His diligence and exemplary devotion to his art, while at Ancona, led

also to another prominent occurrence in his career—the appointment, in

1721, to the distinguished place of first violin, and master of the

band, to the church of St. Anthony, of Padua. To St. Anthony, as his

patron saint, he consecrated himself and his instrument, with a species

and a constancy of attachment, that may find not only their excuse, but

their credit, in the nature and sentiment of the times he lived in. His

extending fame brought him repeated offers from Paris and London, to

visit those capitals; but, holding to his conscientious allegiance, he

uniformly declined entering into any other service, and was, like St.

Anthony himself, a pattern of resistance to temptation.

By the year 1728, he had made many excellent scholars, and established a

system of practice, for students on the violin, that was celebrated all

over Europe, and increased in reputation to the end of his life. Great

numbers of young men resorted to Padua from different countries, in

order to receive instruction from him in music, but chiefly in the

practice of the violin.

In the early part of his life, he published “_Sonate a Violino e

Violoncello, o Cembalo, Opera Prima_.” This, and his Opera Seconda, of

_Six Sonatas_ or _Solos_ for the same instrument, and another work

entitled “_XVIII Concerti a cinque Stromenti_,” were all published by Le

Cène, of Amsterdam, and prove him to have been a truly excellent

composer. Such, however, was the ascendancy of Corelli’s name, and so

ambitious was Tartini of being thought a follower of the precepts and

principles of that master, that, during the zenith of his own

reputation, he refused to teach any other music to his pupils, till they

had studied the _Opera Quinta_, or _Solos_, of Corelli; and the

excellence of this foundation was made manifest by the result. His

favorite pupils were Bini and Nardini. These, as well as others of

Tartini’s _élèves_, formed, in their turn, scholars of great abilities,

who contributed to spread his reputation and manner of playing all over

Europe.

Tartini’s own first master was an obscure musician, of the name of

Giulio di Terni, who afterwards made a fitting change of position, and

descended into the pupil of his own scholar—a circumstance related by

Tartini himself, who used to say that he had studied very little till

after he was thirty years of age[26]. At the age of fifty-two, Tartini

made a marked alteration in his style of playing, from extreme

difficulty (or what was _then_ so considered) to grace and expression.

His method of executing an adagio has been represented by his

contemporaries as inimitable, and was almost, in their idea,

supernatural—an impression to which the idea of the patron saint must

have not a little conduced.

The particulars that have been preserved respecting his scholar,

Pasquale Bini, are not without interest. Recommended to him at the age

of fifteen, by Cardinal Olivieri, Tartini found him a youth after his

own heart, possessing excellent moral dispositions, as well as musical;

and he accordingly cherished a very marked regard for him. This young

musician practised with such assiduity, that, in three or four years, he

vanquished the most difficult of Tartini’s compositions, and executed

them with greater force than the author himself. When he had finished

his studies, his patron, Cardinal Olivieri, took him to Rome, where he

astonished all the Professors by his performance,—particularly

Montagnari, at that time the principal violinist there; and it is

generally believed, that Montagnari was so mortified by the superiority,

as to have died of grief! When informed that Tartini had changed his

style and taste in playing, Bini returned to Padua,

“Nil actum reputans, si quid superesset agendum,”—

and placed himself for another year under that excellent and worthy

master; at the end of which period, so intense had been his application,

that he played with a degree of certainty and expression truly

wonderful.

On a certain occasion, in recommending a scholar to him, after his

return to Rome, Tartini expressed his sense of Bini’s powers and

character, and gave evidence of his own modest and ingenuous

disposition, in the following words:—“Io lo mando a un mio scolare chi

suona più di me; e me ne glorio, per essere un angelo di costume, e

religioso.”—“I recommend him (the applicant) to a scholar of mine, who

plays better than myself; and I am proud of it, as he is an angel in

religion and morals.” Such praise has its value enhanced by the source

whence it proceeds; for it was truly “laudari a laudato viro.”

The death of Tartini occurred at Padua, on the 26th of February, 1770,

to the general regret of the people of that city, where he had resided

nearly fifty years, and not only was regarded as its most attractive

ornament, but, owing to the serious and contemplative turn of his mind,

had attained the estimation of being a saint and a philosopher.

Of the general character of Tartini’s compositions, Dr. Burney, who

appears to have studied them closely, has given the following

judgment:—“Though he made Corelli his model in the purity of his harmony

and simplicity of his modulation, he greatly surpassed that composer in

the fertility and originality of his invention; not only in the subjects

of his melodies, but in the truly _cantabile_ manner of treating them.

Many of his adagios want nothing but _words_, to be excellent pathetic

opera-songs. His allegros are sometimes difficult; but the passages

fairly belong to the instrument for which they were composed, and were

suggested by his consummate knowledge of the finger-board, and the

powers of the bow. As a harmonist, he was perhaps more truly scientific

than any other composer of his time, in the clearness, character and

precision of his bases, which were never casual, or the effect of habit

or auricular prejudice and expectation, but learned, judicious and

certain. And yet I must, in justice to others, own that, though the

adagio and solo playing, in general, of his scholars are exquisitely

polished and expressive, yet it seems as if that energy, fire, and

freedom of bow, which modern symphonies and orchestra-playing require,

were wanting.”

The applicability of the latter remark is, of course, considerably

greater in these days than in the Doctor’s time. Another and more recent

critical opinion is subjoined:—

“Tartini’s compositions, with all the correctness and polish of

Corelli’s, are bolder and more impassioned. His slow movements, in

particular, are remarkably vocal and expressive; and his music shows a

knowledge of the violin, both in regard to the bow and the finger-board,

which Corelli had not been able to attain. His works, therefore, though

no longer heard in public, are still prized by the best musicians; a

proof of which is, that some of them have been recently reprinted for

the use of the _Conservatoire_ of Paris. He has frequently injured

their effect, to modern ears, by the introduction of trills and other

ornaments, which, like the flounces and furbelows of the female dress of

his day, have become old-fashioned; but, at the same time, his

compositions are full of beauties, which, belonging to the musical

language of nature and feeling, are independent of the influence of

time.”

Few of my readers have failed, probably, to hear or read of “The Devil’s

Sonata,” that forms so singular a “passage” in the experience of this

remarkable man, and is to be met with in Records, Musical, Literary, and

Pictorial. Monsieur De Lalande informs us that he had, from Tartini’s

own mouth, the following singular anecdote, which conveys an account of

it, and shows to what a degree his imagination was inflamed by the

genius of composition. “He dreamed, one night, in the year 1713, that he

had made a compact with the Devil, who promised to be at his service on

all occasions; and, during this vision, every thing succeeded according

to his mind; his wishes were anticipated, and his desires always

surpassed, by the assistance of his new servant. At length, he imagined

that he presented to the Devil his violin, in order to discover what

kind of a musician he was; when, to his great astonishment, he heard him

play a _solo_, so singularly beautiful, and executed with such superior

taste and precision, that it surpassed all the music he had ever heard

or conceived in his life! So great was his surprise, and so exquisite

his delight, upon this occasion, as to deprive him of the power of

breathing. He awoke with the violence of his sensations, and instantly

seized his instrument, in hopes of expressing what he had just heard;

but in vain. He, however, then composed a piece, which is, perhaps, the

best of all his works, and called it the _Devil’s Sonata_; but it was so

inferior to what his sleep had produced, that he declared he would have

broken his instrument, and abandoned music for ever, if he could have

subsisted by any other means.”

This remarkable legend, under its obvious associations with the fearful

and the grotesque, is so inviting for poetic treatment, that I have

ventured on the following attempt:—

TARTINI’S DREAM.

Grim-visag’d Satan on the Artist’s bed

Sat—and a cloud of sounds mirific spread!

Wild flow’d those notes, as from enchantment’s range,

“Wild, sweet, but incommunicably strange!”

Soft Luna, curious, as her sex beseems,

Shot through the casement her enquiring beams,

Which, entering, paler grew, yet half illum’d

The shade so deep that round the Arch-One gloomed:

And listening Night her pinions furled—for lo!

The Devil’s Soul, O![27] breathed beneath that bow!

Tranquil as death Tartini’s form reclin’d,

And sealing sleep was strong his eyes to bind;

But the wild music of the nether spheres

Was in a key that did unlock his ears.

Squat, like a toad or tailor, sat the Fiend,

And forward, to his task, his body leaned.

His griffin fingers, with their horny ends,

Hammer the stops; the bow submissive bends:

His lengthy chin, descending, forms a vice

With his sharp collar-bone, contrariwise,

To grasp the conscious instrument, held on

With ’scapeless gripe;—and, ever and anon,

As flows the strain, now quaint, and now sublime,

He marks, with beatings of his tail, the time!

Snakes gird his head; but, in that music’s bliss,

Enchanted, lose the discord of their hiss,

And twine in chords harmonic, though all mute,

As if they owned the sway of Orpheus’ lute.

Satan hath joy—for round his lips awhile

Creeps a sharp-set, sulphuric-acid smile;

And, at the mystic notes, successive sped,

Pleas’d, winketh he those eyes of flickering red,

And shakes the grizzly horrors of that head!

List! what a change! Soft wailings fill the air:

Plaintive and touching grows the demon-play’r.

Doth Satan mourn, with meltings all too late,

The sin and sorrow of his own sad state?

* * * * *

Night flies—the dream is past—and, pale and wan,

Starts from his spell-freed couch the anxious man.

Is it a marvel greater than his might,

Those winged sounds to summon back from flight?

To clutch them _whole_, in vain fond Hope inclin’d,

For Memory, overburthen’d, lagged behind,

Partly the strain fell ’neath Oblivion’s pall,

But it had partly “an _un_-dying fall;”

And, in that state defective, to the light

Brought forth—it lives—a relic of that night!

The next name for notice, in connexion with the Italian School of the

instrument, is that of

FRANCESCO MARIA VERACINI (the younger), a great,

but somewhat eccentric performer, who was born at Florence, at the close

of the 17th century. Unlike his contemporary, Tartini, whose sensitive

and modest disposition led him to court obscurity, Veracini was vain,

ostentatious, and haughty. Various stories have been current in Italy

about his arrogance and fantastic tricks, which obtained for him the

designation of _Capo pazzo_. The following anecdote is sufficiently

characteristic of him.

Being at Lucca at the time of the annual “Festa della Croce,” on which

occasion it was customary for the principal professors of Italy, vocal

and instrumental, to meet, Veracini put down his name for a Solo

Concerto. When he entered the choir, to take possession of the principal

place, he found it already occupied by the Padre Girolamo Laurenti,[28]

of Bologna, who, not knowing him, as he had been some years absent,

asked him whither he was going? “To the place of first violin,” was the

impetuous answer. Laurenti then explained that _he_ had been always

engaged to fill that post himself; but that if he wished to play a

concerto, either at vespers or during high mass, he should have a place

assigned to him. Veracini turned on his heel with contempt, and went to

the lowest place in the orchestra. When he was called upon to play his

concerto, he desired that the hoary old father would allow him, instead

of it, to play a solo at the bottom of the choir, accompanied on the

violoncello by Lanzetti. He played this in so brilliant and masterly a

manner as to extort an _e viva!_ in the public church; and, whenever he

was about to make a close, he turned to Laurenti, and called out, _Così

si suona per fare il primo violino_—“This is the way to play the first

fiddle!”

