Neither am I thinking of "Monday Pops," and purely classical concerts, to which at least half the audience listens with closed eyes and thoughts somewhere in dreamland. They like to be thought musical; they know they ought to appreciate _such_ renderings of _such_ compositions; and after all, when they describe "the treat they had! such a perfect touch, my dear! and the execution!!--" no one knows they have never heard a note, so what does their inattention matter. They have been seen there, and that is all they care about. No, my thoughts take a much lower range. They are intent on only amateur productions, from penny readings upwards, to those superintended by the _elite_ of the neighborhood, when the seats rise in price to five shillings each. 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.