I remember looking towards him with a natural curiosity to see what he—the only stranger present—appeared to think of the instrument; but he gave no sign,—none, at least, that I could interpret. He was gazing fixedly at my grandfather with a sort of rapt look,—his head bowed, his lips firmly compressed, but twitching a little. His eyes had a certain glitter about them, strongly contrasting with their usual expression of unobtrusive endurance. I looked towards Charley, but his eyes did not meet mine; for he had turned his chair away from the fire, and was scrutinizing the stranger’s face with a quiet but searching look. “It is a little hoarse from long disuse,” said Mr. Whacker, drawing the bow slowly as before. “Give us a tune, Uncle Tom?” “Yes, yes!” joined in a chorus. “Give us a tune!” “Pshaw!” said the old gentleman, “it would be a profanation to play a ‘tune’ on this instrument.” “There is where I don’t agree with you, Mr. Whacker,” put in the fat and jolly middle-aged gentleman. “The last time I was in Richmond I went to hear Ole Bull; and such stuff as he played I wish never to hear again,—nothing but running up and down the strings, with de’il a bit of tune that I could see.” “That’s precisely my opinion,” said another. “Confound their science, say I.” “Why, yes,” continued the jolly fat middle-aged gentleman, encouraged. “The fact is, it spoils a fiddler to teach him his notes. Music should come from the heart. Why, I don’t wish to flatter our friend Billy here, but, so far as I am concerned, I would rather hear him than all the Ole Bulls and Paganinis that ever drew a bow.” “Rather hear Billy? I should think so! Why, any left-handed negro fiddler can beat those scientific fellows all hollow.” My grandfather, during the passage at arms that ensued upon the expression of these sentiments, grew rather warm, and at last appealed to the Don. He, as though loath to criticise the performance of our friend Billy, spoke guardedly. “I should think,” said he, “that music would be like anything else,—those who devoted most time to it would be most proficient.” “Of gourse!” broke in the Herr, who had not allowed the discussion to draw him very far from the bowl of toddy. “Now, joost look at unser frient Pilly. Dot yung mon has a real dalent for de feedle,—but vot he blay? Noding als reels unt cheeks unt zuch dinks. Joost sent dot yung mon one time nach Europen, unt by a goot master. Donnerwetter, I show you somedink! Tausendteufels!” added he, draining his glass, “vot for a feedler dot yung Pilly make!” I may remark that just in proportion as the Herr mollified his water did he dilute his English. Just in proportion as he approached the bottom of a punch-bowl did the language of Shakespeare and Milton become to him an obscure idiom. “Won’t you try its tone?” said Mr. Whacker, offering the violin and bow to the Don. “Oh,” replied he, deprecatingly.