Another characteristic story respecting this performer is the

following:—

Pisendel, a native of Carlsburg, and one of the best violinists of the

early part of the eighteenth century, piqued at the pride and hauteur of

Veracini, who thought too highly of his own powers not to disdain a

comparison of them with those of any performer then existing,

determined, if possible, to mortify his conceit and self-consequence.

For this purpose, while both were at Dresden, he composed a very

difficult concerto, and engaged a _ripienist_, or inferior performer, to

practise it till he had conceived the whole, and rendered the most

intricate passages as familiar to his bow and finger as the more

obvious and easy parts of the composition. He then took occasion, the

practitioner being present, to request Veracini to perform it. The great

executant condescended to comply; but did not get through the task

without calling into requisition all his powers. When he had concluded,

the _ripienist_, agreeably to his previous instructions, stepped up to

the desk, and began to perform the same piece; upon which Veracini, in a

passion, tore him away, and would have punished on the spot his perilous

presumption, had not Pisendel actively interfered, and persuaded him,

were it only for the jest of the thing, to “let the vain creature expose

himself.” Veracini became pacified, the ripienist began again, and

executed the whole even more perfectly than his precursor, who stamped

on the floor with rage, swore he would never forgive Pisendel, and,

scarcely less abashed than tormented, immediately quitted Dresden.

Veracini would give lessons to no one, except a nephew, who died young.

The only master he himself had was his uncle, Antonio Veracini, of

Florence; but, by travelling all over Europe, he formed a style of

playing peculiar to himself. Besides being in the service of the King of

Poland, he was for a considerable time at the various courts of Germany,

and twice in England, where he composed several _operas_, and where Dr.

Burney had the opportunity of witnessing and commenting on the bold and

masterly character of his violin performance. Soon after his being here

(about 1745), he was shipwrecked, and lost his two famous Steiner

violins, reputed the best in the world, and all his effects. In his

usual light style of discourse, he used to call one of these instruments

St. Peter, and the other St. Paul.

As a composer, he had certainly a great share of whim and caprice; but

he built his freaks on a good foundation, being an excellent

contrapuntist; and indeed it is probable enough that these very freaks,

if tested by a contact with some of the fiddle _capriccios_ and

_pots-pourris_ of our own day, would fall very much in the measure of

extravagance, and leave us to wonder at what constituted a wonder in the

more sober musical times of Burney and Hawkins. The peculiarities in his

performance were his bow-hand, his shake, his learned arpeggios, and a

tone so loud and clear that it could be distinctly heard through the

most numerous band of a church or theatre[29].

PIETRO NARDINI, a noted Tuscan Violinist, was born at Leghorn, in 1725.

Instructed by Tartini, he soon became his most distinguished pupil;—nor

as such only was he regarded by that great master, who, besides loving

and admiring his rising genius, found in him a congeniality of character

and sentiment, that served to establish a firm mutual friendship. In

this instance, as in that of his other favourite pupil, Bini, we may

remark the exemption of Tartini’s mind from that sordid spot of

jealousy, that too often dims the lustre of professional talent.

Attached, in 1763, to the Chapel of the Duke of Wirtemberg, Nardini soon

evinced abilities that made him conspicuous. On the reduction or

suppression of that establishment, a few years afterwards, he returned

to Leghorn, where he composed almost all his works. In 1769, he went to

Padua, to revisit Tartini, whom he attended in his last illness, with

attachment truly filial. On his return to Leghorn, the generous offers

of the Grand Duke of Tuscany determined him to quit that city, and enter

the Duke’s service. Joseph the Second, when he visited Italy, was

greatly struck with the execution of this distinguished virtuoso, and

made a curious gold snuff-box the memorial of his admiration. In 1783,

the president, Dupaty, being in Italy, listened to him with a rapture

which occasioned his exclaiming, “His violin is a voice, or possesses

one. It has made the fibres of my ear to tremulate as they never did

before. To what a degree of tenuity Nardini divides the air! How

exquisitely he touches the strings of his instrument! With what art he

modulates and purifies their tones!”

Michael Kelly makes reference to this distinguished artist, in speaking

of a private concert at Florence. “There,” observes he, “I had the

gratification of hearing a sonata on the violin played by the great

Nardini. Though very far advanced in years, he played divinely. He spoke

with great affection of his favourite scholar, Thomas Linley, who, he

said, possessed powerful abilities.”—Kelly adds, that Nardini, when

appealed to on that occasion, as to the truth of the anecdote about

Tartini and the Devil’s Sonata, gave distinct confirmation of it, as a

thing he had frequently heard the relation of from Tartini himself.

Like some other masters of the old school, Nardini exhibited his powers

to most advantage in the performance of _adagios_; and a high tribute

to his capacity for expression is conveyed in what has been recorded of

the magic of his bow—that it elicited sounds, which, when the performer

was concealed from view, appeared rather those of the human voice than

of a violin. Of his Sonatas, now almost consigned to oblivion, the style

is ably sustained, the ideas are clear, the motive well treated, and the

expression natural, though of a serious cast, as was the character of

the composer.

Nardini died at Florence, in 1796, or, according to others, in 1793.

Among the compositions of this pupil of Tartini, are to be reckoned six

concertos for the violin; six solos for the same instrument (opera

seconda); six trios for the flute; six other solos for the violin; six

quartetts, six duetts; and, in manuscript, many concertos for the same

instrument.

LUIGI BOCCHERINI, a composer of distinguished talents, to whom, and to

Corelli, stands assigned the honour of being considered the fathers of

_chamber-music_ for stringed instruments, was a native of Lucca, and

born in the year 1740. His first lessons in music and on the violoncello

were imparted by the Abbate Vanucci. His disposition for music was early

and strong; and his father, himself an ingenious musician, after

attending with care to the cultivation of his son’s talent, sent him to

Rome, where he soon acquired a high reputation for the originality and

variety of his productions. Returning, a few years afterwards, to Lucca,

he gave there the first public performance of his Sonatas. It chanced

that another Lucchese, Manfredi, a pupil of Nardini’s, was also present

at the time of Boccherini’s return from Rome; and they executed

together, with great public success, the Sonatas of the latter for

violin and violoncello—his seventh work. The two professors, becoming

further associated in friendship, as well as in the musical art, quitted

Italy together for Spain, where they met with such encouragement as

determined Boccherini to establish himself in that country. Basking in

the sunshine of royal favour, the only condition required of Boccherini

for the continuance of its rays, was that he should work enough to

produce, annually, nine pieces of his composition, for the use of the

Royal Academy at Madrid; and he adhered faithfully to the engagement. He

appears to have passed through life smoothly, as well as with honour.

His death occurred at Madrid, in 1806, at the age of 66.

The compositions of this master, which have been of marked importance in

connection with the progress of stringed instruments, are characterized

by a noble sweetness, a genuine pathos, deep science and great nicety of

art. It belongs to him, as a distinction, to have first fixed (about

1768) the character of three several classes of instrumental

composition—the _trio_, the _quartett_, and the _quintett_. In the trio,

he was followed by Fiorillo, Cramer, Giardini, Pugnani, and Viotti; and

in the quartett, by Giardini, Cambini, Pugnani, and, in another style,

by Pleyel, Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven; while, in his quintetts for

_two_ violoncellos, he may be said to have no successor but Onslow. His

productions of this last species, of which he has left no fewer than

ninety-three—for he was little inferior to Haydn in fecundity of

genius—are particularly deserving of study; and it was the remark of Dr.

Burney, that he had supplied the performers on bowed instruments, and

the lovers of music in general, with more excellent compositions than

any other master belonging to that time, except Haydn. His manner, as

the same writer adds, “is at once bold, masterly and elegant; and there

are movements in his works of every style, and in the true genius of the

instruments for which he wrote, that place him high in rank among the

greatest masters who have ever written for the violin or violoncello.”

“As in the symphonies of Haydn,” says a writer in the _Harmonicon_, “so

in the quintetts of Boccherini, we observe the genuine stamp of genius,

differing in the manner, but alike in the essence. Boccherini had

studied, profoundly and thoroughly, the nature and capabilities of the

_violoncello_. He composed nearly the whole of his music for this

instrument, and was the first who wrote quintetts for two violoncellos.

Striving to impart to these productions the sweet, pathetic, and, if the

expression may be allowed, the religious character which distinguished

most of his works, he conceived the idea of giving the _leading_ part to

the _violoncello_, and of throwing the harmony into the violin, alto and

bass; the second violoncello, in the mean time, sometimes accompanying

the first, and occasionally playing the air in concert with it.”

The beautiful style of his quintetts, and the exquisite manner in which,

in some of them, he has thus combined the two violoncellos, constrained

an impassioned amateur to compare them to the music of the angels.

Boccherini’s first work was published at Paris, where it excited the

highest admiration: his _Stabat Mater_ is worthy of being placed by the

side of that of Pergolesi, of Durante, or of Haydn; and to his genius

for composition he added so much executive skill on the violin,

violoncello and pianoforte, that a musical enthusiast said (with a

rapture probably too honest to be regarded as altogether profane), “If

God chose to speak to man, he would employ the music of Haydn; but, if

he desired to hear an earthly musician, he would select Boccherini:”—and

Puppo, the celebrated violinist, has described him thus:—“The tender

Boccherini is the softer second self of Haydn.” It is said, indeed, that

Boccherini kept up a regular correspondence with Haydn,—these two great

musicians endeavouring to enlighten each other respecting their

compositions.

FELICI GIARDINI, by the novel powers and grace of his execution, appears

to have made, in England, almost as great a sensation as that created,

eighty years later, by Paganini, with whom, also, he may be placed in

competition, on the score of a capricious and difficult temper. He was

born at Turin, in 1716; his musical education was received, at Milan,

under Paladini, and subsequently, for the violin in particular, at

Turin, under Somis, one of the best scholars of Corelli. At the age of

17, animated by the hope of fame, he went to Rome, and afterwards to

Naples. At the latter city, he obtained, by the recommendation of

Jomelli, a post far too humble for his large ambition—that of one of the

_ripieni_, or make-weights, in the opera orchestra. Here his talents,

nevertheless, began to appear, and he was accustomed to flourish and

change passages, much more frequently than he ought to have done.

“However,” said he himself, in relating the circumstance to Dr. Burney,

“I acquired great reputation among the ignorant for my impertinence;

till, one night, during the opera, Jomelli, who had composed it, came

into the orchestra, and seated himself close by me, when I determined to

give the _Maestro di Capella_ a touch of my taste and execution. In the

symphony of the next song, which was in a pathetic style, I gave loose

to my fingers and fancy; for which I was rewarded by the composer with—a

violent slap in the face; which (added Giardini) was the best lesson I

ever received from a great master in my life.” Jomelli, after this, was

very kind, in a different and less indirect way, to this young and

wonderful musician.

After a short continuance at Naples, followed by visits professional to

the principal theatres in Italy, and by an enthusiastic reception at

Berlin, Giardini came to England, and arrived in London in the year

1750. Here his performance on the violin, in which, at that time, he was

considered to excel every other master in Europe, was heard, both in

public and in private, with the most rapturous applause. His first

public performance in London afforded a scene memorable among the

triumphs of art. It was at a benefit Concert for old Cuzzoni, who sang

in it with a thin, cracked voice, which almost frightened out of the

little Theatre in the Haymarket the sons of those who had, perhaps,

heard her, at the Great Theatre of the same street, with ecstacy

supreme. But when Giardini came forward, and made a display of his

powers in a solo and concerto, the applause was so long, loud and

furious, as nothing but that bestowed on Garrick had probably ever

equalled. His tone, bowing, execution, and graceful carriage of himself

and his instrument, formed a combination that filled with astonishment

the English public, unaccustomed to hear better performers than Festing,

Brown and Collett.

