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bed in full dress. Constance made the punch, and after an hour approached his bed to wake him; but he slept so sweetly, that she thought it cruel to disturb him. She left him another hour, and then, as she dared not let him sleep longer, awakened him.

Mozart rubbed his eyes, stretched himself, and went forthwith to his work.

Constance took her seat near him, brought him the punch, and, to keep him awake, told all manner of droll stories: of the Prince Fish, of Blue Beard, of the Princess Cinderella, &c. Mozart laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks. At two in the morning he began his wonderful work. At six o'clock it lay finished on his desk.

Mozart rose exhausted from his seat, scarcely able to stand upright. "This time it has gone well," he murmured, "but I would not dare to try it again." He was then obliged to lie down.

At seven o'clock the copyist came for the manuscript, to copy the dif ferent parts for the musicians in all haste. They were not completed before seven in the evening; so that the representation could not commence before eight o'clock. Still wet, and covered with sand, the copied parts were placed on the desks of the orchestra.

CONCLUSION.

The report of the singular story of the Overture was quickly spread abroad. When Mozart appeared in the orchestra he was received with thundering bravos, by the crowd that filled the house to overflowing. He bowed low, then turned to the musicians and said: "Gentlemen, we could not have a rehearsal of the Overture, but I know what I can venture with you. Let us go on!" He took his staff for beating time, gave the signal, and like a thunder-burst, with peal of trumpets, sounded the first accord of the awful Andante. This, as well as the following Allegro, was nobly executed by the skilful orchestra. When the Overture was ended, the shouts of applause seemed as if they would never

cease.

"A few notes were dropped under the desk," observed Mozart, laughing, to Strobach, who was standing opposite to him, "but the whole went off well, and I feel deeply indebted to these gentlemen."

How, in the representation of the Opera, the applause increased with every scene; how, since that first performance to this day, the air fin chan dal vino calls forth repeated Dacapos, is known not only to the good citizens of Prague, but to the whole civilized world.

Thus I conclude this little circle of scenes, which I will not call a Tale of Art. They are but a pleasant remembrance of the period when a master-piece first appeared, the anniversary of which is celebrated on this fourth of November, and which will retain through all time the admiration of noble and feeling hearts.

BRADDOCK'S DEFEAT;

OR,

THE BATTLE OF THE MONONGAHELA.

[In Sparks' Biography of Washington, it is stated that there were living, a few years since, at least two men who have been in this battle.]

"Ho! stranger, halt! which way so late?"
Loud shouts a woodsman bold:
"The day's short race is nearly run,
The nights are dark and cold;

The forest lies on either hand;
The prairie rolls before;

And strangers ne'er do I permit
To pass my cabin-door."

The ruddy fire, with cheerful glow,
Salutes the stranger's sight,

And throws, in bright and joyous gleams,
Around its mellow light,

On blackened walls, from which depend
The spoils of many a chase,

On horns, and hides, and antlers broad,
That beams and rafters grace-

On flesh of Buffalo and Bear

The hump-the sav'ry tongue

The ven'son haunch, and feathered game,
That round the room are hung;-
The well-oiled rifles o'er the fire,
Enwrapped in doe-skin case,

And 'neath a Pater Patria,
With grave, majestic face.

Within the chimney's ample jaws,
That near across one side,
Insatiate with a forest's spoil,

Yawn deep, and high, and wide-
There sits a shrunk and withered form,
A doting, white-haired sire,-
His palsied frame rejoicing in
The warm and genial fire.

Across his knees a rifle rests,

That, worn, and stained, and bent, And mark'd with many a seamy scar, And many a deep indent,

He fondles, child-like, and the while, With trembling hands, counts o'er A row of notches on the stock,

That number just three-score.

Three-score, in full, the notches count;
Again he runs them o'er,
Again he shakes his snowy head,

And murmurs-" There were more."

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* Washington, in one of his letters, says that he never saw a more gallant military show than was presented by these troops when he joined them, after first crossing the Monongahela.

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"So breaks that wild and deadly storm,
So roars that deadly blast,
So sullen on defenceless breasts
The leaden drops fall fast.

A moments pause! Again it comes
In one continuous shower,

And from each tree, and bush, and tuft
The murky flashes lower.

"A thousand rifles flashing fast,

Dispatch with sulphu'rous breath,

From 'neath the covers, dark and dense,
Their messengers of death;

A thousand rifles flashing fast,
The angry echoes wake,

"Five times those daring, dauntless men

Rush on that line of fire-,
Five times before its hissing flames
With thinned ranks retire;

And every time with gesture, voice,
Entreaties, hoarse commands,
They strive to lead up to the charge
Their panic-stricken bands.

"In vain no cheers will urge them on,
No words their ranks restore,
But mid their own brave officers
Their aimless volleys pour-
And as around their fellows fall,
Those trained and showy troops

And joined with shouts, and oaths, and yells, Rush to and fro across the field

Wild, hellish music make.

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In wild, tumultuous groups.

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