"MY DEAR SIR,—
"Your letter of yesterday needs no apology, as it will afford me pleasure at any time to give you any information in my power respecting the late Signor Dragonetti, having known him well from 1796 to his death.
"His celebrated Gasparo da Salò instrument, or Contra-Basso, was left by his will to the Fabbricieri (or churchwardens) for the time being of the Church of St. Mark's, at Venice, to be played upon only on festivals and grand occasions. I was present on one of such festivals, which lasted three days, in July, 1852. I then saw the Basso, which was played on in Orchestra No. 1, there having been two bands for which music had been composed expressly.
"In April, 1875, being again in Venice, I inquired from the Verger of St. Mark's if Dragonetti's Violone was in the church, and I could see it. The reply was in the affirmative, but as the Fabbricieri had the care of the instrument, under lock and key, it would be necessary to see them and get their consent for its production. As this would cause me some little trouble, I left Venice without carrying out my intention.
"Dragonetti by his will left me his Amati Double-Bass, which is now in this house, and I believe the only one of that make in England, and consequently highly prized by
"Mr. Hart."
The Bibliophile tells us of Caxton, Aldine, and Baskerville editions having been exposed for sale by itinerant booksellers, men who in opening their umbrellas opened their shops. Collectors of pictures, china, and Fiddles, have each their wondrous tales to tell of bygone bargains, which are but the echoes of that of the Bibliophile. It is doubtful, however, were we to search throughout the curiosities of art sales, whether we should discover such a bargain as Mr. Betts secured, when he purchased the magnificent Stradivari which bears his name, for twenty shillings. About half a century since, this instrument was taken to the shop of Messrs. Betts, the well-known English Violin-makers in the old Royal Exchange, and disposed of for the trivial sum above-mentioned. Doubtless its owner believed he was selling a brand-new copy, instead of a "Stradivari" made in 1704, in a state of perfection. Frequently importuned to sell the instrument, Mr. Betts persistently declined, though it is recorded in Sandys and Foster's work on the Violin, that five hundred guineas were tendered more than once, which in those days must have been a tempting offer indeed! Under the will of Mr. Betts it passed to his family, who for years retained possession of it.
About the year 1858 it became the property of M. Vuillaume, of Paris, from whom it was purchased by M. Wilmotte, of Antwerp. Several years later it passed to Mr. C. G. Meier, who had waited patiently for years to become its owner. The loving care which this admirer of Cremonese Violins bestowed upon it was such, that he would scarcely permit any person to handle it. From Mr. Meier it passed into my possession in the year 1878, which change of ownership brought forth the following interesting particulars from the pen of the late Charles Reade, the novelist and lover of Fiddles:—
"SIR,—As you have devoted a paragraph to this Violin, which it well deserves, permit me to add a fact which may be interesting to amateurs, and to Mr. George Hart, the late purchaser. M. Vuillaume, who could not speak English, was always assisted in his London purchases by the late John Lott, an excellent workman, and a good judge of old Violins.13 The day after this particular purchase, Lott came to Vuillaume, by order, to open the Violin. He did so in the sitting-room whilst Vuillaume was dressing. Lott's first words were, 'Why, it has never been opened!' His next, 'Here's the original bass-bar.' Thereupon out went M. Vuillaume, half-dressed, and the pair gloated over a rare sight, a Stradivari Violin, the interior of which was intact from the maker's hands. Mr. Lott described the bass-bar to me. It was very low and very short, and quite unequal to support the tension of the strings at our concert pitch, so that the true tone of this Violin can never have been heard in England before it fell into Vuillaume's hands. I have known this Violin forty years. It is wonderfully preserved. There is no wear on the belly except the chin-mark; in the centre of the back a very little, just enough to give light and shade. The corners appear long for the epoch, but only because they have not been worn down. As far as the work goes, you may know from this instrument how a brand-new Stradivari Violin looked. Eight hundred guineas seems a long price for a dealer to give: but after all, here is a Violin, a picture, and a miracle all in one; and big diamonds increase in number; but these spoils of time are limited for ever now, and, indeed, can only decrease by shipwreck, accident, and the tooth of time.—I am, your obedient servant,
"19, ALBERT GATE, May 9, 1878."
