
From London shows to Lapland incantations.
A i tolished Prospero of modish mien
Might so have borne himself in life’s relations,
With that large cold reserve which moves the spleen
Of shallow swaggerers, and the speculations
Of those who, stumbling amidst vague supposes,
Think they can see an inch before their noses.
Though known as “ Sidrophel,” his name was Stein,
Frank Nathan Stein, 11. A. The Hebrew strain
Had somewhere, ’twas suspected, crossed his line,
And lent that subtle tone to heart and brain,
Which, like the nameless something in old wine,
Is indefinable, all words are vain ;
Although such crus and characters have a cachet
Inseparable as musk-scent from a sachet.
Young Stein, supposed his son, was better known
As Auto,—none could tell you why precisely,—
A youth of two-and-twenty, tall, well-grown,
With boots that fitted, hair that parted nicely.
His voice was clear, with a metallic tone,
He talked with frigid ease, if not o’er wisely.
In fact, to quote the phrase of Oscar Cruden,
He was a brick, if just a little wooden.
And Oscar was his friend, if that’s the name
For modern ehumdom ; they revolved together
Like double stars they always wore the same
Habiliments, their social sphere and tether
Appeared identical, they “ played the game ”
^ As partners ; which of them was the bell-wether
Few could have told j ’tis difficult to do
When youths, like Noah’s beasts, go two and two.
Sidrophel’s Studio, a bizarre bazaar
And Sybaritish lounge in combination,
Held him, and Auto, and that youth’s cigar.
Auto himself seemed lost in contemplation
Of his own polished boot-tops. With a jar
In his clear voice that might have seemed vexation
In a less self-poised speaker, Sidrophel
Broke the dull silence with a sudden “ Well ? ”
Auto looked up. “ I wait your word,” he said ;
And, as he spoke, a something in his bearing,
In the slow, languid lifting of his head,
And in his somewhat dull and vacuous staring.
Awoke the thought—which through most minds has sped
When watching modish youth,—that he, though wearing
Man’s flesh, and fabric of the sartor’s finding,
Was yet mere clockwork much in need of winding.
“ I see,” said Sidrophel. “ Well, after all,
I’ve but one general lesson to impart to you.
‘ ‘ I think that at your feet I’ve placed the ball,
Given what guardians call a first-rate start to you.
Clubdom is yours, you ’re free of ring and stall,
Wealth opes the worlds of Fashion and of Art to you.
The rest I ’ll summarise. To ride life’s storm,
There’s one unerring comriass—study ‘ Form.’ ”
“ Form! ” said the youth. “ Ah! what is Form r ” “ You ask,”
The Painter said, “ a question comprehensive,
To answer which compendiously would task
Concisest wit, its scope is so extensive.
What is it ? Why, the spirit’s mould and mask,
It’s bodying forth, its panoply defensive ;
’Tis nothing, and yet everything in turn.
But words cannot explain it: one must learn.
‘ ‘ Proteus and yet Procrustes, modern ape
Of that famed statue of old Polycletus,
Men called ‘ the Hule.’ Not Phidias could shape
Perfection from the marble that should beat in
To readier conformity, or drape
The Ideal more convincingly to cheat us,
Or move the Critics to sublimer twaddle,
Though Phryne or Campaspe were his model.
“ Form’s everything ; the barrier that divides
The Plunger from the Pariah, bland Apelles
From the poor pavement-chalker. Wit derides
Athletes, FEsthetes, Boxers, and Botticellis, _
But Form’s a thing that’s satire-proof, that hides
All faults—save purses void or vacuous bellies—
’Tis the ‘ Excelsior ’ both in mind and manner
The World’s aspirant writes upon his banner.
“ Study it! You are in its highest school,
And have congenital predispositions ;
That is you ’re shapeable, like clay, and cool,
Like marble, very promising conditions
For treatment sculpturesque of hand or tool.
Set out upon your pleasantest of missions,
You’re bsund to take Society by storm
As glass of Fashion and as mould of ‘ Form.’ ”
Auto was mute, and as the languid whirls
Hose slowly, languorously from his set lips,
Seemed half-inanimate from close-cropt curls
To shiny boots and well-gloved finger-tips.
