DOI Heft:
November 21, 1868
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16882#0227
232
PUNCH, OK THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[November 21, 1868.
“ I should think I was/’ he exclaims, cheerfully smiling, as if it is
intensely amusing to him that you shouldn’t know that: “ I’ve studied
these things. Lor’ bless you, there are very few doctors who could
pose me.” Norringer is a Solicitor. “I studied surgery for some
time under old C09PER, who used to say to me, ‘Norry, my boy,
you’ll beat us all, if you only stick to it.’ But,” he adds, as a sort of
tribute to his kindhearted disposition, “ I couldn’t stick to it.” After
this confidence you begin to look with a certain amount ot reverence
upon a man who can sing you a song or set you a leg, whichever you
like, as easily as I write this next word.
Talking of causes of vocal derangement, the ymsi-discovery of ozone
was a godsend to Norringer. “By Jove, Sir,” he’d say, when he
was only in doubtful voice, “ I didn’t get my mouthful of ozone this
morning. Short constitutional for a quarter of an hour, in a thoroughly
ozonised atmosphere, is the thing for my organ.” He speaks of ozone
as if it was bought by the pound, and put into the air every morning by
some one whose business it is to look after this sort of thing: perhaps
the Secretary to the Board of Health.
As a solicitor he is supposed to have lost a great deal of business
through his voice. It was said his voice kept him away from the office.
He was always out somewhere. A bitter critic once said of him, that
this last remark would cause him the loss of all his musical friends as
well as his clients. When asked his meaning, he explained that
“ Singing or not, Norringer was always out.” But this was unchari-
table, for Norringer sings beautifully in tune when taking a part in a
glee or chorus.
He is always astonishing people with his voice, and the older he gets
the more—by his own account—he astonishes them. Sometimes he sings
so well as to positively astonish himself.
The first time I had the pleasure of making his acquaintance was
while waiting for our host to come down, and introduce us, his two
only guests, who were to dine with him.
We bowed to one another. He was in the room when I entered.
“ Smithson isn’t down,” says Mr. Norringeb, smiling. I see he
is not, I say, and look at my watch so as to check my own and
Smithson’s punctuality. “ Just seven,” I observe. “ A little past,
isn’t it?” asks Norringer, by way of not allowing the conversation
to drop merely through an agreement of time-pieces. “ Then I am a
trifle slow, I dare say,” I return, humouring him. We settle that I am
a trifle slow ; or finally, that, perhaps, he may be a little fast, that if one
is right the other is wrong, or if Smithson is going by his clock, then
we are both wrong, and so we smile at one another, and I observe that
town’s not very full. He too has noticed this fact; but makes an
exception in favour of Bond Street, where there was quite a block of
carriages this afternoon. This, though, he thinks may be accounted for
by the Afternoon Concert at Hanover Square Rooms.
“ Oh, a Concert ? ” I say, and feeling that after all his endeavours to
sustain conversation I oughtn’t to allow the shuttlecock to drop now,
I ask, “What Concert?” This Norringer doesn’t know; hut
Gakdoni, he says, is there. “ Ah, I like Gardoni,” I observe, having
heard him once in something, of which I don’t recollect anything
definite, except that it wasn’t Les Huguenots, when (not being well
posted in musical matters) I know I heard Mario. “ Ah! ” says
Norringer of Garpont, “ thin voice, no sweetness. Do you recol-
lect his All mia viadre ? ” and with that he sits down to the piano,
He can play very nicely, I think to myself,
also to myself. I find afterwards that all
his accompaniments are in one key, and his entire musical know-
ledge is confined to those chords winch do duty in various tunes to all
sorts of airs, the gaps between them, when they are not quite suitable,
being filled up by a good deal of action in lifting up and putting down his
hands, turning his body to a three-quarter view, and stretching out his
left leg as if he were so au fait at the instrument, it didn’t matter to
him how he sat; but knowing him better, I have seen him throw a quick
nervous glance out of the corner of his eye, to see if his left and right
hand were coming down on the correct notes for a finish.
I compliment him. He accepts it easily, and makes light of such
a trifle as a tenor song.