13 The hero of Mr. Read's "Jack of All Trades, a Matter-of-fact Romance."
"'I projected,' says Leigh Hunt, 'a poem to be called "A Day with the Reader." I proposed to invite the reader to breakfast, dine and sup with me, partly at home, and partly at a country inn, to vary the circumstances. It was to be written both gravely and gaily; in an exalted, or in a lowly strain, according to the topics of which it treated. The fragment on Paganini was a part of the exordium:—
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"So played of late to every passing thought, With finest change (might I but half as well So write!) the pale magician of the bow," &c. |
I wished to write in the same manner, because Paganini with his Violin could move both the tears and the laughter of his audience, and (as I have described him doing in the verses) would now give you the notes of birds in trees, and even hens feeding in a farmyard (which was a corner into which I meant to take my companion), and now melt you into grief and pity, or mystify you with witchcraft, or put you into a state of lofty triumph like a conqueror. The phrase of smiting the chord—
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"He smote; and clinging to the serious chords With godlike ravishment," &c. |
was no classical commonplace; nor, in respect to impression on the mind, was it exaggeration to say, that from a single chord he would fetch out—
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"The voice of quires, and weight Of the built organ." |
Paganini, the first time I saw and heard him, and the first time he struck a note, seemed literally to strike it—to give it a blow. The house was so crammed, that being among the squeezers in the standing-room at the side of the pit, I happened to catch the first glance of his face through the arm a-kimbo of a man who was perched up before me, which made a kind of frame for it; and there on the stage, in that frame, as through a perspective glass, were the face, bust, and the raised hand of the wonderful musician, with the instrument at his chin, just going to commence, and looking exactly as I have described him.
"'To show the depth and identicalness of the impression which he made upon everybody, foreign or native, an Italian who stood near me said to himself, after a sigh, "O Dio!" and this had not been said long when another person, in the same manner, uttered "O Christ!" Musicians pressed forward from behind the scenes to get as close to him as possible; and they could not sleep at night for thinking of him.'"—Timbs's Anecdote Biography.
"I wish I were a poet; you should have a description of all this in verse, and welcome. But if I were a musician! Let us see what we should do as musicians. First, you should hear the distant sound of a bugle, which sound should float away; that is one of the heralds of the morning, flying southward. Then another should issue from the eastern gates; and now the grand réveille should grow, sweep past your ears (like the wind aforesaid), go on, dying as it goes. When, as it dies, my stringed instruments come in. These to the left of the orchestra break into a soft slow movement, the music swaying drowsily from side to side, as it were, with a noise like the rustling of boughs. It must not be much of a noise, however, for my stringed instruments to the right have begun the very song of the morning. The bows tremble upon the strings, like the limbs of a dancer, who, a-tiptoe, prepares to bound into her ecstasy of motion. Away! The song soars into the air as if it had the wings of a kite. Here swooping, there swooping, wheeling upward, falling suddenly, checked, poised for a moment on quivering wings, and again away. It is waltz-time, and you hear the Hours dancing to it. Then the horns. Their melody overflows into the air richly, like honey of Hybla; it wafts down in lazy gusts, like the scent of the thyme from that hill. So my stringed instruments to the left cease rustling; listen a little while; catch the music of those others, and follow it. Now for the rising of the lark! Henceforward it is a chorus, and he is the leader thereof. Heaven and earth agree to follow him. I have a part for the brooks—their notes drop, drop, drop, like his: for the woods—they sob like him. At length, nothing remains but to blow the Hautboys; and just as the chorus arrives at its fulness, they come maundering in. They have a sweet old blundering 'cow song' to themselves—a silly thing, made of the echoes of all pastoral sounds. There's a warbling waggoner in it, and his team jingling their bells. There's a shepherd driving his flock from the fold, bleating; and the lowing of cattle. Down falls the lark like a stone; it is time he looked for grubs. Then the Hautboys go out, gradually; for the waggoner is far on his road to market; sheep cease to bleat and cattle to low, one by one; they are on their grazing ground, and the business of the day is begun. Last of all, the heavenly music sweeps away to waken more westering lands, over the Atlantic and its whitening sails."—"An Essay without End."