Such was the estimation accruing to Giardini from his talents, that, in

1754, he was placed at the head of the opera orchestra. Two years

afterwards, he joined the female singer Mingotti in attempting that

labyrinth of disaster, the management of the Italian Opera; but,

although they acquired much fame, their management was not attended with

success. During this time, Giardini composed several of the dramas that

were performed. In leading the Opera band, he had the merit of

introducing improved discipline, and a new style of playing, much finer

in itself, and more congenial with the poetry and music of Italy, than

the level and languid manner of his predecessor, Festing, who had

succeeded Castrucci (Hogarth’s “Enraged Musician”), and had since, with

inadequate powers, continued to maintain the post, with the exception of

one or two seasons, during which Veracini had been in the ascendant.

Fashion, in the folly of its excess, has not often been seen to cut so

extravagant a figure as on the occasion of the associated performances

in private by Giardini and Mingotti, during the “high and palmy state”

of their credit. The absolutism of Mrs. Fox Lane (afterwards Lady

Bingley) over the fashionable world, as the enthusiastic patroness of

these two artists, is a thing that satire might feast on. Rank, wealth,

manhood, and beauty, prostrate before the domination of this “pollens

matrona,” were content (lest, forsooth! they should have “argued

themselves unknown”) to pay tax and tribute to her two favourites, and

take a passport to the notice of “the town,” in the shape of a

benefit-ticket. At such scenes, it is not using too strong a figure to

say that Folly must have clapped her hands, displayed her broadest grin,

and given an extra jingle to the bells on her cap. To all who reflect,

it scarcely needs to be observed that the false raptures and artificial

stimulus, belonging to a system like this, are nearly as injurious as

they are absurd; that to pamper thus the artist, is not only to spoil

him, but to injure the interests of the art, by making it the object of

popular ridicule or disgust.

The contrast afforded by the close of Giardini’s career with the

brilliancy of its middle course, makes one think of Johnson’s bitter

association of “the patron and the jail.” Those were, truly, the days

when patronage was a thing of rank luxuriance, that sometimes overgrew

and choked the flowers of genius to which it fastened itself. The case

is now, happily, become somewhat different—the free and fostering breath

of general opinion being the air in which talent has learned to seek and

attain its full growth; and a more limited resort being had to the

forcing influence of the aristocratic temperature.[30]

The losses that Giardini had sustained on that ready road to ruin, the

Italian Opera, drove him back to the resources of his own particular

talent; and he entered upon the occupation of teaching in families of

rank and fashion, at the same time continuing unrivalled as a leader, a

solo-player, and a composer for his favourite instrument.

Mr. Gardiner, of Leicester, has made the following record concerning

him, in his “_Music and Friends_,” on the occasion of a concert at the

above town, in 1774:—“There I heard the full and prolonged tones of

Giardini’s violin. He played a concerto, in which he introduced the then

popular air “Come, haste to the wedding,” which moved the audience to a

state of ecstacy, but now would disgust every one by its vulgarity. He

was a fine-figured man, superbly dressed in green and gold; the breadth

of the lace upon his coat, with the three large gold buttons on the

sleeve, made a rich appearance, which still glitters on my imagination.”

Giardini resided in England until the year 1784, when he went to Naples,

under the protection and patronage of Sir William Hamilton. There he

continued five years, and then returned to this country; but his

reception was not what it had formerly been. Fashion is a goddess of so

gay a turn as cannot assort with infirmity; and an old favourite is but

too likely to find that favour easily gets a divorce from age. The

health of the Italian was greatly impaired, and sinking fast under a

confirmed dropsy. With a dimmer eye, a feebler hand, and doubtless an

aching heart, he found himself still doomed to the prosecution of his

calling, when all his former excellence was lost. Instead of _leading_

in all the most difficult parts, he now played in public only the tenor

in quartetts that he had recently composed. After attempting,

unsuccessfully, a burletta opera at the little Theatre in the Haymarket,

he was at length (in 1793) induced to go to St. Petersburgh, and

afterwards to Moscow, with his burletta performers. The most cruel

disappointment, however, attended him in each of these cities; in the

latter of which, he died, at the age of 80, in a state (as far as it

could be discovered) of poverty and wretchedness.

It is certain that the wayward and splenetic character evinced by this

brilliant artist, was his bane through the greater part of his life. To

enquire how much of that character was indigenous to the man, and how

much the evil fruit of the private-patronage system, were, perhaps, to

consider too curiously. That he was careless of his own interest, and

that he quarrelled with some of his most valuable friends, can excite

little surprise, when we note the furor of favoritism, the perversity of

petting, that were thrust upon him. We must not expect, in the _morale_

of the musician

“Made drunk with honor, and debauch’d with praise,”

that “sterner stuff,” which we look for in the philosopher.

As a composer for the instrument on which he shone, Giardini is not

entitled to rank very high. His Solos and Concertos, numerous, pleasing

and of neat effect, were not of so marked a character as to ensure any

great duration to their popularity; nor did they admit of any severe

analysis as to science in their structure. It is from his _playing_ that

his high reputation is derived; and he confirmed into triumph, by more

than thirty years of brilliant performance, the previously growing

favour of the instrument in England, where indeed he may be said to have

completely reformed the Violin system. A living testimony to the

excellence of his playing, with a few words as to its manner, has been

given, not long since, by Parke, the oboist, who heard him in 1776, and

states that he displayed a fund of grace and expression—that his tone

united sweetness with power—and (an odd addendum) that he made use of

strings so large as to give rise to the idea that his fingers must have

been blistered by the necessary pressure he gave them.

ANTONIO LOLLI, born at Bergamo, in 1728, attained eminence in his own

country, and afterwards (from 1762 to 1773) became Concert-Master to the

Duke of Wurtemburg. Subsequently he went to Russia, where he obtained,

from the Empress, Catherine II, a signal token of her admiration, in the

shape of a violin-bow, made for him by her order, and bearing on it an

inscription in her own potential autograph:—“_Archet fait par ordre de

Catherine II, pour l’incomparable Lolli_.” In 1785, he visited England,

whence he proceeded to Spain, and thence to Paris, where he performed at

the _Spirituel_ and other Concerts. In 1788, he returned to Italy, where

he glorified his own name with the title of Concert-Master to the

Empress of Russia; and in 1794, he was at Vienna, ascribing himself

under the same character to the King of Naples. He died, after a

lingering illness, at Naples, in 1802. His excellence in practice was

chiefly evinced in quick movements: he was rarely inclined to exhibit in

an adagio.[31] An anecdote in proof of his professional assiduity is

recorded by Gerber. When he entered on his engagement at Stuttgard, in

1762, he found a superior there, in the person of Nardini. This

circumstance roused all his energies, which speedily took a settled

purpose. He requested the Duke to allow him a year’s leave of absence,

to travel; instead of which, he retired, diligent, but disingenuous, to

a secluded village, and applied himself indefatigably to his instrument.

At the end of the accorded absence, he returned from his pretended

journey, “clarior è tenebris,” and shone forth with such effect, that

Nardini gave up the contest, and returned to Italy.

With regard to the compositions of Lolli, it is known that he never

wrote more than the theme, and obtained from other hands the bass, or

the parts for the several instruments: yet it is curious to note that he

gives difficult passages, of considerable compass, to be executed on the

_fourth string_ only. There are extant various sets of his Solos, a

Preceptive Treatise on the Violin, &c.

GAETANO PUGNANI, first violinist to the King of Sardinia, was born at

Turin, in the year 1728. At a very early age, he began to practise the

instrument on which he was destined to excel. His first tutor was Somis,

his countryman, already named as one of the most distinguished scholars

of Corelli. After displaying his extraordinary abilities at the

Sardinian Court, Pugnani went to Paris, and received the highest

applause at the _Concert Spirituel_, as an admitted rival of J. Stamitz,

Gavinies, and Pagin.

Pugnani afterwards visited many parts of Europe, and remained a

considerable time in England. It was here that he composed a great

portion of his violin music. In 1770, he returned to Italy; and, at

Turin, founded a school for violinists, as Corelli had at Rome, and

Tartini at Padua. From this practical academy issued the first

performers of the latter part of the eighteenth century; among whom were

Viotti, Bruni and Oliveri. Pugnani’s style of execution is recorded to

have been broad and noble, and characterized by that commanding sweep of

the bow which afterwards formed so grand a feature in the performance of

Viotti; the germs of whose high qualities are clearly traceable to his

master. It has been remarked, that all the pupils of Pugnani proved

excellent leaders. To lead well, was his most distinguishing excellence;

and he possessed the art of transmitting it to others. In the orchestra,

says Rangoni, he commanded like a general in the midst of his soldiers.

His bow was the baton of authority, which every performer obeyed with

the most scrupulous exactitude. With a single stroke of this bow, he

could correct the erroneous, or animate the lethargic. He even indicated

to the _actors_ the tone and sentiment in which they ought to deliver,

their respective melodies, and brought every thing to that harmony of

expression, without which the operatic scene fails of its most powerful

charm. His strong and acute mind possessed with the great object to

which every leader ought to attend, he promptly and powerfully seized

all the grand points, the character, the style and taste of the

composition, and impressed it upon the feelings of the performers, both

vocal and instrumental.

Pugnani, in addition to the display of brilliant and powerful abilities

as a performer, gave, in his compositions, evidence of a free and

elegant imagination. His several instrumental pieces, which consist of

solos, trios, quartetts, quintetts and overtures, were published

variously, in London, Amsterdam and Paris. On the Continent, they are

still in some request, but are become very scarce. They display an

eloquence of melody, and an animated and nervous manner. The ideas are

natural, both in themselves and in their succession; and, however

pointed and striking, never desert the style of the _motivo_. The operas

of this distinguished master, seven or eight in number, were all highly

successful; and there is scarcely a theatre in Italy, at which some of

them have not been performed.

Amongst the anecdotes that have been related of Pugnani, are the

following. In his early youth, but when already much advanced on the

violin, feeling far from satisfied with the degree of excellence he had

attained, he resolved to quit Paris for Padua, in order to see Tartini,

to consult him on his playing, and to improve himself under his

instruction. Desired by that great master to give him a specimen of his

performance, he requested of him, beforehand, to express frankly his

opinion of his style and manner. Before he had played many bars, Tartini

suddenly seized his arm, saying, “Too loud, my good friend; too loud!”

Pugnani began afresh; when, arriving at the same passage, his auditor

again stopped him short, exclaiming, “Too soft, my good friend; too

soft!” He immediately laid down his instrument, and solicited Tartini to

admit him among his scholars. His request was granted; and, excellent

violinist as he really already was, he began his practice _de novo_,

and, under the guidance of his new instructor, soon became one of the

first performers of his time. Not long after this, at the house of

Madame Denis, Pugnani heard Voltaire recite a poetical composition, in a

style that enchanted him; and he, in his turn, at the lady’s request,

began to perform on his violin; when, vexed at the interruption and

ill-breeding of Voltaire’s loud conversation,[32] he suddenly stopped,

and put his violin into the case, saying, “M. Voltaire fait très-bien

les vers, mais, quant à la musique, il n’y entend pas le diable.” Once,

in performing a concerto before a numerous company, he became so

excited, on arriving at an _ad libitum_ passage, and so lost in

attention to his playing, that, thinking himself alone, he walked about

the room, “turbine raptus ingenii,” till he had finished his very

beautiful cadence.

