When it is remembered how large an amount of instrumental talent in France has owed its development to the fostering care and excellent system of the Conservatoire, a very happy augury may be drawn from the results in this kind that have as yet followed the institution of the English Royal Academy of Music. Supposing this establishment to be rightly and effectively conducted, one of its beneficial consequences as regards the Violin-Students (and that by no means the smallest) will be found in the harmonious unity of feeling and execution that will pervade our orchestras, supplied as they will then mainly be, from the same source. As a general fact, it has been remarked with regret by Spohr, the great German master, that the Violinists of an orchestra never originate from the same School;—the exceptions to this being in the Conservatories of Paris, Prague, and Naples, where the orchestras have been enabled to produce surprising effects, through this unity among the Violinists.
By way of tail-piece to this chapter, I am tempted to present a brief sketch of an individual in whose hands the Violin, as respects its lower range of capabilities, was long, and most conspicuously, illustrated. Having devoted our attention at some length to the instrument, under its English aspect, shall we refuse a passing glance at the Scotch Fiddle, in the person of one of its most restless and remarkable expositors?
Neil Gow—the head of a race of north-country instrumentalists, and one of the most zealous in the line where Music is the special handmaid of the Dance—was born in Strathband, Perthshire, in the year 1727, of humble parentage. His first efforts were made at the age of nine; but he had no instructor till, at thirteen, he was taken in hand by one John Cameron. Whilst yet a youth, he carried off the prize at a trial of skill among the best performers in that rather out-of-the-way district—on which occasion, one of the minstrels who was the umpire (a blind man) declared that he could distinguish the stroke of Neil’s bow among a hundred players! In process of time, while thus vigorously engaged in working his way, Neil obtained the patronage of the Athol family, and the Duchess of Gordon, whereby he became noticed and sought after in the fashionable world. He was eminent in one department of Scotch national music—the livelier airs belonging to the class of what are called the strathspey and the reel. The characteristic expression of the Highland reel depends materially on the power of the bow, and particularly on the upward (or returning) stroke; and herein Neil was truly great—“un homme marquant,” in a two-fold sense. His mode of bowing, indeed, by which he imparted the native Highland gout to certain Highland tunes (such as “Tulloch Gorum” for instance), was never fully attained by any other player. He was accustomed to throw in a sudden shout, as an addendum in the quick tunes, so as to electrify the dancers! In short, his fiddling—for its communication of saltatory fury to the heels of his countrymen—was like the bite of a tarantula.
This active promoter of activity was also a compiler of national airs and tunes, and dabbled occasionally in composition—his son Nathaniel arranging and preparing the whole for publication. Forcible humour, strong sense, knowledge of the world, propriety of general conduct, and simplicity in carriage, dress, and manners, were combined recommendations of Neil Gow, who has figured on the canvas of Raeburn and of Allan. His brother Donald, a “fidus Achates,” was of good service to him as his steady and constant Violoncello. Neil died in 1807, at Inver, near Dunkeld.
CHAPTER VII.
AMATEURS.
“Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb?”—Beattie.
It is as plain to the understanding, as it is palpable to the ear, that Amateurs, or dilettante performers, on an instrument like the violin, so rich in its capabilities, but so exacting in its demands, are in a very trying situation. The amount of mere mechanical labour—the simple manipulation—which it is essential to employ, before the very finest mental disposition can express itself even passably on the violin, is a thing to startle the coolest enquirer. Giardini, when asked how long it would take to learn to play on the fiddle, answered, “twelve hours a day, for twenty years together.” There may be hyperbole in this—but it is only truth in too swelling a garb. There is the strongest meaning and reality in the sentiment of difficulty which the reply was intended to convey.[62] It has been said of a professor of some eminence, who was current some years ago in London, that he has devoted himself for a month together, during the whole disposable hours of each day, to the practice of the passages contained in one single page of music; and many remarkable instances might be adduced (were the point sufficiently doubtful to require it) in proof of the prodigious exertions in private, that have indispensably preceded those public displays by which the excellence of great performers has been established. “Nocturnâ versate manu, versate diurnâ,” is indeed that precept whose spirit is the guide of the destined Violinist.