The Violin / Some Account of That Leading Instrument and Its Most Eminent Professors, from Its Earliest Date to the Present Time; with Hints to Amateurs, Anecdotes, etc.

by George Dubourg

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.

African Fiddle.—The Mosees, Mallowas, Burnous, and natives from the more remote parts of the interior, play on a rude violin. The body is a calabash; the top is covered with deer-skin, and two large holes are cut in it for the sound to escape: the strings, or rather the string, is composed of cow’s hair, and broad, like that of the bow with which they play, which resembles the bow of a violin. Their grimace equals that of an Italian buffo: they generally accompany themselves with the voice, and increase the humour by a strong nasal sound.—Bowdich’s Mission to Ashantee.

“At parting, he (Bee Simera, a king in the Kooranko Country) sent his griot, or minstrel, to play before me, and sing a song of welcome. This man had a sort of fiddle, the body of which was formed of a calabash, in which two small square holes were cut, to give it a tone. It had only one string, composed of many twisted horse-hairs, and, although he could only bring from it four notes, yet he contrived to vary them so as to produce a pleasing harmony(!) He played at my door till I fell asleep, and, waking at day-break, his notes still saluted my ears; when, finding that his attendance would not be discontinued without a douceur, I gave him a head of tobacco, and told him to go home and thank his master.”—Major Laing’s Travels in Western Africa.

“The admirers of Paganini (says Dr. Hogg, in his “Visit to Alexandria”) may learn with surprise that a species of Violin, with a single string, is not only well-known in Egypt, but is frequently played in the streets, with extraordinary skill. Of the celebrated Italian, the Egyptians never heard; but they often listen with delight to the melodious sounds drawn forth from a single string by a wild untutored Arab.”

Greek Fiddle.—M. Fauriel, in his “Chants Populaires de la Grèce Moderne,” says that the Greeks accompany their songs by an instrument with strings, which is played with a bow, and that this is exactly the ancient lyre of the Greeks, of which it retains the name as well as the form. This lyre, he adds, when perfect, consists of five strings, but it has frequently but two or three.

The bow is of course a modern accessory, and must have changed, materially, the mode of playing the instrument, as well as its effect.

An Eight-Stringed Violin.—Prinz, in his History, assures us that, about the year 1649, Lord Somerset invented a new kind of violin, which had eight strings, instead of four; and that, in the hands of a master who knew how to avail himself of its advantages, it was productive of very extraordinary effects. To the truth of this, Kircher bears witness. A violin, with eight strings, was also played on by a M. Urhan, at a concert at the French Conservatoire Royal, in 1830.

An intermediate Instrument.—With the plausible view of filling up a void in the range of stringed instruments—that which occurs through the interval of an octave between the pitch of the viola and the violoncello—a new instrument of the violin class was invented, a few years ago, by a French Amateur, who proposed to designate it the Contralto. Its four strings were tuned an octave below those of the violin, and, consequently, a fourth below the common viola, or tenor, and a fifth above the violoncello. In quartetts (according to the inventor) the second violin might in future be replaced by the viola, and the viola by the Contralto; which latter would possess the further advantage of enabling its player to execute with ease those high passages that are so difficult on the violoncello.—That an instrument thus designed might sometimes participate effectively in orchestral business, is extremely probable; but that it should displace in quartetts the second violin, the importance of which, as an aid, arises so much from its brilliancy, is not at all to be supposed. The truth appears to be, that what is here referred to as an invention, possesses little claim to that character; for it was preceded by the baryton, a stringed instrument of a character between the tenor and violoncello, which has now entirely fallen into disuse. Prince Nicholas Esterhazy, an ardent musical Amateur, was very fond of this instrument: and Haydn, who composed a great number of pieces for it, in order to supply the Prince’s incessant demand for novelty, frequently said that the necessity he was under of composing so much for the baryton, contributed greatly to his improvement.

Something more than a Violin!—M. Vincenti, a lute-master at Florence, invented, some years ago, a violin with eighteen strings and two bows, and called it the Violon-Général, because it combined (or professed to combine), with the tones of the violin, those of the contra-basso, the violoncello, and the viola!

An Air Violin.—A new and ingeniously invented instrument was presented, some years since, to the “Académie des Sciences” of Paris, by M. Isoard. It resembled the common violin, with the strings extended between two wooden (or metal) blades. It was vibrated upon at one end by a current of air, while, at the other, the player shortened the strings by the pressure of the finger. In fact, the strings of this instrument were acted upon by the current of air, instead of the common bow. The sounds were said to vary between those of the French horn and bassoon. Were it possible for this invention to come into ordinary use, the violin would have to be classed as a wind-instrument!

