I do not want to seem to be faultfinding, so I will only say that the grand concert on the Cameronia was not much worse than is usual on shipboard. Everybody knows that during a voyage some night is designated as concert night, a program is given by the passengers, and a collection taken for the benefit of the Sailors’ Home or some such charitable object. But only those who have actually made the trip and attended a concert realize the painful nature of the operation. A notice is posted on the bulletin board asking for volunteers for the program, and aspiring genius directly or through friends offers itself for the entertainment. A dignified gentleman who can’t tell a funny story but thinks he can is selected for chairman. Sometimes a really good musician or entertainer is inadvertently included in the program, but this is not often. No mistake is made in the choice of pretty girls who take up the collection. Our concert was opened by a bass solo, the guilty party being a man with his name parted in the middle and old enough to know better. He rendered (that’s the proper word) the old Roman favorite, “Only a Pansy Blossom.” When he came to the chorus about a faded flower he waved a yellow chrysanthemum in the air to a tremulo accompaniment. This was not a comic song, but a serious, sentimental selection, and the singer was an Englishman. The Scotch and English in the room heaved sighs and said to each other, “How beautiful!” The Americans poked each other in the ribs and almost wept in the effort to restrain their laughter. Of course he was encored, and he rendered again. This time it was a ballad about the golden tress of my darling, and in the touchiest of the touching lines he drew forth from his vest a piece of female switch, peroxide in color and horsetailish in effect. It was a great effort, and the serious fellow-country-men heaved more sighs of appreciation, while an American girl at my right whispered out of her handerchief, “I know I’m going to scream!” Then a Scotchman sang an Irish song. Now a Scotchman can’t get the Irish brogue any more than he can understand an American joke. He was enthusiastically encored, and responded with a French dialect story, in broad Scotch. It was funnier than he knew. An amateur violinist contributed an execution of a sonata or a nocturne or a cordial of some kind. A famous story-teller recited a few choice bits from the column of some London magazine, on which the American copyright expired many years ago. The chairman in a few touching words then explained the object of the charity for which the fund was to be collected, and the touching was completed by the young ladies with pleasant smiles.
Such is a ship’s concert, and with slight variations it is one of the features of every ocean voyage.
INTRODUCING A JOKE TO OUR BRITISH COUSINS
I have alluded to the lack of humor in Great Britain, from the American viewpoint. I heard a good joke on the Scotch, and told it to a small crowd in the smoking-room. The story was of the boy who asked his father why there was such a coin as a farthing, the fourth part of a penny. The father replied that it was to enable the Scotch to be charitable. Nobody laughed, and I resumed a discussion of the weather. About five minutes afterward an Englishman roared with mirth, and shouted to me, “I follow you! I follow you!” I didn’t understand why he was following me until he began my story, which he repeated with explanations and reminders of the proverbial Scotch thrift. Then he told it again and laughed loudly. The others smiled courteously and then face after face broadened, they all “followed,” and nobody appreciated the joke more than the Scotchmen. They told the story to each other and laughed, then hunted up friends and told it until the friends “followed,” and I was pointed out as a humorist. But it was a long and painful operation, and I did not have the courage to try it again. These British cousins are not devoid of humor but their speed limit is far below ours.
The harbor of New York is in sight and the pilot just came aboard. I witnessed an affecting scene. A fellow-passenger shouted vigorously to get the attention of a man who was sitting in the pilot boat. The man looked up, and I could tell the passenger was nervously preparing to ask for important news, perhaps of the strike, or the English elections. He called, “Who’s ahead in the National League?”