No iced descendant of a hundred Earls,
Coolest of plungers, steadiest of whips,
Shows more of that to which humanity owes
Its crowning merit, statuesque repose.
The Painter eyed him with that subtle smile
Which they who knew him best found enigmatic ;
“ Perfect! ” he cried, patting his head the while,
‘ ‘ Fine fiower and quintessence of the lymphatic !
The most exacting connoisseur of style
Might in your praises verge on the ecstatic.
If you can but maintain it, you ’re approaching
A stage beyond the need of further coaching.
“You have done well already, you ’re admired,
Envied, and imitated. Pray, what more
By Statesman, Soldier, Sage could be desired ?
'What though you have not wisdom, courage, lore,
In your appointed course they ’re not required,
Indeed would be regarded as ‘ a bore ’:
A term of terrible reproach, which covers
Learning and zeal, heroes and constant lovers,—
“ In fact, all serious and most noble things.
Hemember, if top-honours you ’d be scoring,
Society the Decalogue now brings
To one commandment: ‘ Thou shalt not be boring ; ’
Away, my Auto ! Spread your gauzy wings—
No, that’s a metaphor suggesting soaring,
I must not make my counsels contradictory—
But saunter calmly on to Social Victory ! ”
a “sign” of the times.
Considering the garrulous chatter of Members of Parliament
within St. Stephen’s, and their perpetual platform outpourings with-
out, a suitable sign for “ the House,” on the resumption of business
after the recess, would surely be “ The Magpie and Stump.”
THE TOWN.
No. XL—“ Form.” A Legend of Modern London.
PART I.
“ Sidrophel’s Novice.” So Lord Uppercut
Christened the Painter’s protege,—most neatly,
Opined his toady, Hector Halibut.
The Novice graced his Poole-made vesture sweetly,
And save that his blue eyes
unclosed and shut
A little like a doll’s, he
hit completely
The exigences of the cur-
rent fashion
In dandies, which demand
not power or passion.
Whether the youth pos-
sessed them was not
proved.
About his avatar there
seemed some mystery;
Not long in London’s laby-
rinth he had moved,
And Sidrophel had not
revealed his history.
The Painter was respected
more than loved,
Having a temper with a
certain twist awry,
Which showed itself at
times in forms surprising
To those who ventured
upon catechising.
Those dark deep eyes so many things had seen
From London shows to Lapland incantations.
A i tolished Prospero of modish mien
Might so have borne himself in life’s relations,
With that large cold reserve which moves the spleen
Of shallow swaggerers, and the speculations
Of those who, stumbling amidst vague supposes,
Think they can see an inch before their noses.
Though known as “ Sidrophel,” his name was Stein,
Frank Nathan Stein, 11. A. The Hebrew strain
Had somewhere, ’twas suspected, crossed his line,
And lent that subtle tone to heart and brain,
Which, like the nameless something in old wine,
Is indefinable, all words are vain ;
Although such crus and characters have a cachet
Inseparable as musk-scent from a sachet.
Young Stein, supposed his son, was better known
As Auto,—none could tell you why precisely,—
A youth of two-and-twenty, tall, well-grown,
With boots that fitted, hair that parted nicely.
His voice was clear, with a metallic tone,
He talked with frigid ease, if not o’er wisely.
In fact, to quote the phrase of Oscar Cruden,
He was a brick, if just a little wooden.
And Oscar was his friend, if that’s the name
For modern ehumdom ; they revolved together
Like double stars they always wore the same
Habiliments, their social sphere and tether
Appeared identical, they “ played the game ”
^ As partners ; which of them was the bell-wether
Few could have told j ’tis difficult to do
When youths, like Noah’s beasts, go two and two.
Sidrophel’s Studio, a bizarre bazaar
And Sybaritish lounge in combination,
Held him, and Auto, and that youth’s cigar.