In the pages of the Tatler (April, 1710), Addison with much ingenuity and humour personifies certain musical instruments. He says: "I have often imagined to myself that different talents in discourse might be shadowed out after the same manner by different kinds of music; and that the several conversable parts of mankind in this great city might be cast into proper characters and divisions, as they resemble several instruments that are in use among the masters of harmony. Of these, therefore, in their order; and first of the Drum.
"Your Drums are the blusterers in conversation, that with a loud laugh, unnatural mirth, and a torrent of noise, domineer in public assemblies; overbear men of sense; stun their companions; and fill the place they are in with a rattling sound, that hath seldom any wit, humour, or good breeding in it. I need not observe that the emptiness of the Drum very much contributes to its noise.
"The Lute is a character directly opposite to the Drum, that sounds very finely by itself. A Lute is seldom heard in a company of more than five, whereas a Drum will show itself to advantage in an assembly of five hundred. The Lutenists, therefore, are men of a fine genius, uncommon reflection, great affability, and esteemed chiefly by persons of a good taste, who are the only proper judges of so delightful and soft a melody.
"Violins are the lively, forward, importunate wits, that distinguish themselves by the flourishes of imagination, sharpness of repartee, glances of satire, and bear away the upper part in every consort. I cannot but observe, that when a man is not disposed to hear music, there is not a more disagreeable sound in harmony than that of a Violin.
"There is another musical instrument, which is more frequent in this nation than any other; I mean your Bass-Viol, which grumbles in the bottom of the consort, and with a surly masculine sound strengthens the harmony and tempers the sweetness of the several instruments that play along with it. The Bass-Viol is an instrument of a quite different nature to the Trumpet, and may signify men of rough sense and unpolished parts, who do not love to hear themselves talk, but sometimes break out with an agreeable bluntness, unexpected wit, and surly pleasantries, to the no small diversion of their friends and companions. In short, I look upon every sensible, true-born Briton to be naturally a Bass-Viol."
"Demi-Semiquaver to Launcelot Langstaff, Esq.
"SIR,—I felt myself hurt and offended by Mr. Evergreen's terrible philippic against modern music in No. 11 of your work, and was under serious apprehension that his strictures might bring the art, which I have the honour to profess, into contempt. So far, sir, from agreeing with Mr. Evergreen in thinking that all modern music is but the mere dregs and drainings of the ancient, I trust before this letter is concluded I shall convince you and him that some of the late professors of this enchanting art have completely distanced the paltry efforts of the ancients; and that I, in particular, have at length brought it almost to absolute perfection.
"The Greeks, simple souls, were astonished at the powers of Orpheus, who made the woods and rocks dance to his lyre—of Amphion, who converted crotchets into bricks, and quavers into mortar—and of Arion, who won upon the compassion of the fishes. In the fervency of admiration, their poets fabled that Apollo had lent them his lyre, and inspired them with his own spirit of harmony. What then would they have said had they witnessed the wonderful effects of my skill?—had they heard me, in the compass of a single piece, describe in glowing notes one of the most sublime operations of nature, and not only make inanimate objects dance, but even speak; and not only speak, but speak in strains of exquisite harmony?
"I think, sir, I may venture to say there is not a sound in the whole compass of nature which I cannot imitate, and even improve upon;—nay, what I consider the perfection of my art, I have discovered a method of expressing, in the most striking manner, that indefinable, indescribable silence which accompanies the falling of snow."
[Our author describes in detail the different movements of a grand piece, which he names the "Breaking up of the ice in the North River," and tells us that the "ice running against Polopay's Island with a terrible crash," is represented by a fierce fellow travelling with his Fiddle-stick over a huge Bass-Viol at the rate of 150 bars a minute, and tearing the music to rags—this being what is called execution.]
"Thus, sir, you perceive what wonderful powers of expression have hitherto been locked up in this enchanting art. A whole history is here told without the aid of speech or writing; and provided the hearer is in the least acquainted with music, he cannot mistake a single note. As to the blowing up of the powder-bank, I look upon it as a chef d'oeuvre which I am confident will delight all modern amateurs, who very properly estimate music in proportion to the noise it makes, and delight in thundering cannon and earthquakes.
