Old violins

By H. R. Haweis

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Title: Old violins

Author: H. R. Haweis


        
Release date: June 9, 2026 [eBook #78831]

Language: English

Original publication: Edinburgh: John Grant, 1910

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OLD VIOLINS ***




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.

Some minor changes to the text are noted at the end of the book.




                     Collector Series

                       OLD VIOLINS




[Illustration:

      AUTOGRAPHS AND                                 ENGLISH
      MANUSCRIPTS        The Collector Series     WATER-COLOURS

       STAMPS             TAPESTRY LACE AND         MINIATURES
                              EMBROIDERY

                                 OLD
                               VIOLINS

                                  BY
                          REV. H. R. HAWEIS

                              EDINBURGH
                              JOHN GRANT
                                 1910

       FINE PRINTS                                      ENGLISH
                                                      BOOK PLATES

         COINS                                          PICTURES

       PORCELAIN              OLD BIBLES              ANCIENT GLASS
]




                             CONTENTS


  CHAP.                                         PAGE

  PRELUDE                                          7

  I. VIOLIN GENESIS                               15

  II. VIOLIN CONSTITUTION                         22

  III. VIOLINS AT BRESCIA                         30

  IV. VIOLINS AT CREMONA                          42

  V. VIOLINS AT CREMONA (_continued_)             60

  VI. VIOLINS IN GERMANY                          91

  VII. VIOLINS IN FRANCE                         104

  VIII. VIOLINS IN ENGLAND                       118

  IX. VIOLIN VARNISH                             146

  X. VIOLIN STRINGS                              153

  XI. VIOLIN BOWS                                161

  XII. VIOLIN TARISIO                            171

  XIII. VIOLINS AT MIRECOURT, MITTENWALD, AND
  MARKNEUKIRCHEN                                 186

  XIV. VIOLIN TREATMENT                          198

  XV. VIOLIN DEALERS, COLLECTORS, AND AMATEURS   214

  POSTLUDE                                       237

  DICTIONARY OF VIOLIN MAKERS                    239

  BIBLIOGRAPHY                                   281

  DESCRIPTION OF PLATES                          287




                         OLD VIOLINS




PRELUDE


What is the secret of the violin? Why is it that when a great
violinist appears all the other soloists have to take a back seat?

The answer is: the fascination of the violin is the fascination of
the soul unveiled.

No instrument--the human voice hardly excepted--provides such a rare
vehicle for the emotions--is in such close touch with the molecular
vibrations of thought and with the psychic waves of feeling. But
whilst the violin equals the voice in sensibility and expression, it
far transcends it in compass, variety, and durability.

Consider the singular completeness and perfection of this instrument
as a sort of physical and vibratory counterpart of the soul. The
four strings no doubt limit and define its compass, and only in
the quartet and collectively, is it capable of extended effects of
complex harmony; but as a tone-producing instrument and within its
limits it is perfect--every gradation of sound between tone and
semitone is attainable, and for no other instrument can this be
claimed.

Next I observe that the violin possesses a trinity in unity of power
which invests it with a quite singular and felicitous completeness of
its own:--

(1) _Accent_--and in staccato passages almost the accent of
percussion.

(2) _Sustained sound_--to a degree far beyond the capabilities of the
human voice.

(3) _Modified tone_--and in such refinement of gradation, that the
melting lines of the spectrum can alone supply us with a parallel or
analogy.

Your piano possesses _accent_, but once strike a note, soft or loud,
and it passes beyond your control.

The piano has little _sustained_ and no _modified tone_.

Your organ has _accent_ and _sustained tone_, but in a very imperfect
sense _modified_ tone; and a brief survey of all musical instruments
now in use will convince the student of acoustics that nowhere but
in the violin do we find to anything like the same degree, that
trinity in unity of power summed up in _accent_, _sustained_ sound,
_modified_ tone.

But the half has not yet been revealed. The trinity of power in
the violin is placed under the immediate control of two hands--of
ten fingers, each hand functioning differently. The hand on the
finger-board is engaged in pressing the strings; the other hand
wields the bow, and not only sets the strings in vibration, but
drives, tears, plunges, caresses, checks, prolongs, magnetises and
regulates, in an altogether marvellous fashion, the outpourings
of sound, which are in reality the outpourings of the musician’s
soul,--and further:

Has it ever occurred to you, my reader, how differently the same
piece of music, or, for the matter of that, the same violin, sounds
in the hands of two different players?

A few of Paganini’s solos were written down, and Sivori, who passed
as his only pupil, was in the habit of playing some of them; yet no
one was ever wrought to frenzy or melted into a passion of tears by
that elegant performer. I have often heard him. The gentlemen in the
orchestra remained calm, and listened with admiration and approval.
But when Paganini played, the drummer on one occasion so shook with
excitement that he was utterly incapable of playing his part at all,
and Professor Ella, then a violinist at the first desk, went up and
did it for him, whilst the other violinists were so lost in wonder
that they could hardly concentrate their attention sufficiently to
come in at the “tutti.”

When Paganini raised his bow on high, it came down on his four
strings with a crash. What made it sound like thunder? It was the
thunder in his soul! When his violin wailed with sweetness long drawn
out, why did the tears roll down the faces of hardened orchestral
veterans, and even great virtuosi like Lindley and Dragonetti? Why
did the people just go off into fits of laughter when a comic vein
seized the prodigious Maestro in the midst of his variations on the
Carnival de Venise?

I have heard Wieniawski play his since much hackneyed “Legende”--it
may have been somewhere in the sixties. I never heard anything so
weird--spirit voices in the twilight--the wail of lost souls--one
positively saw ghosts. I have heard the “Legende” a hundred times
since by Neruda, Nachez, Sarasate, and I know not how many more, but
I have never again seen ghosts.

What was it? It was the mystery of _touch_. The language of touch is
but half understood, but the language of touch is the language of
soul, and the perfection of touch is reached when a sensitive finger
controls a vibrating string or nerve and sends its own psychic thrill
along the waves of sound or sensibility.

The same no doubt is true of the pianoforte touch, though in a less
degree, because a percussive touch can never have the power of a
sustained and modified pressure.

Recent science has thrown some curious sidelights upon this same
sense of touch. It affirms that the trained fingers of the blind
actually acquire from exercise, practice, and adaptation, new
nerve-cells filled with grey matter exactly similar to the thinking
and feeling grey nerve matter of the brain--in fact, the fingers
of the sensitive musician have the power of thought and emotion
delegated to them; and just as thinking matter is not confined to
brain cells, but extends all down the medulla oblongata, which
responds to stimulus, even when the head is cut off--so we now know
that brain cells may be acquired, I had almost said cerebrated, and
used even by the fingers.

Now, supposing we bring these thinking, pulsating finger-tips and
wed their subtle pressure to waves of sound, who shall say that these
special sound waves may not be so impregnated with brain waves as
that sound thus charged with soul may convey through the auditory
nerve to other souls the passion, the emotion, the sorrow, the
joy, and whatever else is generated in the heart and brain of the
musician? ’Tis not more inconceivable than thought-reading.

This goes far to account for the personal fascination which players
exercise through their art. Their soul waves becoming brain waves,
float out, charged with whatever is in the musician; and if there is
nothing in the musician, as not unfrequently happens, they float out
charged with nothing!

The witchery of the violin for collectors is perhaps more difficult
to explain. Very often these fanciers don’t play, and still more
often they seem to have an objection to other people stringing up
their treasures and playing on them. It is the construction, not so
much the sound of the violin, that deprives the collector of his
senses; but we ought to be very thankful to these monomaniacs, for
without them there would be few masterpieces still extant; through
them the violin goes into a period of Devachan, or enforced rest. At
all events, it cannot be worn out, or chipped, or rubbed, or trifled
with by repairers whilst in the collector’s cabinet.

All the finest violins are known and carefully stalked--the health
of their owners watched; and when the time comes, they either find
their way to the open market or are picked up briskly by the great
dealers, sometimes for fabulous sums. Mr Hill of Bond Street thinks
nothing of a thousand pounds for a really fine specimen of Strad.

Watch the collector exhibiting his treasures to a select company
after lunch. You will soon see he is not the daft creature whom the
uninitiated who only want to _hear_ the fiddle are apt to suppose.
He knows the influence which that old Gasparo or Maggini had upon
the Cremona school. He marks with admiration the emergence of the
Amati and Guarnerii from the Brescian models; for him even the quaint
long ∫ ∫’s of the old makers stand in lovely contrast with the more
graceful but still pointed sound-holes of Joseph or more rounded ones
of the great Antonius. To him that ancient viola cut down from a
larger-sized model of viol now extinct, and placed side by side with
an Amati tenor, is as interesting as the study of comparative anatomy
to a scientist.

