Apropos of quartetts, it is related that His Most Catholic Majesty,

Charles the Fourth, King of Spain, piqued himself not a little on his

abilities as a violin-performer. Summer and winter, did this royal and

reiterating practitioner perform, every morning, at six precisely, his

_quatuor_, with three other violins; himself, of course, the violin _par

excellence_: and, with the trifling drawbacks of missing his notes, and

breaking his time (as if to mark his royal independence), he may indeed

be said to have approved himself a king among fiddlers.

Another quartett-player of the class which Flattery herself can scarcely

help frowning at, was the late Sir William Hamilton, whose acquirements

in other ways must have contrasted oddly enough with his feebleness as a

fiddler. “Sir William Hamilton, who was now at an advanced age,” says

Ferrari, in his gossipping book, “was a kind and good-humoured man; but

he used to bore us with his performance on the _viola_, especially in

Giardini’s quartetts, which I verily believe derived their greatest

value in his eyes from the circumstance of Giardini’s having been his

master.”—Doubtless, with all his amiable qualities, Sir William had

something of the obstinacy which belongs so closely to evil-doers on

stringed instruments; doubtless there was no deterring him from “the

_un_even _tenor_ of his way.”

The about-to-be subjoined _sestett_ of condemnatory lines is _not_

intended to apply to Sir William Hamilton (who had, at least, the merit

of fostering Giardini), but, generally, to him who, having no sort of

summons from Apollo, no musical vocation whatsoever from Nature, has

persisted, nevertheless, to the end of his days, in being what is called

a tormentor of catgut. A person of this peculiar turn of mistake, may

be said to fright the fiddle from its propriety—for surely, in his

hands, it wholly loses its temper and character. Making his fiddle-bow

the stalking-horse of his vanity, he walks over the strings in an

adagio, or curvets in an andante, with action that has nothing of the

graceful, and much of the ludicrous. Such a being is in the extreme of

the wrong. He hunts after a shadow: like Ixion, he embraces a cloud. His

pursuit is frivolous, because it is without a chance of attaining its

object. Unable to play in time, he is perpetually out of season: unable

to stop in tune, he is ever in a false position. He wears out his

existence in an unconscious dream; and his harsh discords and unpleasing

sharps are as the _snoring_ thereof. He dies in a delusion; his ricketty

crotchets and uneasy quavers are exchanged for one long _rest_; and here

is the amount of his _value_, in six lines—

ON AN AGED MUSICAL TRIFLER.

The silly dilettante, who

A thankless violin doth woo,

Till _old_ he looks as Saturn,

Can (to denote just what he _is_)

No name receive so fit as this—

A _spoon_, of _fiddle-pattern_.

By way of disporting a little further on this theme, I have spun a few

lines in which the reference is to that incongruous identity so often

found within the circle of private life—a good man, and bad fiddler:—

Ralph Rasper is an honest man,

Prone to do all the good he can;

He never lets the piteous poor

Go meatless from his open door:

He loves his wife—he pays his bills—

And with content his household fills.

He seeks, in short, the rule of right,

And keeps his conscience pretty white:

But save, oh, save us from his _fiddling_!

It is so very—_very_ middling!

Enough, however, of the indicative kind, as concerning the sins and

follies of the Amateur species. Are they unpardonable? Nay—they claim

indulgence through the very _cause_ which produces them. It is the

inspiring motive—the instrumental love, or love of the instrument—which

redeems, in some sort, the errors to which it gives birth. We must not

be too severe on the zeal which is indiscreet, lest we discountenance

good faith, and nip affection in the bud. Shall we excommunicate our

brother, for that he is too fond of fiddling? Nay, rather, let us

reserve our censure for him who hath _no_ fiddling in his soul. Cease

we, then, to dwell on deficiencies—let us “leave off discourse of

disability,”—except so far as may be necessary towards administering any

little further wholesome advice, with a friendly view to practical

improvement. In the past observations, let me not be thought to have had

no better purpose than that of playing the cynic for my own indulgence.

Myself an Amateur, and one of by no means large calibre, I should indeed

be doing what were equally graceless and witless, did I seek the damage

of the class to which I belong—that is, to which I _have_ belonged, in

practice, and still belong, by inclination and sympathy. My object is

reform—the reform of acknowledged errors and proved abuses—but, while

advocating the principles of that reform to the utmost extent that is

compatible with reason and propriety, I will never consent to abandon my

“order.”

Allusion has been made, at the commencement of this chapter, to the very

large amount of time which the _Professor_ must devote to his art, as

one of the absolute conditions of eminence. The ends of the Amateur may,

of course, be answered with a smaller expenditure of his moments. If he

possess the requisite predisposition for the instrument, _two hours_ a

day will suffice him. This must be regarded as the _minimum_—and with

this, according to Spohr (a very high authority), he may make such

progress as to afford himself and others great enjoyment of music, in

quartett-playing, in accompanying the pianoforte, or in the orchestra.

The principal error against which Amateurs have to guard themselves, is

that species of _ambition_ which impels them to imitate the showy and

more external quality of professional playing, called execution[64]. It

is natural enough that what is most obvious should make the greatest

impression at first, and should most readily attract imitation; but it

is, on the other hand, certain, that this same superficial principle

addresses itself rather to the senses than to the imagination, and that

the pleasure which it affords is trivial and evanescent. If execution do

not come recommended by the superior associations of accurate tune, fine

tone, and characteristic expression, it is unworthy of a welcome, and

can only impose on the most shallow-minded auditor. In that poor and

bald state, it is like the verbiage in a silly oral discourse, or the

language of un-respective parrots. If it come, moreover, unaccompanied

by the common regulator, time, it is still more absurd and

insignificant, and may be likened to a fit of the insanely capricious

activity called St. Vitus’s dance. Nothing, in fact, can make amends for

the grievous sin of

“Omitting the sweet benefit of _time_.”

It should never be forgotten that, in the playing of the most simple

piece of music—the commonest air—there is much more required than

merely to render, or deliver, the notes that are dotted over the page.

It too often occurs, however, that the Amateur, who chances to have

heard at some Concert a fantasia or a potpourri, performed by the

agile bow of a De Beriot or a Sainton, returns home fascinated

exclusively by the brilliant execution he has witnessed, and stimulated

by vague aspirations after similar power of display. He calls next day

at a Music-shop, and just “happens to enquire” whether the said piece is

in print. It is handed to him, and he finds, to his agreeable surprise,

that the passages, with a few exceptions, do not look so difficult as

their dashing effect the evening before would have led him to

anticipate. He buys the piece, and, with uncased fiddle, sits down

before it, in his own chamber. He picks out the passages with which he

is best able to tickle his own ear; hammers them over till his _hand_

gets some familiarity with them; hurries the time, to encourage his mind

in the favourite idea of “execution;” slurs over those passages that

threaten to puzzle him; and, having got through the thing _à tort et à

travers_, hastens to shew his friends what he can do (in reality what he

can _not_ do) as a performer of De Beriot’s celebrated fantasia! A

little applause, from the over-complaisant or unthinking, deludes him,

already too confident, into the belief that he has succeeded in _that_

piece; and the same ambition of display, coupled with the eager and

unrepressed love of novelty, leads him on to attempt another, and

another, and to spoil himself with more _triumphs_ of the same

unfortunate and mistaken kind. Thus, everything is done most

imperfectly—no satisfaction is given to a single soul of the commonest

musical notions—and no real progress whatever is made. In short, when

once the unhappy Amateur abandons himself exclusively to _execution_—it

is all over with him!

It is impossible to build without the frequent use of the ladder. The

_scales_ are the ladders of music; and, without constant and diligent

recourse to them, there is no true edification—no reaching to

“perfection’s airiest ridge.” Slowly and cautiously must they be

ascended and descended, at first, till the acquisition of a firm hold,

and a nice habit of measurement; then comes the dexterity that enables

the practitioner to run up and down with a safe celerity of precision,

such as the curious beholder may witness in the movements of those

Hibernian hod-iernal ministrants of mortar, who are so powerfully

instrumental towards the construction of houses.

Let not the young Amateur, then, be diverted from the practice of his

_scales_, which are the regular steps to improvement. Let him not commit

the error of jumping about among those broken and irregular _flights_,

consisting of bits of airs, and snatches of tunes. These will not help

to raise the musical edifice; and the _expectations_ which they may

assist to build, will prove mere castles in the air. The dryness and

sameness of the labour are apt to be alleged as the excuse for omitting

this essential practice of the scales and intervals; while the love of

melody is pleaded in behalf of the more eccentric course. Now, what

should be desiderated for the student is, not to love _melody_ less, but

_improvement_ more. He should not, by reason of the tedium experienced

in working at the scales, cast them aside—for, while he perseveres, on

the contrary, in daily exercise upon them, are there not the immortal

Solos of Corelli, to furnish him with all that is needful of the

recreative principle? Here he will find refreshment enough, after the

perhaps fatiguing iteration of the ladder-work. Here, in connexion with

passages that will form his hand—here, along with modulation not dull

and crabbed, but graceful and natural—he will find enough of _melody_ to

sweeten his toil, without impairing it—to cheer his progress, without

retarding it. Here he will find fascination for his ear, with no

corruption for his taste—

“Airs and sweet sounds, that give delight, and _hurt not_.”

Yes, when the tyro, tired, makes yawning complaint of the want of

encouragement, we would point to the Solos of Corelli, and say to him,

_Hæc tibi dulcia sunto_—let _these_ be unto thee for sweet-meats.

This distinction, however, should be noted that while Corelli is

recommended for the acquisition of _tone_ and _steadiness_, he is not a

sufficient authority as to the varieties and subtleties of _bowing_; for

(as heretofore observed) much that relates to these has been added

_since_ his time to the province of the violin. But the cultivation of

these graces and refinements of the bow is, after all, in its natural

order, a thing for later attention. The simplicity of Corelli is always

admirable for the earlier purposes; and then, for the niceties of the

bow, and for the communication of modern resources, there are various

special guides of good value—as the studies of Fiorillo—the elaborate,

systematic, and explanatory “Violin-School” of Spohr, as edited for

English students by Mr. John Bishop—and that justly-cited boast of the

French _Conservatoire_, the combined system of Rode, Kreutzer, and

Baillot[65].

Among the consequences of that ambition of display which I have had

occasion to refer to as a root of evil among Amateurs, is the tendency

to throw off prematurely the salutary restraints of professional aid.

This is a mistake of the most injurious kind. The violin, as the most

difficult of all instruments, demands more than any other the prolonged

assistance of the Master. There is no such being to be met with as a

_real_ self-taught Violinist. Scrapers and raspers there may be, of

various degrees of roughness and wretchedness, who have found out the

art of tormenting, _by themselves_; but _that_ is quite another matter.

Paganini himself, the most wild and singular of players, did not acquire

his excellence independently of magisterial rule. He was amply tutored

during the early years of his study; and, when he had become a great

Master, he still proceeded by calculations founded partly on what he had

already been taught, though transcending it in reach and refinement. Let

not the aspiring student, therefore, seek to _fly_ before he can _run_,

and reject the preceptor while his state is essentially that of

pupilage. They who, at a very early period, discontinuing the _study_ of

the instrument, think of playing to _amuse their friends_, will fail

inevitably, and be considered as the very reverse of what is agreeable

or, to present the same notable truth at the point of an indifferent

epigram:

_Beginners_, lab’ring at the fiddle,

Are apt to flounder _in the middle_:

Such, when our comfort they diminish,

Are wisely prayed to _make a finish_!