Pugnani died at the city of his birth, in 1798. The violinist, Cartier,

has written his eulogium in few words, but of strong import:—“He was the

master of Viotti.”

GIOVANNI MANE GIORNOVICHI (or Giarnovick, or Jarnowick, as he has been

variously called) was born at Palermo, in 1745, and had Antonio Lolli

for his preceptor. Resorting to Paris for his first public display, he

appeared at the _Concert Spirituel_, with indifferent success, but, by

perseverance, soon turned the scale of opinion in his favour so

effectually, that, during a space of ten years, the style of Giornovichi

was in fashion in the French capital. His sway there was terminated by

the superior power of Viotti, and he quitted France about the year 1780,

proceeding to Prussia, where, in 1782, he was engaged as first violin in

the Royal Chapel of Potsdam. He was, subsequently, for some time in

Russia.[33] Between the years 1792 and 1796, he was in high vogue in

various parts of England, but lost his popularity through a dispute with

an eminent professor, in which the sense of the public went against him.

A residence of some years in Hamburgh, a shorter stay at Berlin, and

then a change to St. Petersburgh, brought him to the end of his career.

He died of apoplexy, in 1804.

The eccentricity which marked the character of this artist, is shown in

various anecdotes that have been current respecting him. On one

occasion, at Lyons, he announced a concert, at six francs a ticket, but

failed to collect an audience. Finding the Lyonnese so retentive of

their money, he postponed his performance to the following evening, with

the temptation of tickets at half the price. A crowded company was the

result; but their expectations were suddenly let down by the discovery

that “the advertiser” had quitted the town _sans cérémonie_. At another

time, being in the music-shop of Bailleux, he accidentally broke a pane

of glass.

“Those who break windows must pay for them,” said Bailleux. “Right,”

replied the other; “how much is it?” “Thirty sous.” “Well, there’s a

three-franc piece.” “But I have no small change.” “Never mind that,”

Giornovichi replied; “we are now quits!” and immediately dashed his cane

through a second square—thus taking _double panes_ to make himself

disagreeable.

The authoress of the “Memoirs of the Empress Josephine” has furnished an

anecdote connected with his sojourn in London. He gave a concert, which

was very fully attended. On the commencement of a concerto which he had

to perform, the company continued conversing together, while their

whispering was intermingled with the clattering of tea-cups and

saucers—for it was then customary to serve the company with tea

throughout the evening, during the performance as well as in the

intervening pauses. Giornovichi turned to the orchestra, and desired the

performers to stop. “These people,” said he, “know nothing about music.

I will give them something better suited to their taste. Any thing is

good enough for _drinkers of warm water_.” So saying, he immediately

struck up the air, “J’ai du bon tabac.” The best of the matter was, he

was overwhelmed with applause; the second piece was listened to with

great attention, and the circulation of the tea-cups was actually

suspended until its conclusion.

“Giornovick,” says Michael Kelly, again, in his “Reminiscences,” “was a

desperate duellist, quarrelled with Shaw, the leader of the Drury Lane

orchestra, at an oratorio, and challenged him. I strove all in my power

to make peace between them. Giornovick could not speak a word of

English[34], and Shaw could not speak a word of French. They both

agreed that I should be the mediator between them. I translated what

they said to each other, most faithfully; but, unfortunately, Shaw, in

reply to one of Giornovick’s accusations, said, “Pooh! pooh!”—“Sacre!”

said Giornovick, “what is the meaning of dat ‘pooh! pooh?’ I will not

hear a word until you translate me ‘pooh! pooh!’” My good wishes to

produce harmony between them, for some time, were frustrated, because I

really did not know how to translate ‘pooh! pooh!’ into French or

Italian. I, however, at last succeeded in making them friends; but the

whole scene was truly ludicrous.”[35]

The mettlesome _vivacity_ of this strange being was further shown in his

intercourse with the Chevalier St. George, who was expert at the sword,

as well as the _bow_. Giornovichi often disagreed with this formidable

master of fence, and, one day, in the heat of a dispute, dealt him a box

on the ear. Instead of resenting it, however, by means of his “so potent

art,” St. George turned round, with laudable self-restraint, to a person

who was present, and said, “_J’aime trop son talent pour me battre avec

lui!_” (“I am too fond of his talent, to fight him.”)

“Jarnowick,” says a recent critic, “was a sort of erratic star or

meteor, which cannot be brought into the system of the regular planets

of the violin. Slightly educated, and shallow as a musician, his native

talent, and the facility with which he was able to conquer mechanical

difficulties, rendered him so brilliant and powerful a player, that, for

a time, he was quite the rage, both in France and England. We have been

told, by a gentleman who knew him well,” adds this writer, “that he has

seen him, with his violin in his hand, walking about his room, and

groping about on the strings for basses to the melodies he was

composing. His concertos are agreeable and brilliant, but destitute of

profundity and grandeur, and are, therefore, totally thrown aside. His

performance was graceful and elegant, and his tone was pure. He was

remarkably happy in his manner of treating simple and popular airs as

_rondos_, returning ever and anon to his theme, after a variety of

brilliant excursions, in a way that used to fascinate his hearers. But,

both as a composer and a performer, the effect he produced was

ephemeral, and has left no trace behind it. He contributed nothing

either to the progress of music, or to that of the instrument which he

cultivated.”

In giving the reverse side of the picture, there appears to be here a

little exaggeration of its defects. That so eminent a performer should

have contributed _nothing_ to the progress of his instrument, is

scarcely to be held probable. The crowds he drew, and the admiration he

excited, must surely have been the means of diffusing some increased

regard for the instrument of whose single powers he made such brilliant

exhibition. To the steady advancement of the art, through the formation

of pupils, he might contribute nothing; but he must have added

something to its success, by stimulating the public disposition to

encourage it. To create admirers, is of less importance than to make

proficients; and yet it is an achievement of _some_ value, inasmuch as

it promotes the _demand_ for proficients. Even when the public, for

personal reasons, withdrew their patronage from Giornovichi, they only

transferred, in favor of others, the admiration for violin solo-playing,

which he had been one of the agents to instil into them: and thus it is

that no performer of great abilities, unless, by introducing a vicious

style, he corrupts taste (which has not been charged upon Giornovichi),

can be justly said to be destitute of advantageous influence upon his

art.

GIOVANNI BATTISTA VIOTTI, the first violinist of his age, and the

enlightened originator of the modern order of violin-playing, was born

in 1755, at Fontaneto, a small village in Piedmont. Possessing the

happiest dispositions for his art, the progress he made under Pugnani

was so rapid, that, at the age of twenty, he was chosen to fill the

situation of first violinist to the Royal Chapel of Turin. After about

three years’ residence there, he proceeded on his travels, having

already attained maturity of excellence. From Berlin, he directed his

course towards Paris, where he displayed his talents in the _Concert

Spirituel_, and speedily obliged Giornovichi, who was then figuring as a

star of the first pretensions, to “pale his ineffectual fire.” The

concertos of Giornovichi, agreeable and brilliant as they were, and

supported by his graceful and elegant playing, lost their attraction

when brought into rivalry with the beauty and grandeur of Viotti’s

compositions, aided by the noble and powerful manner in which he

executed them.

Viotti’s fame very soon drew on him the notice of the French Court; and

he was sent for to Versailles by Marie Antoinette. A new concerto of

his own composition, to be performed at a courtly festival, was to

afford a treat worthy of Royalty; and every one of the privileged was

impatient to hear him. At the appointed hour, a thousand lights

illumined the magnificent musical saloon of the Queen; the most

distinguished symphonists of the chapel-royal, and of the theatres

(ordered for the service of their Majesties) were seated at the desks

where the parts of the music were distributed. The Queen, the Princes,

the ladies of the royal family, and all the persons belonging to their

Court, having arrived, the concert commenced. The performers, in the

midst of whom Viotti was distinguished, received from him their impulse,

and appeared to be animated by the same spirit. The symphony proceeded

with all the fire and all the expression of him who conceived and

directed it. At the expiration of the _tutti_, the enthusiasm was at its

height; but etiquette forbade applause; the orchestra was silent. In the

saloon, it seemed as if every one present was forewarned by this very

silence to breathe more softly, in order to hear more perfectly the

_solo_ which he was about to commence. The strings, trembling under the

lofty and brilliant bow of Viotti, had already sent forth some prelusive

sounds, when suddenly a great noise was heard from the next apartment.

_Place à Monseigneur le Comte d’Artois!_ His Highness entered, preceded

by servants carrying flambeaux, and accompanied by a numerous train of

bustling attendants. The folding-doors were thrown open, and the concert

was interrupted. A moment after, the symphony began again; “Silence!

Viotti is going to play.” In the meantime, the _Comte d’Artois_ cannot

remain quietly seated: he rises, and walks about the room, addressing

his discourse loudly to several ladies. Viotti looks round with

indignant surprise at the interruption, puts his violin under his arm,

takes the music from the stand, and walks off, leaving the concert, her

Majesty and his Royal Highness, to the reproaches of all the

audience—and leaving his biographers, afterwards, in some doubt whether

a just independence of spirit, or a petulance beyond the occasion,

should be regarded as the motive to this premature _finale_. Of those

who read the anecdote, some may associate it with the story of “the

_bear_ and fiddle,” while others, siding with Viotti, may consider the

interruption that provoked him as something parallel to Beranger’s

ironical summons of

Bas, bas!

Chapeau bas!

Place au Marquis de Carabas!

It has never been satisfactorily discovered what were the reasons which

induced Viotti, at an early period of his life, to relinquish all idea

of ever performing in public. Some have referred to the incident above

narrated, as the cause of this; but they who pretended to be well

acquainted with his character, have asserted that he disdained the

applause of the multitude, because it was afforded, almost

indiscriminately, to superiority of talent, _and_ to presumptuous

mediocrity. It is well known that he rejected the solicitations of

people who were termed of the great world, because he would have no

other judges than such as were worthy of appreciating him; and that,

notwithstanding the pretensions asserted by the great and fashionable

persons of his day, on the score of knowing every thing, and of being

the supreme arbiters of arts, of artists, and of taste, he observed that

it was very rare to find among them men capable of a profound sentiment,

or who could discover in others any thing beyond their exterior, and

judge of things otherwise than by the same superficial admeasurement.

He, however, yielded again to the eagerness which was evinced for

hearing him,—but on two occasions only; of which the one did honour to

his heart; and the other, as it serves to acquaint us more intimately

with his character, may be here related.

On the fifth story, in a little street in Paris, not far from the _Place

de la Révolution_, in the year 1790, lodged a deputy of the Constituent

Assembly, an intimate and trusty friend of Viotti’s. The conformity of

their opinions, the same love of the arts and of liberty, an equal

admiration of the genius and works of Rousseau, had formed this

connection between two men who thenceforward became inseparable. It

was during the exciting times of enthusiasm and of hope, that the ardent

heart of Viotti could not remain indifferent to sentiments which

affected all great and generous minds. He shared them with his friend.