"In my warm anticipations of future improvement, I have sometimes almost convinced myself that music will in time be brought to such a climax of perfection as to supersede the necessity of speech and writing, and every kind of social intercourse be conducted by the Flute and Fiddle. The immense benefits that will result from this improvement, must be plain to every man of the least consideration. In the present unhappy situation of mortals a man has but one way of making himself understood: if he loses his speech he must inevitably be dumb all the rest of his life; but having once learned this new musical language, the loss of speech will be a mere trifle, not worth a moment's uneasiness. This manner of discussing may also, I think, be introduced with great effect into our National Assemblies, where every man, instead of wagging his tongue, should be obliged to flourish a Fiddle-stick; by which means, if he said nothing to the purpose, he would at all events 'discourse most eloquent music,' which is more than can be said of them at present.
"But the most important result of this discovery is, that it may be applied to the establishment of that great desideratum in the learned world—a universal language. Wherever this science of music is cultivated, nothing more will be necessary than a knowledge of its alphabet, which, being almost the same everywhere, will amount to a universal medium of communication. A man may thus—with his Violin under his arm, a piece of resin, and a few bundles of catgut—fiddle his way through the world, and never be at a loss to make himself understood.—I am, &c.,
"Shortly before my leaving Brunswick I had a case made worthy of the splendid Violin I had brought from Russia, viz., a very elegant one; and in order to protect this from injury, I had packed it up in my trunk, between my linen and clothes. I therefore took care that this, which contained my whole estate, should be carefully fastened behind the carriage with cords. But, notwithstanding, I thought it necessary to look out frequently, particularly as the driver told me several trunks had been cut down from behind carriages. As the carriage had no window at the back, this continual looking out was a very troublesome business, and I was therefore very glad when, towards evening, we arrived between the gardens of Göttingen, and I had convinced myself for the last time that the trunk was still in its place. Delighted that I had brought it so far in safety, I remarked to my fellow-traveller: 'My first care shall now be to procure a good strong chain and padlock, for the better security of the trunk.'
"In this manner we arrived at the town gate, just as they were lighting the lamps. The carriage drew up before the guard-house. While Beneke gave our names to the sergeant, I anxiously asked one of the soldiers who stood round the carriage, 'Is the trunk still secured?' 'There is no trunk there,' was the reply. With one bound I was out of the carriage, and rushed out through the gate with a drawn hunting-knife. Had I with more reflection listened awhile, I might perhaps have been fortunate enough to hear and overtake the thieves running off by some side-path. But in my blind rage I had far overshot the place where I had last seen the trunk, and only discovered my over-haste when I found myself in the open field. Inconsolable for my loss, I turned back. While my fellow-traveller looked for the inn, I hastened to the police-office and requested that an immediate search might be made in the garden houses outside the gate. To my astonishment and vexation I was informed that the jurisdiction outside the gate belonged to Weende, and that I must address my request there. As Weende was half a league from Göttingen, I was compelled to abandon for that evening all further steps for the recovery of my Guarneri. I passed a sleepless night, in a state of mind such as, in my hitherto fortunate career, had been wholly unknown to me. Had I not lost my splendid Guarneri, the exponent of all the artistic excellence I had till then attained, I could have lightly borne the loss of the rest. On the following morning the police sent to inform me that an empty trunk and a Violin-case had been found in the fields behind the gardens. Full of joy I hastened thither, in the hope that the thieves might have left the Violin in the case, as an object of no value to them; but, unfortunately, it did not prove so. The bow of the Violin, a genuine Tourte, secured in the lid of the case, had remained undiscovered."—Spohr's Autobiography.