With reference to the _collective_ efforts of non-professional players,

it may be remarked that, as individual vanity is _there_ held in some

check, and as something like a painstaking preparation is customary,

the auditor is in a less hazardous condition than where _one_ exhibitor

has undisputed hold upon him,—besides which, the alternative of an

_escape_ is more decidedly open. The _single_ cacophonist, secretly

intending a “polacca,” may take you at unawares, after a quiet cup of

tea, that has treacherously served to _mask_ his purpose. He may

suddenly draw his lurking fiddle-case from beneath the very sofa whereon

you are at ease—may summon that passive accomplice, his sister, to

subservient office at the piano—and, putting his bow-arm into full

exercise, bring you to “agony-point,” before you have had time to

recover from your surprise. From the quartett or symphony-party, on the

contrary, you have due notice beforehand and, if suspicious of discords

that are not within the boundary of science, you can decline the

invitation, and maintain the tranquillity of your nerves.

The most desirable attainment for confederate Amateurs, next to a

familiar acquaintance with their respective instruments, is that

_self-knowledge_ which enables each to find contentedly his proper

place, and ensures that all shall be “correspondent to command, and do

their spiriting _gently_.” Then, by good discipline, under the

direction of a well-educated musician, whose practical knowledge, added

to his intimacy with the compositions of the best masters, gives him a

moral influence and authority over an organized body of Amateurs, it is

surprising what excellence of effect in musical execution may be

produced. It has been sometimes, however, the bane of Amateur Societies

to be subject to the control of some unwarrantably officious member,

whose musical qualifications in nowise render him a proper person for

the assumed dictatorial capacity: or, it may happen that accident brings

into the employ of a Society of Amateurs one of those mere practical and

executive professional Fiddlers, whose notions of art are only on a

level with the quality of their manners. In either case, little benefit,

and much less pleasure, is derived from submitting to such

directorship. The Amateur, and the Fiddler, will each exercise alike

his own weak judgment in the general appeal for the “time” of the

music—each (the composer being _least_ thought of) preferring the time

of an _allegro_ in the ratio of its adaptation to his own powers of

execution. Of the two, the Professor is the more mischievous, as regards

the production of bad consequences. Vain of his advantage over the

Amateur, he never neglects to shew it by the rapidity with which he will

_time_ the quick movements; creating thereby a bad habit in the Amateur,

who, to keep up with the first-fiddle, is obliged _so_ to scramble

through his part, as if it were the purpose of the composer to represent

_a race_. A musician with a cultivated mind, on the contrary, whose

enthusiasm for art renders “self” a secondary consideration, and whose

perseverance has enabled him really to conquer the difficulties of his

calling, is sure to effect very great good amongst private Amateurs. His

remarks on the merits of composers and players are listened to with

attention; his authority is respected; and the encouragement he

patiently bestows on the ingenuous efforts of the young player, is sure

to obtain the utmost confidence of the party.

In the practice of instrumental music, the chief obstacles (besides the

difficulty of playing passages in tune and time) are those which attach

to _reading_, and to _feeling_ the rhythm of the _phrase_, as well as to

the executing of passages without _hurry_. Young novices, adults, and

bands, are in one common predicament, as to partaking, more or less, of

a certain two-fold error—that of producing a disproportionate

acceleration of time in a quick and loud passage, and a disproportionate

delay in a slow and piano movement. By the advantage of the skilful tact

of a clever _maestro_, this error is either altogether corrected, or the

tendency is so well kept in check as never to become offensive. In order

to conquer the naturally strong influence of rhythmetical impulse in

playing, the Amateur should seek every occasion to play with others in

concert. The excitement in first playing with other instruments is

similar, in its origin, to that of which we have everyday proof in the

case of young ladies, who have devoted years of practice to playing the

pianoforte, and are yet unable to accompany a song, or solo, in time

and with proper feeling—the too common consequence, by the by, of an

English musical education. In Germany and France, every lady takes

alternate lessons, of her pianoforte master, and of an experienced and

well-educated musician, employed in the best orchestras; and thus she

imperceptibly loses those impediments which are the consequences of

nervous and timid inexperience.

One of the chief advantages of the Professor is his capacity of reading

onwards. Whilst occupied in executing one bar, his eyes and attention

are partly bestowed on the three or four subsequent ones—nay, on the

next line, and even the next page. All this is best acquired by perusing

music, without an instrument. By practice, the eye and mind seize at

once the construction of a simple phrase, so that, whilst the operation

of playing it is going on, you have time to prepare for the fingering

and execution of the following passage, without at once bursting on it,

and becoming confused. In overtures and sinfonias, the _time_ of the

several movements is seldom subject to alteration; and, beyond the mere

reading of the passages, the Amateur has only to attend to the various

signs used for the modification of sound.

The highest test of the discipline of a band is in playing “piano,” and

in attacking points of imitation and fugue with vigour. Whatever

constitutes the test of the excellence of a band, in execution and

effect, applies also to the individual performers.—The coarse, vulgar,

pantomime fiddler would make sad havoc in accompanying a trio of

Beethoven’s, where the most delicately subdued tone, and the most

vigorous expression, are alternately required. It must never be

forgotten, that the utmost strictness of subordination is an essential

requisite in an orchestra. In fact, it is one of the principal merits of

a good orchestra-player to practise uniformly this quality of

subordination, whereby the perfection of the whole is importantly

promoted.

Dramatic music is the most difficult to give effect to; whether it be

orchestral, for the action of a ballet, or as an accompaniment to the

voice—the license shewn in the numerous changes of a movement, and of

time, rendering this species of music by far the most embarrassing to

both Professor and Amateur. The attention of the performer must here be

divided between his instrument, and the singer, or the director; whilst,

in other music, his whole soul is wrapt up in his own performance. Hence

it follows that, on his first attempt to play opera-music, he is

embarrassed at every page! This difficulty is only conquered, like every

other, by habitual practice.

In the more advanced stage of his progress, there is nothing so

beneficial to the Amateur as to listen, “arrectis auribus,” to the

performance of genuine classical _quartetts_ by accomplished masters of

the bow. This will do him far more good than all the _Capriccios_ and

_Fantasias_ with which the most brilliant of the solo-players, or

single-handed exhibitors at concerts, can dazzle his discernment. It

will exalt his standard of taste, and enlarge his sense of the

beautiful—fully directing his perception, at the same time, to the

legitimate powers of the violin and its cognate instruments. The remark

has been well made by Spohr, that perfect _quartett-playing_, while it

requires perhaps less of mechanical skill than is called for in a

_concerto_, yet demands more of refined sentiment, taste, and knowledge.

No opportunity (adds the same great Master) of joining a good

quartett-party, ought to be lost. The occasions afforded for such mode

of improvement were for a long while, however, in our English

metropolis, as rare as they _might_ have been advantageous. The

experiments of the London _Concerti da Camera_, and “Quartett Concerts,”

happily occurred, at length, to test the feeling of our musical circles,

and open a new path to the career of the art in this country. Following

that new path, and developing further resources to which it led, the

“Beethoven Quartett Society,” originated and managed by a Committee of

enlightened Amateurs, with the Earl of Falmouth for their President,

came into honourable existence in 1845, to render the justice of a too

tardy notoriety to some of the most perfect and original of musical

compositions, and thereby to erect a higher standard of taste for the

benefit of our musical circles. The intentions of this most laudable

Association, practically wrought out by Professors of the first ability,

have had _some_, at least, of the success that should belong to

well-directed ambition[66].

With the stimulus and the enlightenment that may be derived from such a

school of observation as this, and others to the establishment of which

it may possibly lead, is it a thing to be altogether despaired of, that

we may hereafter be enabled to enjoy the rational luxury, here as in

Germany, of a quartett performed within the _evening family circle_, and

competently performed, by its own members? Already, indeed, in some of

our provincial towns, there have been examples of a disposition this

way[67]. It is to be hoped that our

London Amateurs will no longer be slow to adopt so laudable a practice,

nor be deterred from the pleasant advantages of family fiddling by any

poor jokes about “the brothers _Bohrer_,” or the like. That there is

good capacity in them, which occasion may bring out, was made evident at

the Musical Festival held at Exeter Hall, towards the end of 1834, as

well as at more recent celebrations there. A somewhat large amount of

single practice, and more working by _fours_, together with such

exercise of observation as has been here alluded to, would develop their

capabilities into real means of conferring pleasure upon their

friends—whether in the snug and smiling little domestic circle, or in

the wider area, and amid the more stimulative accessories, of the hired

music-room.

There is a little story, illustrating so pointedly that _love_ for his

peculiar pursuit, which gives to the Amateur his very _name_, that I

cannot resist the temptation to introduce it here. With that little

story—and a few special hints to the younger and earlier class of

students, conveyed in familiar verse, by way of a spur to the

attention—I propose to wind up the present chapter.

A certain Amateur, whose fondness for fiddling was his liveliest

passion, had two instruments—his _best_, on which he would by no means

have permitted his own father to draw a bow—and his _second best_. In

the course of his business, which was commercial, he was preparing to

quit England for South America, as super-cargo in a certain vessel, and

to make a long stay in the latter country. Concern for his two

violins—(he had no _wife_)—was uppermost in his mind. Should he commit

them, along with himself, to the perils of the ocean’s bosom? Should he,

suspending or sacrificing his own enjoyment, leave them behind, in the

custody of friendship that might prove fickle, or negligent? Much he

pondered—and much hesitated. At length, unable to endure the thoughts of

a separation from _both_, he came to a resolution that was, at the same

time, a compromise. He determined that he would take with him his

_second best_, and tear himself away from his principal darling, his

beloved _best_—_not_, however, to leave it behind—_that_ were _quite_

too much!—but to export it, highly insured, to the scene of his own

destination, in _another_ (because, as he conceived it, a _safer_)

vessel than that in which he was himself about to embark!

FRIENDLY ADVICE TO THE YOUNG AMATEUR.

First, let a rear-ward _attic_ of your labours be the scene—

For, such seclusion best for you (and others) is, I ween.

In comfort, there, assume a chair, and be therein at ease,

And _not_ as if, un-garmented, you sat upon _hard pease_.

Your fiddle in sinister hand, and in your right the bow,

Scan, next, the dotted page awhile, or ere _to work_ you go.

Firm as a forceps be your wrist, but flexile as an eel!

And—for that struggling shoulder-joint—just teach it to _be still_;

For, mark! the motion of the arm must be ’twixt wrist and elbow,

Or else, howe’er you moil and toil, be sure you’ll never _well_ bow!

To guide each movement of the bow—to give it vital spring—

To send it bounding on its way—the wrist, the wrist’s the thing!

Your bow’s relation to the _bridge_, must keep a just right angle,

Or harshly else, and out of tune, your tortured notes will jangle.

From _heel_ to _point_ that bow now draw, with action slow and steady—

Then back again—and so repeat, till in such practice ready.

The same in quicker time then try—and next proceed to draw

From _middle_ (with a shorter scope) to _point_, and back, see-saw.

This, too, in swifter time rehearse;—and then, like justice deal

Unto the other half of bow, from _middle_ to the _heel_.

There is a word—too seldom heard—_not_ dear to young Ambition—

But wholesome in its discipline,—that word is “_repetition_.”

Content to glimmer ere you shine, leap not beyond your bounds!

From small beginnings rise great ends—’tis _pence_ that make up

_pounds_.

From exercise to exercise, progressive, through your book

Work on-scales, intervals, and all—how _dry_ soe’er they look;

Nor jerk forth scraps, or odds and ends, of ev’ry tune that floats;—

Can any foolery be worse than scatt’ring of _loose notes_?

Let not thy steps untutored move! A master’s ready skill

For safety and for succour seek, to curb or point thy will!

