After the introduction in this form, the chief moving spirit of the entertainment comes forward, and, after bowing right and left, stammers out (the chief moving spirit is never a good speaker) that he much regrets that, on account of Mr. Jones, Mr. Smith, and Miss. Blank having been prevented by illness from turning up, he is afraid there will be a little change in the programme. Now as Mr. Jones, Mr. Smith, and Miss. Blank are down for seven things between them there is likely to be a very great change in the programme. Why is it that people never know they cannot come until the last moment, I wonder? Perhaps they think that the more often they disappoint the more they emulate the "stars" in the musical world. Only the force of example, you see. And, after all, what does it matter? The other performers are most kind and sympathetic, and ready to help all they can. They are delighted to sing four times each instead of twice. Selfish people! they have no consideration for the audience, they only think of their own enjoyment!
There is the youth who looks as if he were going to favor us with a sweet treble. Lo, and behold! he opens his mouth, and out comes a loud double bass voice that seems to spring somewhere from the region of his boots. It is not a pretty sound by any means.
There is the smiling, simpering girl who comes forward gorgeously arrayed in light blue satin. She chooses a song, all trills and little scales, running up and down, shaking at last upon a high note for nearly two minutes, and then coming down with a rush. This brings down the house. We applaud lustily; we begin the encoring business here, which, having once started, we do not intend to give up again. We like to get as much as we can for our money, we Britons. She keeps us waiting some time, too—taking a little refreshment in between, perhaps—and then comes back beaming with smiles and, under the impression that she is a second Patti, shrieks out in plaintive tones, "Home, sweet home!" A cat might as well try to emulate a thrush! And we never find it "sweet" either. Never do you dislike "Home" more than when you hear it sung thus.
There is the sentimental man, who gets into position while the introduction to his song is being played. He sticks his finger down his collar (the object of which I can never understand), pulls both cuffs out, stretches out his music a yard or two in front of him and gazes above the audience with a hungry yearning look. His is always a love song, an unhappy love song, that should bring tears to our eyes, only we are so taken up with his expression, and the fear that he is going to die or have a fit, that we have no time for weeping. True to our instincts, he is greeted with deafening applause, and coming back, he generously treats us to the last verse over again.
Everyone is not so fortunate in receiving an encore, though. It depends on how well they are known, not on their desserts. The newcomer in the neighborhood tries her hardest and does her best, but as we have never seen her before we scarcely take the trouble to applaud her, which must be rather disappointing, especially when her mother is sitting among the audience with the encore song on her lap, ready to hand it up.
The best exhibition of all is made by the flutist. He is the only one who plays that instrument for miles round, and so the swagger with which he steps on to the platform is perhaps excusable.
How anyone can play it I do not know. It is such a singularly unbecoming instrument. But the wretched owner never seems to think so. When he once commences he gives us a good dose of it. We begin to think he is going on all night. Suddenly there comes a pause, and applause is started at once, we being only too delighted to make a little noise on our own account. But no—it is a mistake, a delusion, after all. The pause was only an interval between an Andante and a Scherzo; and, with a bland smile at his ovation, on he goes again for another quarter of an hour. We—the audience—are disappointed, we feel we have been tricked, and we therefore sulk for a season. But the Scherzo is so long, it gives us time to get over our ill-humor, though we are mutually resolved that we will not have him back again. Vain hope! From the far end of the room comes thundering applause, which never dies away until the talented flutist appears on the platform again. We find out afterwards that he treats the whole of his establishment to the cheap seats; so, of course, poor things, we cannot blame them. They are only earning their wages. Perhaps they are presented with an extra shilling each when their master returns home.
It is a curious thing how we all like applauding and making a noise. If you notice, at organ recitals in the Church we feel quite uncomfortable. We think we ought to do something at the conclusion of the pieces; so, as we may not clap our hands, we all give a little rustle and cough. This is to show our approbation. Everyone coughs. It is astonishing how many people have bad colds. For my part I think it is a pity applause is not allowed. It is infinitely preferable to the coughing at any rate.
Of course the comic singer goes down best. He is called back three, sometimes four times. The schoolboys behind grow excited, and greet him with a whistle that would do credit to the "gods." This is too much for decently-clad minds, anything so profane as that whistle. The clergyman, who is in the chair (the proceeds are always to be devoted to some charitable object), rises and insists "that if that most objectionable noise does not cease, the boys will have to be turned out."