In all, through all, and above all, is heard the violoncello.

Ah, not for nothing were those pegs so twisted and re-twisted;--listen, listen! Now alone that saddest of instruments tells its touching tale.

Silent, and in awe, stand fiddle, flute, and piano, to hear the sorrows of their wailing brother.

'Tis but for a moment: before the melancholy of those low notes has been fully realised, again comes the full force of all the band;--down go the pedals, away rush twenty fingers scouring over the bass notes with all the impetus of passion.

Apollo blows till his stiff neckcloth is no better than a rope, and the minor canon works with both arms till he falls in a syncope of exhaustion against the wall.
How comes it that now, when all should be silent, when courtesy, if not taste, should make men listen,--how is it at this moment the black-coated corps leave their retreat and begin skirmishing?
One by one they creep forth, and fire off little guns timidly, and without precision.