_Plain_ work precedes all _ornament_: keep graces for a late

Achievement, since you first must _build_, ere you can _decorate_.

Think _elegance_ a pretty thing, but _breadth_ a vast deal better;

Nor, for the sake of lesser charms, your larger movements fetter.

It is the pride of players great, a free and dashing _bow_,

As, borne along on waves of sound, to their success they go!

_Corelli_ old, contemn thou not! Substantial, good, and plain,

He’s like a round of British beef—he’s “cut-and-come-again!”

But, as the interval is wide, you need not—_nota bene_—

You need not travel _all_ the road ’twixt _him_ and _Paganini_.

In fiddle-practice, as in life, are difficulties _gifts_?

Yes—_double stops_ are just the thing to drive thee to thy _shifts_!

“Bating no jot of heart or hope,” toil, till, in time’s process,

The music that is in thy soul, thy fiddle shall express!

CHAPTER IX.

ON THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE VIOLIN.

It is a very natural curiosity which engages us to look minutely into

the structural peculiarities of that which is a medium for awakening

pleasurable sensations within us. The balloon that has borne us aloft

into aerial altitudes—and the violin that, under the management of a

Vieuxtemps or a Sivori, has transported us, through varying acoustic

currents, into the sublimer regions of harmony—are, each, the object of

a close and willingly conceded attention.

Quitting the balloon, however, and confining ourselves to the

violin—_what_ (let us enquire) are the component parts that make up the

“form and pressure,” the “complement extern” and intern, of this

material ministrant to our joys and sympathies;—_what_, also, are the

several most remarkable patterns, or models, of the _completed_

instrument;—and _who_ were the originators, respectively, of those

varieties of conformation? This latter point of enquiry will lead us to

advert, before concluding this chapter, to certain innovations that have

been attempted, with more or less felicity, in our own days.

A curious little work on the Construction, Preservation, Repair, &c. of

the Violin, written in German by JACOB AUGUSTUS OTTO, appeared in 1817,

and was translated into English some years afterwards. The author,

himself an instrument-maker, professes to have studied “music,

mathematics, physics, and acoustics,” which respectable preparation

certainly adds not a little to his claims to attention, in undertaking

to be instructive. It may be worth while here to present, in a condensed

form, some portion of his matter, which is both indicative and

preceptive. Such of my readers as, with a stronger impulse of curiosity,

may desire to possess the _whole_ of the information furnished by his

treatise, are referred to the latest English edition of it, which,

supplied with an appendix by the translator, Mr. John Bishop, has been

issued by the publishers of the present work.

Otto states that the Violin, when complete, consists of _fifty-eight_

different parts—a fact, by the by, which the ordinary observer would be

little inclined to suspect[68], and of which, indeed, many a good player

is probably not aware. The author makes general complaint, indeed, of

the ignorance on the part of many Violinists of celebrity, as to the

construction of the instrument. Then, as to the _wood_—for, “ex _quovis

ligno_ non fit Mercurius;” that is to say, a fellow so mercurial as your

fiddle is not to be created out of any chance piece of timber;—the wood

that is generally used is of three sorts: sycamore for the back, neck,

sides and circles: Tyrolese soft red deal for the belly, bass-bar,

sound-post, and six internal blocks: and ebony for the finger-board and

tail-piece. The greatest care and judgment, it seems, are requisite in

the selection of the material for the _belly_ of the instrument, on

which its _tone_ entirely depends. The wood for this purpose is

prescribed to be cut only in December or January, and only that part to

be used which has been exposed to the sun.

As to the _Cremonas_ (a word of fondest association to all votaries of

the violin!), the oldest of them are those from the hands of

_Hieronymus_ (or Jerome) _Amati_, at the beginning of the seventeenth

century, or rather earlier. Next come those of _Antonius Amati_,

belonging to the middle of that century; and then those of _Nicholas

Amati_, towards the end of it. To these makers are to be added _Antonius

Straduarius_, and afterwards (at the commencement of the eighteenth

century) _Joseph Guarnerius_. All these men of Cremona, so renowned for

the products of their ingenuity were (according to M. Otto),

_mathematical_ builders, and nice observers of the proportions best

calculated for imparting a full, powerful, sonorous tone. The

instruments by the three Amati are rather higher, or less flat, in the

model, than those of Straduarius. Of all the Italian Violins, Hieronymus

Amati’s are the handsomest in shape, and the best in make. They are now

more than two centuries and a half old, strongly constructed, and likely

to retain their excellence another century. Nicholas Amati’s are of

rather small size, and somewhat abrupt in the swell of the form. The

instruments of Straduarius are most esteemed by _Concert_ performers for

the power of their tone. Those of Guarnerius are beautifully

constructed, and with a good deal of similarity to those of Nicholas

Amati.

The fine _Tyrolese_ instruments—those of the celebrated _Jacob

Steiner_—differ much from the _Cremonese_, both in shape and tone. In

the latter respect, they are of sharper and more penetrating quality.

The _later_ Tyrolese makers have been rendered the great source of

deception by dealers, &c.—their instruments having been made to pass as

classics. The best among them are those of Klotz. The Tyrolese

imitations of the Steiners and Cremonese are chiefly distinguishable by

the coarse and wide grain of the deal, and by the thin spirit varnish

upon them, instead of the Italian strong amber varnish.

The author treats individually of the principal German makers.

_Statelmann_, of Vienna, of high fame as a studious maker, was a close

imitator of Jacob Steiner; as were also _Withalm_ of Nuremberg, and

_Riess_ of Bamberg. The flat model of Straduarius has been imitated by

_Buckstädter_ of Ratisbon, and _Jauch_ of Dresden. _Martin Hoffman_, and

_Hunger_, both of Leipsig, were excellent as tenor-makers, and good in

violins. The instruments by _Eberle_ of Prague, one of the most

celebrated German makers, are like the Cremonese, but less round and

full in their tone. _Bachmann_ of Berlin, also very eminent, was

strictly careful as to proportions.

Against the class of _repairers_ in general, as so many botchers,

tinkers, and spoilers, the author is emphatically severe; and he points

the especial finger of scorn at one _Kirchlag_, who, about 1787, made a

visit of destruction, under pretence of repair, to most of the towns in

Germany.

Instruments, it appears, should be sufficiently _well-timbered_; their

durability is much affected when they are finished off too weak in wood.

The bass-bar and sound-post are not inserted to strengthen the

instrument (as many have supposed), but to increase the vibration. The

vibratory principle, according to M. Otto, has been as yet but

imperfectly investigated, and is little understood. Recent experiments,

however, have somewhat further extended our knowledge of it. Great

nicety is requisite as to the erection and proportions of the _bridge_:

when it is too high, the effect is a dull tone, difficult to be brought

out—when too low, a shrill sharp, and thin tone. In good instruments,

the sound-post stands half an inch below the left foot of the bridge: in

defective ones, it may be placed rather nearer, to increase the

strength, and assist the tone. The screw-holes must not be rubbed with

rosin to tighten them: the best appliance is chalk. Some wise-acres

pretend that a violin is to be improved in tone by breaking it to

pieces, and mending it again! Others disturb and shift about the bridge

and sound-post, till the tone is almost gone. Others again, with a taste

worthy of Hottentots, have daubed over the “belly part” with a coat of

glue, mixed with powdered glass; and some there are, who have tampered

with instruments by an absurd plaster of varnish and white of eggs,

under the unwholesome idea of closing up the pores! It is suggested that

_flies_ should not be allowed to introduce themselves into the _f_

holes. (Children say, by the by, that _f_ “_stands for fly_:” and, in

the case in question, it stands _open_; so there seems, at least, a

pretty good excuse for the intruders.) The inside of the instrument is

to be cleaned out once in six months, by means of a handful of barley,

made warm, poured in at these _f_ holes, and well shaken. The best

_strings_ are those from Milan (called Roman), which are clear and

transparent as glass, and should have as much recoil, when opened out,

as a watchspring. A very important article of requirement is good

refined rosin: the common brown rosin of commerce is quite unfit,

because of its thickness and clamminess.

The author, deflecting entirely from the prevalent notion on the

subject, asserts that it is not _age_, but constant _use_, that is the

means of producing a smooth, clear tone. He lays it down as a position,

which he has himself verified in various experiments, that _any_

instrument is to be greatly improved by working at it daily for three

months together, with a strong bow—taking two tones at a time, fourths

or fifths. This method of improvement, it is clear, must be somewhat

costly, and infinitely tedious—but it is much recommended by our author.

Hapless indeed must be the condition of the human being destined to

labour at fourths and fifths, with a strong bow, for three months

together! If such a system were introduced among _us_, it is to be

feared that the announcement of “Improvers wanted” would frequently be

made in vain. What (we may ask) would become of the _intellects_ of a

human being _so_ employed? As for the reason _why_ so beneficial an

effect belongs to this peculiar practice, M. Otto has declined unfolding

it—his “duty to his family” forbidding such divulgement.

Thus far, Jacob Augustus Otto—dismissing whom, with thanks for the

information picked out of him, we proceed to other details, derived from

other sources.

To the names of the _Amati_ family already mentioned, should be added

that of _Andreas_, brother of Nicholas. These two brothers, as well as

the other makers in that family, constructed instruments of a soft and

rich tone, but deficient in the _brilliancy_ which modern players regard

as so great a requisite. They (the two above specified) supplied, about

the year 1570, some violins of large pattern for the chamber-music of

Charles IX, King of France, which are remarkable for beauty of shape,

and nicety of finish.

Contemporary with Andreas and Nicholas Amati, was _Gaspar de Salo_, of

Lombardy. He was especially renowned for his instruments of the _viol_

species, at that time more in request than violins. His instruments of

this latter kind, somewhat larger in pattern, have more power than those

of the Amati; but their tone has been said to be too analogous to that

of the _tenor_. Of a similar quality are the violins of _Giovanni

Granzino_, who operated at Milan, from about 1612 to 1635.

Another noted Italian fabricator, whose doings come within about the

same range of time as those of Granzino, was _Giovanni Paolo Magini_,

who established his factory at his native town, Brescia. Magini’s

violins are usually large, although he produced a few of small pattern.

Their convexity is very positive; and the back is a good deal flattened

towards its upper and lower extremities. The sides are softened off, at

the various points of angular projection. A broad double fillet sweeps

round the belly and back, and, on the latter, sometimes terminates in an

ornament, situated near the neck of the instrument, and having the shape

of a large clover-leaf. He made use of spirit-varnish, of a fine golden

colour. The tone of his violins, less soft than that of a Straduarius,

and less potent than a Guarnerius, approaches that of the _viol_, and

has in its character a touch of melancholy. Magini’s instruments came

(or rather, returned) into high consideration some years ago, from the

fact of De Beriot’s having adopted the custom of playing on one of them.

There are but few of them in existence. One, that was pretty loud in

tone, was sold, years ago, by an ingenious fiddle-fancier at Kensington,

to Reeve, principal “Second Violin” at the Italian Opera House. It had

been long in the possession of old Baumgarten, who was orchestra-leader

at Covent Garden for forty years, and died at Kensington Gravel-pits.

From about the middle of the seventeenth to that of the eighteenth

century, the Italian renown for instrument-making attained its climax by

the productions of those two Cremonese “men of pith,” _Straduarius_ and

_Guarnerius_—or to give them their local names, _Antonio Stradivari_,

and _Giuseppe Guarneri_. Violins—tenors—basses—all was admirable, that

came from their hands; but they are distinguished from each other by

qualities that are sufficiently appreciable. In the large Concert-hall,

the Guarnerius has the greater sonorous power; while, for the

combination of brilliancy with suavity, nothing can equal, in a private

music-room (and especially where a _quartett_ is in hand), a

well-conditioned Straduarius.