Then your collector is never tired of dwelling on the perfection of
those forms which slowly emerged as the survival of the fittest in
that exciting quest for the sensitiveness, sweetness, and sonority
of tone which occupied the lifelong meditations of Nicolo Amati
and Stradivari. Anon he will call your attention excitedly and
sympathetically to the grace of the curves, the surface never flat
or board-like, but full of a variety of levels like the satiny
surface of a fine human body. You might almost believe that a whole
system of muscle--a very living organism--lay beneath the “back”
and belly, which to his eyes are alive with swelling and undulating
grace;--and then think of the varnish like a sheet of thin jasper,
at once shielding from decay, whilst revealing as years roll on the
transparent filaments of the mottled maple or sycamore and the pine,
and crossed between the fibres with millions of tiny rays which
betray the desiccated cells--now fit for resonance--through which the
sap once flowed!

But I must not anticipate matter which more properly belongs to
violin manufacture. I only wish to affirm, in justification of the
existence of players, hearers, and collectors alike, that the violin
charm has its own rationale.

I may perhaps be pardoned if I close this prelude with some words
which I used before the Royal Institution in 1872.

“The violin is perennial. It grows old with its perpetual youth.
There is no reason why it should ever wear out. It sings over the
graves of many generations. Time, that sometimes robs it of a little
varnish, has no power over its anointed fabric.

“The hard durable substance steeped in silicate-like varnish has
well-nigh turned to stone, but without sacrificing a single quality
of sweetness or resonance.

“The violin is the only fossil which still lives, and lives with a
fulness of life and a freshness that contrasts quaintly enough with
the fleeting, sickly, and withering generations of man. Even should
mishap bruise or break its beauty it can be endlessly restored. It
is never fit for death; it survives a thousand calamities; nay,
even when cut up and dismembered, its several parts, scattered
through a dozen workshops and three hundred years, live on with a
kind of metempsychosis in new forms, and still cling strangely to
their individuality, so that men taking up a patchwork violin say,
‘It is fine--the front is poor, the head is tame, but see here is a
Stradivarius back!’

“Thus human in its power and pathos, superhuman in its immortal
fabric, the violin reigns supreme, the king and queen of all
instruments--and, in the hands of a Paganini, a Joachim, an Ernst, or
a Sarasate, the joy and wonder of the civilised world.”




CHAPTER I

VIOLIN GENESIS


To me it has always appeared unimportant and not very interesting
to answer the question, “Were or were not the ancients--by which we
usually mean Babylonians, Egyptians, or Greeks and Romans--acquainted
with the fact that stretched strings could be set in tonal vibration
by means of horse-hair, reed, or some other fibre?” They knew most
things, and how much they knew we are only now beginning to discover.

At one time we thought that even the Romans did not know that water
rose to its level, but they were well acquainted with the fact.

We pride ourselves upon the triumphs of modern surgery, but we
now find that the Egyptians were also great surgeons and operated
successfully for calculus.

The wonders of electric telegraphy are doubtless of modern origin,
but the Greeks were at least aware of the attractive properties of
amber, which they called “Electron,” though they made no use of
electricity, and they may very likely have been acquainted with the
principle of rubbing, as they certainly were of plucking, a string in
tension to produce a sound--without ever elaborating the idea in an
instrument for musical purposes.

Both Fêtis and Vidal deny that any instrument of the viol tribe
existed in antiquity, apparently on the slender grounds that the
few fragments of pottery, papyrus, or mural decoration known to
us have not yet revealed the fact. I think it probable that these
savants are wrong. Like the use of the wheel, bow and arrows, bow and
string for drilling holes, the bow or something like it employed for
musical purposes is likely, on _a priori_ grounds alone, to be of
immense antiquity, and at least as old as the knowledge of percussion
instruments such as the drum, or of wind instruments such as the
pan-pipes.

I don’t lay any great stress upon pictures of stringed instruments
with something like a bridge taken to prove the existence of a bow,
especially if the bow happens to be absent--a guitar has a bridge
but no bow, so has the zither and the bandoline, which are plucked
with the fingers or a plectrum. The much-talked-of Canino Vase (fig.
103, vol. iii. of Micali’s _Storia Degli Antichi Popoli Italiani_),
showing apparently a sort of instrument with apparently a sort of
bow, has been held by some to be conclusive that something like the
violin tribe was known to the Etruscans. Possibly! Personally I am
not satisfied that it is a musical instrument at all which is figured
on that same vase--it might be anything, from a rattle or a torch to
a broom or a dust-pan. The strongest point in its favour as a musical
instrument is not the rough image on the vase, but the fact that a
musician, astronomer, and doctor, by name Chiron, is seated beside it.

We probably see the descendants of any such instruments as may have
existed in those times in the Ravanastron, which has been recognised
by some as the oriental precursor of the occidental fiddle.

Altogether, I think that, from the musical point of view, too much
time, and a surplus of barren antiquarian lore, have been bestowed on
the origin of the viol tribe.

Our business begins not even with the building up of the viol out of
the Rebek, Crouth, and Rotta (see “Music and Morals,” p. 382), but
with the emergence of the violin tenor, violoncello, and double-bass
out of that confused, tentative, and often grotesque crowd of viols
and viol da Gambas, specimens of which are still exhibited behind
glass in our Art Museums and Loan Collections. We have little to
do with them. They are of no more living account than the Egyptian
mummies in the British Museum. A few retain a gleam of practical
importance for the violin collector, because they have been cut down
for tenors or otherwise used up during the last three hundred years
by violin makers: the others remain of interest to musicians only;
like the bones of fossil crocodiles, they are curious studies in the
comparative anatomy, not of reptiles, but of musical instruments,
that is all.

No, it is with the distinct evolution of the violin, by which I
mean the violin tenor, violoncello, and double-bass types, from the
nondescript, dusky, tubby, ungainly machines, muffled in sound and
dubious in form, that for me at least begins the history and the
interest of the violin tribe.

The genius of these elect types is inseparably connected with
song--sacred song.

Viols were used in churches to play chants in unison with the monks’
voices (probably also to assist their defective musical ear). When
the singing-schools of Italy arose and divided the voice into treble,
alto, tenor, and bass, a suitable viol was told off as the companion
of each voice. Soon after this the modern divisions, the octave and
the discovery of the perfect cadence, laid the foundation of the art
of modern music (Monteverde, 1570). The violin emerged.

The endless discussions as to exactly when the violin proper made
its appearance, or the tenor proper, or when the viol da Gamba got
modified into the current violoncello size and shape, will probably
continue to agitate those whose minds have a special aptitude for
such researches. A very general statement will probably satisfy
general readers, and even special lovers of the violin.

The name of Duiffoprugcar haunts this dim transition period,
and although the violins extant under his name have all been
discredited, and not always distinguished from Vuillaume’s clever
forgeries, I remember one of the first judges in Europe, who was
certainly quite alive to the tricks of the trade, showing me a
reputed Duiffoprugcar (hung and labelled in the South Kensington
Museum), which he then believed to be genuine. It had lost the
tubby characteristics of the viol tribe; it was, in fact, an early
Brescian violin, linen-lined, but its claim to be a Duiffoprugcar was
withdrawn.

[Illustration]

Duiffoprugcar was born in 1514 at Fussen, in the Bavarian Tyrol. He
was an inlayer and mosaic worker. He is now known to have visited
Paris, and to have worked at Lyons. There is a fine portrait of
him etched by the engraver Wariot in 1562, and a curious viol is
extant by him, with a map of Paris inlaid at the back, once owned
by Vuillaume, and within recent years secured for the Brussels
Conservatoire Museum by its intelligent curator, Mr Victor Mahillon.
Mr Donaldson’s beautiful viol da Gamba is the only other known
specimen of his work. There is no evidence that Duiffoprugcar ever
made what we should call a violin, and very good negative evidence
to the contrary. In a curious old print exhibiting his portrait, a
copy of which is owned by Messrs Hill, amongst the various viols
represented no such instrument as the violin appears.

It is easy to see how inevitable was the differentiation of the
violin tribe from the first moment that a vocal quartet came to be
conceived of. First the viol is selected to double a part, next a
viol is made in a modified way to suit the part, and very soon the
modification assumes the forms and proportions known as violin,
viola, and violoncello.

