She was set down in the programme for Haydn’s canzonet, “My mother bids me bind my hair.”
Luckily for her the piece in question has a lovely introductory pianoforte prelude. This gave the singer time to recover her first shock at seeing the sea of heads before her.
There was no help for it—she had to commence. The prelude was over, and in faltering accents she began to warble Haydn’s plaintive music. But her throat was dry and husky—a thing by no means uncommon with nervous singers, and even the applause she received did not appear to lubricate it.
It was evident she had a magnificent organ—I say organ advisedly, as it is a term invariably made use of by musical critics, and if they don’t know who should? Vulgar, commonplace people would perhaps call it a voice, but that’s no matter; organ is the “properer” term, as Artemus Ward would say.
The young lady, however, could not possibly display her full powers in consequence of timidity; yet she did contrive to get through the piece creditably. In the morning she had sung it in Mr. Knight’s room magnificently.
But despite her shortcomings the audience encored her.
She, however, bowed and retired.
There was a clamour for her return.
The director had to rise from his seat for the purpose of bringing her back, but she declined.
The clamour continued.