Born in 1664, and employed for years in the factory of the _Amati_,

Straduarius began his own separate career, by imitating their models;

but, at the commencement of the eighteenth century, taking leave of his

masters, he changed the proportions of his instruments—adopted a larger

size, with a diminished convexity—and was as studious about the

gradations of thickness, as in the choice of his wood. Nothing was

omitted, that the careful mind of this artist could devise, for the

production of the finest quality of tone. His instruments,

nicely-balanced, provoke no unseemly opposition of character among the

four strings. Add to these advantages, a graceful outline—high finish in

the details—a brilliant harmony in the varnish—and you have the

accomplished, the complete _Straduarius_.

_Giuseppe (Joseph) Guarnerius_, the most distinguished among a family

noted for the construction of bowed instruments, belongs, in date of

birth, to the latter end of the seventeenth century. He is said to have

studied his art in the factory of Straduarius, although the products of

his hand shew none of the high finish characteristic of that maker. His

_build_ is often very slovenly; the _f_ holes are cut almost straight,

and with angularity about the ends; the fillets are badly traced—and,

indeed, there is so little in the _look_ of his violins to proclaim the

master, that one might be tempted to attribute their fine quality to the

excellence of the materials he used, rather than to any bestowed

workings of his mind. Close examination, however, has decided that he

must have been guided by some positive principles, howsoever attained,

and that his productions have an originality derived from these. Of his

violins of the large pattern, there are but few: those of the smaller

size, which are more numerous, exhibit very little convexity, and are

thicker, in the thick parts, than those of Straduarius. The effect of

his instruments is more gratifying at a little distance, than at “close

quarters.”

The art under consideration seems to have gone on in Italy with hardly

any change, since the time of the above two celebrated makers—their

successors having been content with one or the other of them, for model.

_Lorenzio Guadagnini_, of Placentia, a pupil or apprentice of

Straduarius, copied the small-pattern fiddles of his master. His

instruments give a round and clear tone from the first and second

strings—but are dull on the third. He had a son, who worked at Milan,

till about 1770, after his father’s mode, but with smaller success. The

_Gagliani_ were also imitators of Straduarius, but were far from

equalling his instruments, and were not very scrupulous in their

selection of wood. _Ruggeri_ and _Alvani_, who were among the copyists

of Joseph Guarnerius, have produced good violins, but none that could

attain the estimation enjoyed by their prototype.

Of the noted Tyrolese fiddle-fabricants, _Jacob Steiner_, a man of

chequered fortunes, was the ingenious chief. Born about 1620, at Absom,

a village near Inspruck, he had, as an instrument-maker, a career marked

by three distinct epochs. At first, under the Amati at Cremona, he

produced some violins of admirable finish, but now very rarely to be met

with. Their convexity is still more decided than that of the Amati;

while the heads, or volutes, are less prolonged, and broader in the

anterior part—and the labels within them are written and signed by the

artist’s own hand. His _second_ epoch is when, married, and settled at

Absom, he produced, from 1650 to 1667, a prodigious number of

instruments, constructed with little care. Even then, however, after

languishing for some years in misery, and personally hawking about his

violins, for which he could get no better price than six florins, he

regained his position through some rays of aristocratic patronage that

suddenly shone upon him; and, with his genius thus revived, again

produced some fine instruments, distinguished by their scrolls,

ornamented with heads of animals—by the close fibres of the

belly-wood—and by the varnish of red mahogany-colour, browned by time.

Steiner’s _third_ epoch commences when, on losing his wife, he retired

to a monastery. In that tedious seclusion, he resolved to signalize the

end of his artistic career by some first-rate doings. Having obtained,

through the influence of the Superior, a supply of most exemplary wood,

he made sixteen violins—the intended concentrations of every gathered

perfection—and sent one to each of the twelve Electors of the Empire,

presenting to the Emperor himself the remaining four. These sixteen

instruments, whereof but three are (so far as is known) extant, have

acquired the name of _Elector Steiners_. A pure, ringing, ethereal tone,

comparable to that of a woman’s perfect voice—a shape of

elegance—studied finish in every detail—a diaphanous varnish, of golden

hue—such are the characteristics of these productions of Steiner’s

third, or last epoch. Their labels, unlike those of his second period,

which are printed, bear his autograph inscription and signature.

The imitations of the instruments of Steiner by the brothers _Klotz_

have reference to his second epoch, and are distinguishable from his own

manufacture by the varnish, which, instead of being red, is of a dark

body, with a tinge of yellow. From the pupils of the Klotzes, likewise,

have resulted numerous Tyrolese imitations of the Cremona patterns—but

always discernible by the inferior quality of the wood, by the duskiness

of the varnish, and the want of clearness and power in the tone.

The high market-value borne by the best instruments of the best Italian

and Tyrolese makers, is a point well known to those who take a

particular interest in the violin. It has formed the subject of

admiration to all, of exultation to a few, and of disappointment to

many. The money that would buy a house, has been sometimes demanded for

a fiddle! The subjoined passage from Mr. Gardiner’s “Music and

Friends,” will serve (among other purposes) to illustrate in some

degree this exorbitancy:—

“Mr. Champion, an Amateur, had just purchased a Stradivari violin and

tenor (in one case), for which he gave three hundred guineas. They

seemed to have been untouched since the day they were made. They were of

a beautiful yellow colour, inclining to orange, and appeared to have

ripened and mellowed into excellence. Mr. Salomon’s violin was the

celebrated one that belonged to Corelli, with his name elegantly

embossed in large capital letters on the ribs. Probably three such

valuable Cremonas were never before brought together. There can be no

question that the instruments made by Stradivari are superior to those

of any other Maker in the world. Dragonetti’s double-bass was made by

the same artist. Mr. Salomon, the Jew, has offered him eight hundred

guineas for it; but he will not part with it for less than a thousand.”

As in their own country, so in others, the great Italian and German

Makers have had their “servum pecus,” their crowd of imitative

followers, who have sometimes copied with a plausible neatness, and

sometimes caricatured with a coarse barbarity. The most prominent names

in France are, successively, those of _Bocquay_, _Pierret_, _Despons_,

_Véron_, _Guersan_, _Castagnery_, _Saint-Paul_, _Salomon_, _Médard_,

_Lambert_ (whose rough and ready doings got for him the name of “_Le

Charpentier_ de la Lutherie”), _Saunier_, _Piete_ (whose instruments

were given as prizes to the pupils of the Paris Conservatory, at the

commencement of the present century)—and, lastly, _Lupot_, a studious

artist, whose instruments, finished with a loving care, have a real

value in the eyes of the discerning, and are in request where a good

Cremona is unattainable. For one of Lupot’s best instruments, an offer

equal to sixty guineas has been known to be refused.—Of the English

Constructors, a scanty knowledge limits me to a slender account.

_Richard Duke_, who belongs to the middle of the last century,

flourished in Red Lion Street, near Gray’s Inn Passage. The _Forsters_,

old and young, grandfather and grandson, have, in their department of

art, a name that lives. _Banks_, of Salisbury, also claims notice. His

violoncellos (observes Mr. Gardiner) are of the finest quality of

tone—not so strong and fiery as old Forster’s, but, in sweetness and

purity, excelling them. Banks’s are more adapted to the chamber, and

Forster’s to the orchestra. The names of _Betts_, _Davis_, _Corsby_,

_Kennedy_, and _Hart_ (all London Makers) are likewise entitled to

respect.

Although the great Italian and German Constructors, who have so long

served as models and guides, did unquestionably somehow arrive at

certain proportions highly favourable to the development of beautiful

sound, it does not appear that those proportions, observed (as they

were) with mathematical exactness, were founded upon any clearly

understood philosophic principles. “Until recently,” says Monsieur

Fétis, from whose ingenious labours are derived some of the details in

this chapter, “the art of making bowed instruments has perceptibly been

cultivated, in turn, by inspiration, and imitation. Science, as an

element, did not enter into their construction. We have now reached an

epoch of transformation in this respect, though perhaps rather, as yet,

in the way of establishing principles, than of attaining results.” Into

this subject, it behoves us to enter with some particularity.

At about the same time as that of the publication of Otto’s little book

in Germany, an ingenious Frenchman made known the results of some

experiments he had undertaken with reference to the _principles_ of

construction. _M. Chanot_, officer of maritime engineers, and amateur of

music, professed to have discovered a method for determining invariably

the processes to be employed in the construction of bow-played

instruments.

His views are contained in a Memorial addressed to the French Academy,

during its sitting of the 27th of May, 1817. This memorial was submitted

to the consideration of the musical section of the Academy, to whose

labours, in making the investigation required by the committee, were

added those of MM. Charles and De Prony.

The first part of this memorial advocated the division of the

_Monochord_, so as to split the interval between the key-note and its

octave into twelve equal semi-tones. The short algebraic formula

employed by M. Chanot was found correct. Thus, a violin with a

finger-board graduated after this method, like the finger-board of a

guitar, would be fit to accompany all instruments which make no

difference between the sharp and flat through the enharmonic division.

But the imperfection of these instruments precisely consists in this

equality: to confine the violin to the same limits, would therefore be

to deprive it of its superiority over them. The committee accordingly

disapproved of this innovation, and M. Chanot renounced it with

readiness.

The second and most important part of the memorial points out the

ordinary construction of the grooved violin, with a view to produce more

sonorous vibrations, or to multiply the vibrations in the fibres of the

wood, and to obtain, as an accessary, a greater degree of solidity in

the body of the instrument. Projecting edges and grooves were employed

in the new example, and the angles covered with hard wood, in order to

resist concussions. This simple form enables the maker to employ one

single piece for the side curvatures, and to dispense with the use of

blocks, which diminish the general elasticity. This construction was

considered favorable to the production of some vibrations which

otherwise would not exist. M. Chanot chiefly attributed the sonorous

quality, in the vibrations of his new violin, to the method of cutting

the sounding-board;—to the form of the parallel holes on each side,

which were made to approximate as closely as possible to the curvatures,

and were therefore straighter than what are called the _f_ holes:—to the

situation of the bar in the centre of the sounding-board, in the form of

a splint—and likewise to the geometrical cutting of the instrument.

In consequence of these supposed improvements, there were, in an equal

degree of thickness, many more vibrating fibres than usual, under the

immediate pressure of the bridge. To give to the holes of common violins

the form of the letter _f_, was regarded by M. Chanot as generally bad.

The turnings of this letter render it necessary to _cut_ a considerable

number of _fibres_, which no longer vibrate under the immediate pressure

of the bridge; whilst, in the _new_ violin, without augmenting the mass

of fibres, the parallel holes on the sides allowed the attainment of the

maximum of the vibrations.

The memorialist insisted on a certain simple principle, as having been

confirmed by various positive experiments; namely, that the _long_

fibres are favorable to the production of _low_ tones, and the shorter

fibres to the production of _high_ tones. This, he said, should be the

guiding principle in the construction of instruments such as the violin.

By fixing the sounding-post at the back of the bridge, the fibres of

the sounding-board are divided into two arcs, instead of being cut in

two on the side of the E string. This division is necessary, because,

the high tones being produced on that side, the bridge acts on the

shorter arcs like a small lever, whilst, on the side of the large

strings, the fibres are enabled to vibrate in the long arcs necessary to

produce low tones.