When Louis Spohr was in London in 1820, he tells us, in his Autobiography, he received a letter couched in the following terms: "Mr. Spohr is requested to call upon Dr. —— to-day at four o'clock." "As I did not know the name of the writer," he proceeds to relate, "nor could ascertain from the servant the purpose for which my attendance was requested, I replied, in the same laconic tone, 'At the hour named I am engaged, and cannot come.' The next morning the servant reappeared, bearing a second and more polite note: 'Mr. Spohr is requested to favour Dr. —— with a visit, and to appoint the hour when it will be convenient for him to call.' The servant had been instructed to offer me the use of his master's carriage, and having in the meantime discovered that the gentleman was a celebrated physician, a patron of music, and a lover of Violins, I drove to his house. A courteous old gentleman with grey hair met me on the stairs. Unfortunately he neither understood French nor German, consequently we were unable to converse together. We stood for a moment somewhat embarrassed, when he took my arm and led me into a large room, on the walls of which hung a great number of Violins. Other Violins had been removed from their cases and placed on the tables. The Doctor gave me a Violin-bow, and pointed to the instruments. I now perceived that he was desirous of having my opinion of the instruments. I, therefore, played upon them, and placed them in order, according to my idea of their merit. When I had selected the six most valuable ones, I played upon them alternately in order to discover the best of the half-dozen. Perceiving that the doctor cast upon one instrument glances especially tender whenever I played upon it, I gladly afforded the good old man pleasure by declaring it to be the best Violin. When I took my hat to leave, the old gentleman, with a kind smile, slipped a five-pound note into my hand. Astonished, I looked at it, and also at the Doctor, not knowing at first what he meant; but suddenly it occurred to me that it was intended as a fee for having examined his Violins. I smilingly shook my head, laid the note on the table, pressed the Doctor's hand, and descended the stairs. Some months later, upon the occasion of my benefit concert, the Doctor procured a ticket, for which he sent a ten-pound note."
"But the pleasantest part of our fellowship is yet to describe. At a certain period of the night, our entertainer (the renowned Timothy Tickler) knew by the longing looks which I cast to a beloved corner of the dining-room what was wanting. Then with, 'Oh, I beg your pardon, Hogg, I was forgetting,' he would take out a small gold key that hung by a chain of the same precious metal to a particular button-hole, and stalk away as tall as the life, open two splendid Fiddle-cases, and produce their contents, first the one, and then the other; but always keeping the best to himself; I'll never forget with what elated dignity. There was a twist of the lip, and an upward beam of the eye, that were truly sublime. Then down we sat, side by side, and began—at first gently, and with easy motion, like skilful grooms, keeping ourselves up for the final heat, which was slowly but surely approaching. At the end of every tune we took a glass, and still our enthusiastic admiration of the Scottish tunes increased—our energies of execution redoubled, till ultimately it became not only a complete and well-contested race, but a trial of strength, to determine which should drown the other. The only feeling short of ecstasy that came across us in these enraptured moments were caused by hearing the laugh and joke going on with our friends, as if no such thrilling strains had been flowing. But if Tim's eye chanced to fall on them, it instantly retreated upwards again in mild indignation. To his honour be it mentioned, he has left me a legacy of that inestimable Violin, provided that I outlive him. But not for a thousand such would I part with my old friend."—Altrine Tales.—Hogg's Reminiscences of Former Days.
"There is, for instance, Old Borax, whom those who want to know whereabouts to look for—within the shadow of St. Martin's Church.
"Borax makes but little demonstration of his wealth in the dingy hole that serves him for a shop, where a Double-Bass, a couple of Violoncellos, a Tenor or two hanging on the walls, and half-a-dozen Fiddles lying among a random collection of bows, bridges, coils of catgut, packets of purified resin, and tangled horsehair in skeins, serve for the insignia of his profession. But Borax never does business in his shop, which is a dusty desert from one week's end to another. His warehouse is a private sanctum on the first floor, where you will find him in his easy chair reading the morning paper, if he does not happen to be engaged with a client. Go to him for a Fiddle, or carry him a Fiddle for his opinion, and you will hardly fail to acknowledge that you stand in the presence of a first-rate judge. The truth is, that Fiddles of all nations, disguised and sophisticated as they may be to deceive common observers, are naked and self-confessed in his hands. Dust, dirt, varnish, and bees'-wax are thrown away upon him; he knows the work of every man, of note or of no note, whether English, French, Dutch, German, Spaniard, or Italian, who ever sent a Fiddle into the market, for the last two hundred years; and he will tell you who is the fabricator of your treasure, and the rank he holds in the Fiddle-making world, with the utmost readiness and urbanity—on payment of his fee of one guinea.