But in the early days of violin genesis the instrument was
quite subordinate to the voice; it only gradually conquered its
independence with the emergence of the string trio and string
quartet. It would happen thus:--

Two people would meet to sing, and the missing tenor or bass voice
would be supplied by a viola; or three would meet who could not sing
at all, when it would occur to them that the vocal parts might be
played instead, and with even more accuracy perhaps than the very
average voices would attain to.

The instrumental trio and quartet thus at once came into being.

Next, music would be written independently for such combinations, and
the voices would be egged out altogether, and presently the treble
or violin would show a tendency to throw the others into the shade,
and at last be thought worthy of a solo _all to itself_, and thus the
independent position of the instrument would quickly be established.

All attempts to date exactly the stages of this differentiation of
the violin tribe are likely to be misleading.

You cannot say exactly when perspective was discovered or
rediscovered by the Italian painters, it developed gradually; and so
the violin developed gradually, born of new musical needs and new
musical knowledge.

In the midst of the old chaotic world of viol noises that preceded
it, the struggle to displace the old viol players and the slow
disappearance of the whole clumsy craft is aptly summed up in the
words of one who lived at the moment of transition. He writes--

      “In former days we had the viol in
        Ere the true instrument had come about;
      But now we say, since this all ears doth win,
        The violin hath put the viol out.”




CHAPTER II

VIOLIN CONSTITUTION


One of the subtle charms of the violin is that it may be called
bisexual.

It unites in itself and welds together the masculine and feminine
qualities.

Its very fabric is bisexual. The soft, easily moved vibrations of
the swelling front are controlled, checked, and yet excited by the
slower and harder pulsations of the maple back. The porous deal and
the close-grained maple or sycamore thus thrill together, and each
supplies the deficiency of the other, both blending in harmonious and
sympathetic union, the ribs welding the back and the belly into an
organic whole, whilst the sound-post, poetically called by the French
the soul of the violin (_l’âme du violon_), collects the quick and
slow vibrations, and fusing them, produces the subtle resultant of
violin tone.

That tone is the offspring of neither back nor front, nor ribs alone,
but of all these differently vibrating surfaces, collected and made
musical in the “soul,” and poured forth as the breath of life from
the ∫ ∫ holes as out of the very mouth and nostrils of the violin.
Surely the children of the violin are nothing but the sweet and
subtly compounded sounds that it utters.

The bisexual figure holds good even to the bow and strings. The bow
is the male and the strings are the female elements. They can only
vibrate when touched--swept into a tempest of emotion or caressed
into tender whispers.

They wait and pine for this magic touch, and long for their own
fulfilment. They are so sensitive that they respond to the lightest
feathery kiss of the powdered and anointed horse-hair--they murmur,
they sigh, they scream, they weep, they laugh, but only when
smitten, coaxed or agonised, sometimes almost torn, at others calmly
and masterfully swept; whilst the finger-tips, pressing out the
vibrations and generating those magnetic thrills which go forth
charged with the musician’s very thought and feeling, aid and abet
the masculine power of the bow. They are its ministers; without
them the might of the bow itself would be impotent; without them
the very strings would be unable to yield their infinite variety of
tone and inflection of meaning. Yes, certainly the violin is of all
instruments the most human, personal, and sympathetic, for the violin
is truly bisexual.

It is also a miracle of art, strength, and simplicity--we may say at
once, as light as a feather and as strong as a horse. It is composed
of thin sheets or slips of wood, only about a fragment of an inch
thick; but, by the simplest and soundest mechanical construction,
these are so put together as to resist a strain of about a
hundredweight upon the belly, neck, and tailpiece, from the tension
of the four strings.

Six sycamore ribs and twelve internal blocks and linings suffice to
hold the back and belly together.

The neck carries the ebony finger-board and lifts its characteristic
scroll or head--so expressive that makers can almost be recognised by
its physiognomy.

The neck is let solidly into the ribs and fastened against the lower
part of the belly. When firmly glued it is extremely difficult to
detach it, and once only in my experience has the neck of a violin
proved unequal to support the enormous pull made upon it by the
strings.

It was in Ceylon. The heat was intense and moist. I had borrowed a
violin for experimental purposes in one of my lectures at Colombo.
In the middle of an attempted passage the neck quietly doubled up;
the strings fell in a loose cluster. The glue had liquefied, and
the whole fiddle came to pieces in my hands. What no time nor wear
and tear had been able to effect had been suddenly achieved by the
peculiar hothouse, vapour-bath treatment of the tropics.

The early viol-makers no doubt at first selected their wood
empirically; but it soon became an established rule to take a soft
wood for the belly and a hard wood for the back. If all were soft,
the sound would be muffled and tubby; if all were hard, the sound
would be metallic and light; neither must the thickness of back and
front be uniform--each must be thicker towards the middle, but how
thick or how thin must depend upon the relative densities of the
wood. The problem was to find the relative densities which would
best vibrate together--a cunning connoisseur in timber can judge of
these densities even by the feel of the wood. Of course the densities
will affect the tone yielded by the wood when set in vibration, and
it is difficult to believe that Stradiuarius and his school were
unacquainted with some exact technical method of testing the acoustic
properties of these woods.

Monsieur Savart’s experiments with specimen strips of Stradiuarius
backs and bellies showed that in most cases tested there was the
difference of one tone between the belly and the back. A 1717
and a 1708 Strad back both yielded a F♯, a 1724 and a 1690 Strad
bellies gave the interval, so that Stradiuarius worked his backs
and bellies on some regular principle. On examining specimens of
Joseph Guarnerius, it was found that his best were made with only a
full tone between back and belly; but occasionally the interval was
greater.

The sound-bar is a subtly proportioned strip of pinewood running
nearly all the way down the middle of the belly inside. The
increasing tension of the modern pitch has made it necessary to
strengthen all the old violin sound-bars, as the increasing demands
for execution have compelled the lengthening of all their necks.

It is needless to say that the sound-bar readjustment is a delicate
surgical operation, more difficult than the substitution of a long
violin neck for a short one, for the neck no more affects the tone
than the screws in the head. But any blundering with a sound-bar is
fatal to the nervous system of the violin; the _wolf_ may suddenly
be evolved--that horrid dull growl which sets the teeth on edge, and
which, once generated within the violin, is so difficult to diagnose
or to cure. The best old masters finished everything inside their
violins as carefully as the purfling and the joinings which would
meet the eye, and this although a century might elapse before those
tiny smooth blocks in the angles, or that carefully-cut close lining
of wooden strips fitting neatly to the bellies as a glove to the
hand, might chance to be seen at all.

Many forgeries have thus been rudely unmasked, the forger only having
troubled to make clean the outside of the cup and platter, whilst
within you find the dead men’s bones of his slovenly dishonesty. He
worked only to sell, and to sell by deception (not because he cared
for his craft or respected his instrument), and his works do follow
him! But as Mr Lowell says--

      “Men as worked thorough is the ones that thrive,
      But bad work follers you as long as yer live;
      Yer can’t get rid on it, just as sure as sin,
      ’Tis allers askin’ to be done agin.”

The finger-board is of black ebony; in the old fiddles it was often
inlaid. There need be little said about it except that the old
masters would be puzzled to know what a player could want with our
long finger-boards, and still more would they have been puzzled could
they have heard the extraordinary and complex effects we manage to
produce with our extended compass and phenomenal shifts, in spite of
the absence of frets to measure intervals.

The FINGER-BOARD must be kept smooth and even, or it will not be
possible to “stop” fifths or any other chord in tune. You will
notice in old finger-boards the strings have worn deep channels,
which of course mar the vibration. The height of the strings above
the finger-board is to some extent a matter of fancy, and of course
depends on the height of the bridge. A child or young girl would soon
be discouraged with attempting to press strings raised too high above
the finger-board, and of course the higher you ascend the harder must
be the pressure. On the other hand, if the strings are too close
down, the touch is no doubt light to your heart’s content; but you
cannot get a sufficiently full vibration, and your tone will suffer.

The BRIDGE! I had almost said the asses’ bridge, for indeed thereby
hangs a tale. The hard-wood bridge, with its whimsical perforated
visage, and its two slender feet clinging closely to the smooth
belly of the violin, has been sometimes treated with scant courtesy
by writers, and even makers do not all seem fully alive to its
importance. I notice repairers will send you back your violin with a
bran-new bridge, and no apology, if they happen to have mislaid or
broken yours. But the bridge not only exercises the most important
and indispensable functions of carrying the four strings under
a combined pressure of seventy pounds, but it is in closer and
more intimate contact with the instrument than any other of its
appendages. It is so squeezed upon the wood as to be almost pressed
into it, far more so than the finger-board or the tailpiece, or even
the blocks and linings. It is charged with the primary vibrations
from the strings and the secondary vibrations of the belly, ribs,
and back; nothing goes on in that wondrous air column enclosed in
the violin walls without the bridge taking cognisance of it, and
possibly hindering or aiding and abetting its successful exit from
the sound-holes.

I am aware that I have been thought fanciful in this matter, but an
experience of many years has convinced me that it is not easy to get
a bridge that suits a violin perfectly, and most dangerous to trifle
with the close and _quasi_ marital relations which exist between the
violin and its bridge. I dislike new bridges. I love old ones; and
why, when all the rest happens to be old, is the bridge alone to
bring the raw sap of youth to vex the mellow and desiccated repose of
melodious age?

The position of your bridge, like that of your soundpost, the
adjusting of your screws, the thickness of your strings, belongs
rather to the management than to the constitution of the violin.

The only further details fit to be noted here seem to be the button
supporting the tailpiece, which has a character of its own, in its
size, material, and fixture; and the far less important tailpiece, to
which we may add the purfling and other occasional inlaying.

The TAILPIECE, of course, is strictly indispensable, but it does not
much matter what it is made of, or how it is decorated.

The PURFLING, although occasionally resisting damage to the outlying
edge, is chiefly ornamental, and consists of three thin strips of
wood--two ebony or whalebone, and one of white wood--glued together
and inlaid.

In the purfling we have the last survival of the inlaying as applied
to musical instruments. You will notice that the further you go
back the more elaborately inlaid are the viols and violins. It was
thought that the instrument, which was little more in those days of
rudimentary music than a toy, might fitly be exploited to show off
the conceit of artists and the skill of cabinet-makers; but as music
developed and tone was reckoned all-important, every detail likely
to interfere with this new development gradually disappeared, till
in the hands of the Cremonese makers the faint memory of all the
gorgeous mother-of-pearl, ebony, ivory, gold and silver embossing,
survives only in the narrow three thin lines of the purfling which
strike the contour of the instrument and give piquancy to its form.

And thus the perfect sounding violin, though denuded of all
superfluous decoration and meretricious adornment, yet remains a
miracle of art--“a thing of beauty and a joy for ever.”




CHAPTER III

VIOLINS AT BRESCIA


The violin proper is an Italian creation. It comes from the north of
Italy. Stainer, it is true, is an early maker, and he bore a German
name, but his date is after all 1621-83, whilst that of Maggini is
1590-1632; and if you visit the frontier village of Absam, near the
town of Hall, where he lived, you will observe that he dwelt on the
high-road between the Tyrol and Italy, and that his training, his
talent, and his market were Italian.

But Brescia was really the home of the violin, and there is possibly
something in the heavy salt seasoning of the Tyrolean pines which
specially favours that peculiar resonance, sensitiveness, and
durability for which the Brescian and Cremonese schools are famous.

The name of Gasparo di Salò (Bertolotti was his real name), now
chiefly famous for his double-basses and violas, must ever be revered
by students as the master of the great Maggini, who was in reality
the father of the violin, in the sense of having clearly, at once and
for ever, differentiated the instrument as a distinct type.

Salò is a lovely spot on the shores of the lake of Garda, in the
province of Brescia, and about twenty miles from the big town. It
was early famed for its culture. Foreigners went there for the sake
of its schools, and the Corporation records show that sacred music
especially flourished there. It is now certain that Gasparo migrated
thence to Brescia and worked in that town. Maggini was as certainly
his pupil. This is proved by a legal document, dated 1602, which has
lately been discovered, bearing the joint signatures of Gasparo and
Maggini, who is termed his “garzone,” or apprentice.

Gasparo’s share in violin-making proper could not have been very
great, as the earliest violin orchestral music appeared in Italy in
1608, and Gasparo died in 1610 or thereabouts--a fact which, taken in
connection with the extreme rareness of any Gaspardian instruments
which can be called violins, seems to argue that the piccolo violino
which was presently going to be master of the situation was only just
creeping up.

I have seen and played on one very fine Gasparo violin, the property
of Lord Amherst--D and A strings rich and pure, 1st and 4th rather
muffled, but on the whole the tone is mellow and powerful.

This almost unique Gasparo violin is still bulgy, but a great
improvement on the old viol build; the head is long and
quaint-looking, but lacks that finish and character which later
masters put into their scrolls. Gasparo’s basses are still much
sought after, and Dragonetti possessed more than one.

A giant specimen, known as the Duke of Leinster’s bass, may still be
seen at the South Kensington Museum, and I exhibited it at the Royal
Institution in 1872. His work is heavy and lacks refinement, but his
tone is grand and full-bodied.

GIO. PAOLO MAGGINI was the child of his father’s old age, and born
at Botlicino, near the town of Brescia, which afterwards became the
family headquarters.

Brescia was at this time a strongly fortified place, and a print as
late as 1764 probably gives us a fair notion of what it looked like
between 1560 and 1632.

Swift brooklets ran down the streets, and outside the walls were
spreading woodlands and ploughed fields. It boasted of a splendid
brick palace, the Broletta, and a massive belfry of rough stone
(Torre del Popolo), a Castello, and an old Duomo; the streets were
adorned with frescoes. The Cathedral of San Pietro de Dom was famous
for its music, and had an organ and full orchestra. The viol-makers
and the monks were then, as they have since been, in intimate
relations, and it was a couple of monks who befriended Gasparo when
he was down in the world in health and fortune, and sadly needed it.

The princes of Italy at this time (1512-1630) were great patrons
of art, letters, and especially music. Brescia in 1600 was under
Venetian rule. The town or fortress was from its very position
constantly in the midst of wars and rumours of wars, and was
appropriately famed amongst other things for its manufactory of
swords and armour.

It is surprising how little military commotions seem to have
affected, either at Brescia or at Cremona, the manufacture of musical
instruments. There seems to have been an uninterrupted line of viol
and cither and lute makers at Brescia from 1300 and onwards.

But when it is remembered that war does not interrupt the functions
of religion or diminish the importance of the clergy (nay, often
enhances both), we can understand that the musical instrument makers
might have been as much in demand, in the stormiest times of the
Visconti and Medici, as druggists, soothsayers, or mountebanks; and
they probably made impartially for friend or foe--for any one, in
fact, who could afford to pay.

Up to within the last few years very little was known of this man
Gio. Paolo Maggini--Magino or Magicino. As he put only the name
and place, but not the date, on his labels (all dated Magginis are
therefore frauds), it is not easy to assign fixed dates to any of
his instruments, and the personal information to be squeezed out of
them is of the meagrest description. He worked in Brescia; few of his
instruments survive. His violas are as rare as Gasparo’s violins, but
he distances all other makers in the attention that he gave to that
newfangled and suspiciously regarded instrument, the true violin.

His handwriting, some of which survives, would lead one to suppose
that his education was very moderate, but the signatures of
illustrious princes of this period are no better. Recently, however,
the State Archives of Brescia have revealed some interesting gleams
of information which enable us to show him in his workshop with one
apprentice, Franchino, and a young wife, aged nineteen, Maddalena
Anna, who brought him a dowry, and afterwards children.

A picture of his house in the Contrada del Palazzo, Vechio del
Podesta, lies before me. It has but two storeys, and the family lived
upstairs, surrendering the ground floor to the violin business.

In a woodcut by Jost Anian, Zurich (1539-91), we have an authentic
picture of such easy, leisurely, calm workers as Maggini.

There is the rude substantial bench, the tools, the glue-pot, the
planks and the wood in blocks, bits of fiddles and strips of timber
hung up on the walls; the aproned artificer is carefully trying a
lute as he sits on his three-legged stool.

What simplicities! Were we to enter in imagination the studios in
which the greatest pictures in the world were being painted about
this time, the same meagre appliances and absence of superfluous
luxury would doubtless have greeted our eyes.

But our gorgeous modern studios hung with the spoils of the East, and
iridescent with precious pottery and curiously worked metals, our
modern workshops with their exquisite mechanical appliances and all
sorts of labour-saving machines, somehow fail to rival in quality of
production those old masters who sat on three-legged stools, ground
their own pigments, made their own glue and varnish, and chopped and
chiselled their own wood.

If you consider Maggini’s period (1560-1632) you will see how exactly
the direction of his genius was conditioned by the demands of his age.

The singing-schools of Naples had resulted in a call for stringed
instruments in increased numbers, but the old viols were seen to
correspond ill to the altered times, and the need for an instrument
which would render leading melodies effectively was felt just in
proportion as such melodies became multiplied with the rise of vocal
music, sacred and profane.

Most writers on the violin seem to have a passion for cutting up a
maker’s life into periods, as though a man could rise one morning and
say, “Go to now, let us enter upon period number three, in which the
back shall be sloped so, and the belly brought down thus, and the
curve of the bouts tilted, contracted, or elongated thus.” All that
can be safely said is, after such and such a time Maggini or Amati
dropped or adopted this or that feature as a rule, and we may infer
that a maker came under such and such influences, and so forth.

Now I come to speak of Maggini, I will trace roughly but clearly what
may be called his continuous development, rather than any so-called
three periods.

Naturally at first the pupil made like his master Gasparo. His
violins suggested big viols on a small scale. They had a heavy look;
they were of large size, which makes the sides seem lower than they
are, for in reality the ribs are not higher than those of the Amati.

The heads look rough, because, with the reduced size, no increase
of refinement or delicacy has yet been reached; now, they are cut
without symmetry; now, the fluting of the scroll is not smoothed,
even the grooves for the purfling are not neat, nor is the purfling
itself sharp.

Maggini’s early backs, sides, and bellies are cut on the slab--that
is, across the grain.

Then Gasparo’s sound-holes have got narrower in the hands of
his pupil, and Gasparo has probably got credit for some of the
improvements of Maggini, as there can be little doubt that some
violins labelled Gasparo are the work of his pupil, just as early
Stradivari violins are in existence signed Nicolo Amati.

If I may hazard the remark, in my opinion Maggini did not copy so
long or so seriously the work of Gasparo as did Stradivari copy
Nicolo. The reason is obvious. The stride between Gasparo and Maggini
is far greater than that between the late Nicolo and the Strad. By
the time Nicolo died the violin had already risen to that supreme and
independent individuality and dignity which it has never since lost.

Stradivari got the violin all ready made; it was Maggini’s glory to
have assisted at the individualisation of the “King” type.

Presently we become aware that Gasparo is dead and buried. The
Maggini bellies now cease to be cut on the slab, but show the long
parallel grain lines of the wood as in the Amatis; the art of wood
selection for sonority and sensitiveness seems already to have
reached the 1650 Cremona level. The sound-holes are more delicate,
but still a little quaint; they are invariably bevelled inwards, a
practice entirely discarded by the Cremona masters.

Sir Joseph Chitty’s, and Mr Sternberg’s, and the Dumas’ tenors are
good specimens of Maggini’s first independent work illustrating the
above characteristics. The Dumas family were friends of Beethoven,
and enthusiastic admirers of Maggini’s work. They possessed at least
one valuable “chest” of his instruments. A chest is described by an
old writer as “a large hutch with several compartments and partitions
in it, each lined with green baize” (we have since gone heavily into
velvet and plush).

There are only about eight violas or tenors of Maggini’s known; they
do not vary in their proportions.

The model of the Dumas viola is of the master’s most arched type--a
feature much exaggerated by Stainer and his followers. It is, like
almost all this master’s specimens, adorned with double purfling,
set close to the edge, with the usual Maggini bevel at the corner
joints. These corners give it a special physiognomy; they are short,
and make no appeal to the eye like the later Cremonas. The tenor’s ∫ ∫
holes are upright, short, and broad; they are higher than in the same
maker’s violins, the top curves as usual larger than the bottom ones,
the back and belly both in two pieces; the bass bar and blocks inside
have been strengthened; the rough tooth of the well-known Brescian
plane has left its mark on the wood inside. The Dumas tenor is in
exquisite condition; the varnish is unlike the old Gasparo brown, it
glows with rich golden tints. Its type is admirably defined; no one
in looking at this tenor can say, “This is a little violoncello,” or
“This is a big violin.” It is a distinct viola type, and it set the
type for all succeeding violas. The Cremona makers worked on it, but
they did not re-create the tenor; they could not.

The Dumas-Maggini violin is in equally fine condition; it looks
so new that some have supposed that, although eighty years before
Stradivari, it must be a copy made by Strad of the older master, but
it is absolutely authentic and genuine.

Before Maggini died, we notice that a very high standard of finish
has been reached, unknown to him in his earlier days, or, as for the
matter of that, to any of his predecessors. Observe the improved
purfling, the bouts and mitres cut with clear intention, but never so
marked in physiognomy as the Amatis, the sound-holes quite as sharp
as theirs; but, above all, the arching has at last come down--this
true hint, so early given, was not at once adopted by Maggini’s
Cremonese successors. Stradivarius at last fixed it and regulated
it in a model from which no later maker has found it safe to depart
with the exception of Duke and Klotz, who obstinately adhered to the
Stainer high bellies with deep side grooves.

Maggini’s later varnish runs out of the old Gasparo brown into
orange and golden yellow, as luscious as anything to be found in a
Joseph or a Strad.

[Illustration]

Although Maggini adhered to his double purfling, there are specimens
of his work in exhibitions without it; and at least one curiously
but not carelessly made instrument is known where the purfling at
the back is neither double nor even inlaid, but merely drawn sharply
in black lines. A very fine single-purfled violin, formerly in the
collection of Prince Caraman Chimay, now in the possession of Mr
Antonietti, possesses an unrivalled tone of the Maggini timbre. Many
of his violins retain the old taste for other inlaid ornamentation.
He does not run into maps and portraits, but a graceful clover-leaf
pattern is often found at top and bottom of his backs, twisted, as it
were, out of the purfling, and a sixfold trefoil sometimes occupies
the centre of the back; but an acute observer has noted that there
is no instance of the central trefoil combined with the clover-leaf
pattern.

Not less remarkable than this great maker’s definition of the
violin and viola types was his conception of the violoncello. The
Maggini ’cello is not the son of the double-bass, but the father
of the tenor. It is much more like a large tenor than like a small
double-bass; the proportions are, as it were, enlarged from the
tenor, not reduced from the flat-backed bass. Maggini’s bent was
entirely in the direction of the smaller violoncello pattern.

The early and even the later Cremona ’cellos were too large, and
there is very little doubt that the powerful influence of Maggini
can be traced in the evolution of those perfect but moderately sized
Strad ’cellos which date mostly after 1700.

The tone of Maggini is full, mellow, and plaintive, rather than
biting like Stainer, bell-resonant like Strad, or soft and sensitive
like Nicolo Amati; but great players like Vieuxtemps, Ole Bull,
Leonard, and De Beriot have found him sufficient, and if more have
not extolled Maggini, it may be on account of the rareness and
inaccessibility of his instruments.

It has been said by a competent authority that not more than fifty
extant Magginis are known, and in England at present (1897) about
thirty violins, ten violas, and but two violoncellos and one
double-bass.

Maggini died at the comparatively early age of fifty-one. All
researches made in the archives of S. Lorenzo, his parish church,
have failed to reveal the date of his death, and the worst of it is
that the registers of that church prior to 1700 have disappeared.

We hear plenty about his wife, Anna Foresti, who died 1651, aged
fifty-eight, and was buried in a neighbouring parish.

It is more than probable that Maggini himself was a victim to the
plague which raged at Brescia in 1632, and that he was hastily
interred, or, dying at the Pest House, no official note of his death
may have been taken. At any rate, in 1632, the year of the plague,
his son describes himself as “filius quondam Johannis Pauli”--the son
of the late Gio. Paolo.

His last income-tax return is dated 1626, and he was dead in 1632,
so he must have died at latest in 1632, and therefore could not have
been more than fifty-one. Maggini was doubtless well off, owned
considerable property in and out of town, was the father of six
children, and, what was of far more importance, the father of the
modern violin.




CHAPTER IV

VIOLINS AT CREMONA


Cremona! Amati! two words making melody with their very syllables,
and a deeper harmony still for the lover of music, from the
association of ideas which they excite.

With the assumed immigration of makers from Brescia--the emergence
of the Amati family (the name of Amati is not found in the Brescian
archives), and their final residence at Cremona--begins the classic
period of the violin.

Cremona, ancient city of strife, which, owing to its very situation
(κρι μόνος, “high rock” and “alone”), was the battle-point of the
middle ages from the days of the old Goths and Lombards down to quite
modern times; Cremona, with its stately cathedral so little known
or visited, yet possessing two of the finest red lions couchant,
supporting portico columns of one of the noblest cathedral façades in
Italy; Cremona, with its antiquated back streets, its drowsy quiet
life gliding on apart from the beaten thoroughfares of travel--truly,
Cremona town is a place to set one dreaming!

I have narrated elsewhere my pilgrimage to the place which so
ungratefully forgets almost the very tradition of the Amati,
Stradivari, and Guarnerii, whose fabrics alone have given it a
musical immortality, and whose names are hung up high like the stars,
which no discords of the middle ages, sieges, or brawls can ever
reach.

Let us now try and come face to face with these immortal makers.

Andrea Amati (_père_) settled at Cremona, and made violins from
1520-46. He brought with him his brother Nicolo (not the great
Nicolo, afterwards master of Stradivari, _Italian_, or Stradiuarius,
_Latin_).

Andrea Amati had two sons, Antonio and Geronimo, who made violins
jointly as well as separately. When Antonio married, the fiddles of
neither seemed to improve. The brothers ceased for a time at least
to work together (there being, it is said, a period in which there
are no joint reductions); but as there are much later violins bearing
their joint names, it has been assumed that they again collaborated.
If we trust some of these late labels--the brothers being born about
1555-56, and one of the joint violins being dated 1687--it would
follow that the venerable artificers were still making violins at the
age of 136 years, which beats Stradivari himself, who only worked
till he was ninety-three.

Geronimo, according to one writer’s account of his labels, went even
one better, for there is a Geronimo violin dated 1698; so if this
Geronimo, brother of Antonio, was born about 1556, which is tolerably
certain, he went on working even longer than Moses, with his eye
undimmed and his natural strength unabated, down to the age of 148!

The confusion has arisen from confounding Geronimo, brother of
Antonio, with Geronimo, son of the great Nicolo (born 1649, died
1740). But if there exists a signed Geronimo and Antonio dated 1698,
which seems very doubtful, it would be certainly easier to believe
that, as the demand for Italian instruments by makers of repute had
well set in before 1700, the late Antonio and Geronimo label was
stolen from the old workshops--the last two figures of 16--being
filled in, and the label clapped on to cover the fraud; whilst any
Geronimo violin dated 1698 would be by Geronimo, son of Nicolo; or
at most, one made up by some enterprising pupil out of the débris of
the elder Geronimo’s workshop--perhaps about the time that Nicolo
the Great, son of Geronimo and grandson of Andrea, was working with
his pupils, Stradivari and Andrea, Guarnerii, and his own son, the
younger Geronimo or Girolamo Amati.

But with this Geronimo Amati, son of Nicolo (born 1649), and a
certain Don Nicolo Amati, an Italian priest, we need not trouble
ourselves beyond recording their names.

A good deal has been said about Andrea Amati and his violins. He was
certainly the founder of the family, but not much is known about him
except that he probably, almost certainly, acquired from Brescia the
Maggini type, and that his violins are somewhat smaller, arched in
the belly, with a varnish that runs out of the Brescian brown into
the mellow and brilliant gold and ruddy tints common to the Cremona
varnish; the later Amatis have a tendency to revert to the browner
hue.

That Andrea made some choice violins for Charles IX. of
France--twenty-four violins, twelve large, twelve small pattern,
known as “les petits violons du roi”--there can be no doubt, but they
disappeared from Versailles in the political disturbances about 1790.
The arms of France, we are told, were painted on the backs, and they
are said to have been of beautiful workmanship.

A ’cello, “Andrea Amati Cremonentis faciebat, 1572,” was sold amongst
some others belonging to Sir William Curtis, May 1827. This is known
as the “Bridge’s viollo.” Its history is romantic, it having been
presented by Pope Pius V. to Charles IX. of France, and surnamed the
“King.”

The Amati characteristic, which culminates, along with other
qualities of sonority, in the great Nicolo, 1596-1684, is sweetness
of tone; but a certain want of power is noticeable, especially on the
fourth string. The “A” is beautiful, the “E” soft and delicate, and
the third very full and round--qualities which are also conspicuous
in the brothers Geronimo.

But if Amati tone is of cabinet, not concert quality, its quality is
of a kind unequalled for charm and sensitiveness, and although not
loud, some violins made by the brothers have a considerable carrying
power.

The Amati heads or scrolls retained a certain simplicity and antique
Brescian look even after the finish and form of the body of the
violin had left the Brescian school far behind. The double purfling
of Brescia is also gone, but the brothers purfled very beautifully,
with a bend of perfect regularity and smoothness.

The violins of Antonio are better than his brother’s, but the joint
violins are the best, and have been oftenest forged.

The brothers indeed made excellent violas, but, as the fashion then
was, too large. They have been sometimes cut down. Sir Frederick Gore
Ousely once had a fine specimen, which I remember playing upon many
years ago at Tenby--tone very full and mellow.

Richard Blagrove, a brother of Henry Blagrove, the admirable early
Monday Popular violinist, was a viola player, and used a reputed
Amati, but it was really a Gagliano. Many of us (1897) can remember
how richly it contributed to the triumph of a quartet, of which
Joachim, Riess, and Piatti were often the other members.

Her late Majesty the Queen had a fine painted Amati, unfortunately
cut down; and Miss Seton’s Geronimo Amati is a rare specimen, and
from the MS. of Ascenzio, a priest at Madrid, we learn that it was a
favourite violin of Charles IV. of Spain.

Geronimo, after separating from Antonio, reduced the arching of his
bellies, but, singularly enough, without improving his tone-power.
The over-arching of the early makers and scooped side-curves are
generally supposed to be a vice in acoustics finally overcome by
the gentle natural curve and flatter models of Nicolo, but it is
perhaps possible to ride a theory too hard. I have certainly played
on instruments deeply grooved, with rounded bellies, powerful Dukes
and piercing Stainers, which, according to the orthodox theory, had
no business to sound as loud as they did. It is well known that in
both these Amati makers the late Cremona flat curve is conspicuous by
its absence; and whilst I do not for a moment deny that the flatness
of the Stradivari model is preferable, I think the superiority of
the late Cremona tone may be due to a good many other things beside
that. It will always be a question whether the man who makes possible
the last perfection of an art or the man who actually achieves it is
really the greater genius. Pietro Perugino or Raffaello in painting;
Chaucer or Shakespeare in literature; Handel or Beethoven in music;
Gasparo and Maggini or Stradivari in violin-making; but popular
opinion generally plucks the blossom without troubling itself much
about the roots, and the prices fetched by the finest Strad and the
finest Gasparo, or even Nicolo Amati, practically settle the question
as regards the violin-makers. £400 is an unusual price for a fine
Nicolo (£250 is nearer the mark, 1898); £1000 is not an uncommon
figure for a good Strad, and his finest specimens command £2000
(1898).

Nicolo, the great son of Geronimo, was born in 1596, and died close
upon the seventeen hundreds, in 1684. Nicolo was quite aware that he
resumed in himself the fine qualities of his distinguished family
and improved upon them. It is true he did not trouble himself much
with his grandfather Andrea, whom he probably regarded as a worthy
old gentleman quite out of date. There could have been little in
those small, almost three-quarter size, brown varnished, and sweet
but feeble-sounding violins to attract the aspiring grandson; but
there were qualities in the somewhat larger models of the famous
brothers, Geronimo and Antonio, which set his hand and head agoing,
when as a boy he fell to copying and carving backs and bellies, and
twisting ribs and throwing scrolls, in his father’s little workshop
at Cremona, opposite the west front of the Saint Dominic Church.

Nicolo the Great doubtless followed and imitated his father Geronimo,
but wishing to miss nothing, and perhaps labouring under a sense of
obligation or merely out of genuine affection, his labels embody an
immortal acknowledgment of indebtedness to both masters. They run
thus:--“Nicolaus Amatus Cremonem Hieronymi Fil, _ac Antonij Nepos_
fecit, 1677.” (The italics are mine.)

Nicolo the Great’s smaller patterns made in his father’s workshop are
not unfrequently to be met with, and can be picked up for between £80
and £100, or even less.

But as we watch his dates, the touch of Nicolo very soon becomes
distinctive. On the death of his father and uncle he found himself
in possession of a workshop which inherited a great name, but which
was destined to transmit to future generations the greatest violin
names in the world. Among the pupils of Nicolo in 1653 sat the
brothers Guarneri, Andrea Guarnerius having witnessed the marriage
of his master Nicolo and signed the register; and by the side of
Andrea Guarnerius sat a young man named Antonio Stradivari, or, as we
usually call him, Stradiuarius.

Most of the Nicolo violins before 1645 are of the smaller pattern,
but after this date down to 1684, the year of his death, the eye of a
connoisseur will notice an increase in size, a finish in workmanship,
and a more delicate purfle (never double). The model is still
somewhat high in back and belly, but with an increasing tendency
to get flatter; the side-grooving is less pronounced, whilst the
corners are noticeably drawn out into finer points full of character,
arresting the eye, lightening as it were the model, and giving the
whole physiognomy of the instrument a grace and piquancy hitherto
unattempted.

The sound-holes of Nicolo are pointed and somewhat narrow; the scroll
is cut a little too flat for the later taste, but passes as the
century wanes into a somewhat larger and bolder style. The wood seems
to be chosen almost as much for its mottled or fine-grained beauty as
for its acoustical properties.

The early Nicolo varnish is of brownish Brescian type, but later on
it glows with the rich amber tints of Cremona, and those dragon-blood
stains which give to some Strads and Josephs such warm and generous
tints like the sunlit dashes of mellow red on a ripe nectarine.

Mr Somers Cocks (1898) has a most glorious Amati violoncello, “one
of the finest ever seen or heard,” so said to me a distinguished
connoisseur. Mr Marshall Bulley’s violoncello, a Jerome (the
younger) Amati, is also a rare gem of tone and workmanship.[1]

The grand Amati violin pattern runs some of the Stradivari violins
very hard, and is evidently the model on which the 1700-35 Strads are
“calqué,” as the French say. The side-grooving, generally held to
interfere with the volume of tone, whilst supposed by some to add to
its sweetness, has not disappeared as in the Strad grand model, but
it has become less pronounced. The tone is lovely and sensitive, and
the Nicolo is truly delightful to handle. It is _par excellence_ the
lady’s violin.

The one before me, where the varnish still remains, melts into light
orange with clear golden gleams in it. If Joseph is the strong
male, Nicholas or Nicolo certainly belongs to the softer and more
yielding sex. The tone is most delicate, and of ravishing sweetness.
It seems to leap out almost before the horse-hair has feathered the
strings. It continues to sing on like a vibrating silver bell, as if
intoxicated with itself, long after the bow has ceased its contact.
In the sweet Nicolo the lover finds no bars, no obstacles; it is won
almost before ’tis wooed (Plate V.).

[Illustration]

We are interested to know that in his own time Nicolo’s work was
carefully imitated, if not forged; whilst his supremacy over one
of his best pupils, Francesco Rugereo, Rugieri, or Rugerius, was
clearly acknowledged; for we find that a certain Tomaso Antonio
Vitali, who seems to have bought a violin with a Nicolo label inside,
and paid twelve doubloons (or about £12, 10s.) for it, complained
bitterly that on removing the false label he had discovered the name
of Ruggeri underneath it. The aggrieved Tomaso thereupon applied to
his liege sovereign, the Grand Duke of Modena, for summary redress,
avowing that he had given a higher price because the violin had a
label of Nicolo, “who,” he adds, “was a maker of great repute in his
profession, but now it was proved to be only a violin by Rugerius the
pupil, a maker of less credit.” The violin, he said, was scarce worth
to him more than three doubloons; the petitioner therefore prayed
the Duke for redress. Whether he got it or not was no doubt very
important to him, but of very little consequence to us. The fact that
he made the application is the point.

The GUARNERII family must have made violas or violins as the sand
of the sea in number, if the frequency of their labels may be taken
as any guide; and in truth they were a long-lived and industrious
family, and doubtless made a good many instruments, chiefly violins.
But the reputation of Andrew and Peter, and above all the great
Giuseppe (Joseph) del Gesù, led to the early fabrication of pseudo
Josephs, and labels in numbers far beyond what all the great makers
of Cremona together could have produced.

Andrea Guarneri (Andrew Guarnerius) the apprentice, as we have seen,
was one of the witnesses to the great Nicolo Amati’s marriage in
1641, and Nicolo enters his pupil’s name in the church register as
aged fifteen, which gives us the year of his birth, 1626. He worked
on till 1698; in 1652 he married, and two of his sons, Giuseppe (not
the great Giuseppe, his nephew) and Pietro, worthily sustained and
improved upon their father’s reputation.

Many of the violins of Andrea Guarneri are of the smaller Nicolo
pattern, but somewhat inferior, and not always well finished. The
wood of his rare ’cellos, however, although plain in appearance, can
boast of singularly fine acoustic qualities.

There is a well-known ’cello now (1897) belonging to Miss Theobald,
of his finest workmanship.

Giuseppe, second son of Andrea Gianbattista Giuseppe, born 1666
to 1739, as distinguished from Del Gesù or “Jesus” Giuseppe,
struck out a freer line of work. His narrow-waisted boldly-curved
instruments, with their Brescian-looking sound-holes set low down,
his rich, almost too profusely rich, varnish and fine wood, but not
over-finished workmanship, give his violins quite a characteristic
appearance, and in power of tone they are superior to his father’s.
But next to the great Giuseppe del Gesù, Pietro Guarneri is the
flower of the family, and most sought after by amateurs.

The grain of his bellies is often wide, the distance between the
sound-holes is conspicuous, the sound-holes themselves are rounder
and less Brescian, the scrolls are beautifully cut, and the varnish
is superb, from golden tints to pale red, which has thrown some
writers into rhapsodies about setting suns and the colours of the
rainbow.

Passing over a lesser Pietro, son of the lesser Giuseppe, son of
Andrea, who worked at Mantua, we come to the one man who, with the
exception of the great Nicolo, is worthy to measure swords (or bows)
with Stradivari. He came, singularly enough, from a side branch, and
not in direct descent from Andrea or any violin-maker, being the son
of one John Baptist Guarnerius, and was born at Cremona in 1683.

The father of the great Giuseppe was the son of one Bernardo
Guarnerius, who was a cousin of Andrea, and therefore the great
Joseph was nephew of Andrea Guarnerius, just as the great Nicolo was
the nephew of Andrea Amati; but a distinguished fact separates our
Giuseppe from all his illustrious kinsfolk, and it is this, that his
father, Bernardo, does not seem to have been a violin-maker at all,
so the young Giuseppe owed his teaching most probably to his uncle
and cousins.

Most writers have speculated blindly enough upon his distinctive
appendage “del Gesù” some talking about the Jesuits or a supposed
religious bent. This is one of the many cases where sapient
antiquaries, in seeking for recondite origins, neglect the simplest
facts and ignore the easiest explanations. What can be more
simple than for the great Giuseppe, conscious of his superiority
to Gianbattista, son of Andrea Guarneri, as well as anxious to
distinguish himself from Gianbattista, his father, and coming _after_
both, though _preferred_ before them, should call himself the “del
Gesù” or Jesus, who followed after the John Baptist of the family?
So far from indicating any particular reverence for religion, the
assumption of this bold title seems to me to partake more of a
certain irreverent levity; and if, as tradition says, the great
Giuseppe or Joseph was somewhat of a free liver, and perhaps even a
sceptic, he may have had small scruples in so lightly treating sacred
names and subjects.

The question as to who may have been his master, and the influence
(or otherwise) of Stradivari upon him, has also been involved, as I
think, in needless mystery.

Since Del Gesù worked at Cremona and must have been, as a cousin and
nephew, a good deal with his uncle and cousins, Andrea, Giovanni,
and Pietro, who lived there, it is no great stretch of fancy to
suppose that when he showed the family bent for violin-making,
he should have been apprenticed to study the art with his cousin
Giuseppe, son of Andrea, in which case he must have lived next door
to where Stradivari was working all through his finest period; and
though Giuseppe’s violins are rightly said to be in the style of his
cousin’s Gianbattista, and he may have drawn his early inspirations
from his cousin, it is impossible to suppose that so able a man
could be in daily contact with and yet wholly insensible to the
influence of the greatest maker who ever lived. Why, he not only
worked next door to Strad, but probably met him every afternoon at
the neighbouring café, and was doubtless often about his shop, year
in year out.

Of course the differences in the work of the two great masters are
obvious. The massive, bold, and original lines and less scrupulous
finish of Joseph the Great, the powerful (almost brutally powerful)
scroll, the loud trumpet-like imperious tone, all mark the masculine
as contrasted with the sweeter and more feminine qualities of the
gentler, bell-like Strad. The fact also before alluded to, that
between the back and the belly of the Strad there is usually but
one note, whilst between the back and belly of the Giuseppe del
Gesù there are sometimes more, all prove sterling and distinct
originality, as Rafael was distinct from Perugino or Michael Angelo
from Leonardo da Vinci. But enough; for to draw these comparisons
before describing the master may seem like putting the cart before
the horse.

So let us now, without further ado, locate the great violin shops at
Cremona and peep into workshop No. 6, in the Piazza S. Domenico, now
Piazza Roma.

In about 1540, Andrea Amati had set up his modest establishment,
trained his sons, and taken apprentices, bequeathing to Nicolo his
plant and pupils.