Automaton Violinist.—“After the extraordinary performance of Paganini and Ole Bull, our readers will not be surprised at any new development of the powers of this instrument, however great; but there are few in the world who will hear, without wonder and admiration, of the unequalled performance of Monsieur Marreppe’s automaton violin-player, which was recently exhibited before the Royal Conservatory at Paris. Our informant, M. Bruyère, who was present, thus describes this wonderful piece of mechanism: “On entering the saloon, I saw a well-dressed handsome figure of a man, apparently between forty and fifty, standing with a violin in his hand, as if contemplating a piece of music which lay on a desk before him; and, had I not gone to see an automaton, I should have believed the object before me to have been endowed with life and reason, so perfectly natural and easy were the attitudes and expression of countenance of the figure! I had but little time for observation, before the orchestra was filled by musicians, and, on the leader taking his seat, the figure instantly raised itself erect, bowed with much elegance two or three times, and then, turning to the leader, nodded, as if to say he was ready, and placed his violin to his shoulder. At the given signal, he raised his bow, and, applying it to the instrument, produced, à la Paganini, one of the most thrilling and extraordinary flourishes I ever heard, in which scarcely a semitone within the compass of the instrument was omitted; and this, executed with a degree of rapidity and clearness perfectly astonishing. The orchestra then played a short symphony, in which the automaton occasionally joined in beautiful style: he then played a most beautiful fantasia in E natural, with accompaniments, including a movement allegro molto on the fourth string solo, which was perfectly indescribable. The tones produced were like any thing but a violin; and expressive beyond conception. I felt as if lifted from my seat, and burst into tears, in which predicament I saw most persons in the room. Suddenly, he struck into a cadenza, in which the harmonics, double and single, arpeggios on the four strings, and saltos, for which Paganini was so justly celebrated, were introduced with the greatest effect; and, after a close shake of eight bars’ duration, commenced the coda, a prestissimo movement, played in three parts throughout. This part of the performance was perfectly magical. I have heard the great Italian—I have heard the Norwegian—I have heard the best of music—but I never heard such sounds as then saluted my ear. It commenced p p p, rising by a gradual crescendo to a pitch beyond belief, and then, by a gradual morendo and calando, died away, leaving the audience absolutely enchanted. Monsieur Marreppe, who is a player of no mean order, then came forward amidst the most deafening acclamations, and stated that, emulated by the example of Vaucanson’s flute-player, he had conceived the project of constructing this figure, which had cost him many years of study and labour before he could bring it to completion. He then showed to the company the interior of the figure, which was completely filled with small cranks, by which the motions are given to the several parts of the automaton, at the will of the conductor, who has the whole machine so perfectly under control, that Monsieur Marreppe proposes that the automaton shall perform any piece of music which may be laid before him, within a fortnight. He also showed that to a certain extent the figure was self-acting, as, on winding up a string, several of the most beautiful airs were played, among which were “Nel cor più,” “Partant pour la Syrie,” “Weber’s last Waltz,” and “La ci darem la mano,” all with brilliant embellishments. But the chef-d’œuvre is the manner in which the figure is made to obey the direction of the conductor, whereby it is endowed with a sort of semi-reason.”—Galignani’s Messenger.

The Street Fiddler.—Behold the poor fellow, as he stands there in the sun, against that dead wall, with a face that betrays many a foregone year of patient endurance, and a figure that is the very index to “narrow circumstances.” His old brown great coat, loose and hard-worn—his battered hat—his shoes unconscious of blacking—are the vouchers of his low estate. He wears “the hapless vesture of humility.” He is half-blind, and will be wholly so before long, for blindness is the badge of his sad tribe;—but then—he will have a companion, in the dog that will lead him about!

