The crowd of spectators which assembled to witness this match was much gratified at this interesting display of musical athletics. The Glee Club won the toss. Having massed the basses in the centre, and stationed the tenors on the wings, the leader gave the signal for readiness. In the meantime the 'cellos had performed a beautiful fantasia, which elicited great enthusiasm from the lookers-on, but gradually subsided to a low wail, as if preparatory to defeat. The signal was given; the instruments lead off on the "Marseillaise," while from the other end of the field thundered the chorus of "Yankee Doodle." A terrific crash followed, as the opposing ranks met in the struggle; screams of grief, shouts of triumph, filled the air, while the strains of "Nearer, My God, to Thee," proceeding from an injured runner, clashed with the "Babies on Our Block." By this time the whole air resounded with a wondrous pot-pourri, a strange medley of songs, hymns, anthems, curses, utterly regardless of time or place, each player translating into sound the overwhelming passion of his soul. But this sublimity could not sustain itself. The crisis was approaching. One of the basses, by a mighty stroke, sent the ball high into the air; it paused, hesitated, then floated between the goal posts. Breathless was the suspense as it rose, and silence seized the entire company, but as it crossed the bar the whole orchestra burst into a cry of lamentation, outrivalling all previous efforts, then died into death-like silence, while the shrill jodel of the Glee Club goal-keeper rose in exultation above the confused roar of triumph which burst from eleven throats. [We regret that our reporter was not present at the game, and that we therefore omit details.]