When he is giving you reminiscences of operas, he is knowing
enough never to give one entire ; but only a fragment of it, as far as
his chords will go (which you don’t find out for some time), and stopping
at such a point as leaves what he could have done with the remainder
to your favourably aroused imagination.
Smithson doesn’t come down; and Norringer, finding in me a new
and willing audience, commences a eulogy upon his own organ, a lec-
ture on chest voices, head voices, and voices in the throat, with a hint
or two as to style and treatment, a passing review of some of the prin-
cipal singers, English, Italian, and German, during the present century,
with vocal illustrations generally tending to show how far superior he,
Norringer, could have been to any one of them if he had liked; which
opinion had indeed been expressed, so he says, by some of the leading
vocalists, who must have been so dreadfully afraid of this terrible Nor-
ringer, that it struck me at the moment, how kind it was of him to
restrain himself, and not come out of his drawing-room practice ; and
finally, winding up with a question to me, put suddenly, but founded.
and strikes some chords.
What a sweet voice, I say
like an examination query, upon the previous lecture, as to “ what
should I say was the compass of his voice ? ”
I feel I ought to have some idea on the subject, after all he has been
telling me; but as I haven’t the most remote, I look thoughtful for a
minute or so, during which I wonder if Smithson will come down and
help me out of it, and, say, at last, that I really can’t guess.
The reply pleases him. “You wouldn’t believe,” he says, “that it
took in all this.” Whereupon he sings a high note, and strikes one
several times on the piano, to show it’s the same and no deception,
like a conjuring trick. Then he sings a very low one, and repeats the
same action; and then, as I see he expects it, I look utterly astonished,
and say, in a subdued tone of admiration, “ Really ! That is a compass.”
And he returns, more pleased than ever, “ Isn’t it ? ” and is going to
encore himself, and go all over it again, when Smithson enters, and we
are introduced.
A PLAINT BY A P’LSCEMAN.
I am a P’liceman bold and true,
Stand in my higblows six foot two :
Yet what d’ ye think I has to do ?
Hoop de dooden doo.
They bids me chivy little boys.
And grab their hoops, them harmless toys.
Which gouty gents they much annoys;
Hoop de dooden doo.
I muzzle dogs, both great and small.
Stop little boys from playing ball.
Or move away an apple-stall:
Hoop de dooden doo.
Meanwhile garotters plays their game.
And roughs they also do the same ;
The public cries, 0 what a shame!
Hoop de dooden doo.
The streets are quite unsafe, they say,
You ’re robbed and mobbed in broad noon day,
But little boys they mustn’t play
With their hoop, de dooden doo.
Well, if from growls you can’t refrain,
It ain’t of us you should complain,
You’ve got to thank Sir Richard Mayne.
Hoop de dooden do.
VOTE EOR THE POCKET-BOOK.
The Standard has brought out a clever proof of the absolute duty of
everybody to vote at this election. It shows how a single tourist, by
hurrying home from Switzerland, turned a scale by one vote, and that
the Member so elected, in his turn, by one vote saved the country, more
or less. The story is like a beautiful romance that appeared in one of
Mr. Punch’s Pocket Books, and which showed how a European war
was brought on by a button coming off. But'the Standard is quite
right. Everybody ought to vote in this struggle. British Nation, let
us know exactly what you think. This reminds us (in fact, we write the
whole paragraph to lead up to the announcement), that Mr. Punch’s
next Pocket Book will be the most amazing one that ever has been
issued, and that we are delaying it partly because the printers cannot
work for laughing, and partly because we want to get in the fist of the
new House of Commons.
“Not Air of the Ed, Stoopid ! ”
The clever Spanish Correspondent of the Morning Pod appears to
us to have lapsed for a moment into hypercriticism. In one of his very
pleasant letters he says, “ An heirless old leader like Eseartero will
never do for Spain.” "What has his baldness to do with it ? The
Crown would hide that, to say nothing of his laurels.
SIMONY.
Ie there is any force in Ecclesiastical law, Purchase can certainly
establish 110 title to a living in the Church of England.
A Saying in the City.—The new Viceroy of India is only Lord
Mayo, but Mr. Alderman Lawrence is Lord Mayor.
High. Church Noted.—The Ritualists bow to the East when
they ’re in the Vest.