This explanation of the play or action of the instrument is rendered

probable by the experiment of placing the sounding-post behind the foot

of the bridge, on the side of the thicker strings. These, as well as the

E string, then exhibit a greatly diminished power of sound, and the tone

of the instrument is considerably damped. It was supposed, therefore,

that M. Chanot’s new model, from the fact of its possessing in its

texture a greater number of long arcs for producing deep tones, as well

as of short ones for high tones, must produce, under a parity of size

and principal dimensions, a more powerful effect than the violin of the

usual construction, and must be better calculated for the performance of

_sostenuto_ passages.

This theory, founded on principles _apparently_ satisfactory, received

such confirmation from direct experiment as was held, by the French

Committee, to establish the superiority of the structure of the _new_

violin over all others. The ordeal resorted to was a hazardous one.

Monsieur Boucher, the eminent player, was requested to bring to the

sitting one of the best _Straduarius_ instruments: and, to counteract

any effect unfavourable to impartiality of decision, that might arise

from the notorious prepossession existing for these fine violins, M.

Boucher stepped into an adjoining apartment, and there played

alternately the same passages on both instruments.

The whole committee, during three successive experiments, thought they

were listening to the Straduarius, whilst M. Boucher was playing on the

new violin, and, _vice versâ_, supposed he was playing on the new

instrument, when it was otherwise. This repeated mistake—this double

illusion—was considered by the Academy to decide the question in favour

of M. Chanot’s violin, which, though made of new wood, partly of two

years and partly of six months’ cut, sustained so perilous a competition

in the manner described.

Thus, the mystification of the “authorities” was complete—but not so the

ulterior success of the innovation, for it found no favour among the

musical profession, and soon became a thing of the past. It amounted, in

fact, to little more than a return to the old discarded viol shape of

the middle ages, with its flatness of face and back, and its less

indented outline.

A similar fate to that which attended M. Chanot’s attempt, followed the

first experiments of _M. Savart_, who soon afterwards devised, and with

his own hand executed, another example of new construction, on

principles which he considered philosophic. Flatness of surface, and

straightness of line, were by him also adopted, instead of the curve and

flow, which give beauty and distinction to the instrument in ordinary

use; while the cross-bar and sounding-post were altered in position, and

the two holes or perforations on the face were cut in straight parallel

lines, instead of the graceful _f_ form. A more perfect and equable

vibration was supposed by M. Savart to result from these new

arrangements, and success was claimed for the innovation; but an

interval of what seemed more like failure, was observed to take place,

until, abandoning his advocacy of an ugly, bluff, box-like pattern, and

returning to the beautiful and classic proportions of Straduarius, M.

Savart wisely entered into association with an intelligent practical

man, _Vuillaume_, of Paris, a musical instrument-maker. Then—the

long-studied and well-digested acoustic theories of the man of science

being brought into operation, and tested in experience, by the skilful

man of art, a brighter result was obtained—so much brighter, indeed,

that there seems little reasonable doubt of its being possible,

henceforward, to produce any required number of instruments, equal in

primitive merit to those of the great Italian Constructors, and only

awaiting the indispensable accession of _time_, for the consummation of

their value; nor are we much disposed to charge Monsieur Fétis with

madness, when, under a lively sense of what has been already achieved by

Savart and Vuillaume, he points exultingly to Paris, as the Cremona of

the nineteenth century!

Into those deductions, drawn from his study of the phenomena of sound,

which became to Savart the guiding principles towards the right

construction of bowed instruments, it were too long here to enter;—but

our English Makers would do well to look into those principles, as

detailed in the French scientific journal, “L’Institut”—and to consider

curiously the practical result, as shewn in the handywork of Vuillaume,

whose instruments, to the number of more than two thousand, have gone

forth into the world, to attest the value of the system that has guided

his operations.

The adventures of this indefatigable mechanician, in quest of _wood_ for

his purpose,—wood of sufficient age and capable of giving out the proper

_pitch_ of sound—might fill a chapter. He ransacked Switzerland,

entering into the meanest of her hovels, and buying-up the furniture or

the wood-work of the _châlets_, wherever he could detect in it the

right resonance, “les conditions d’une bonne sonorité.” He one day went

so far as to persuade the curate of a small parish to let him take away

the cieling of his sitting-room, and replace it by another. Making his

way back to Paris with his “strange-achievéd heap”—his wooden wealth—he

forthwith betook himself to the completion of certain machinery, by

means of which, as it is asserted, he is enabled to form and hollow out,

at will, a “belly” of Straduarius, of Guarnerius, of Amati, or of

Magini—with a nicety which the hand, at its very best, can never

accomplish. Resolved to omit nothing, he studied finally the varieties

of _varnish_, till he hit upon the exact reflex of that clear, bright,

most self-commendatory super-fusion, which we observe as the crowning

grace of the fine old instruments.

Of the marvellous accuracy, as a copyist of the old models, that was

attained years since by Vuillaume, there is amusing proof, in a story

related by M. Fétis, on the authority of the great Violinist himself,

who figures in it:—

“On his return-journey from a visit to England, Paganini, with dismay,

observed the case containing his admirable _Guarnerius_ to fall from the

roof of the diligence. The instrument had sustained manifest injury;—but

Vuillaume was in Paris; and Paganini, fixing on _him_ all his hopes,

entrusted his violin to him, on descending from the vehicle. The repairs

were made with all the care demanded by the beauty of the instrument,

and the immense talent of its owner. Every minutest trace of the

accident was obliterated—and that which had been the confidant of

Paganini’s inspirations was restored to its full charm and power. Whilst

yet the depositary of so excellent an instrument, Monsieur Vuillaume

was tempted by opportunity to make a copy of it—_such_ a copy as nobody

might distinguish from the original. On the day appointed for putting

the renowned performer again in possession of his instrument, Vuillaume

went to him, and, placing two violins on the table, thus addressed him:

“I have so completely succeeded in obliterating every vestige of the

accident sustained by your fiddle, as to be quite unable to distinguish

it from the _other_ Guarnerius, now beside it, which has been entrusted

to me, and which bears a striking resemblance to it. _You_, who are well

acquainted with your own instrument, will relieve me from this

embarrassment.” At these words, Paganini changed countenance—stood up in

haste—seized a fiddle with each hand—scrutinized and compared them

both—and was struck dumb by their perfect similitude. _One_ hope

remains;—he snatches up his bow—sends it dancing alternately over the

strings of the two instruments—draws prodigies from each. Instead of

dissipating his anxiety, this experiment does but increase it. He

strides about the room—his hands are clenched—his eyes are on fire!

Vuillaume’s triumph had reached its acme. “Compose yourself,” said

he,—“_here_ is your violin!—and _there_—is the _copy_ I have made of it.

Keep them _both_, as memorials of this adventure—and think, sometimes,

on the _restorer_ of your instrument!”

Fortunately, the probity of Monsieur Vuillaume is known to equal his

talent; _else_ were imitation, by so cunning an artificer, a very

ticklish thing. Instruments of his, in fact, _have_ been bought and

sold, by musical-instrument-makers themselves, as those of Straduarius,

or Guarnerius: law-proceedings have resulted; and Vuillaume’s own

invoked testimony has established, by certain undetected private marks,

that _he_ was the real author of the instruments in question.

The services rendered to the musical community by the successful labours

of Vuillaume, will be best appreciated by those who bear in mind the

commercial rarity of the genuine old instruments, and the difficult

prices at which it is usual to value them. Their acquisition, in fact,

belongs rigidly to the rich; and it often occurs that the best part of

an artist’s life has gone by, before his savings have enabled him to

possess that which is wanted for the full manifestation of his talent.

The substitutes presented by the hand of the modern Frenchman, bear a

price somewhat analogous to the modesty of merit itself. Of their real

value, the recent “Great Exhibition” in our metropolis gave connoisseurs

the opportunity to form some estimate; and the conclusion arrived at is

sufficiently denoted by the awarded gold medal. Specimens creditable to

the skill of our English Makers, though not resulting from the like

diligent investigation into principles, were also displayed on the

above-named grand occasion. The names of Betts, Purdy and Fendt, and

Simon Forster, occur in connection with these. Examples claiming notice

on the convenient score of _cheapness_, too, were not wanting among the

foreign instruments there exhibited. The best of these were from the

Tyrol—while others were of the workmanship of Mericourt, in the Vosges,

a place which has been denominated the _Manchester_ of musical

instrument-making—and not without some show of reason, seeing that, for

about four shillings, it supplies the fiddler with a complete

instrument, strings and bow included! In the way of “a bargain,” surely

nothing can beat _this_; unless, indeed, they were to throw in _the

case_!

The latest improvement attempted in construction, is, I understand, a

discovery patented by an American. It is designed to give greater

freedom to the _vibration_, by omitting the end (or top and bottom)

blocks, and substituting an extra bass-bar, which runs longitudinally in

contiguity to the back, but without touching it.

The possession of a good _bow_ may be readily conceived to be a matter

of no slight importance. With whatever reason the art of making violins

may be considered (with the exceptions noticed in this chapter) to have

declined since the days of the old makers, it is certain that the _bow_

has been altered much for the better: so much, indeed, as to seem hardly

susceptible of further improvement. The bows of Tourte, of Paris, have

acquired a European celebrity. Their superiority lies in their

diminished weight, with increased elasticity in the stick; in the

beautiful uniformity of their bend, which is so regulated as to cause

the nearest approach made by the stick to the hair to be exactly in the

middle, between the head and the nut; and in the very exact and finished

workmanship of the whole. Here, too, acknowledgment is due to the

ability of Vuillaume, who has contrived a bow in which two

inconveniences, attendant on the previous method, are remedied; so that

the hand of the performer is no longer disturbed by those variations in

the length, and consequently in the weight, of the stick, which arose

from the necessity of making the thumb to follow the shiftings of the

nut, whenever the bow was altered as to its tension; while the hair,

firmly fixed to a kind of cylindrical nippers, is so arranged as to form

a perfectly even surface throughout its length, and to be renewable by

the performer himself, when he may desire it.

Let me point the termination of this chapter with a bit of cautionary

advice, which, though it concerns bodies politic, invalids, and

picture-owners, is not the less suited to the possessors of valuable

instruments that require, through some casualty, the aid of a

restorative hand:—

BEWARE of _Vampers_!

If, in some unhappy, incautious moment, you confide your cherished

_Steiner_ or _Stradivari_ to the barbaric hands of one of these profane

pretenders, its recovery is hopeless—its constitution is gone!

CHAPTER X.

MISCELLANEOUS ANECDOTES, COLLECTED SCRAPS, ECCENTRIC VARIETIES, ETC.

“Quæ quibus ante-feram?”

_Characteristics of the Fiddle Species._—In the _variety_ of expression,

as well as in its _quality_, the violin has often been signalized for

its approximation to the human voice. The _finesse_ of perception of a

clever woman has discovered in that remarkable instrument, and its

ligneous family, a yet closer approach to human character. The ingenious

parallels which this lady has drawn are described by Monsieur Beyle, in

a passage which I here translate from his curious and amusing work on

Haydn and Mozart.—“In listening to the quartetts of Haydn, this lady

felt as if present at a conversation held by four agreeable persons. She

found in the _First Violin_ the semblance of a man of considerable

intelligence, of the middle time of life, an accomplished talker, and

equally capable of sustaining the conversation, as of furnishing the

subject of it. In the _Second Violin_, she recognized a _friend_ of the

First, who endeavoured by every possible method to draw out his

brilliant qualities,—was rarely occupied about _himself_,—and kept up

the discourse rather by his approbation of what fell from the others,

than by advancing any ideas of his own. The _Tenor_ was a solid,

profound, and sententious personage, who gave support to the remarks of

the First Violin, by maxims of a laconic turn, but of striking truth. As

for the _Violoncello_, ’twas a good woman, of a somewhat babbling

inclination, who said nothing to signify overmuch, but yet would not be

without her share in the conversation. She contributed a certain grace

to it, however, and, whilst she was talking, the other interlocutors got

time to breathe! One thing, with respect to her, was not difficult to

discover—namely, that she cherished a secret bias for the _Tenor_, and

gave him the preference over his instrumental brethren.”

