But there is one face that I shall not attempt to describe,—that of young Jones, the University man, upon whom it flashed, like a revelation, that he had been, without knowing it, fiddling away for hours in the presence of an artist. It naturally occurred to Billy that a huge joke had been perpetrated at his expense; and after the first few notes, he tried to nerve himself to meet the explosion of laughter that he momentarily expected. But his furtive glances from side to side detected no one looking his way,—no symptom of a joke, in fact,—so that the flush of confusion began to recede, supplanted by a glow of enthusiasm. I leave it to the reader, then, to imagine the play of expression on the countenance of this big, manly fellow,—rejoicing in his strength, and brimful of rollicking humor, loving a joke even at his own expense, as he stood there before the Don; at one time carried away by the impetuosity of the performer, at another flushing up to his eyes when he reflected that, if no one else had served him that turn, he, at least, had made a fool of himself. This is tableau No. 1, but, for clearness’ sake, let me retouch its outlines. A large room, with a roaring fire at one end, and doors open, Virginia fashion. In the doors and windows a background—or blackground—of colored brethren and sisters, exhibiting a breathless delight, all their teeth, and the largest surface, functionary practicable, of the whites of their eyes. Within, stands my grandfather, on tiptoe, with outstretched arms, which wave gently up and down, as, from time to time, snatches of rhythm drop out of the chaos of chords and runs that are pouring from his Guarnerius. Next the jolly fat middle-aged gentleman, tilting back, open-mouthed, in one of Mr. Whacker’s phantom chairs, and rather near the fire. Then Mr. William Jones himself, who just at this moment has compressed his lips, and resolved that he will smash his fiddle and break his bow just so soon as he reaches No. 28, East Lawn, U. V. Then there is the Herr Waldteufel, smiling through clouded glasses, but not darkly. Then—to omit half a dozen gentlemen—there was the inscrutable Charley, leaning, with a certain subdued twinkle in his eyes, against one end of the mantel-piece, while near the other stood, in respectful attitude, Uncle Dick, his hands clasped in front of his portly person, his bald head bent low, his left ear towards the music, his eyes fixed askance upon the fire to his right. Midst this scene of perfect stillness stood the Don,—his body swaying to and fro. The old Guarnerius seemed to be waking from its long slumber, and, as if conscious that once more a master held it, to be warming to its work. The music grew madder. At last there came some fierce chords, then a furious fortissimo chromatic scale of two or three octaves, with a sudden and fantastic finish of fairy-like harmonics,—the snarling of a tiger, one might say, echoed by the slender pipings of a phantom cicada: