Chats on Violoncellos
CHAT THE FIRST
Introduction
Fog—The South Kensington Museum—The Ravanastron—Arabia—The Kemangeh à Gouze—Egypt, and the Rabab
Is there any city in the world that can—metaphorically speaking—hold up its head beside this place of mystery—London in a fog? Paris, Berlin, Vienna, St Petersburg, New York—what can they do in the production of a bilious-green, murky-yellow species of hyperphysical abomination? Nothing! Yet we English are not in the least proud of our prerogative. Perhaps elation is impossible among such depressing surroundings, or, perhaps the true British spirit of being satisfied with everything that is British, because it is British, predominates too utterly to admit of any other emotion.
From whatever cause our inertia springs, the clue is too deeply locked away in every Cockney’s heart to be revealed. The effect, however, is plainly seen in the total lack of epic poetry, or chromatic musical depiction of the thing. Our literature does not teem with such lines as:
“The ’cellist stood in the empty hall,
Whence all but himself had fled,
‘’Tis the fog,’ he sighed, ‘that has tired them all
And sent them so early to bed!’”
No! genius ignores the subject, and fills in the weary hours of darkness with sighs, and gasps, and chokes, like ordinary mortals.