This person solicited him strongly to comply with the desire which some

of the first personages in the kingdom expressed to hear him—if only for

once. Viotti at last consented, but upon one condition—namely, that the

concert should be given in the modest and humble retreat of _the fifth

floor! La fortune passe par tout_—‘We have,’said he, ‘long enough

descended to _them_: but the times are changed; they must now mount, in

order to raise themselves to _us_.’ This project was no sooner thought

of, than prepared for execution. Viotti and his friend invited the most

celebrated artists of the day to grace this novel festival:—Garat, whom

nature had endowed with a splendid voice, and a talent of expression

still more admirable—Herman, Steibelt, Rode (the pupil of Viotti). To

Puppo was confided the direction of the orchestra; and to Bréval, the

office of seconding Viotti. Among the great female _artistes_ of the

day, were Madame Davrigny, with Mandini, Viganoni, and Morichelli, a

lady as celebrated for her talents as for her charms. On the appointed

day, all the friends arrived. The bust of Rousseau, encircled with

garlands of flowers, was uncovered, and formed the only ornament of this

novel music-saloon. It was there that Princes, notwithstanding the pride

of rank; great ladies, despite the vanity of titles; pretty women, and

superannuated fops, clambered for the first time up to the _fifth

story_, to hear the almost celestial music of Boccherini, performed by

Viotti; and, that nothing might be wanting to complete the triumph of

the artist, there was not one of these persons who, after the concert,

descended without regret, although it was the lot of some of them to

return to sumptuous palaces, and into the midst of etiquette, luxury and

splendour.

Among those friends who enjoyed the envied privilege of hearing this

great artist in private, was Madame Montgerault, who had a country-house

in the valley of Montmorency. Some of his most brilliant ideas had their

access in the society of this amiable and gifted woman, in whom he found

an enthusiasm for the art equal to his own. She would frequently seat

herself at the piano, and begin a Concerto _all’improvviso_; while

Viotti, catching in an instant the spirit of the _motivo_, would

accompany her extemporaneous effusions, and display all the magic of his

skill.

The spirit and honesty of Viotti’s character are not ill shewn in the

following anecdote. Giuseppe Puppo, who possessed no mean command over

the violin, and whose talents were acknowledged by Viotti with the

readiest candour, cherished the more than foolish vanity of boasting

himself a scholar of the great Tartini, which was known to be an

untruth, or, as a French term leniently expresses such deviations, “une

inexactitude.” On some public occasion, when M. Lahoussaye chanced to be

present (who was really a disciple, and an enthusiastic one, of

Tartini’s), Viotti begged him, as a favor, to give him a specimen of

Tartini’s manner of playing. “And now,” said he, in a tone loud enough

to be heard by all the company—“now, Signor Puppo, listen to my friend,

Monsieur Lahoussaye, and you will be enabled to form an idea as to how

Tartini played!”

Viotti’s stay in Paris was abruptly terminated by the bursting of the

revolutionary storm in 1790, which drove him to England. His début in

London, at the memorable concerts under the management of Salomon, was

as brightly marked as it had been in Paris. The connoisseurs were

delighted by his originality and felicitous boldness, tempered as these

qualities were by a pure and exalted taste. In the years 1794 and 1795,

he had some share in the management of the King’s Theatre, and

subsequently became leader of the band in that Temple of (occasional)

Concord. But, as an ancient author has said, success is a thing of

glass, and, just when it begins to wear its brightest looks, it

provokingly meets with a fracture. The quiet and blameless habits of

life of the great musician had not sufficed to exempt him from the

officious visitations of political suspicion, prompted, it has been

supposed, by some whispering tale of slander, from professional envy.

The result was, that poor Viotti suddenly received an order from the

Government to leave England immediately. By what subtle ingenuity of

apprehension, the proceedings of a violin-player came to be associated,

at the Home-Office, with the Revolutions of Empires, is as yet a mystery

more dark than Delphos. Possibly some future D’Israeli, enquiring for

“farther particulars within,” may find the means of enlightening the

world on this transaction, which certainly does seem, at present, to

afford scantier material for the historian than for the epigrammatist.

Thus expelled from the country which had evinced towards others so many

generous proofs of hospitality, Viotti passed over to Holland, and

subsequently fixed himself in the seclusion of a beautiful spot near

Hamburgh, named Schönfeld. Here he gave up his mind to the cares of

composition, as most likely to displace or diminish those more painful

ones which harassed his sensitive mind, on account of the treatment he

had been subjected to. Some of his best works were the product of this

retreat; including his celebrated _Six Duetts Concertante_, for two

violins; in the preface to which, he touches on the circumstance that

was still affecting him:—“Cet ouvrage est le fruit du loisir que le

malheur me procure. Quelques morçeaux ont été dictés par la peine,

d’autres par l’espoir;”—and indeed it has been justly remarked that it

would be difficult to find any musical work that should seem to have

proceeded more directly from a feeling heart, than these exquisite

Duetts.

In Hamburgh, he met with his former competitor, Giornovichi, who, like

himself, had been compelled to fly from Paris, the scene of his pristine

glories. The latter gave two concerts in this place, attended with the

meed of money, as well as that of praise; but the graver-minded Viotti

could not be persuaded to appear in public, and imitate his example.

In 1801, Viotti found himself at liberty to return to London. Having

determined to relinquish the musical profession, he devoted his

resources, like Carbonelli of foregone fame, to the ministry of

Bacchus, and associated himself with a respectable member of the

wine-trade. Disappointment was the issue, however, of this undertaking;

and, after years of endeavour, he discovered that his whole fortune was

gone. Thus reduced, he prevailed with his own struggling spirit to

solicit some appointment from the French Court, and received, from Louis

XVIII, the nomination to the management of the Grand Opera. Impelled

anew by what Byron calls

“The various joltings of life’s hackney coach,”

he proceeded to Paris, and entered upon the office; but neither his age,

nor his quiet character, was congenial with the temper of such a scene;

and he retired, unsuccessful, but with the grant of a pension. He then

came over to end his days in England, loving rather to be an _habitué_

of London, than a citizen of the world; for he had become closely

familiarized with the ways and habits of our metropolis, and seemed to

have cherished an almost Johnsonian attachment to it. His previous cares

and misfortunes, however, had left him little power to continue the race

of life, already a protracted one; and, after visibly declining for some

time, he died on the 3rd of March, 1824.

Viotti’s long retirement from the profession of that art on which his

fame was built, had not impaired his love of it, nor his inclination to

support it. On the institution of the Philharmonic Society, that “decus

et tutamen” of instrumental music in this country, he was one of the

original members, and, as an honorary performer, not only led the band

in turn with Salomon, F. Cramer, Yaniewicz, Spagnoletti and Vaccari,

but, like them, interchanged direction and submission, by taking his

seat, on the other nights, among the _ripieni_; thus assisting to form

an orchestral phalanx that certainly never was witnessed before, and is

little likely to be surpassed.

Viotti was a person of feelings and sentiments far less artificial than

are commonly produced in men whose intercourse with society is fostered

by their powers of contributing to its amusement. Mixing, of necessity,

a great deal with the world, he seems, nevertheless, in a remarkable

degree, to have preserved himself from its corrupting influence; and

though, as just remarked, he loved London much, there is very

interesting evidence to shew that he loved nature more. The purity and

rectitude of his taste—its association with the poetic and the

true—stand thus recorded by one who had good opportunities of

appreciating him:—“Never did a man attach so much value (says M. Eymar)

to the simplest gifts of nature; and never did a child enjoy them more

passionately. A simple violet, discovered in its lowly bed among the

grass, would transport him with the liveliest joy; a pear, a plum,

gathered fresh by his own hands, would, for the moment, make him the

happiest of mortals. The perfume of the one had always something new to

him, and the taste of the other something more delicious than before.

His organs, all delicacy and sensibility, seemed to have preserved,

undiminished, their youthful purity. In the country, everything was, to

this extraordinary man, an object of fresh interest and enjoyment. The

slightest impression seemed communicated to all his senses at once.

Every thing affected his imagination; every thing spoke to his heart,

and he yielded himself at once to its emotions.”

The natural bias of his character receives further illustration in the

sketch which he himself has given, descriptive of his picking up one of

the varieties of the popular _Ranz des Vaches_, among the mountains of

Switzerland.

“The _Ranz des Vaches_ which I send you,” says he to a friend, “is

neither that with which our friend Jean Jacques has presented us, nor

that of which M. de la Borde speaks, in his work upon Music. I cannot

say whether it is known or not; all I know is, that I heard it in

Switzerland, and, once heard, I have never forgotten it since.

“I was sauntering alone, towards the decline of day, in one of those

sequestered spots where we never feel a desire to open our lips. The

weather was mild and serene; the wind (which I detest) was hushed; all

was calm—all was unison with my feelings, and tended to lull me into

that melancholy mood which, ever since I can remember, I have been

accustomed to feel at the hour of twilight.

“My thoughts wandered at random, and my footsteps were equally

undirected. My imagination was not occupied with any particular object,

and my heart lay open to every impression of pensive delight. I walked

forward; I descended the valleys, and traversed the heights. At length,

chance conducted me to a certain valley, which, on rousing myself from

my waking dream, I discovered to abound with beauties. It reminded me of

one of those delicious retreats so beautifully described by Gesner:

flowers, verdure, streamlets, all united to form a picture of perfect

harmony. There, without being fatigued, I seated myself mechanically on

a fragment of rock, and again fell into that kind of profound reverie,

which so totally absorbed all my faculties, that I seemed to forget

whether I was upon earth.

“While sitting thus, wrapped in this slumber of the soul, sounds broke

upon my ear, which were sometimes of a hurried, sometimes of a prolonged

and sustained character, and were repeated, in softened tones, by the

echoes around. I found they proceeded from a mountain-horn; and their

effect was heightened by a plaintive female voice. Struck, as if by

enchantment, I started from my lethargy, listened with breathless

attention, and learned, or rather engraved upon my memory, the _Ranz des

Vaches_ which I send you. In order to understand all its beauties, you

ought to be transplanted to the scene in which I heard it, and to feel

all the enthusiasm that such a moment inspired.”

This susceptibility of pure and simple emotions, which it is delightful

to recognize as one of the attributes of real genius, was in Viotti

associated with a clear and cultivated intellect. He passed much of his

life in the society of the accomplished, the literary, and the

scientific; and his active mind gathered strength and refinement from

the intercourse. If the Horatian dictum be right, that

“Principibus placuisse viris haud ultima laus est,”

it may be added to the sum of Viotti’s personal merits, that he gained

the respect and esteem of the great, with whom he mixed on proper terms,

not forgetful of their rank as persons of birth and fortune, nor of his

own, as a man of rare talent. The strictest integrity and honour

regulated his transactions; and his feelings were kind and benevolent.

Thus it may be seen that his character, as a man, was calculated to give

increased dignity and influence to his name as a musician.

In the latter capacity, it has, with great truth, been remarked of him,

that though the _virtuosi_ of the present day contrive to execute manual

difficulties exceeding those which were attempted in his time, he has

never been surpassed in all the _highest_ qualities that belong to

performance on his instrument. His compositions for it remain, to this

day, unrivalled in spirit and grandeur of design, graceful melody, and

variety of expression; and they still furnish, when performed by the

surviving disciples of his school, one of the most delightful treats

which a lover of the great and beautiful in music can receive. The

_Concerto_, in particular, which attained some of its improvements in

the hands of the elegant Jarnowick, and the sweetly-expressive Mestrino,

derived a marked advancement from Viotti, who gave to this style the

character which seems so peculiarly its own, and brought it to a degree

of elevation which it seems incapable of surmounting. The specimens of

his composition in this line, that principally claim the attention of

the amateurs of instrumental music, are those in G, in A minor, in D,

and in E minor. The theme of the Concerto in D is in the highest degree

brilliant, though it must not be forgotten that it is taken from a trio

of Pugnani’s in E flat.