See, how sobered is his style of execution—how passive his action! The fire of enthusiasm is not for him: he can but shew the plodding of a quiet spirit. He holdeth his bow, not as your topping players do, but with a third part of its length below his hand. He finds this plan the easiest, because it is his wont to work more from the shoulder than the wrist! Think no scorn of him, ye great artists—ye triumphant euphonists! He is self-taught,—or, which is the same thing, hath learned of his father, who was alter ipse, and who himself got his knowledge “in the family.” Yet, though his bow-arm hath none of the sweep that belongs to science, behold how he puts mettle into the heels of infancy, and even peradventure brings a wriggle into the sides of old age: such power is there in the notes of a fiddle, even in the hands of decrepitude itself! The nursery-maids, who cannot condescend to talk with a street-fiddler, as they would with a young policeman, accord a smile, nevertheless, to some of his “passages,” and a halfpenny to his pauperism. Musician as he is, or would be called (for poverty has its pride), do not test him with terms, or ask him the meaning of a “common chord:” he will think you design to insult his misery with a dependent allusion! Him harmony concerneth not, nor counterpoint either;—he is a simple melodist, and, to him, a few old tunes are the entire world of music. After all, too, the finest melody in his ear, is the sound of human sympathy; and the best of music is the rattle of frequent halfpence in his hat—a hat by night, a money-box by day! His daily gains, what are they? A sorry pittance, truly; yet the poor old fellow, albeit no classic, manages to live on the Horatian plan, “contentus parvo,” and is very far from being the most thankless of mortals, although

“For all his shifts, he cannot shift his clothes.”

It is not always people of the finest ear, who are the most intolerant of ambulating fiddlers. There are some dull persons who have little other notion of music in any shape, than as so much noise. The complaint of these against the poor starveling here described, is that he makes so loud a noise. Let us only (with sly allusion to the early name for the barbarous instrument) ask them one question—although even a bad joke may be quite thrown away upon the dull:

Say, wherefore should it not be loud, The noise proceeding from a crowd?

And, while employing this kind of excuse, which will perhaps be received as better than none, in behalf of a fraternity, who, if they torment a little, unquestionably do much more suffer, I may as well go on to offer the following such-as-it-is

APOLOGY FOR MATTHEW MARKIT, A “COMMON FIDDLER.” Let not wrath against him gather— Call him not a useless bore! Would you not, this dirty weather, Have a scraper at your door? Such is he;—nay, more than that, He’s a Scraper, and a—Mat!

I do remember an itinerant, who used to sing a piece of dismal merriment, with a squeaking violin accompaniment, to the appropriate burden of “Heigh ho! fiddle de dee!” and a very wry face at each recurrence of this peculiar interjection. He much affected Knightsbridge and Hyde Park Corner, but was likewise visible at other points of the metropolis. His wife, a diminutive body, with a small whine by way of voice, helped to make “variety of wretchedness” in the exhibition. They looked as if familiar with none but the copper coinage of the realm. Yet they had generally their côterie around them—their “assistance admirative.” To be musical, any how, passes for a talent!

I will not suppose my readers so oblivious of an elderly joke, as not to recognize the face of that which is about to greet them; but, having found a version of it “turned to numbers,” I present it—a little “rubbed up” for the occasion—to the indulgent attention of those who have only met with it in prosaic statement:

A blind man, fed by fiddling, Was known through many a street; His “style,” far short of “middling,” With some did pass for sweet. He priz’d his fiddle greatly; The case had fainter praise— The case by “wife” made lately, With half a yard of baize. One day, when, led by Rover, He had a bridge to pass, His fiddle tumbled over, Stick, case, and all, alas! He straight set up a roaring, And added such grimace, That folks around came pouring, And pitied his sad case. “Sad case! Psha! twiddle diddle!” Cried he, with scornful face; “Could I but get my fiddle D’ye think I’d mind the case?”

Having thus made ourselves familiar with the street fiddler, and thereby, as it were, “sounded the very base-string of humility,” may we not be fairly supposed to have reached the fag-end of our subject? Whilst on this lower level, however—or, in what may be termed the Vale of Cacophony—I cannot conclude, without offering to the patience of my kind readers two more scraps of verse, wherein I have sought to exhibit a pair of specimens that belong, equally with the poor street fiddler, to the class of—those that might be dispensed with:

EPIGRAM ON AN UNFORTUNATE MAN, AND BAD FIDDLER. Though Dibble is feeble in all that he’s at, Few fools ever fondled a failure before, so. In love, as in music, he stands for a flat— (For his Fanny is false, and his fiddle is more so), While he still ignoreth—what none can dispute— That his suit’s out of tune, and his tune doesn’t suit!

ANOTHER, ON ANOTHER BAD FIDDLER. When Screechley on that noise-box harshly grates, What, what’s the supposition that must follow? This—that by some odd shifting of the Fates, ’Tis Marsyas’ turn to flay alive Apollo!