Punch (85.1883)

November 17, 1883.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

229

BAMBOOZLEDOM.

Distressed Foreigner. “ Park ox—mais Monsieur comprend-t-il le
Fran^ais ? ”

Brown. “Oh— er—wee—ung poo. Kwaw esker vous avvy

BEZWANG '< ”

Distressed Foreigner. “Ah! mais Monsieur est Franqais, fevi-
demment ! ” \_Brown is victimised to the extent of Half-a-crown !

THE “ FIRESIDE ” AT VENICE;

OR, HOW WOULD IT HAVE BEEN ?

In the face of the highly complimentary, scholarly, and altogether
admirable criticism that Mr. Ruskin has just passed on much of
Mr. Punch's artistic work, what can Mr. Punch do hut, standing
hat in hand, acknowledge with a respectful bow the genius, the
judgment, and the grace that have deservedly won for the great
living Apostle of English Art and. Culture the admiration and
homage of so large a following of his enthusiastic fellow-country-
men ? For where the verdict runs so musically, and is withal so
kindly, there seems to be scarce place for one jarring note of dis-
cordant cavil. Yet, over the subjoined sentence has Mr. Punch
been sorely concerned and confused. Says Mr. Ruskin,—having
before him in review one or two selected specimens of Mr. Punch's
Cartoons,—

“ Look, too, at this characteristic type of British heroism—‘John Bull
guards his Pudding.’ Is this the final outcome of King Arthur and Saint
George, of Britannia and the British Lion ? And is it your pride or hope
or pleasure that in this sacred island that has given her lion hearts to Eastern
tombs and her pilgrim fathers to Western lands, that has wrapped the sea
round her as a mantle, and breathed against her strong bosom the air of
every wind, the children bom to her in these latter days should have no
loftier legend to write upon their shields than ‘ John Bull guards his
Pudding r” ”

And then Mr. Ruskin, as if conscious that the very onward sweep
of his own free fancy has carried him beyond the limits of fair
and reasonable estimate, as it were, harks somewhat back again, and
offering Mr. Punch something in the nature of an apology, acquits
him of all true responsibility for this same terrible and offending
“ pudding.”

“It is our fault” (proceeds Mr. Ruskin) “and not the Artist’s; and I
have often wondered what Mr. Tenniel might have done for us if London

had been as Venice, or Florence, or Siena. In my first course of Lectures I
called your attention to the Picture of the Doge Mocenigo kneeling in
prayer ; and it is our fault more than Mr. Tenniel’s if he is forced to repre-
sent the heads of the Government dining at Greenwich rather than worship-
ping at St. Paul’s.”

Now, Mr. Punch, the “Immortal” (again does he how to the
accurate judgment of his learned Critic) is nothing if not prac-
tical, and so, with a wave of his all-powerful truncheon, he puts
matters to the test forthwith. He has found this commonplace
nineteenth century and its humdrum materials pretty well suited to
his purpose ; still, as the distinguished Professor thinks he might
have fared somehow better at an earlier period, amidst more pic-
turesque surroundings, let him try the experiment. Presto!
Change ! Up goes the misty curtain of the centuries, and discovers
to him—say, Venice, in the Middle Ages—thus :—

The Piazza di San Marco an hour before daylight. Enter Giovanni
Tennielo, and the Editor of “ Polichinello del Adriatico,”
disguised in cloaks and masks. They both assure themselves
that they are not observed, then approach each other cautiously.

Editor. Ha ! You are here ! Then you have escaped the daggers
of the vengeful Pandolfini, notwithstanding the point of last week’s
Cartoon ! !Tis well! But say, my trusty and well-designing Gio-
vanni,—what rare subject hast thou hit upon for this P

Giovanni. Marry, but there is nothing that I wot of, capable of
supplying the merry jest. (Mysteriously.) I hear that the Doge was
yesternight again tied up in a sack and Hung from the Rialto ; but,
good sooth, such old party manoeuvring affordeth material hut for
grim fooling, and maketh at best but a sorry picture.

Editor. True,—and we have had it before.

Giovanni. We have—twice.

Editor. Canst thou, dost thou think, do aught with the mueh-
talked-of banquet at the Council. They say that five of the goblets
were poisoned, and that now the partizans of the Duke of Milan have
a working majority. There seemeth to me stuff in it ? What sayest
thou ?

Giovanni. Nay—but, it is gloomy,—and the five bodies would but
crowd the picture. By my faith, I see it not!

Editor. Ha! I have it! Why not the Doge, kneeling at his
prayers P Come, there he freshness in that—and quaintness too, I
warrant me.

Giovanni [shaking his head). But, nay, again—it lacketh compo-
sition.

Editor. Thou art difficult, good Giovanni.

Giovanni. Not so : say that of thy subject. But, ha! who comes
this way? (They draw long daggers. Enter Ruskino, with a lute.)
A stranger! and striking a sweet note in this dull and miserable
city! What wonldst thou ?

Ruskino. Hush! I know thy trouble—for have I not seen thy
work ! Alas ! how wasted in this gilded sepulchre ! For how canst
thou bring wit or wisdom to the fireside here P

Giovanni. We do our best.

Editor. Ay! and thou hast sung in praise of the stilt-wearing
beauties of our Giorgio nu Maurier, and of the doings of Briggs,
the intrepid gondolier of Giovanni Leech. Why, then, pelt us with
stones ?

Ruskino [sadly). They are hut Stones of Venice ! Look—take this
[produces a back number). “ The Council suspending their judgment
and their Doge.” Is this the final outcome of Marino Faliero and
St. Mark, Foscari and the League ? And is it your pride, or hope,
or pleasure that this your fair sea-born Mother, whose golden locks
have wantoned in the sweet soft zephyrs of the sun-born south,
should, in her zenith, be able to give you no livelier legend to write
upon your comic shield than “the Council suspending their judg-
ment—and their Doge ! ”

Giovanni. Well,—considering the scanty material at our disposal,
we thought it rather good.

Editor. Most decidedly.

Ruskino. Nay, but it is not thy fault—hut ours—ay, that of
Venice! Ah! My good Giovanni, look, as I do, with prophetic eye,
into the far future, and tell me what it might have been hadst thou
been given to London, at a distant day ! Ah no—it is not thy fault
that with such terrible surroundings thou art obliged to represent
Authority with its head continually on the block,—rather than dining
occasionally at Greenwich. \_They vanish.

And, as the cloud curtain falls, Mr. Punch ponders, and asks
himself, whether, after all, spite the golden glamour of her far-off
glory, and the soul-moving music to which a great master has set her
splendid tale,—the Adriatic Queen may not have had, in her day,
something less noble to lose, even than that condemned typical
“pudding” which John Bull as yet has fortunately known how to
guard.

The Mouern Damocles.—The foot-passenger in the public streets
with the aerial telegraphic wires hanging over his head.