"Borax is the pink of politeness, though a bit of a martinet after an ancient and punctilious model. If you go to select a Fiddle from his stock, you may escape a lecture of a quarter of an hour by calling it a Fiddle, and not a Violin, which is a word he detests, and is apt to excite his wrath. He is never in a hurry to sell, and will by no means allow you to conclude a bargain until he has put you in complete possession of the virtues, and failings, if it have any, of the instrument for which you are to pay a round sum. As his Fiddles lie packed in sarcophagi, like mummies in an Egyptian catacomb, your choice is not perplexed by any embarras de richesses; you see but one masterpiece at a time, and Borax will take care that you do see that, and know all about it, before he shows you another. First unlocking the case, he draws the instrument tenderly from its bed, grasps it in the true critical style with the fingers and thumbs of both hands a little above the bridge, turning the scroll towards you. Now and then he twangs, with the thumb of his left hand, the third or fourth string, by way of emphasis to the observations which he feels bound to make—instinctively avoiding, however, that part of the strings subject to the action of the bow. Giving you the name of the maker, he proceeds to enlighten you on the peculiar characteristics of his work; then he will dilate upon the remarkable features of the specimen he holds in his hand—its build, its model, the closeness and regularity of the grain of the wood of which the belly was fashioned: the neatness, or, wanting that, the original style of the purfling—the exquisite mottling of the back, which is wrought, he tells you, 'by the cunning hand of nature in the primal growth of the tree'—twang. Then he will break out in placid exclamations of delight upon the gracefulness of the swell—twang—and the noble rise in the centre—twang—and make you pass your hand over it to convince yourself; after which, he carefully wipes it down with a silk handkerchief. This process superinduces another favourite theme of eulogium—namely, the unparalleled hue and tone (of colour) imparted by the old Italian varnish—a hue, he is sure to inform you, which it is impossible to imitate by any modern nostrums—twang. Then he reverts to the subject of a Fiddle's indispensables and fittings; discourses learnedly on the carving of scrolls, and the absurd substitution, by some of the German makers, of lions' heads in lieu of them; hinting, by the way, that said makers are asses, and that their instruments bray when they should speak—twang. Then touching briefly on the pegs, which he prefers unornamented, he will hang lingeringly upon the neck, pronounce authoritatively upon the right degree of elevation of the finger-board, and the effects of its due adjustment upon the vibration of the whole body-harmonic, and, consequently, upon the tone. Then, jumping over the bridge, he will animadvert on the tail-piece; after which, entering at the f-holes—not without a fervent encomium upon their graceful drawing and neatness of cut—twang—he will introduce you to the arcanum mysterii, the interior of the marvellous fabric—point out to you, as plainly as though you were gifted with clairvoyance, the position and adaptation of the various linings, the bearings of the bass-bar, that essential adjunct to quality of tone—twang—and the proper position of the sound-post. Lastly, he will show you, by means of a small hand-mirror throwing a gleam of light into its entrails, the identical autograph of the immortal maker—Albani, Guarneri, or Amati, as the case may happen—with the date printed in the lean old type and now scarcely visible through the dust of a couple of centuries, 'Amati Cremonæ fecit 1645,' followed by a manuscript signature in faded ink, which you must take for granted.
"Borax has but one price; and if you do not choose to pay it, you must do without the article. The old fellow is a true believer, and is accounted the first judge in Europe; Fiddles travel to him from all parts of the Continent for his opinion, bringing their fees with them; and for every instrument he sells, it is likely he pronounces judgment upon a hundred. It is rumoured that the greatest masterpieces in being are in his possession.