PUNCH, OK THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[November 21, 1868.
“ I should think I was/’ he exclaims, cheerfully smiling, as if it is
intensely amusing to him that you shouldn’t know that: “ I’ve studied
these things. Lor’ bless you, there are very few doctors who could
pose me.” Norringer is a Solicitor. “I studied surgery for some
time under old C09PER, who used to say to me, ‘Norry, my boy,
you’ll beat us all, if you only stick to it.’ But,” he adds, as a sort of
tribute to his kindhearted disposition, “ I couldn’t stick to it.” After
this confidence you begin to look with a certain amount ot reverence
upon a man who can sing you a song or set you a leg, whichever you
like, as easily as I write this next word.
Talking of causes of vocal derangement, the ymsi-discovery of ozone
was a godsend to Norringer. “By Jove, Sir,” he’d say, when he
was only in doubtful voice, “ I didn’t get my mouthful of ozone this
morning. Short constitutional for a quarter of an hour, in a thoroughly
ozonised atmosphere, is the thing for my organ.” He speaks of ozone
as if it was bought by the pound, and put into the air every morning by
some one whose business it is to look after this sort of thing: perhaps
the Secretary to the Board of Health.
As a solicitor he is supposed to have lost a great deal of business
through his voice. It was said his voice kept him away from the office.
He was always out somewhere. A bitter critic once said of him, that
this last remark would cause him the loss of all his musical friends as
well as his clients. When asked his meaning, he explained that
“ Singing or not, Norringer was always out.” But this was unchari-
table, for Norringer sings beautifully in tune when taking a part in a
glee or chorus.
He is always astonishing people with his voice, and the older he gets
the more—by his own account—he astonishes them. Sometimes he sings
so well as to positively astonish himself.
The first time I had the pleasure of making his acquaintance was
while waiting for our host to come down, and introduce us, his two
only guests, who were to dine with him.
We bowed to one another. He was in the room when I entered.
“ Smithson isn’t down,” says Mr. Norringeb, smiling. I see he
is not, I say, and look at my watch so as to check my own and
Smithson’s punctuality. “ Just seven,” I observe. “ A little past,
isn’t it?” asks Norringer, by way of not allowing the conversation
to drop merely through an agreement of time-pieces. “ Then I am a
trifle slow, I dare say,” I return, humouring him. We settle that I am
a trifle slow ; or finally, that, perhaps, he may be a little fast, that if one
is right the other is wrong, or if Smithson is going by his clock, then
we are both wrong, and so we smile at one another, and I observe that
town’s not very full. He too has noticed this fact; but makes an
exception in favour of Bond Street, where there was quite a block of
carriages this afternoon. This, though, he thinks may be accounted for
by the Afternoon Concert at Hanover Square Rooms.
“ Oh, a Concert ? ” I say, and feeling that after all his endeavours to
sustain conversation I oughtn’t to allow the shuttlecock to drop now,
I ask, “What Concert?” This Norringer doesn’t know; hut
Gakdoni, he says, is there. “ Ah, I like Gardoni,” I observe, having
heard him once in something, of which I don’t recollect anything
definite, except that it wasn’t Les Huguenots, when (not being well
posted in musical matters) I know I heard Mario. “ Ah! ” says
Norringer of Garpont, “ thin voice, no sweetness. Do you recol-
lect his All mia viadre ? ” and with that he sits down to the piano,
He can play very nicely, I think to myself,
also to myself. I find afterwards that all
his accompaniments are in one key, and his entire musical know-
ledge is confined to those chords winch do duty in various tunes to all
sorts of airs, the gaps between them, when they are not quite suitable,
being filled up by a good deal of action in lifting up and putting down his
hands, turning his body to a three-quarter view, and stretching out his
left leg as if he were so au fait at the instrument, it didn’t matter to
him how he sat; but knowing him better, I have seen him throw a quick
nervous glance out of the corner of his eye, to see if his left and right
hand were coming down on the correct notes for a finish.
I compliment him. He accepts it easily, and makes light of such
a trifle as a tenor song.
