ordered his orchestral army to advance upon BEETHOVEN'S Sympony in C.
This what they heard and saw:

FIRST HORSEMAN. "What a noise they make tuning their fiddles When's this
thing going to begin?"

SECOND HORSEMAN. "Begin! Why, it has begun. This is BEETHOVEN'S Symphony
in C."

THIRD HOUSEMAN. "Don't you know the Symphony at Sea? It represents a
storm, you know."

YOUNG LADY FROM BOSTON. "How divinely beautiful! It ought to be played,
however, by GILMORE'S Band. They do not understand classical music in
New York."

ACCOMPANYING FRIEND. "Hush. PAREPA is going to sing."

There is a tremulous motion felt throughout the vast building. It is the
approach of PAREPA, who skips lightly--like the little hills mentioned
by the Psalmist--across the stage. She curtseys, and her skirts expand
in vast ripples like the waves of a placid sea when some huge
line-of-battle ship sinks suddenly from sight. She smiles a sweet and
ample smile. She flirts her elegant fan, and gallant little CARL
ROSA--who can lead an orchestra better than the weightiest German of
them all--is swept swiftly away, whirling like a rose-leaf before the
breath of the gentle zephyr. Then she sings.

What is the grand orchestra compared with the exhaustless volume of her
matchless voice! What the chorus of three thousand singers or the