"A dealer of a different stamp is Michael Schnapps, well known in the trade, and the profession too, as a ravenous Fiddle-ogre, who buys and sells everything that bears the Fiddle shape, from a Double-Bass to a dancing-master's pocketable Kit. His house is one vast warehouse, with Fiddles on the walls, Fiddles on the staircases, and Fiddles hanging like stalactites from the ceilings. To him the tyros resort when they first begin to scrape; he will set them up for ten shillings, and swop them up afterwards, step by step, to ten or twenty guineas, and to ten times that amount if they are rich enough and green enough to continue the experiment. Schnapps imports Fiddles in the rough, under the designation of toys, most of which are the production of his peasant-countrymen bordering on the Black Forest; and with these he supplies the English provinces and the London toy and stationers' shops. He is, further, a master of the Fiddle-making craft himself, and so consummate an adept in repairing that nothing short of consuming fire can defeat his art. When Pinker, of Norwich, had his Cremona smashed all to atoms in a railway collision, Schnapps rushed down to the scene of the accident, bought the lot of splintered fragments for a couple of pounds, and in a fortnight had restored the magnificent Stradivari to its original integrity, and cleared 150 guineas by its sale. But Schnapps is a humbug at bottom—an everlasting copyist and manufacturer of dead masters, Italian, German, and English. He has sold more Amatis in his time than Amati himself ever made. He knows the secret of the old varnish; he has hidden stores of old wood—planks of cherry-tree and mountain-ash centuries old, and worm-eaten sounding-boards of defunct Harpsichords, and reserves of the close-grained pine hoarded for ages. He has a miniature printing press, and a fount of the lean-faced, long-forgotten type, and a stock of the old ribbed paper torn from the fly-leaves of antique folios; and, of course, he has always on hand a collection of the most wonderful instruments at the most wonderful prices, for the professional man or the connoisseur.
"'You vant to py a Pfeedel,' says Schnapps. 'I sall sell you de pest—dat ish, de pest for the mowny. Vat you sall gif for him?'
"'Well, I can go as far as ten guineas,' says the customer.
"'Ten kinnis is good for von goot Pfeedel; bote besser is tventy, tirty, feefty kinnis, or von hunder, look you; bote ten kinnis is goot—you sall see.'
"Schnapps is all simplicity and candour in his dealings. The probability is, however, that his ten-guinea Fiddle would be fairly purchased at five, and that you might have been treated to the same article had you named thirty or forty guineas instead of ten.
"I once asked Schnapps if he knew wherein lay the excellence of the old Italian instruments.
"'Mein Gott!—if I don't, who de teifil does?'
"Then he went on to inform me that it did not lie in any peculiarity in the model, though there was something in that; nor in the wood of the back, though there was something in that; nor in the fine and regular grain of the pine which formed the belly, though there was something in that; nor in the position of the grain running precisely parallel with the strings, though there was something in that; nor in the sides, nor in the finger-board, nor in the linings, nor in the bridge, nor in the strings, nor in the waist, though there was something in all of them; nor yet in the putting together, though there was much in that.
"'Where does it lie, then, Mr. Schnapps?'
"'Ah, der henker! hang if I know.'
"'Has age much to do with it, think you?'
"'Not mosche. Dere is pad Pfeedels two hunder years ole as vell as goot vons; and dere is goot Pfeedels of pad models, vitch is made fery pad, and pad Pfeedels of de fery pest models, and peautiful made as you sall vish to see.'
"This is the sum total of the information to be got out of Schnapps on that mysterious subject. On other matters he can pronounce with greater exactness. He knows every Cremona in private or professional hands in the whole kingdom; and where the owner bought it, if he did buy it; and what he gave for it, or from whom he inherited it, if it came to him as heir-loom. Of those of them which have passed through his hands, he has got fac-similes taken in plaster, which serve as exemplars for his own manufactures. Upon the death of the owner of one of these rarities, Schnapps takes care to learn particulars; and if the effects of the deceased come under the hammer, he starts off to the sale, however distant, where, unless some of his metropolitan rivals in trade have likewise caught the scent, he has the bidding all his own way, and carries off the prize.
"The inundation of German Fiddles, which may be bought new for a few shillings, has swamped English makers of cheap instruments, of which there are by this time five times as many in the market as there is any occasion for. Hence it is that Fiddles meet us everywhere; they cumber the toy-shop; they house with the furniture dealer; they swarm by thousands in the pawnbrokers' stores, and block out the light from his windows; they hang on the tobacconists' walls; they are raffled at public-houses; and they form an item in every auctioneer's catalogue.