If these comparisons should appear too fanciful, let it be remembered

that the subject is inviting, and might even be carried a good deal

further. We should only wonder that Monsieur Beyle’s clever female

friend, having contrived to make up so snug a little party, did not

still further develop their capabilities, and explain, “avec

circonstance,” the _matter_ of their amiable chit-chat. _Why_ she should

have chosen, by the by, to assign to the _Violoncello_ the feminine

gender, is by no means obvious. According to the general rules of

proportion, which govern sex, it would be otherwise. Perhaps the

creation of that instrument subsequently to the fiddle, as a help-mate

to it, may have suggested this notion to our speculatist; but,

_n’importe_; let us be content, rather than differ with a lady, to allow

personification under the softer sex to the instrument in question,

which may then figure characteristically, like one of Byron’s heroines,

as

“Somewhat large, and languishing, and lazy.”

Apropos of personification—a curious little pamphlet, of a dozen pages

only, but containing some ingenious turns of fancy, was printed by Dove,

in 1828, from the pen of a Mr. K——, a gentleman of refined taste in

various matters of art and literature. It is entitled, “Carluccio and

Signora Violina; a musical _jeu d’esprit_ for the benefit of Violinists,

in the manner of Lucian;” and it consists of a sort of dialogue between

a lover and his mistress—the latter being represented by the Violin. In

assigning the feminine gender to the instrument, the author thus

accounts for the innovation he has hazarded:—“We have _Viola_ in

Shakspeare, and _Viola_ in music. Why not, then, _Violina_—especially as

her voice is treble?”

Sit juvenis quondam, nunc fæmina.—_Virg._

To the foregoing hints on distinctive peculiarities among the Fiddle

tribe, I am tempted to add a few words about the two extremes that

constitute, respectively, the _giant_ and the _dwarf_ of the race;

namely, the _double-bass_ (or _contra-basso_) and the _kit_. The former

of these, then—the double-bass—is a fellow of imposing appearance, with

the weight and strength of an Ajax, and a voice that you might conceive

him to have borrowed from a thunder-cloud. In the assembled circle, he

is dogmatical, slow, and heavy; yet one is forced to confess that there

is a _depth_ in all he utters, and that what he wants in brilliancy, is

amply made up in profundity. He hears the _flourishes_ of those around

him, but seems to take little heed of them—and sometimes makes a solemn

pause, as if in meditation, while the rest are chattering away. His

manner, even when he perfectly _agrees_ with what is advanced by others,

has a bluffness in it, that is not _very_ unlike _dissent_. His

arguments are of the sledge-hammer kind, knocking down contradiction.

He is the Doctor Johnson of the society—he settles matters with a

_growl_. With all his surliness, however, he is a thoroughly good fellow

at bottom, and, as he is well-understood, and pretty much humoured, by

his associates, the general harmony is none the worse for his

presence—nay, rather, would be very sensibly subtracted from, were he

absent.—As for the _kit_, he is a pert little whipper-snapper, with a

voice as _uppish_ as his notions of _himself_, and a figure _any thing_

but _symmetrical_, since it is, at once, by an odd contrariety, stunted

in height, and lanky in appearance. He is hardly ever seen in the

company of his own kith and kin, his own fraternity of the larger

growth—for his vanity leads him to seek distinction on _any_

terms, and so he goes into dancing academies, or among family

step-hop-and-jump-learners, where he is a sort of cock-of-the-walk, and

where, to judge from the quaint and abruptly intermitted strains that

proceed from him, he seems to crow and chuckle at the absurdities of the

“awkward squad” whom he delights to set in motion. As he is prone to

imitation, and proud of his squeaking voice, you will sometimes hear him

mimic the style and accents of his bigger brethren, behind their backs;

but these attempts incline you only to a smile—which he mistakes for

approbation. On the whole, though tolerated, he is never respected. The

very person who _introduces_ him into such society as that just

mentioned, makes a mere convenience of him; but, because he is usually

carried thither in the _pocket_ of his introducer, he fancies himself,

forsooth, a prodigious pet! Was there ever such impudence?

If there be, by a strange possibility, any special admirers of the

Pigmy, who shall think him too sharply dealt with in the above sketch,

let them turn for comfort to Sir John Hawkins, in whose pages they will

find mention of a certain London dancing-master, named Pemberton, who

was so consummate a handler of the kit, as to be able to play entire

_solos_ on it, and to exhibit in his performance (so declares the

statement) _all_ the graces and elegancies of _the violin_, although

himself a man of the most corpulent make! Besides this consolatory

reference, let me hint to the affecters of the kit, that possibly the

classic term “lyra jocosa” might, without much violence, be appropriated

to the honour of their queer little favourite!

_A Caricature repudiated._—A correspondent of the _Harmonicon_, who has

played on the violin amusingly enough with his _pen_, but appears, from

sundry indicative points, to have been no _bowman_, has designated the

instrument as “a box, half beech, half fir, on which are stretched the

entrails of a cat,” and from which, sounds are drawn “with a few

horse-hairs,” and which, moreover, “cannot be held without a distortion

of the frame, and obliges us to assume an attitude so disagreeable to

the head, by the chin of which, it is held.”—This is a description

wherewith the true Amateur will hold no sympathy: he will regard it no

otherwise than with “hatefullest disrelish.” He will not fail to

remember, too, that it is the _sheep’s_ interior which is laid under

contribution, and _not_ the _cat’s_. Then, again, doubtless, the

depression of the chin _is_ sometimes the reverse of agreeable; but this

is an objection rarely in great force, except with those round-headed

gentlemen who have short chins. A little punchy man, with a broad,

baffling, double chin, cannot be great upon the fiddle—and should not

aim at it. It is the business of a perfect performer to have a _long_

chin—a chin whose inclination or “facilis descensus” amounts to a fixed

welcome towards the instrument, which it embraces with a continuity

that in no degree compromises the head. Such a chin is the fiddler’s

firm friend;—its holdfast properties entitle it, as fitly as the

virtuous man in Horace, to the appellation of “tenax propositi.” Such a

chin, for example, had Paganini.

_Ambition let down._—During the last year of Spagnoletti’s Saturnian

rule at the Opera-House, when the reins of leadership were somewhat

relaxed in the hands of that good senior, it chanced that one of his

subjects, scarcely less ambitious than was Jove of old, and equally

hopeful of his own succession, aspired prematurely to a position in the

orchestral realm as elevated as the throne of the great directing power.

In plainer language, a certain noted First Violinist, scarcely satisfied

with being second to the Leader, sought to magnify his importance by the

help of a stool that was considerably more _stilted_ in its proportions

than that occupied by his brethren of the band. Thus raised into notice,

he managed, with many flourishes of his bow-arm, to divide the public

attention with the Leader himself, and was enabled to look down on all

besides. But pride does not triumph thus to _the end_. Spagnoletti

himself, perhaps indisposed, through his then feebler condition, to

contend with usurpation, took no notice of this upstart proceeding; but

the members of the band, feeling it to be an indignity to their Leader,

still more than to themselves, took counsel together for the purpose of

putting it down. The expedient they hit upon was equally ingenious and

successful. One of the carpenters of the establishment had private

instructions to saw off a small bit from the lanky legs of the stool,

previously to each night’s sitting in the orchestra; and, by this

graduated system of reduction, or what musicians would term a “_sempre

diminuendo_,” the obnoxious pretender was “let down easy,” and brought

to a reasonable level. Thus, though not going down, in his own

estimation, he was much depressed, in the eyes of all beside. Whether he

thought it worth while, when he discovered his situation, to enquire how

it happened, is more than remains on record—but, if he did so, it is

easy to conceive the sort of vague reply by which his mystification

would be “made absolute.”

_A new resource in difficulty._—The following graphic sketch—a piece of

what our American brethren delight to designate as the _real grit_—is

from Colonel Crockett’s “Adventures in Texas:”—

“As we drew nigh to the Washita, the silence was broken alone by our own

talk and the clattering of our horses’ hoofs; and we imagined ourselves

pretty much the only travellers, when we were suddenly somewhat startled

by the sound of music. We checked our horses, and listened, and the

music continued. ‘What can all that mean?’ says I. We listened again,

and we now heard, ‘Hail, Columbia, happy land!’ played in first-rate

style. ‘That’s fine,’ says I. ‘Fine as silk, Colonel, and leetle finer,’

says the other; ‘but hark, the tune’s changed.’ We took another spell of

listening, and now the musician struck up, in a brisk and lively manner,

‘Over the water to Charley.’ ‘That’s mighty mysterious,’ says one;

‘Can’t cipher it out, no-how,’ says a third. ‘Then let us go ahead,’

says I, and off we dashed at a pretty rapid gait, I tell you—by no means

slow.

“As we approached the river, we saw, to the right of the road, a new

clearing on a hill, where several men were at work, and running down the

hill like wild Indians, or rather like the office-holders in pursuit of

the depositees. There appeared to be no time to be lost; so they ran,

and we cut ahead for the crossing. The music continued all this time

stronger and stronger, and the very notes appeared to speak distinctly,

‘Over the water to Charley!’

“When we reached the crossing, we were struck all of a heap at beholding

a man seated in a sulky, in the middle of the river, and playing for his

life on a fiddle. The horse was up to his middle in the water: and it

seemed as if the flimsy vehicle was ready to be swept away by the

current. Still the fiddler fiddled on composedly, as if his life had

been insured, and he was nothing more than a passenger! We thought he

was mad,—and shouted to him. He heard us, and stopped his music. ‘You

have missed the crossing,’ shouted one of the men from the clearing.—‘I

_know_ I have,’ returned the fiddler.—‘If you go ten feet farther, you

will be drowned.’—‘I _know_ I shall,’ returned the fiddler.—‘Turn back,’

said the man.—‘I _can’t_,’ said the other. ‘Then how will you _get

out_?’—‘I’m sure I _don’t know_.’

“The men from the clearing, who understood the river, took our horses,

and rode up to the sulky, and, after some difficulty, succeeded in

bringing the traveller safe to shore, when we recognised the worthy

_parson_ who had fiddled for us at the puppet-show at Little Rock. They

told him that he had had a narrow escape; and he replied, that he had

found that out an hour ago! He said he had been fiddling to the fishes

for a full hour, and had exhausted all the tunes that he could play

without notes. We then asked him what could have induced him to think of

fiddling at a time of such peril; and he replied, that he had remarked,

in his progress through life, that there was nothing in universal natur

so well calculated to draw people together, as the sound of a fiddle;

and he knew that he might bawl until he was hoarse for assistance, and

no one would stir a peg; but they would no sooner hear the scraping of

his catgut, than they would quit all other business, and come to the

spot in flocks.”

_A prejudice overcome._—Another story of a clergyman fond of fiddling—in

this instance, a Scotchman—is to be found in _Tait’s Magazine_.—“A

number of his parishioners considered it as quite derogatory to his

calling, that he should play upon the fiddle; so a deputation of them

waited upon him, and remonstrated against this _crying_ enormity. He

said—“Gentlemen, did you ever see my fiddle, or hear me

play?”—“No!”—“You shall do both,” said he; and immediately brought a

violoncello, on which he struck up a Psalm tone, asking if they had any

objection to join him with their voices. They complied; and, when all

was over, they expressed themselves perfectly satisfied of his

orthodoxy. “A muckle, respectable, _releegious_-sounding fiddle like

_that_, there was nae harm in. Na, na! it was nane o’ yer scandalous

penny-weddin’ fiddles that they had heard o’!”