It has been well suggested, as a hint to the solo-players at our London

Concerts, that Viotti’s Concertos offer material far more desirable for

their use than those eternal “Airs with Variations,” which convey to the

feelings of the auditor so little sense of variety, and in general tend

to exhibit nothing beyond the dexterity of what the Italians call a

_spacca-nota_, or note-splitter.

The most popular of his _Trios_ are Op. 16, 17, and 18. The whole of his

_Duos_ are admirable, as respects both invention and energy: they may be

called Concertos in miniature[36].

Among the disciples of the school of this great master, may be

enumerated Rode (on the whole regarded as the best), Alday, Labarre,

Vacher, Cartier, Pixis, Madame Paravicini, Mademoiselle Gerbini, and our

countryman, Mori.

FRANCESCO VACCARI, born at Modena, about the year 1772, commenced his

practice of the instrument at the infantine age of five years, under the

tutelage of his father, who, delighted with his quickness of

apprehension, would frequently encourage him to play at sight, not by

the gauds and “immoment toys” that are the common habits of childhood,

but by gifts of new music. After four years of domestic study, he was

introduced by his father to Pugnani, who, with a natural mistrust of

precocious powers, did not like, at first, to be troubled with

“child’s-play,” although, on hearing him, he could not refrain from

applauding his execution. The boy went afterwards to Florence, and had

instructions from Nardini. The habit so early instilled into him by his

father, of playing at first sight, procured him a triumph at Mantua,

when he was yet but thirteen; for he was enabled to execute, without

hesitation, a new Concerto which Pichl, its composer, placed before him.

In 1804, after he had visited most of the great towns in Italy, he

obtained from the King of Spain the appointment of First Violin of his

chamber-band. The disturbed state of that country drove him into

Portugal; and he was, at two several periods, performing in England.

Vaccari was distinguished by purity of tone and of taste, a tender

expression, execution without trick, and a nice exactitude of

intonation.

MASONI, a Florentine, born 1799, attained very brilliant powers of

execution, which he displayed chiefly in foreign countries—quitting

Italy in 1817, for South America, from whence, after various migratory

musical labours, he passed over to India, and stirred to liveliest

emotion the languid people of Calcutta. In the spring of 1834, he

visited England, where his _tours de force_, and surprising dexterities

of bowing, would have won for him a more copious admiration than they

did, if, instead of coming so closely in the rear of the Genoese

“Miracle of Man,” who had well nigh exhausted our stock of musical

sympathies, he had been his antecedent. I would here ask the gentle

reader’s indulgence towards the following bit of measured hyperbole,

perpetrated at the above time, and admitted into a weekly publication of

Mr. Leigh Hunt’s:—

If your soul be not too _drony_,

Haste, to hear renowned Masoni!

Scarce Napoleon (nick-named Boney)

Was more wondrous than Masoni!

‘Pollo’s pet, Euterpe’s crony,

Is the exquisite Masoni.

All the sweets that live in honey

Are concentred in Masoni!

Fiddlers _should_ be rich and _toney_—

This—and _more_, is great Masoni.

Swifter, far, than hare or poney,

Run the triplets of Masoni—

And Astonishment bends _low_ knee

To the flights of high Masoni!

Utterly _himself_ unknown he

Should be, who _not_ knows Masoni.

Dead must be the heart, and _stony_,

That is moved not by Masoni!

Money, without ceremony,

_Shower’d_ should be on Masoni!

E’en from Greece Colocotroni

Well might come, to hear Masoni!

So, again I tell ye, _on’y_

Go, and listen to Masoni!

The length to which these notices of the artists of Italy has already

extended, is one of the reasons precluding detail with respect to some

others of the later names belonging to that country. Paganini, however,

is neither to be thus dismissed, nor to be here briefly treated of at

the end of a chapter. To him, as standing alone in the history and

practice of his art, and as forming an object of very widely-diffused

curiosity, I propose devoting a separate notice in the ensuing chapter.

I cannot, in the mean time, omit wholly to advert to the name of

Spagnoletti, whose taste and refinement, in the conspicuous situation

which he filled for so many years in London, rendered him a highly

valued model for the attention of our own cultivators of the instrument.

Who is there amongst those who were frequenters of the King’s Theatre,

during his time of office, that will not recollect, with feelings of

interest, the delicate grace of Spagnoletti’s playing—his obviously

intense, yet not obtrusive, enthusiasm—and his oft-repeated sidelong

depressions of the head, as if to drink in more fully, at the left ear,

the delicious tones which he enticed from his own instrument? His

peculiar sensitiveness under the impression of a false note, and his

liberality of spirit, and readiness to speak commendingly of his

brethren of the bow, are among the further traits which denoted him to

those who had the opportunity of closer observation. Spagnoletti’s

original name is said to have been Paolo Diana. I have heard an anecdote

which, if it may be depended on, exemplifies his quickness of temper. It

was to the effect that Spagnoletti, having chanced to quarrel one

morning with Ambrogetti, challenged him on the spot; and that the singer

put aside the abrupt invitation, by the phlegmatic remark that he had

_not breakfasted_!

CHAPTER III.

PAGANINI.

“Natura il fece, e poi ruppe la stampa.”—_Ariosto._

“The glory, jest, and riddle of the world.”—_Pope._

Who has not heard of Paganini—and who, that boasts of an ear, has not

heard Paganini himself? Fame, catching up the echoes of his glory, has

caused them to reverberate through her trump, and to _far furore_ even

to the uttermost parts of the civilized world; and the hero himself,

following in her rear, has gone forth to fulfil her proclamations, to

reap his laurels, to achieve the general conquest of ears, and to

receive in gold the tribute of admiring nations! Tongues and pens have

vied with each other in celebrating his name; and _‘Ercles’ vein_ has

been drawn upon in his behalf, till its exhausted stream could no

further go.

NICOLO PAGANINI came into this breathing world at Genoa. The date of his

birth, like most of the circumstances of his life, has been variously

represented; but the most probable account fixes it on the 18th of

February, 1784. His parents were of humble rank, but not so low as has

been pretended in some of the “supposures hypothetical” that have been

mixed up with the history of their marvel-moving son. To suit the humor

of these fancies, the _conjectured_ father has been depressed to the

condition of a street-porter, bearing (along with his burdens) some name

too obscure to be recorded; while the person known as Paganini _père_

has been asserted to possess no other rights of paternity than what are

conferred by adoption. This story, were it a true one, would reflect no

discredit on an artist who has owed to his own genius the wide celebrity

attaching to his name. “Miserum est aliorum incumbere famæ,” says the

Roman poet; and the feeling of modern times is daily more and more

confirming the sentiment. By another version, the father of Paganini has

been styled a small trader, with a large tendency to seek his fortune

through the calculation of lottery-chances. His actual station, as

appears most likely, was originally that of a mercantile clerk; and it

is concurrently allowed that this father, putative or positive, had

music enough in his soul, or in his head, to perceive the indications of

the faculty in his infant son, and to resolve on its full development;

although the means he took for this purpose were as little creditable to

his paternal pretensions, as they were injudicious with reference to

their object. Ere yet the boy, however, had received into his tiny hands

the instrument that was destined to make him “a miracle of man,” the

world, it appears, was very near being deprived of him altogether! It is

stated that, at the age of four years, he was attacked by the measles,

attended, in his case, with unusually aggravated symptoms. So

extraordinary an influence did the disease exercise on his nervous

system, that he remained during an entire day in the state of catalepsy,

or apparent death, and had actually been enveloped in a shroud, when a

slight movement fortunately revealed the fact of his existence, and

saved him from the horrors of a premature interment.

The musical discipline adopted by his father appears to have begun in

pretty close sequence to this shock; and the days of hard work for poor

little Paganini were made to commence, by a shameful perversion, before

he could plainly speak. As soon as he could hold a violin, his father

put one into his hands, and made him sit beside him from morning till

night, to practise it. The willing enthusiasm of the child, as well as

the tenderness of his age, might have disarmed the severity of any

ordinary preceptor; but the rigor of a stern father, when sharpened by

ambition and avarice, _can_ forget the measure of an infant’s powers.

The slightest fault, the most pardonable inadvertence, was harshly

visited upon the Liliputian performer; and even the privation of food

was sometimes resorted to, as part of the barbarous system to enforce

precocity. A lasting influence of baneful kind was thus wrought upon a

constitution naturally delicate and sensitive: the sickly child,

incapable of attaining a healthful maturity, was merged into the

suffering man.

His mother, with equal but more tender zeal for the development of the

talent of young Paganini, succeeded in inspiring him with no slight

portion of her own enthusiasm, by persuading him that an angel had

appeared to her in a vision, and had assured her that he should outstrip

all competition as a performer on the violin. Whether this vision was

the result of a pardonable stratagem, or whether it was really the dream

of a southern imagination, it is certain that it had the greatest effect

on the mind of the infant artist, whose instinctive and irresistible

inclination for the art made him an easy recipient of this maternal tale

of encouragement. He began also to relish the domestic plaudits which

were occasionally awarded to him for the boldness wherewith he produced

new, if not legitimate, effects, indicative of future mastery over the

powers of the instrument; for the instinct of his mind towards _the

extraordinary_ was, even thus early, a thing clearly discernible. He

speedily outstripped his father’s slender reach of musical knowledge, as

well as that of a minor violinist named Cervetto, who, for a short time,

attempted to teach him. Giacomo Costa, director of the orchestra, and

first violin in the principal churches, at Genoa, was next charged with

his musical direction, and led him more rapidly onwards. At this period

(when he was about eight years old), he was to be seen performing some

three times a week in the churches, and at private musical parties, upon

a fiddle that looked nearly as large as himself. At this time, too, he

composed his first Violin Sonata, which, with others of his early

musical pennings, is, unfortunately, not extant. A year later, he made

what was considered his public _début_, in the great theatre of Genoa,

at the request of the noted singers, Marchesi and Albertinotti, who

begged of his father to allow the youthful artist to play for their

benefit, undertaking, in return, to sing for Paganini at the first

concert he should offer to the public. On both occasions, he played a

series of variations, believed to be his own, on the French republican

air, “La Carmagnole,” which were received with a force of approbation

that seemed to carry with it the conviction of his future fame. Already,

indeed, had his native genius urged him into a new path, both as to

_fingering_ and the management of the _bow_.

Stimulated by the opening prospects of solid advantage, his father next

carried him to Parma, then the residence of Alessandro Rolla, in order

to place him under the care of that celebrated composer. It so happened

on their arrival, that Rolla was confined to his room by indisposition;

and the strangers, having been shown into a neighbouring apartment,

found there, on a table, the score of a work which the composer had just

finished. At the suggestion of his father, Paganini took up the violin

which lay by the manuscript, and performed the new concerto at sight,

with so much point and precision as to raise the sick composer from his

bed, that he might ascertain to what master’s hand he owed this

agreeable surprise! The father, having explained the object of their

visit, was assured by Rolla that he was incapable of adding any thing to

his son’s acquirements: he advised them to go to Paër, who was then the

director of the Conservatory at Parma. Paër, in his turn, directed his

visitors to his old master, Giretti, who received young Paganini as one

of his pupils, and for six months gave him regular lessons in

counterpoint. The good use which he made of this short apprenticeship is

proved by the four-and-twenty fugues which he composed in the course of

it. His rapid progress inspired Paër with so lively an interest in his

success, that he also devoted several hours a day to his instruction,

and, at the end of four months, entrusted him with the composition of a

_duo_, which was eminently successful. But these advantages were

interrupted by the removal of Paër to Venice, where he had undertaken

the composition of an opera.

