I will go to bed for an hour; wake me up in that time, and make me some punch." And without undressing he flung himself on the bed. Constance prepared the punch, and in an hour's time went to awaken her husband; but he slept so sweetly, she could not find it in her heart to disturb him. She let him lie another hour; then, as time pressed, she awakened him.

Mozart rubbed his eyes, shook himself, collected his thoughts, and without further ado, began his work. Constance gave him the punch, seated herself by him, and to keep him in good sprits, began to tell him all manner of funny and horrible stories of the Princefish, Bluebeard, &c., till Mozart, still writing, laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.

At two in the morning he began his wonderful work; at six it lay on the desk finished. The master arose; he could hardly stand up

right.

"Done for this time!" he muttered; "but I shall not soon try it again!" and he laid himself down again to sleep.

At seven the copyist came for the notes; but could not finish writing them out before half-past seven in the evening, so that the performance was postponed to eight o'clock. Still wet and covered with sand, the hastily-copied parts were brought in and arranged in the orchestra.

CONCLUSION.

The strange story of the composition of the overture soon spread among the audience. When Mozart came into the orchestra, he was greeted with thundering "bravos" from an overflowing house. He bowed low, and, turning to the performers in the orchestra, said,

"Gentlemen, we have not been able to have a rehearsal of the overture; but I know what I can venture with you. So quick-to the work !"

He took up the time-staff, gave the signal, and like a thunder-burst, with the clang of trumpets, sounded the first accord of the awful "Andante." That, as well as the succeeding" Allegro," was executed by the orchestra with admirable spirit. When the overture was at an end, there was a perfect storm of applause.

"There were, indeed, a few notes dropped under the desk," observed Mozart, smiling to Strobach; "but on the whole it went off splendidly. I am greatly obliged to these gentlemen."

How during the rest of the opera the applause rose from scene to scene, how from its first representation to the present day, on every occasion, the "Finchan dul vino" called and still calls forth enthusiastic Da Capos, is well known, not only to the brave people of Prague, but to the whole civilized world. Thus I bring to an end this little circle of scenes, which I do not presume to offer as a tale of art. They may prove, however, a pleasant memorial of the first production of a noble work, whose fiftieth anniversary was celebrated on the 4th of November, 1837; and which is destined through all future time to command the admiration of feeling hearts.

A CHAPTER ON BLACK DOGS.

BY DOUGLAS JERROLD.

PETER Vanderpup was a small citizen of Rotterdam. An idle Dutchman is an abomination throughout his fatherland; and yet Peter, though lazy, was not held infamous, but was suffered to smoke and loiter through forty years of useless life with an improving reputation, which, in the forty-fifth year of its wear-for at such time our tale of gossip begins-was of the very best material, and of the most galliard cut. Not that Peter had taken the least care of the article; on the contrary, he wore his reputation as an emperor carries a diamond, worth provinces, in his hat; with an easy grace, a carelessness, yea, a seeming forgetfulness of the treasure borne about him; which carelessness mightily enhances the lofty spirit, the natural magnificence of the wearer. Strange it is! but reputations-like beavers and cloaks-shall last some people twice the time of others: not that there shall be the slightest difference in the quality of the article; no, not a whit; the commodity shall be the same to a thread-(yes, the moral cloak, or jerkin, or doublet, or under whatever figure it shall please you, fastidious reader, to entertain reputation,-never forgetting, that in a cloak the stuff wears capitally),-the commodity shall be cut off the same piece of broad cloth made to cover all the children of men, on their first appearance in this cold, bleak world, and yet, how differently shall it turn out with different wearers ! Even in their cradles, some refractory younglings-for, indeed, there are even babies of the most forlorn reputations-rend and tear their moral garments; whilst others, though they shall scream higher than a trumpet, shall split their one, two, four month characters to very tatters, are shaken not, chidden not, but dandled in untiring arms, cockered with soft phrases, hugged, squeezed, wooed with sweetest pap, solaced with honeyed syllables.