It will not have been forgotten, by some of my readers, that the musical

propensities of the Rev. Charles Wesley were made a subject of stringent

comment by the poet Cowper, who pointed his remarks by the line—

“With wire and catgut he concludes the day.”

It is recorded, however (if I rightly remember), that the candid and

kind-hearted Cowper saw reason, afterwards, to alter his impressions on

that head, and to regret that he had reflected, with such freedom of

pen, on the harmless recreations of the earnestly pious minister.

——From the foregoing incidental references to men of the sacred

calling, we pass, by no violent transition, into the church-yard. On a

stone, in the porch at the southern entrance of the collegiate church,

Wolverhampton, is the following singular epitaph. “Near this place lies

Claudius Phillips, whose _absolute contempt of riches_, and _inimitable

performance upon the violin_, made him the admiration of all that knew

him. He was born in Wales, made the tour of Europe, and, after the

experience of _both_ kinds of fortune, died in 1733.”

Belonging to the same equivocal species of association with the grave,

and by no means to be commended for its admixture of the _quaint_ with

the solemn, is the following “musician’s epitaph,” from whence gotten, I

am unable to say:—

Ah! what avails, when wrapped in shroud and pall,

Who jigged, who fiddled, or who sang the best?

What are to _me_ the crotchets, quavers, all,

When I have found an everlasting _rest_?

_Fifty Years’ Fiddling._—“An interesting jubilee was lately kept here

(Mannheim). The scholars of our venerable Orchestra Director, M. Erasmus

Eisenmenger, now in his 70th year, met to celebrate the fiftieth year of

his life spent as an artist. It is worthy of remark that he played, in

the _same_ musical saloon, the _same_ concerto on the violin that he had

executed fifty years ago—as well as a double concerto of Viotti, which

he played with his pupil, Chapel-master Frey, with a spirit and vigour

quite wonderful at his age.” (_Harmonicon_, 1830.)—[The curious in

coincidences ought to be informed whether it was also the _same fiddle_,

as formerly, that was thus eloquent in the hands of the worthy old

gentleman.]

_Another fifty years of it!_—Teobaldo Gatti, a native of Florence, died

at Paris in 1727, at a very advanced age, after having been, for rather

more than half a century, a performer on the _bass-viol_ in the

orchestra of the Opera there. Is it possible to be more completely

identified with one’s instrument?

_Glory made out of Shame._—A stranger, visiting Greenwich Hospital, saw

a pensioner in a yellow coat, which is the punishment for disorderly

behaviour. Surprised at the singularity of the man’s appearance, he

asked him what it meant? “Oh, sir,” replied the fellow, “we who wear

yellow coats are the _music_, and it is I who play the _first fiddle_.”

(_Hawkins’s anecdotes._)

_Discrimination._—“Gentlemen,” said an auctioneer, addressing the

bargain-hunters by whom his sale-room was crammed—“the next lot is a

very fine-toned violin.”—“_A violin_, sir!” exclaimed his clerk, in

surprise—“You must have made some mistake, sir,—the next lot is _the

fiddle_!”

_The Cremona Fiddle._—Messrs. Schramm and Karstens, the principals of a

wealthy house of agency at Hamburg, were eager practitioners of the arts

of accumulation. In the month of May, 1794, their extensive warehouse

received the honour of a visit from an individual of unexceptionable

appearance and costume, who, after bargaining for a certain number of

ells of cloth, and ordering them to be cut off from the piece, found, on

examination of his purse, that his instant coin was somewhat short of

the sum required. He handed over, however, all the cash he had—took an

acknowledgment for it—ordered the cloth to be laid aside for him, and

arranged to return in a couple of hours with the balance of the money.

“By the by,” added he, “I may just as well leave with you this

_Cremona_, which is rather in my way, while I’m running about the town.

It is an instrument of particular value, for which I refused yesterday a

matter of 300 ducats: place it there in the corner, on the top of the

cloth, and it will be quite safe till my return.”

It happened, about an hour afterwards, that a handsome carriage stopped

at the door of Messrs. S. and K.’s warehouse. A personage, dressed with

the utmost attention to effect, and decorated with various knightly

insignia, alighted under an escort of three lacqueys in livery. Mons.

Schramm pressed forward to receive him, and conducted him into the

warehouse. His highness purchased several small articles, and, whilst

expressing his satisfaction at the arrangement and variety of the goods

before him, chanced to rest his eyes on the violin. Caught by its

appearance, he took it up, turned it over and over, contemplated it with

a kindling eye, and, calling forward one of his lacqueys, ordered him to

make trial of it. The domestic proceeded to do so in a masterly manner,

and drew forth sounds of such harmony as to bring together, by the ears,

a listening crowd of mute gapers at so extraordinary a virtuoso. Mons.

Schramm and the clerks were warmed up into an admiration far above the

commercial temperature; and the whole scene appeared to partake of

enchantment. Presently, motioning his domestic to stop, the great man

enquired of him, in the presence of all, what he thought of the

instrument, and what estimate he should incline to form of its value.

“Why, certainly,” said the livery-man, after a pause of examination, “if

your Excellency could make it your Excellency’s own for 500 ducats, I

should say that your Excellency would be in possession of the finest

Cremona fiddle in the world!” The man of distinction took Mons. Schramm

aside, and offered him 400: from that he ascended to 500; but the man of

commerce told the man of distinction that the instrument belonged to a

stranger, and explained the circumstances under which it had been left

there. “Now, mark me, Mons. Schramm,” said the great man; “if you can

secure me this violin, you shall not repent your having obliged me: do

your utmost to make the purchase for me, and go to 500 ducats, if

necessary; there’s my address, and I shall expect to see you at five,

with the fiddle and the account.”—Mons. Schramm, full of protestations

of his readiness to do all in his power, respectfully bows out his

visitor.

In an hour or two, the impatiently-expected owner of the instrument

makes his re-appearance, takes up his parcel and violin, and is about to

depart. “Stay, sir,” said Mons. Schramm, a little embarrassed—“one word

with you, if you please—would you feel inclined to s—, to sell that

violin? I could make you a good offer for it—say 350 ducats, cash.” The

proposition, however, is met by a short and dry answer in the negative,

and a renewed movement to depart. Mons. Schramm then offers him 360, and

so on, till in short, after considerable discussion, the stranger

consents to part with the object of solicitation,—but still as a matter

of regret,—for the sum of 470 ducats, and to give a receipt for 500. The

bargain is completed, and Mons. Schramm, receiving the fiddle with a

chuckle of delight, takes leave of the stranger with lavish civility.

Full of satisfaction at the idea of having made thirty ducats, and the

friendly acquaintance of a great man, Mons. Schramm, at the exact hour

of five, presented himself at the hotel of St. Petersburg, situated on

the Jungfernstieg. With the violin in his hand, and the receipt for 500

ducats in his pocket, he demanded to speak to his Excellency the Baron

De Strogonoff, Ambassador from Russia, to the Court of St. James’s—such

being the address given him in the morning by the gentleman with the

equipage. He was informed by the porter that he knew nothing of the said

nobleman, inasmuch as he had not come to their hotel. Mons. Schramm

hereupon insists and grows warm; the servants gather round, and the

dispute at length draws forth the master of the hotel, who pledges his

word, in positive terms, that the Ambassador in question is not at his

establishment! Enquiry is then made at all the large hotels in the

town—and, at all, the Baron De Strogonoff is unknown!

It was now high time for Mons. Schramm to consider himself as having

been played upon! As for the rogues, they had so well concerted their

measures, that all subsequent efforts to discover them proved abortive.

Mons. Schramm had full leisure for maledictions upon his own credulity

and ultra-commercial spirit; nor did he very speedily get rid of the

jests and gibes of his fellow-townsmen, at the piquant fact of his

having paid so handsome a sum, for a fiddle that was not worth much more

than a ducat!

_An apt Quotation._—The felicitous power of allusion which Dean Swift

had at his command, was never more pointedly shown, than in his seizure

of a line from Virgil, to _fit_ the circumstances of a certain domestic

disaster. Relating from memory, I give but the outline of the story. A

lady’s gown (or _mantua_) accidentally caught fire, and damaged a

gentleman’s fiddle, which was lying unfortunately near it. The Dean,

either witnessing the accident, or informed of it, exclaimed

pathetically,

“_Mantua_, væ! miseræ nimiùm vicina _Cremonæ_!”

_The “Leading Instrument” victorious._—Anseaume, a French gentleman, of

very limited income, hired a small house at Bagnolet, and invited his

friends once or twice a-week to come and amuse themselves there. On

these occasions, each brought some provisions: one, wine; another, cold

meat; another, patties; another, game. It unluckily happened that

Anseaume, as absent in mind as straitened in his finances, had

forgotten, for a whole year, to pay his rent. The landlord made a

descent upon him, precisely on the day when his friends Collé, Panard,

Piron, Gillet, the painter Watteau, the musician Degueville, and other

epicures, had assembled there. These gentlemen, according to custom, had

brought plenty of provender, but no money; and the landlord imperiously

demanded his rent of two hundred crowns. What was to be done, in order

to assist their friend? They immediately set about cooking the meat and

poultry; they levied contributions on the fruit and vegetables of the

gardens; Watteau drew a beautiful and inviting sign, and Degueville

borrowed a _violin_ of the parish beadle; in short, they got up a

_cabaret_ and _fête Champêtre_. The appearance of these new cooks, who

served their customers in habits of embroidered velvet, with swords by

their sides, had a curious effect, and greatly diverted the company,

which was so numerous, that the receipts amounted to five hundred

crowns! Anseaume paid his landlord, and his distress was converted into

joy and gladness. But now a question arose, that was discussed with no

small earnestness and interest:—To which of his guests was the host most

indebted? Those who played the part of cooks, declared that, without

their labours, there would have been nothing for the public to eat;

Watteau laid no little stress on the invitation held out by his sign;

and Degueville insisted that, without his music, the people’s attention

would not have been drawn to the sign; and that, even if they had

noticed it, and come in, there would have been no mirth and spirit,

little eaten, and that little scantily and reluctantly paid for. The

dispute began to grow warm, when Degueville seized the violin, played

them all into good humour, and was, at length, allowed to be the victor!

_Sending for Time-Keepers._—In treating of the importance of adjusting

the time of a composition to the sentiment and intention of the author,

it is stated by Kandler, an able German writer, that Haydn was so

offended at the rude and hurried manner in which he found his music

driven by us English, when he first visited our country, as to send for

the family of the Moralts from Vienna, to shew the Londoners the time

and expression with which he intended his quartetts to be

played.—Kiesewetter also, in leading Beethoven’s symphonies at the

Philharmonic Concert (although himself a performer who particularly

shone in rapid playing), is said to have insisted upon their being

executed more slowly than that orchestra had been accustomed to perform

them.

_Musical Exaction._—A rich, but penurious personage, who somehow aspired

to be thought a man of _taste_, was resolved, on one occasion, to make

exhibition of this quality, by giving to his friends an entertainment of

instrumental music. While the musicians were all at work, he seemed

satisfied with the performance—but when the principal Violin came to be

engaged upon an incidental solo, he enquired, in a towering passion, why

the others were remaining _idle_? “It is a _pizzicato_ for one

instrument,” replied the operator. “I can’t help that,” exclaimed the

virtuoso, who was determined to have the worth of his money—“Let the

trumpets _pizzicato_ along with you!”—This hopeful amateur may serve to

recall the not unfamiliar anecdote about old Jacob Astley, of

“horse-theatre” celebrity, who observed a violinist in his band to be in

a state of temporary cessation from playing, during the continued

activity of the others, and asked him what he _meant_ by it. “Why, sir,

here’s a _rest_ marked in my part—a rest of several bars.”—“_Rest!_”

shouted Astley (who had always a great horror of being imposed upon),

“don’t tell me about _rest_, sir. I pay you to come here and _play_,

sir, and not to _rest_!”

