I have often seen ladies take their female friends to the side of a cradle, and softly turning down the coverlet, look up, as much as to say, “Did you ever see anything half so beautiful?” And I must do the female friends the justice to add that they always signified that they never had; and I have often seen the subject of such unstinted praise, when brought before males, pronounced a pretty enough baby, but a baby seemingly in no wise different from all the babies that are, have been, or shall be; and on such occasions I can recall, methinks, some maiden aunt, for example, who has ended by getting worried at the persistent inability of some obstinate young fellow to see certain points of superiority about mouth, eyes, or nose, which to her were very clear. And so it was on this occasion, as on many previous ones, with my grandfather. He was always amazed, when he showed his violin, at the polite coldness of the praise that it received. “Look at those _f_-holes,” said he, taking the violin out of its case; “look at those clean-cut corners!” And everybody craned his neck and tried to see the clean-cut corners. “What a contour!” exclaimed the enthusiastic old gentleman, holding the instrument off at arm’s length and gazing rapturously upon it. There was a murmur of adhesion, as the French say. “Splendid!” ejaculated Billy, feeling that something was due from him as the fiddler of the evening; thereby drawing the gleaming eyes of Mr. Whacker full upon him. “Splendid!” repeated he, in a somewhat lower tone, and looking steadfastly at the violin; for he could not look the old gentleman in the face,—knowing—the honest scamp—that he was a fraud, and saw nothing wonderful in the instrument. “Why, hand me that old gourd you have been playing on,” said Mr. Whacker; and he snatched the fiddle from Billy’s hand. “Look at those two scrolls, for example,” said the old gentleman, bumping them together within three inches of Billy’s nose. Billy took the two necks in his hands, screwed up his face, and tried his best to look knowing; but his broad, genial countenance could not bear the tension long; and a sudden flash of humor from his kindly eyes set the company in a roar, in which my grandfather could not help joining. “Well, well,” said he, “I suppose I ought not to expect you to be a connoisseur in violins. Would you like to examine it?” said Mr. Whacker, thinking he detected a look of interest on the part of the Don,—and he handed him the instrument. The Unknown took it in an awkward and confused sort of way. My grandfather looked chopfallen. “I thought that possibly you might have seen Cremonas in Europe,” observed the old man timidly.