Peter Vanderpup, when only ten weeks old, was, in spirit, a fullgrown fiend. It was in the winter of 17-, when the bread that was hot in the morning could only be cut with an axe for supper; when cats were frostbitten at the fireside; and when the burgomaster, Tosspotoff, having incautiously laid his hand upon a bottle at breakfast, had it fixed to the vessel until nightfall,-it was in that awful winter when all the crows of the north were turned white as cockatoos with the cold, that Peter Vanderpup, an infant of ten weeks' experience, resolutely refused to sleep in the bosom of his mother one minute after midnight, but, with much shrieking, and no less kicking, compelled his father, Jans Vanderpup, a meek, unresisting man, to rise from his warm bed, and, merely shirted, and with bare feet, to walk the narrow room -his toes bitten to the joints with the cold-singing, or rather shaking a song through his teeth to his unquiet heir, only to be lulled by such warbling. And whilst Peter the son would yell and kick, Jans the parent would call him an angel," a popsy," a "mannikin,” a "joy," "a precious creature," the frost biting to the bones every limb of the praisemonger.

For a whole winter was Jans Vanderpup forced, by the des

potism of his sleepless babe, to walk the room,-hard penance for matrimony!-barefooted and in his shirt, and that for two hours by the best Rotterdam clock, now singing, and now uttering monstrous lies in sweetest similitudes breathed upon his son. Throughout a whole winter, until the primroses appeared, did Jans Vanderpup endure this ill; summer came and Peter slept; but Jans was too far gone; he would sit and smile languidly in the sun, and though with manful heart he strove to linger until pickled herrings should come in for the season, the struggle was in vain-Jans died. That he was properly done for admits of no doubt; for four doctors attended him until hope fled with his breath. And then they consoled the placid widow; for they vowed there had been no hope from the first. The truth is, Jans was never thawed. In his last moments he lisped "Peter," called him his darling love, his little angel, and died, frozen in the belief. And the parricide in short coats, shook his rattle and crowed like a cock. Strange! that the mother, indeed, a shrewd, sensible woman, never guessed the cause of her husband's death: it is plain, however, she did not; for she would hug the parricidal baby in her arms, and call him her comfort and her only joy.

It would grieve us, did the reader think that we had dwelt too long on the infantine waywardness of Peter Vanderpup: for, be sure of it, we have a sufficing purpose for what we do; it being our design to show, that from his swaddling-clothes to his shroud, Peter Vanderpup had a character for goodness and sweetness thrust upon him; and, do what he might, that still the character would stick. Good reputation was to Peter not as a garment, but as his skin: he was never to be stripped of it he might have wallowed with hogs in a sty, and, in half an hour, would have been as clean, as spotless as ever. Have you not seen it, reader? Shall not one varlet ruffle it in all mobs-flounder through many dirty ways-struggle through a maze of briers,-and still have his good name-we mean his superfine cloak-without a wrinkle in it-a spot upon it-a tear, yea even the fracture of a thread in it? And yet, put the same cloak upon another, and though he shall suffer but a casual jostling-though he shall tread a muddy walk carefully as a cat-and only tarry a moment to gather a dog-rose from a bush at the wayside, and—phew !-what an unseemly rumpling of his garment-what splashes of foulest mire upon it!-and what a flaw" a flaw !" cries detraction, savagely hooking in its tiger nail," a huge rent"-in his moral super-Saxony.

It has been shown under what adverse circumstances Peter Vanderpup, when ten weeks old, obtained from his frozen parent the name of angel. It is our further purpose to make known how, throughout his life-and despite of a few disadvantages increasing and maturing with his years-Peter Vanderpup was the flower of men; yea, the very pink of Rotterdam. As faithful historians, we feel ourselves bound to describe the few personal and moral dark spots in Peter-dark to us, though, as shall be seen, looked upon by the world as lustrous beauties.

Peter Vanderpup was hump-backed, bow-legged, and-having in his childhood fought with the cat for some fishbones-had lost the sight of one eye, in the contest. Without the artificial aid of stockings, Peter Vanderpup stood between earth and heaven four feet one.

Peter's voice was a croak-his speech a stammer.

His leer was the look of an ogre, and he swore, even beyond the privilege of a Dutch

man.

Peter was a drunkard; a solitary toper. He has been heard to declare his own thoughts and a bottle to be worth all the company in Holland.

Peter was a miser. Not a guilder would he have given to save his fatherland from the sea-his own small wealth not perilled by the deluge.

Peter was an ungrateful son, and has been known to hug himself and laugh when one man called another his friend.

Peter's heart was filled with envy of the rich and beautiful. The wise and the good were beneath his thoughts; the poor he spurned.

We have jotted down a few of the defects of Peter Vanderpup. Surely, surely, he was not a man to awaken smiles-to call forth good words-to sow kind opinions in the hearts of men! Yet, we repeat it, Peter Vanderpup was well spoken of, the men laughed with him, swallowing his poorest words as rare jests; whilst the women, by one acclaim, vowed him to be the sweetest of fellows.

Now what charm had Peter Vanderpup to hoodwink all eyes-to dazzle all judgments? What dust did he throw about him-what philter did he drop into the cup of his neighbour? What device, bought of fiends or furies, had Peter Vanderpup?

Reader, Peter tampered not with fiends; he had bought no spellhe worked no charm!

Then what the devil-(it is you, reader, who speak)—had Peter? Peter had a black dog!

"Did mortal eyes ever behold such a dog!"

"What a face it has!"

“And what a temper!"

"And what genius! It tells bad money, and fires off a gun like a Christian!"

"Once played at chess, 'tis said, with a Leyden professor, and beat him!"

"Could a pup be had for love or guilders?"

"Beautiful creature!"

"And to quit Rotterdam!"

"To leave us, perhaps, for ever!"

"Never!"

Such were a few of the exclamations, such a brief sample of the eulogies, vented and pronounced by a circle of ladies, buxom wives, and no less buxom widows, on Peter Vanderpup's black dog-on the inimitable Snout. For years had Rotterdam rung with the renown of the dog the ladies of Amsterdam had, vainly, petitioned for the honour of a visit from Peter,-for Peter and Snout were as one; but the belles of Rotterdam were obdurate. Peter had, from the first, protested himself their slave; and the labours of Snout were confined to his native city. Hence, much of the beauty and fashion of Holland would, from time to time, make pilgrimages to the birthplace of Erasmus and of Snout, and departing thence, would scatter abroad the

praises of the black dog! Wonderful Snout-fortunate Peter Vanderpup!

We have already hinted that Peter had a slight deformity of back. -now, Snout was the most graceful of his race. Peter had but one eye-Snout had two, and both brilliant as carbuncles. Peter's temper was sullen and vindictive-Snout was of the happiest, the most playful disposition. We have paused to consider; and still we remember no social recommendation possessed by Peter Vanderpup-now Snout, his black dog, had a thousand winning tricks to charm and delight all people; to draw about him all the female hearts of Rotterdam. In brief, there was no defect, no want of Peter that was not set off by a grace, supplied by an excellence of Peter's black dog. Hence, Peter was somehow merged in his dog: Vanderpup was become part and parcel of Snout. To no other cause, save to this moral unity-this incorporation of man and dog-can we attribute the good name and prosperity of Peter. Whether it was christening, or wedding, birthday feast, or other revel,-there was Peter and his dog. And whilst Snout with wonderful intelligence and docility, would from a company of forty or fifty ladies, pick out the maids from the wives, and the wives from the widows, would sort a pack of cards, barking once at the clubs, twice at the spades, thrice at the hearts, and wagging his tail at the diamonds-with fifty other tricks not convenient for us to describe -Peter Vanderpup, the fortunate possessor of the canine wizard, would sit with the reputation of the dog beaming upon himself, with the bravoes and applause bestowed upon Snout, gladdening the ears and making big the heart of Snout's master. And in this way, for many years, did Peter Vanderpup, without one touch of grace, without the smallest virtue of his own, fortify himself in the hearts of the people. He walked about Rotterdam, sunning himself in the admiration paid to his black dog. Snout was the wonder of his kind; and the graces of the dog beamed upon the master. Happy the man who has a black dog!

We trust the reader feels a sufficient interest in Snout, to read, with patience, something of his genealogy. It would be hard, indeed, if the origin of such a dog were lost, confounded with the beginnings of tens of thousands of curs, littered only to fawn, bite, growl, yelp, wag their tails, and die. The family of Snout belongs to history; and though our present purpose compels us to be brief in our genealogical notice, we cannot with a few words, dismiss Snout's great ancestor, the Black Dog of Cologne, pupped in the sixteenth century.

The reader is requested to take note that the evening of the 25th of June, 1517, was on the Rhine an evening of surpassing beauty. A man of staid and serious aspect-a citizen of Cologne-walked, meditatingly on the bank of the river. He had the look of a scholar, or, what in those days was worse, of a philosopher. A youth, in the garb of a mechanic, dragging a half-grown pup with a cord, approached the river: his purpose was plain; no other than the death, by drowning, of the unwilling puppy. The dog with a fine intelligence-how abundantly was it manifested in after times !-pulled and struggled, and at length breaking the cord, scampered from his evildoer to the philosopher; crouching at his feet, and looking piteously in his face. The youth, intent on the death of the dog, pursued him; when the philosoAug.-VOL. LIX. NO. CCXXXVI.

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