"Meanwhile the multiplication of rubbish only enhances the value of gold; and a Fiddle worthy of an applauding verdict from old Borax is more difficult of acquisition than ever. So I shall keep my Cremona."
A Royal amateur and British Admiral, a lover of the Violin and patron of music, happened whilst at Malta to be leading Mozart's charming Quartet in G major—
The opening movement, together with the Minuet, Trio, and Andante having been rendered with pleasure and satisfaction, the Finale was entered upon with due determination.
Its fugal subject—
was well under way, and speedily in full sail. Ere long an evident indecision of purpose manifested itself, the motive or subject failing to elicit other than dubious answers to its calls; it was emphasised with loudness, not without signs of impatience, but to no purpose; all became hopelessly involved and incoherent, until at length, like the ice described by the "Ancient Mariner"—
|
"The fugue was here, the fugue was there, The fugue was all around; It cracked and growled and roared and howled Like noises in a swound." |
The second Violin, overcome by the surging counterpoint, ceased playing, and with the adroitness of a Raleigh turned to the Prince and said, "Pardon me, your Royal Highness, I fear we have been carried away by the vortex of the melody." The execution of chamber compositions belonging to the higher walks of counterpoint is frequently disappointing, but seldom or never is the failure so gracefully and agreeably accounted for.
The following instruments were offered for sale at Milan, by Signor Francesco Albinoni, in March, 1790:—
| 1. | Violin by Antonio and Girolamo Amati, Cremona | 1616 |
| 2. | Violin by Niccolò Amati | 1647 |
| 3. | Violin by Niccolò Amati | 1667 |
| 4. | Violin by Andrea Guarneri | 1657 |
| 5. | Violin by Giuseppe Guarneri, figlio | 1705 |
| 6. | Violin by Antonio Stradivari | 1708 |
| 7. | Violin by Antonio Stradivari | 1719 |
| 8. | Violin by Giovanni Ruggeri | 1653 |
| 9. | Violin by Francesco Ruggeri | 1670 |
| 10. | Tenor by Antonio and Girolamo Amati | 1617 |
| 11. | Tenor by Antonio and Girolamo Amati | 1618 |
| 12. | Tenor by Francesco Ruggeri | 1619 |
| 13. | Violoncello by Amati, Cremona | 1622 |
| 14. | Violoncello by Andrea Guarneri | 1692 |
The above announcement cannot fail to make one reflect on the different degree of interest excited by a sale of Cremonas a century ago and one at the present time. The sale conducted by Signor Albinoni, in 1790, at Milan, doubtless passed with but little, if any, display of enthusiasm, and were it now possible to learn the prices realised, they would certainly give occasion for surprise when compared with those now obtained. As regards the increased interest taken in rare Violins, the sale of the Gillott collection, in 1872, furnishes an instance of comparatively recent date. The announcement of Messrs. Christie and Manson served to bring together in King Street, St. James's, a legion of Violin votaries. So unusual was the excitement that the Graphic had one of its pages occupied by an excellent representation of "Viewing the Violins." In Paris, in the year 1878, the sale of a Stradivari Violin, at the Hôtel Drouot, gave rise to an unusual display of interest. The first bid was for ten thousand francs, and the Stradivari, dated 1709, was knocked down for the large sum of twenty-two thousand one hundred francs. When the biddings at the Hôtel des Ventes had reached eighteen thousand francs, a casualty, which might have led to unpleasant results, lent additional zest to the proceedings. There was a great pressure among the crowd to obtain a sight of the Stradivari. Two or three of the more adventurous spirits clambered on to a table to gain a clear prospect of the precious Fiddle, causing the legs of the table to give way and the enthusiasts to be precipitated to the ground. A cry of terror—less for the fallen than for the Fiddle—arose from the throng; but soon the voice of the auctioneer was heard proclaiming, in reassuring accents, "Do not be alarmed, gentlemen; the Stradivari is safe!"