When he is giving you reminiscences of operas, he is knowing
enough never to give one entire ; but only a fragment of it, as far as
his chords will go (which you don’t find out for some time), and stopping
at such a point as leaves what he could have done with the remainder
to your favourably aroused imagination.
Smithson doesn’t come down; and Norringer, finding in me a new
and willing audience, commences a eulogy upon his own organ, a lec-
ture on chest voices, head voices, and voices in the throat, with a hint
or two as to style and treatment, a passing review of some of the prin-
cipal singers, English, Italian, and German, during the present century,
with vocal illustrations generally tending to show how far superior he,
Norringer, could have been to any one of them if he had liked; which
opinion had indeed been expressed, so he says, by some of the leading
vocalists, who must have been so dreadfully afraid of this terrible Nor-
ringer, that it struck me at the moment, how kind it was of him to
restrain himself, and not come out of his drawing-room practice ; and
finally, winding up with a question to me, put suddenly, but founded.
and strikes some chords.
What a sweet voice, I say
like an examination query, upon the previous lecture, as to “ what
should I say was the compass of his voice ? ”
I feel I ought to have some idea on the subject, after all he has been
telling me; but as I haven’t the most remote, I look thoughtful for a
minute or so, during which I wonder if Smithson will come down and
help me out of it, and, say, at last, that I really can’t guess.
The reply pleases him. “You wouldn’t believe,” he says, “that it
took in all this.” Whereupon he sings a high note, and strikes one
several times on the piano, to show it’s the same and no deception,
like a conjuring trick. Then he sings a very low one, and repeats the
same action; and then, as I see he expects it, I look utterly astonished,
and say, in a subdued tone of admiration, “ Really ! That is a compass.”
And he returns, more pleased than ever, “ Isn’t it ? ” and is going to
encore himself, and go all over it again, when Smithson enters, and we
are introduced.
A PLAINT BY A P’LSCEMAN.
I am a P’liceman bold and true,
Stand in my higblows six foot two :
Yet what d’ ye think I has to do ?
Hoop de dooden doo.
They bids me chivy little boys.
And grab their hoops, them harmless toys.
Which gouty gents they much annoys;
Hoop de dooden doo.
I muzzle dogs, both great and small.
Stop little boys from playing ball.
Or move away an apple-stall:
Hoop de dooden doo.
Meanwhile garotters plays their game.
And roughs they also do the same ;
The public cries, 0 what a shame!
Hoop de dooden doo.
The streets are quite unsafe, they say,
You ’re robbed and mobbed in broad noon day,
But little boys they mustn’t play
With their hoop, de dooden doo.
Well, if from growls you can’t refrain,
It ain’t of us you should complain,
You’ve got to thank Sir Richard Mayne.
Hoop de dooden do.
VOTE EOR THE POCKET-BOOK.
The Standard has brought out a clever proof of the absolute duty of
everybody to vote at this election. It shows how a single tourist, by
hurrying home from Switzerland, turned a scale by one vote, and that
the Member so elected, in his turn, by one vote saved the country, more
or less. The story is like a beautiful romance that appeared in one of
Mr. Punch’s Pocket Books, and which showed how a European war
was brought on by a button coming off. But'the Standard is quite
right. Everybody ought to vote in this struggle. British Nation, let
us know exactly what you think. This reminds us (in fact, we write the
whole paragraph to lead up to the announcement), that Mr. Punch’s
next Pocket Book will be the most amazing one that ever has been
issued, and that we are delaying it partly because the printers cannot
work for laughing, and partly because we want to get in the fist of the
new House of Commons.
“Not Air of the Ed, Stoopid ! ”
The clever Spanish Correspondent of the Morning Pod appears to
us to have lapsed for a moment into hypercriticism. In one of his very
pleasant letters he says, “ An heirless old leader like Eseartero will
never do for Spain.” "What has his baldness to do with it ? The
Crown would hide that, to say nothing of his laurels.
SIMONY.
Ie there is any force in Ecclesiastical law, Purchase can certainly
establish 110 title to a living in the Church of England.
A Saying in the City.—The new Viceroy of India is only Lord
Mayo, but Mr. Alderman Lawrence is Lord Mayor.
High. Church Noted.—The Ritualists bow to the East when
they ’re in the Vest.