Auto himself seemed lost in contemplation
Of his own polished boot-tops. With a jar
In his clear voice that might have seemed vexation
In a less self-poised speaker, Sidrophel
Broke the dull silence with a sudden “ Well ? ”
Auto looked up. “ I wait your word,” he said ;
And, as he spoke, a something in his bearing,
In the slow, languid lifting of his head,
And in his somewhat dull and vacuous staring.
Awoke the thought—which through most minds has sped
When watching modish youth,—that he, though wearing
Man’s flesh, and fabric of the sartor’s finding,
Was yet mere clockwork much in need of winding.
“ I see,” said Sidrophel. “ Well, after all,
I’ve but one general lesson to impart to you.
‘ ‘ I think that at your feet I’ve placed the ball,
Given what guardians call a first-rate start to you.
Clubdom is yours, you ’re free of ring and stall,
Wealth opes the worlds of Fashion and of Art to you.
The rest I ’ll summarise. To ride life’s storm,
There’s one unerring comriass—study ‘ Form.’ ”
“ Form! ” said the youth. “ Ah! what is Form r ” “ You ask,”
The Painter said, “ a question comprehensive,
To answer which compendiously would task
Concisest wit, its scope is so extensive.
What is it ? Why, the spirit’s mould and mask,
It’s bodying forth, its panoply defensive ;
’Tis nothing, and yet everything in turn.
But words cannot explain it: one must learn.
‘ ‘ Proteus and yet Procrustes, modern ape
Of that famed statue of old Polycletus,
Men called ‘ the Hule.’ Not Phidias could shape
Perfection from the marble that should beat in
To readier conformity, or drape
The Ideal more convincingly to cheat us,
Or move the Critics to sublimer twaddle,
Though Phryne or Campaspe were his model.
“ Form’s everything ; the barrier that divides
The Plunger from the Pariah, bland Apelles
From the poor pavement-chalker. Wit derides
Athletes, FEsthetes, Boxers, and Botticellis, _
But Form’s a thing that’s satire-proof, that hides
All faults—save purses void or vacuous bellies—
’Tis the ‘ Excelsior ’ both in mind and manner
The World’s aspirant writes upon his banner.
“ Study it! You are in its highest school,
And have congenital predispositions ;
That is you ’re shapeable, like clay, and cool,
Like marble, very promising conditions
For treatment sculpturesque of hand or tool.
Set out upon your pleasantest of missions,
You’re bsund to take Society by storm
As glass of Fashion and as mould of ‘ Form.’ ”
Auto was mute, and as the languid whirls
Hose slowly, languorously from his set lips,
Seemed half-inanimate from close-cropt curls
To shiny boots and well-gloved finger-tips.
No iced descendant of a hundred Earls,
Coolest of plungers, steadiest of whips,
Shows more of that to which humanity owes
Its crowning merit, statuesque repose.
The Painter eyed him with that subtle smile
Which they who knew him best found enigmatic ;
“ Perfect! ” he cried, patting his head the while,
‘ ‘ Fine fiower and quintessence of the lymphatic !
The most exacting connoisseur of style
Might in your praises verge on the ecstatic.
If you can but maintain it, you ’re approaching
A stage beyond the need of further coaching.
“You have done well already, you ’re admired,
Envied, and imitated. Pray, what more
By Statesman, Soldier, Sage could be desired ?
'What though you have not wisdom, courage, lore,
In your appointed course they ’re not required,
Indeed would be regarded as ‘ a bore ’:
A term of terrible reproach, which covers
Learning and zeal, heroes and constant lovers,—
“ In fact, all serious and most noble things.
Hemember, if top-honours you ’d be scoring,
Society the Decalogue now brings
To one commandment: ‘ Thou shalt not be boring ; ’
Away, my Auto ! Spread your gauzy wings—
No, that’s a metaphor suggesting soaring,
I must not make my counsels contradictory—
But saunter calmly on to Social Victory ! ”
a “sign” of the times.
Considering the garrulous chatter of Members of Parliament
within St. Stephen’s, and their perpetual platform outpourings with-
out, a suitable sign for “ the House,” on the resumption of business
after the recess, would surely be “ The Magpie and Stump.”