The Advocate and news., 1899-02-01

or was 1t but the sign or silence thai
one saw on every side?--the hushed
string, the whisper-haunted galleries ol
pine and maple, the uncommunicatiVe
Bibbs. Once it had been a busy place
but the center Of wealth and fashion had
retreated from it year by year, and now
1t was a mere nursery OF fiddles. And
some that lay upon the counter
forty years ago were there to-day,
and time had poured its floods
Of light upon them and dipped
them in the silence and the gloom Of
night, and filtered through their fibers
strains of song and sound until they
came to years of understanding like to
those Of men, and had voice for human
thought Men came to buy them some
times, but late years they found it hard
to deal with Bibbs. Rawtoned young
viOlins he sometimes sold, and cheaply;
but not the old ones that had been his
hope and company for years-nOt for all
the wealth in Gotham. His love of them
was constant, and his price beyond all
reach or reason. The sale Of the Magini
had been a sorry bargain, though it
brought him twice its value He had
not expected that the man would buy
1t at so high a price The money was
paid and the Magini became the darling
Of another owner, who made off with 1t,
while Bibbs stood speechless and con-
fused, and then as the good housewife
was fond Of telling, "he went lead
color"
But now buyers came more rarely, and
his wife was dead, and Bibbs lived quite
alone 1t was early twilight in the little
shop. Bibbs lit candle, set aside his
pots Of glue and varnish, and stood
the solemn old Amati he had
Just mended, and then he played strain
of music on it's silver strings. 1t was
the song of faith from Elijah" A deep
amen went booming under the red dome
of the bass viol that lay in corner,
and a low wall Of sympathy swept
through the cases on the counter and
along the walls-the voice of those con-
demned to silence in this little shop.
Eyes, yes" said Bibbs tenderly. "Oh,
rest in time, for time is the Lord, and
there Is time enough to make all things
perfect, even men. You are like soul.
When you were only seventy years old,
l suppose the devil had his home in you,
as he has in me. Goodness Is but har-
mony, and you might be BETTER you
red-bellied son of a whittier"
AS had been his custom by day for
years, Bibbs carefully inspected the
jolnings Of the Strad Then again he
held his ears against it, and the strings
broke into song at the touch Of his
beard.
"That voice Of yours! wonder what
IL will be thousand years from now
Your old body will turn to splinters and
to dust some time. Wood can't last for
ever, any more than flesh and blood
When your voice is near perfection you
will not be strong enough to stand the
strain of the strings, and then-well,
you're a good deal like man, anyhow"
To Bibbs, heaven was the destination
of all good violins. ITO hell with
harps!" said he. "They have no soul
in them like this" And hell was, in his
opinion, the resort of bad fiddlers, and
their playing was the doom of the
damned.
Bibbs put the Strad in it's case and
turned the key. He stood a moment
silently nlllng MS pipe. A melancholy
cello lying ON the floor near by let go a
string, humming disConsolately like a
lovesick maiden. Bibbs was about to
make all fast and retire to his room be-
hind the shop, when suddenly the door
opened, changing the bell that hung
above it. An old man with shaven,
wrinkled face and long white hair stood
before him.
"Any old vlollns?" said he, advancing
into the shop.
None to sell" said Bibbs, Curtly.
'I do not wish to buy" said the old
man; but l am Connoisseur, and !
would so like to see them"
Now there were men to whom Bihbs
gave some toleration and even degree
OF contidence-men who had grown old
with flddles and loved them as he did.
"Sit down." said he, pointing to
chair 1--WE an Amati, q Guarnerius