t. He began without more ado, and every thing went on at first as
he could wish; fountains of harmony gushed out from under his bow. There
seemed a soul at the end of each of his fingers, and the countenance of
the chief magistrate showed how enchanted he was with his powers. His
triumph was on the point of being complete; a few more bars of a
movement composed for the occasion--a few magnificent flourishes to show
his mastery of the instrument, and Castero will be driven to despair by
the superiority of his rival;--but crash! crash!--at the very moment
when his melody is steeping the senses of the Stadtholder in Elysium, a
string breaks with hideous sound, and the whole effect of his
composition is destroyed. A smile jumped instantaneously to the
protruding lip of the learned Laurentius, and mocked his mishap: the son
of the brewer observed the impertinent smile, and anger gave him
courage--the broken string is instantly replaced. The artist rushes full
speed into the allegretto--and under the pressure of his hands, burning
with rage and genius, the chord breaks again! The fiddle must be
bewitched--Frederick became deadly pale--he trembled from head to
foot--he was nearly wild.

But the piece he had composed was admirable; he knew it--for in a moment
of inspiration he had breathed it into existence from the recesses of
his soul. And was he doomed never to play this cherished work to the
governor of his country?--An approving motion from that august
individual encouraged him to proceed, and he fitted a string for the
third time.

Alas, alas! the result is the same--the chord is too much tightened, and
breaks in the middle of a note! Humbled and ashamed, Frederick gives up
his allegretto. He retires, abashed and heartbroken, and Castero takes
his place. Mixed up in the crowd, his eyes swam in tears of rage and
disappointment when the frantic applauses of the assemblage--to whom the
Stadtholder had set the example--announced to him the triumph of his
rival. He is vanquished--vanquished without having had the power to
fight--oh, grief! oh, shame! oh, despair!

His friends tried in vain to console him in promising him a brilliant
revenge. The son of the brever believed himself eternally disgraced. He
rushed into his room, double locked the door and would see nobody. He
required solitude--but the wo of the _artiste_ had not yet reached its
height. He must drink the cup of humiliation to the dregs. Suddenly
innumerable voi