_A Device for a Dinner._—Doctor Arne once went to Cannons, the seat of

the late Duke of Chandos, to assist at the performance of an oratorio in

the Chapel of Whitchurch, but such was the throng of company, that no

provisions were to be procured at the Duke’s house. On going to the

Chandos Arms, in the town of Edgeware, the Doctor made his way into the

kitchen, where he found only a leg of mutton on the spit. This, the

waiter informed him, was bespoken by a party of gentlemen. The Doctor

(rubbing his elbow—his usual habit) exclaimed, “I’ll have that

mutton—give me a _fiddle-string_.” He took the fiddle-string, cut it in

pieces, and, privately sprinkling it over the mutton, walked out of the

kitchen. Then, waiting very patiently till the waiter had served it up,

he heard one of the gentlemen exclaim—“Waiter! this meat is full of

_maggots_: take it away!” This was what the Doctor expected.—“Here, give

it _me_.”—“O, sir,” says the waiter, “you can’t eat it—’tis full of

maggots.”—“Nay, never mind,” cries the Doctor, “fiddlers have strong

stomachs.” So, bearing it away, and scraping off the catgut, he got a

hearty dinner.

_A “Practising” Coachman._—Too true it is that Nature has not gifted all

mortals with a taste for music. Shakspeare tells us that the man who

hath not music in his soul is fit for “broils;” and the Duchess of

Ragusa appears to have inclined to his opinion, if we may judge from an

occurrence in which she was concerned some years since. Finding herself

offended that the coachman of a certain Miss Ozenne, her neighbour,

should practise the violin too much in the vicinity of her ducal ears,

she summoned the lady, the coachman, and the violin, before the

_Tribunal de Police_, for making a “tapage injurieux et nocturne.” In

vain the lady pleaded the right of her domestics to make musicians of

themselves, if they could: the Duchess declared it was done solely and

purely for her annoyance; the _Commissaire du Quartier_ declared that

the noise consisted of “sons aigus, bruyans, et dissonans;” and Miss

Ozenne was condemned to be imprisoned one day, and to be fined to the

amount of ten shillings.—(_New Monthly Magazine._)

_A Footman, to match._—“The following curiously illustrative anecdote

may be relied on. A few days since, a footman went into Mori’s

music-shop to buy a fiddle-string. While he was making his choice, a

gentleman entered the shop, and began to examine various compositions

for the violin. Among the rest, he found Paganini’s celebrated

“Merveille—_Duo_ pour un _seul_ Violon,” and, perceiving the

difficulties in which it abounded, asked the shopman if he thought that

Mori himself could play it. The young man, a little perplexed, and

unwilling to imply that his master’s powers had any limit, replied that

he had no doubt he could perform it, _provided_ he practised it for _a

week_; upon which the footman, who stood intent on the conversation,

broke in on the discourse, and swore that Mori could do no such thing,

for that he himself had been practising the piece for _three weeks_, and

could not play it yet!”—(_Harmonicon_, _May, 1830_.)

_A Royal “Whereabout.”_—Salomon, who gave some lessons on the violin to

George the Third, said one day to his august pupil, “Fiddlers may be

divided into three classes: to the _first_ belong those who cannot play

_at all_; to the _second_, those who play _badly_; and to the third,

those who play _well_. You, Sire, have already reached the _second_.”

_Precocious Performers._—The violin, in the hands of _children_, has

been often rendered the theme of astonishment. In the foregoing pages,

many instances have been given of eminent players, whose powerful

maturity was prefigured, in the display of genius made in their tender

youth. Many blossoms there are, however, which _never_ pay their promise

afterwards in fruit; and many an “acute juvenal, voluble and full of

grace,” has made early flourishes on the fiddle, that have led to

nothing of value in his fuller years. Apropos of this too commonly

observable disproportion, a French writer has the following epigram:—

SUR LES PRODIGES À LA MODE.

Plus merveilleux que nos ancêtres,

Ou peut-être plus singuliers,

A dix ans nous avons des maîtres,

Qui sont à vingt des écoliers!

Which may be thus freely paraphrased:—

Our’s is an age of wonders;—we behold

Precocious prodigies, in passing plenty:

We have our _masters_, now, at ten years old,—

But then—they sink to _scholars_, when they’re twenty!

The Germans have an expressive denomination for these very early and

forced exhibitants. They style them _wunderkind_, or wonder-children.

After hearing some violin variations rattled through at a Vienna Concert

by a six-year old performer, son of a M. Birnbach, a prognosticator was

heard to say, with a gravity that scarcely seemed unreasonable: “Well! I

foresee that, before many years are passed, we shall have a symphony of

Haydn’s performed by babes in swaddling-clothes!”

As a matter of curiosity, I will here subjoin a few records of early

feats, without attempting to distinguish those which may belong simply

to the class of _wunder-kinde_.

Weichsel, the brother of Mrs. Billington, played in public with his

sister, when she was _six_ years old, and himself a year older—their

instruments being the violin and the pianoforte.—Balfe, the singer and

composer, made a kind of _début_ as a juvenile violin-player (according

to the _Harmonicon_) at a theatrical benefit.—Two Hungarian boys, of the

name of Ebner, one ten and the other eleven, played some of Mayseder’s

difficult variations at a Concert at Berlin, in 1823.—A boy of twelve

years of age, named Khayll, pupil of Jansa, introduced by Moscheles at a

Concert at Vienna in 1827, played some admirable variations on the

violin, in which he displayed an ease and solidity far beyond his years,

and a great knowledge of his instrument.—At Limberg, in 1831,

Apollinarino Conski, _five_ years old, surprised all hearers by his

execution of a concerto of Maurer’s; and the son of this last-named

Artist, at the age of twelve, performed in the same year some of

Mayseder’s variations, at his father’s Concerts at Berlin.

At Stutgardt, in 1831, the brothers Eickhorn, the elder _nine_, and the

younger _seven_ years of age, gave a Concert at one of the saloons, and

astonished not only the public in general, but the connoisseurs, by

their early proficiency on that most difficult of instruments here under

notice. The elder played variations by Mayseder and Rode, and a

potpourri with his younger brother, composed by Jacobi—and some

variations of Kummer’s.

In various towns of Switzerland, during the same year, the four brothers

Koella, of Zurich, gave Concerts with great success. These boys were

then respectively twelve, ten, nine, and seven years of age—“small by

degrees, and beautifully less.” The elder played the violin and

violoncello with great spirit and power; the third was a good

tenor-player; and the youngest executed concertos of Viotti’s! Their

quartett-playing, however, was their strongest point.

Dr. Crotch, when about _five_ years old, was capable of fiddling, and

after a fashion, too, by no means common to others—that is to say,

_left-handed_.

_Fiddlers’ Tricks._—In 1731, a Concert was announced at Hickford’s room,

for the benefit of Signor Castrucci, _first violin of the Opera_, who,

as the advertisement stated, was to play, amongst other pieces, a solo,

in which he would execute “_twenty-four_” notes with one bow.” On the

following day, this advertisement was burlesqued by another, in which

was promised a solo by the _last violin of Goodman’s Fields’ Playhouse_,

who would perform _twenty-five_ notes with one bow. Such a feat as

either of these, would, in our own days, be nothing at all.

A Signor Angelo Casirola, of Tortona, mystified the good people of

Milan, in 1825, by playing the _reverse_ way—that is, playing with _a

fiddle_ upon _a bow_! His plan was to fasten the bow in an upright

position upon a table, and play upon it with the violin, according to

the best manner in which he could manage to “rub on.” The effect was

unpleasing, both to ear and eye. Another of his tricks was a _sonata

scherzosa_, for which he had two violins _fixed_, with the heads screwed

on a table, and then worked away right and left, with a bow in each

hand, accompanied by a full orchestra. He fooled his audience to the top

of their bent, and was applauded to the very echo! It might assist the

gratification of the gapers after novelty, if the thaumaturgist,

operating with his left hand, as usual, on the finger-board of his

instrument, were to have the _bow_ held and worked by _another person_.

The Chinese flutists have done something like this in _principle_—one

blowing the flute which another has played on! More wonderful still—at

some entertainments given by their Emperor, two musicians played

together the same air, each having one hand on his own flute, and the

other on that of his companion!

At Munich, in 1827, M. Féréol Mazas raised a public astonishment

somewhat akin to that created in London more recently by Paganini, as an

operator on _one string_: and, indeed, all the more _obvious_

peculiarities in the performance of the great Italian artist—those

pertaining to mechanical dexterity—have been copied, more or less

successfully. Assuming to be “the English Paganini,” a certain

individual, of no distinction at that time as a legitimate player, was

particularly prominent in this business of imitation. He presented,

sooth to say, but a soul-less exhibition, having some of the externals

of similitude, indeed, but none of that which “passeth _show_.” Upon the

auditors scraped together, however, his “ad captandum” tricks appeared

to tell abundantly—more especially when he worked with his left hand the

pizzicato accompaniment to the bowed passages; when he brought out some

harmonics from _below_, instead of _above_, the finger-stops; when (by

way of going _beyond_ Paganini) he thrust the instrument between the

hair and stick of the relaxed bow, and thus played on the strings with

the _inner_ hair: and, above all, when he placed the bow between his

knees, and, taking the fiddle in both hands, rubbed the strings against

it, so as to execute some difficulties of which a judicious observer

might have well regretted the possibility! One of the least pardonable

of the faults attending this display, was that his instrument did not

always _tell the truth_: in other words, its intonation was sometimes

false.

ECCENTRIC VARIETIES OF THE VIOLIN KIND.

_The Fiddle of Iceland._—“Sir Joseph Banks and Dr. Solander, when they

visited this island in 1773, brought thence a very ancient musical

instrument, of a long and narrow form, which used to be played on with a

bow; and of which they did me the honour to make me a present. It is

called by the natives the _Long-Spiel_, and has four strings of copper,

one of which is used as a drone. Pieces of wood are placed at different

distances upon the finger-board, to serve as frets. Though this

individual instrument has the appearance of great antiquity, yet, rude

and clumsy as it is, there can be no doubt but that it was still more

imperfect in its first invention: for, to have placed these frets,

implies some small degree of meditation, experience, and a scale; and as

to the bow, that wonderful engine! which the ancients, with all their

diligence and musical refinements, had never been able to discover, it

seems, from this instrument, to have been known in Iceland at least as

early as in any other part of Europe. Sir Joseph Banks and Dr. Solander,

when they found the _Long-Spiel_ on the island, had very great

difficulty in discovering a person among the inhabitants who either

could, or would dare to play on it. At length a wicked Icelander was

found, who, being rendered more courageous and liberal than the rest, by

a few glasses of generous gin, ventured, in secret, to exhilarate these

philosophers ... with a psalm-tune.”—_Burney’s Hist. of Music_, v. iii,

p. 40, 41.

_Fiddle of Tartary._—The Tartars have an instrument peculiar to

themselves, which they denominate a _koba_. It is a _kind_ of violin,

half open at the top, in shape somewhat resembling a boat, having two

hair-strings, which are swept with a bow, the notes being stopped by the

fingers of the left hand, as in performing on the recognized violin.