Thus additionally qualified for the gratification of the “auri sacra

fames” in the paternal breast, Paganini was now hawked about the country

in a professional tour (at the commencement of 1797), through the

principal cities of Lombardy; after which the father and son returned to

Genoa, where the youthful artist was again subjected to those daily

toils which had previously been forced on him with such wanton rigor:

but the bonds were not to be of much longer endurance. In his 14th year,

he was permitted, under the protection of an elder brother, to attend

the Musical Festival of St. Martin, which is annually celebrated at

Lucca, in the month of November; and, after meeting with a very

flattering reception in all his public appearances, he extended his tour

among the towns in the neighbourhood. The extreme degree of severity and

restraint, with which his education had hitherto been conducted, was now

beginning to work its natural result. At the age of fifteen, finding

himself relieved from all effectual control by means of the ascendancy

of his talent, and capable of attaining, through the same means,

unlimited pecuniary supplies, he commenced the itinerant system on his

own account; and soon, by a reaction of mind, that is in no degree

surprising, acquired a decided partiality for a course of life that was

accompanied by freedom from the trammels of such a father. The bonds of

affection towards that persecuting parent were only loosened, however,

not severed; for, after acquiring, by his independent exertions, a sum

equal to about a thousand pounds, he proposed to assign a portion of it

towards the maintenance of his father and mother. The cupidity of the

former rejected this, and demanded the whole. The interest of the

capital was then offered, equally in vain; and the violence of the

father proceeded to the extent (as it has been asserted) of threatening

Paganini with instant death, unless the whole of the principal were

relinquished to him. This outrage, supposing it true, appears but a

concentration, as it were, of the ill usage more diffusely applied

before. To procure peace—perhaps to save his life—Paganini gave up the

greater part of the sum.

Resuming the exercise of his emancipated powers, Paganini visited many

parts of Italy, and was flattered and rewarded in all. The intoxication

of his rapid successes, combined with his joy at the escape from

domestic fetters, seem to have led him into some youthful excesses at

this period, and to have made the roving course of his travel rather

_too_ close a type of his moral career—

Erring here, and wandering there,

Pleas’d with transgression every where.

The increased celebrity which he afterwards acquired, or rather,

perhaps, the jealous envy by which such celebrity is commonly pursued,

has exercised a magnifying effect upon these early aberrations, and

presented them as crimes of a serious and disgraceful nature. Whenever

duly examined, they will be probably found to shrink back into something

not greatly beyond peccadillo proportions. The feverish and unhealthy

excitement besetting his peculiar position should be taken into full

account, in forming a moral estimate of his youthful course. That the

seductions of the gaming-table for a while swayed his fancy, and

checquered his fortunes, is made clear by his own confession, which I

will here extract from the interesting “Notice Biographique” by Monsieur

Fétis (written as a _pendant_ to the Collection of Paganini’s

Compositions, about to appear in Paris), to which pamphlet I am indebted

for some of the additional facts in the present sketch.

“I shall never forget,” says Paganini, “that I once placed myself in a

position which was to form the turning point of my whole career. The

Prince De * * * * * had long felt a desire to become the possessor of my

excellent violin, which I still retain, and which was _then_ the only

one I had. He sent to me one day, in the endeavour to make me fix a

price for it; but, reluctant to part with my instrument, I declared

that I would only do so for 250 gold Napoleons. The Prince remarked to

me, shortly afterwards, that I was probably joking when I asked so much,

but that he was disposed to go as far as 2000 francs. I was, that very

day, in much embarrassment as to funds, owing to a considerable loss

encountered at _play_; so that I was on the point of resolving to give

up my violin for the sum offered, when a friend came in, with an

invitation to join a party in the evening. My whole supply amounted to

thirty francs; and I had already stripped myself of my watch, jewels,

rings, pins, &c. I formed the instant resolve to hazard my last

pittance, and then, if fortune were adverse, to sell the violin for what

had been offered, and set off for Petersburgh, without either instrument

or property, there to re-establish my circumstances. My thirty francs

were presently reduced to _three_,—and I fancied myself already on the

road towards the great city, when fortune, shifting like the glance of

an eye, turned my petty remainder into a gain of 160 francs. That

favorable moment rescued my fiddle, and set me on my feet. From that

day, I renounced gaming, to which a portion of my youth had been

sacrificed; and, in the conviction that a gambler is universally

despised, I abandoned for ever that fatal passion.”

The imperilled instrument above referred to, appears to have been the

same that figures in the following anecdote, as related by M. Fétis.

Whilst the youthful artist was still under the dominion of the passion

for play, that sometimes robbed him, in a single evening, of the produce

of more than one concert, and sometimes did not leave to him even his

violin, he had recourse (at Leghorn) to the kindness of a French

merchant, Monsieur Livron, a zealous musical amateur, who very readily

lent him a fine Guarnerius instrument. After the concert for which it

had been required, Paganini took it back to the owner, who, however,

declined to receive it, saying, “I shall take good care how I profane

the strings that your fingers have touched! It is to _you_ that my

violin now belongs.” The instrument was afterwards used by Paganini at

all his concerts.

A similar incident occurred to him at Parma, though under different

circumstances. Pasini, a painter, with musical propensities, had refused

to credit the prodigious facility attributed to Paganini, in the way of

playing the _crabbedest_ music at sight, like one who had fully studied

it. The sceptic therefore placed before him a manuscript concerto, in

which all manner of difficulties had been brought together, and, handing

to him an excellent Straduarius instrument, exclaimed, “This is _yours_,

if you play that at sight, like a master.” “In that case,” observed

Paganini, “you may say farewell to it at once;” and, in fact, his

_fulminating_ execution presently threw the convinced Pasini into an

ecstasy of admiration.

To those earlier days belongs also the fact of Paganini’s transient

passion for the _guitar_, or rather for a certain fair Tuscan lady, who

incited him to the study of that feebler instrument—of which she was

herself a votary. Applying his acute powers to the extension of its

resources, he soon made the guitar an object of astonishment to his fair

friend; nor did he resume in earnest that peculiar symbol of his

greatness, the violin, till after a lapse of nearly three years.

Paganini tickling the guitar, may almost suggest, for analogy, Hercules

dallying with the distaff!

After declining, for the freer indulgence of his rambles, various offers

of profitable engagement on permanent grounds, he was induced to enter,

in 1805, the service of Napoleon’s sister with the exquisite name (Elisa

Bacciocchi), then Princess of Lucca and Piombino, to whose elegant

little court several distinguished artists were at that time attracted.

Paganini became concertist and director of the orchestra there; and it

was in this situation that he first attempted the execution of those

triumphs of art under _diminished resources_, that have had, in the

sequel, so large a share in the production of his success with the

multitude. I allude to his acquired habit, displayed from time to time,

of dispensing with the aid of _two_ or even _three_ of the strings of

his instrument, and working apparent impossibilities with the remaining

_two_ or _one_—a habit which, owing to his occasional abuse of it, has

laid him open to a charge of charlatanism, even from the Italians. His

incredible address in these extraordinary efforts, produced a degree of

astonishment which may probably have given rise to some of those

rumours, both romantic and ludicrous, that have been so freely

associated with his name. The explanation he has himself given of the

origin of these performances, in the following letter to a friend, seems

so consistent with his disposition at the period, that it may very

readily command the preference in point of credibility:—

“At Lucca,” he says, “I led the orchestra whenever the Reigning Family

attended the opera. I was often sent for also to the court circle,—and

once a fortnight I gave a grand concert,—but the Princess Eliza retired

always before the conclusion, declaring that her nerves were too keenly

affected by the sounds of my instrument. A certain lady, on the

contrary, whom I had long adored in secret, was constant and assiduous

in her attendance at these musical meetings. I thought I could perceive

that some secret influence attracted her towards me. Our mutual passion

insensibly increased; but, as motives of prudence made secrecy

indispensable, and forbade any open declaration, the idea occurred to me

of surprising her with a piece of musical gallantry, which would convey

to her the expression of my feelings. Having announced my intention to

produce a novelty at Court, under a title (that of “A Love Scene”) well

calculated to excite the general curiosity, I could observe that that

feeling was not diminished on my entering the music-room, with a violin

provided with only _two strings_, the first and the fourth. The _first_

was intended to express the sentiments of a lady; the _fourth_, those of

a despairing lover. Between the two, I established a sort of impassioned

dialogue, in which the tenderest accents succeeded the violence of

repeated fits of jealousy. Alternately plaintive and insinuating, there

was at one moment a cry of grief or anger, and the next, of joyful

reconciliation. The whole scene was eminently successful; the lady to

whom it referred rewarded me by looks full of delighted amiability; and

the princess Eliza, after loading me with praises, enquired if, after

doing the impossible with _two_ strings, _one_ might not possibly

suffice me. I instantly gave my promise to make the attempt; and, a few

weeks afterwards, I produced a _Sonata on the fourth string_, which I

entitled “Napoleon,” and executed it on the 25th of August, before a

brilliant and numerous Court. Its success having far surpassed my

expectation, I may date from that period my predilection for the lower

string; and, as my audience seemed never to tire of the pieces I had

composed for it, I have at length arrived at that degree of facility

which appears to have so much surprised you.”

To find out sufficient scope for an entire field of melody, as the

produce of a single musical string, must have demanded great study, as

well as unremitting manual practice. Paganini extended the capability of

the string to three octaves, including the harmonic sounds, which he

developed into a most important resource. The success of this novelty

was prodigiously increased, after he had presented it beyond the courtly

circle, and made it public[37].

When the Princess Eliza became Grand Duchess of Tuscany, Paganini

followed her to Florence, where he became an object of even fanatic

admiration. His talent developed itself daily in new forms; but he had

as yet very imperfectly learned to regulate its exercise. The amount of

study, however, to which he had subjected himself, after ceasing to be

the slave of his father, is a thing to excite astonishment. He had

abandoned himself, in solitude, to the research with which his mind was

occupied; and had then formed the plan of the _Studies_ which are known

under his name, and wherein he proposed difficulties that he himself

could not surmount without immense labour. It is a remarkable fact,

also, that he suddenly interrupted his enquiries as to the possibility

of augmenting the resources of the violin, in order to study seriously

the works of Corelli, Vivaldi, Tartini, Pugnani and Viotti, and to

ascertain the successive progress of his instrument. He afterwards

familiarized himself with the works of the Violinists of France.

In the summer of 1808, after three years passed at Lucca, Paganini, with

the consent of his patroness, visited Leghorn, which city had been a

scene of triumph to him seven years previously. How, at his first

concert on this re-appearance, a cloud was converted into sunshine, has

been pleasantly enough recorded by himself:—

“Having accidentally run a nail into my heel, I came on the stage

_limping_—and the public greeted me with _a laugh_. At the moment when I

was beginning my concerto, the tapers fell from my music-stand, drawing

a fresh burst of laughter from the audience. Again, after the first few

bars of the solo, my upper string broke—which raised the merriment to a

climax:—but I went through the piece upon three strings—and the laughter

was turned into shouts of enthusiasm.”

