They are such nice cheery entertainments, so much life, such a great deal of energy about them!  You are called on by four separate people to take tickets.  In desperation you have to yield at last; paying extra for having your seat reserved, or else you must start half-an-hour beforehand, and scramble in with the crowd.  There is generally a series of them too, and you are obliged to go to them all.  They are so considerate, these concert-makers, they would not allow you to miss one for worlds.

There is a great deal of novelty and variety about the artists themselves.  All the musical members in the neighborhood are routed out, and each is persuaded to contribute to the public pleasure—­by the way, there is never very much persuasion needed.  It is such a treat to listen to people you know, and whom you have heard perform dozens and dozens of times before in every drawing-room in the place.  At least, you know what to expect.  You recognize each song, each piece.  You wait in suspense until Miss.  Brown has passed her high A—­always half a tone too flat.  You take it as a matter of course that Mr. Black—­the first violinist in the place—­after tuning up for ten minutes, will break a string directly he begins to play.  I should have thought he would be pretty well used to it by now, but he never gets in tune again for the rest of the evening.  You would be quite disappointed if Mrs. Green ever concluded her most finished and spirited pianoforte solo on the right chord.

These concerts always begin with a pianoforte solo, and the performers ought to feel very flattered at the way in which they are received.  We, the audience, regard them no more than we do the mounted policemen in the Lord Mayor’s Show.  They are not part of the procession.  They are only meant to clear the way and let us know that the concert is going to begin, and then we must leave off our chatter.  Naturally, we make the most of our time, and try to get all our talking done at once.  In fact, we are so taken up with what we are saying that we actually forget to applaud when the performance is over.

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!