Still retaining his engagement in the service of the Princess

Bacciocchi, who was now become Grand Duchess of Tuscany, and established

at Florence with her court, the great artist made professional

excursions to various Italian cities—including one to Turin (where he

was first attacked by the abdominal ailment which, in the sequel, so

much enfeebled his health, and so often interrupted his travels, and

disturbed the order of his concerts)—and another to Ferrara, where his

grotesque mode of retaliation for an affront received in public, led to

such a misunderstanding with the townspeople, as caused some jeopardy to

his life.

About the commencement of 1813, his position at the Court of the Grand

Duchess Eliza was suddenly and disagreeably abolished. On a certain

state occasion, Paganini appeared in the orchestra in the full-blown

uniform of a Captain of the _Gendarmerie Royale_, which, as a general

privilege, his fair patroness had authorized him to wear. He was now

requested, however, to exchange it immediately for a suit of plain

black. The sudden shock to his dignity was met by a refusal to comply

with the order, and the result of this bearding of authority was his

precipitate retreat from Florence, with (it is probable) a resolution to

decline all future offers of a “fixed position.”

In the city of Milan, where Paganini found many congenial attractions,

he passed a considerable time, at various epochs of his life. There he

first saw, and entered into friendship with, Rossini. There, too (in

March 1816), occurred, within the walls of _La Scala_, his contest with

Lafont, the champion of French renown in the fiddle field. The story has

been variously represented. It appears that Lafont challenged Paganini

to join him in a concert, and conceived great hopes of beating him,

when, after acceptance of the proposal, the wary Italian was found to

make a very indifferent exhibition of power at the previous rehearsal.

When the rival display came on in earnest, however, the impression

produced by Lafont, with his fine tone, and his graceful and elegant

performance, was presently eclipsed _in toto_ by the superlative mastery

shewn in the performance of the Genoese enchanter, who purposely

followed in the track of his competitor, to establish his superiority at

all points—outweighing him in the deliberate _adagio_, and outstripping

him in all the agile feats of execution, besides transcending him wholly

in the nicer _arcana_ of the art. Of this purport, at least, is the more

common and probable account of the affair. But, if the Frenchman was

thus conspicuously beaten, it would seem that (as in the case of

Falstaff) it would “discolor too much the complexion of his greatness”

to acknowledge it: Monsieur Lafont wrote a letter of negation to a

French journal, some fourteen years after the momentous day. In this

letter he even decides himself to have obtained a partial advantage,

alluding to some particular “phrase de chant,”—and he indulges in this

passage:—“On all occasions I have taken pleasure in rendering homage to

his great talent but I have never said that he was the _first violinist

in the world_: I have not done such injustice to the celebrated men,

Kreutzer, Rode, Baillot, and Habeneck and I declare now, as I have

always done, that the French school is the first in this world for the

violin!”—To this self-and-country-vaunting epistle, as translated in the

_Harmonicon_, Lafont found a respondent (April 7, 1830) in Signor

Francesco Cianchettini, who asserts, as one present on the occasion,

that the public decision was in favour of the Italian, and compares the

vain glory of French fiddlers, in their talk of Paganini, to the empty

freedom of the gladiators of the Neronian age, in speaking of Hercules.

Paganini’s own account of the affair exhibits a modest simplicity,

tending to confirm any previous impressions of his having been the

victor. After quoting it, however, Monsieur Fétis, who has repeatedly

heard Lafont’s relation of the circumstances, offers some remarks, which

it is but right here to subjoin:—“It is not to be denied,” says he,

“that Lafont displayed much imprudence on that occasion. Doubtless he

possessed qualities of a classic order, more pure, and more analogous to

the French taste of his time, than those of Paganini. Doubtless he had

greater volume and evenness of tone: but, with respect to original

fancy, the poetry of playing, and the mastery over difficulties, he

could place himself in no comparison with his antagonist. In a concert

at the Paris _Conservatoire_, the palm, in 1816, would perhaps have been

awarded to _him_ (Lafont): but, in presence of an Italian audience,

eager for novelty, originality, and impulsion, he must needs have

succumbed.” To continue our narrative of Paganini’s “life, behaviour

and conversation,”—the French musical Amateur, Count de Stendhal

(Monsieur Beyle) has alluded to him descriptively at two periods. In

1814, he observes, “Paganini, the Genoese, is, it appears to me, the

first violinist in Italy. He cultivates an exceeding softness of

expression. He plays concertos as unmeaning as those which set us gaping

at Paris; but his delicate softness is always a distinction in his

favour. I love especially to hear him execute variations on the fourth

string of his instrument.” And again, in 1817, he writes of him, as of a

Genoese who played very finely on the violin—being “_equal to the

French_ in execution, and superior in fire and originality!”—Mathews,

the author of the “Diary of an Invalid,” offers the following remarks on

him in the year 1818:—“He is a man of eccentric character and irregular

habits. Though generally resident at Turin, he has no fixed engagement,

but, as occasion may require, makes a trading voyage through the

principal cities of Italy, and can always procure a theatre, upon the

condition of equal participation in the receipts. Many stories are told

of the means by which he has acquired his astonishing style; such as

having been imprisoned ten years, with no other resource. His

performance bears the stamp of the eccentricity of his character. His

tone, and the thrilling intonation of his double stops, are electric.

His bow moves as if it were part of himself, and endued with life and

feeling.”

In proof of the extensive sphere of his attraction, the following

anecdote, having reference to the year 1824, has been published. A

northern traveller, and passionate lover of music, M. Bergman, reading

accidentally, the evening before, in the Journal, at Leghorn, an

announcement of Paganini’s concert, instantly set out for Genoa, a

distance of 100 miles, and luckily reached the spot just half an hour

before the concert began! He came with his expectations raised to the

utmost; but, to use his own expression, the reality was as far above his

anticipations, as the heavens are above the earth. Nor could this

enthusiastic amateur rest content with once hearing Paganini, but

actually followed him to Milan, to hear him _de novo_. Of the two

concerts which the great artist gave at _La Scala_ at that time, the

first consisted entirely (as far as regarded his own performance) of

exhibitions on the fourth string! and may be said to form a remarkable

antithesis to the case of the man so specially indicated by the late

Charles Mathews, as having _lost_ his G! The public were in ecstacies;

but it was observed, with some regret, by the judicious among Paganini’s

auditors at these two concerts, that he was neglecting the _cantabile_,

and the nobler powers of his instrument, for the difficult and

astonishing. Yet it was to no want of sensibility in the soul of the

artist, that this deviation was to be attributed; for he had before

expressed his high admiration of Spohr, the German violinist, so

celebrated for the excellence of his _cantabile_, and had given him full

credit for being the greatest and most perfect _singer_ upon his

instrument—retaining, however, the satisfactory consciousness, as it has

been supposed, of his own immeasurable superiority in the _aggregate_ of

the qualities for which all the greatest masters have been

distinguished.

At Pavia, Paganini likewise gave two concerts, and was received with no

less enthusiasm than at Milan. The bill which set forth the pieces to be

performed was headed with the following autocratical annunciation:—

PAGANINI.

_Farà sentire il suo Violino!_

(“_Paganini will cause his violin to be heard!_”)

In the bills of a concert he gave at Naples, in 1825, his name was

announced with the style and title of _Filarmonico_; and various sage

debates and conjectures were the consequence, among the idlers of the

place.

But it is needless to go thrice over the map of Italy, and detail all

the triumphs of our acoustic hero among his own countrymen. Let us shift

the scene to Germany, and the time to the year 1828, when he was

exhibiting before the people at Vienna, and exciting the admiration and

astonishment of the most distinguished professors and connoisseurs of

that critical city. His inducement to quit his native Italy had been

furnished, it appears, by Prince Metternich, who had witnessed his

performances in the preceding year at Rome, when the Pope (_soit dit en

passant_) had conferred on our Artist the order of the Golden Spur, an

honor which had formerly been awarded to Gluck and Mozart.

All notion of rivalling the foreigner was at once banished from among

the Germans; and it is said that Mayseder, their violinist of then

highest fame, with an ingeniousness that did him honor, intimated, in a

letter to a London friend, that he felt he might now lock up his violin

as soon as he liked!

The successes of Paganini gave new currency to the tales of crime and

_diablerie_ which inventive fame, “ficti pravique tenax,” had so often

circulated in connection with him. A captain of banditti—a Carbonaro—a

dungeon-détenu—a deadly duellist—a four-mistress man—a friend of

Beelzebub—a “bowl-and-dagger” administrator—_these_ are some of the

characters that were freely assigned to him. Over the mouth of his aged

mother, _in articulo mortis_, he was asserted to have placed a leathern

tube, and to have caught her last breath at the S holes of his

fiddle!—He was made out, in short, the very _beau idéal_ of a fellow

that might do the “First Murderer” in a Melodrama. These romantic

rumours, however they might assist his success with the public, could

not be passed by in silence. The injured, yet profited, object of them,

made a public manifesto of his innocence in the leading Journals of

Vienna, and appealed to the magistrates of the various States under

whose protection he had lived, to say if he had ever offended against

the laws. This was all very well; but, what was still better, enough of

the pleasing delusion remained, in spite of all disavowals, to render

Paganini the continued pet of the public. Indeed, a general intoxication

with regard to him prevailed for some time with the Viennese public.

Verses were daily poured forth in honour of him—medals were struck—and

Fashion made profuse appropriation of his name to her various objects.

Hats, gloves, gowns, stockings, were _à la Paganini_:—purveyors of

refreshment fortified their dishes with his name; and if a brilliant

stroke were achieved at billiards, it was likened unto a stroke of his

bow! snuff-boxes and cigar-cases displayed his portrait—and his bust was

carved upon the walking-stick of the man of mode.

Amid the glare of the enchanter’s triumphs, it is pleasing to discover,

in a record of a concert given for the benefit of the poor, that the

cause of benevolence was not forgotten;—nor will it be uninteresting to

bestow a moment’s attention on the following little anecdote, which

certainly reveals something not unlike a heart:—

One day, while walking in the streets of Vienna, Paganini saw a poor

boy playing upon his violin, and, on entering into conversation with

him, found that he maintained his mother, and an accompaniment of little

brothers and sisters, by what he picked up as an itinerant musician.

Paganini immediately gave him all the money he had about him; and then,

taking the boy’s violin, commenced playing, and, when he had got

together a crowd, pulled off his hat, and made a collection, which he

gave to the poor boy, amid the acclamations of the multitude.

The following fact will give some idea of the hearty love of music, the

real _dilettantism_, prevailing among the peasants of Germany. In the

autumn of 1829, Paganini was summoned to perform before the Queen

Dowager of Bavaria, at the Castle of Tegernsee, a magnificent residence

of the Kings of Bavaria, situated on the banks of a lake. At the moment

when the concert was about to begin, a great bustle was heard outside.

The Queen, having enquired the cause, was told that about sixty of the

neighbouring peasants, informed of the arrival of the famous Italian

violinist, were come, in the hope of hearing some of his notes, and

requested that the windows should be opened, in order that _they_ also

might enjoy his talent. The Queen went beyond their wishes, and, with

truly royal good nature, gave orders that they should all be admitted

into the saloon, where she had the pleasure of marking their

discernment, evidenced by the judicious manner in which they applauded

the most striking parts of the performance.