Stradivari and the early Guarnerii then worked together, cheek by
jowl; by-and-by Stradivari migrated to No. 5, next door, and the
Guarnerii with Giuseppe del Gesù, who died in 1745, the latest and
greatest of that family (surviving Stradiuarius, who died in 1737,
eight years), then set up at No. 6.

As I have had occasion to remark elsewhere, these three names, Amati,
the Guarnerii, Stradivari, there be none like them; these three shops
opposite the big Church of S. Domenico, now demolished, there never
were nor will be three such violin shops.

Here were made, in long, quiet years of peaceful labour, between 1560
and 1760, in steady and friendly rivalry, all the greatest violins in
the world.

The Giuseppe del Gesù on which Paganini played, now in the Town Hall
in Genoa, the Stradiuarius on which Ernst, now Lady Hallé (1898),
plays, Canon Percy Hudson’s violoncello, Joachim and Wilhelmj’s
“Strads,” the Alard, the Betts, the Dolphin, the Messie, the Pucelle,
the Tuscan, the Fountaine, the Rode, and the Viotti--these be the
wonders of the violin world.

But in following the development of the Guarnerii family into the
seventeen hundreds, the position of Giuseppe del Gesù, the king of
the Guarneri, must be clearly defined before we describe the rise
and progress of Stradivari, who ran parallel with, and who, in the
estimation of most violinists, seems to combine in himself, the _ne
plus ultra_ of all violin perfection.

Nothing about Giuseppe Guarneri del Gesù is more remarkable than
the determined way in which, after examining the Amati types, he
deliberately went back to the Brescian Gasparo and Maggini models
for inspiration. The time had come when powerful tone was wanted.
The Amatis were sensitive, sweet, and weak; in the larger and more
massive Brescians Giuseppe found the suggestion of what he was
destined to make perfect. If only he could add their volume to the
Amati sensitiveness--an hour more or less spent on the cutting of
corners or neater purfling--what did it matter? Strength, power,
was what he wanted, and the sentiment is thrown off in the bulldog
type of his head or scroll, in the thickness of his boards so much
criticised, in the boldness rather than the grace and delicacy of his
curves.

He tried many experiments: flat make, full make, sound-holes
cut almost perpendicularly, shortened, slanting, and sometimes
disproportionately long. He was watching the effect on the volume and
quality of tone, and when he had in his own way conquered that secret
of grand sonority, whether empirically or by calculation, then, and
not till then, his workmanship improves.

He was like a man who had no time to think of the delicate cooking
till he had stayed his main appetite. His frequent habit of cutting
the wood upon the cross, _à contre sens_, as in the case of Mr Alfred
Gibson’s instrument (1897), a superb specimen of Del Gesù, shows up
the coruscations of the grain, and brings out each pore and vein by
the agate-like varnish--not agate-like in the sense of the French
chippy varnish, but in its clear crystalline depth and transparency.
Del Gesù’s varnish is never clotted, but is laid on thoroughly, yet
with a light hand. Mr Ruskin used to say that Sir Joshua Reynolds’
touch was so light that he could paint on a gossamer veil; Del
Gesù’s brush is also as light as a feather. Some of Del Gesù’s later
violins, dating from about 1740, after the death of Stradivarius, are
amongst his finest. The one used by Professor Sauret, and the other
lent to Mr Ludwig by Mr Frazer, are particularly fine, and belong
to this period. Paganini’s Joseph, now in the Town Hall at Genoa,
Alard’s, in the Museum of the Conservatoire of Music, Turin, and
Vieuxtemps’, now in the possession of Maurice Sons, also belong to
this great period.

The life of Joseph Guarnerius is more or less enveloped in mystery.
It seems, for instance, utterly impossible to get at the truth about
the so-called prison fiddles. Whenever a Joseph or a presumed Joseph
which is not up to Joseph’s standard comes into the market, it is
dubbed a Del Gesù prison-fiddle.

The story runs that Giuseppe, being a somewhat reckless person, got
into trouble and was locked up for many years, during which time the
gaoler’s daughter got him any wood she could find, and he made these
inferior pot-boiling fiddles, which she disposed of for such moderate
sums as she was able.

I prefer to put this legend wholly aside. Del Gesù may not have held
sacred things in high estimation, and he may have been somewhat of a
free liver--this rests on the authority of Carlo Bergonzi’s grandson,
who was not even a contemporary of Del Gesù--still he may have got
the gossip from Bergonzi, his own father, who was Stradivari’s pupil,
and doubtless a rival maker; and tongues may wag when interests are
or seem to be opposed, and stories will come forth finely variegated
when there is an extraordinary absence of reliable facts, as there
undoubtedly is in the case of Del Gesù.

[Illustration]

There is, however, no direct evidence whatever that Del Gesù was for
years in prison and that he died there, as says the legend; but Canon
Bazzi of Cremona has lately unearthed one Girolamo Guarneri who _did_
die in prison in 1715, and the names of two very different men, one
illustrious and the other obscure, have before now got mixed up, to
the detriment of the illustrious one.

Something similar is said to have happened to the great Athanasius,
whose name has been confounded with that of the obscure Pope
Anastasius, in whose presence a creed was recited by one Bishop
Victricius, and the confession of faith thus recited by command of
_Anastasius_ now passes as the creed of Saint _Athanasius_, since it
emphasises the Trinitarian doctrine chiefly connected with the name
of that illustrious doctor.

A Giuseppe del Gesù is much more difficult to find than a Strad--his
output, as compared to that of Stradivarius, is as one to six; his
life was shorter, and his working career probably more erratic. But
he is placed on a level with the immortal Antonio by some who know
how to handle him, and the prices of his wares have already reached
four figures.




CHAPTER V

VIOLINS AT CREMONA--_continued_


There is something inexorable about the concensus of posterity.

Individuals may chafe under it, and writers may try to reverse its
verdict. You even have crazes for the revival of neglected poets,
painters, and musicians, but you will never succeed in pushing from
their pedestals the great gods whom posterity has once decided to bow
down to.

De Beriot may choose to play on a Maggini, and Paganini may prefer
his Joseph, but even Maggini, Nicolo Amati, and Giuseppe Guarnerius,
who stand round as it were saluting one another, leave Stradivari
apart by himself like a Colossus on a mountain, and yet no one, not
the greatest connoisseur, is able to say exactly why. When so many
esteem individual violins above some Strads, and when Joseph del
Gesù is held to run the magic master very hard, still Strad stands
apart upon his mountain for all men to look up to and wonder at. And
why? We can only say it is the way with all the greatest; there is
something of the mystery of heaven about the incommunicable touch;
the true aureole forms about no head to order, and the lonely seats
are kept for the mighty.

Antonio Stradivari or Stradiuarius was born in 1644, and died, in his
ninety-third year, in 1737. We get the date of his death from the
register, and the date of his birth is fixed by a violin label (1736)
in his own handwriting, in which he states that he was ninety-three
years old when he made the instrument.

Stradiuarius married at the age of twenty-three a woman of
twenty-seven, who had been a widow for three years, whose maiden name
was Ferraboschi, and he adopted her one little girl. By her he had
six children, some of whom died before him. His second wife, whom he
married several years later, bore him five children, two of whom died
before him--so that in all Stradivari had eleven children. None of
them seemed to have inherited their father’s genius; only Omobono and
Francesco Stradivari made even decent fiddles, and so far maintained
the great name as to succeed at first in selling their wares at
their father’s prices. The buyers probably hoped that at least the
wood might have been selected by Stradivari _père_, and much of it
probably was; and if there was the chance of getting a spare rib or
back or belly with a touch of the master upon it, it was surely worth
a little speculation.

Antonio Stradivari and Andrea Guarneri, as stated before, were young
_garzoni_ or apprentices together in the workshop of the great Nicolo
Amati--sat on the same work bench, used the same tools, and doubtless
discussed the same problems.

In and out of that shop ran, no doubt, the boy Giuseppe Guarneri to
see his uncle Andrea. He must have always found Stradivari there;
and when, later on, Giuseppe imbibed a taste for fiddle-making, and
became himself the great Del Gesù, it is hard, I insist upon it, to
believe that what must have been a lifelong acquaintance with the
mighty Stradivari should have had no influence whatever in forming
his ideas and methods.

There is no mention of the youthful Stradivari having accompanied
Andrea Guarneri to the wedding of his master, Nicolo Amati; Andrea
was doubtless the older pupil, and Antonio Stradivari was taken on
later.

“If thou wouldst teach, learn; if thou wouldst create, first copy.”
It is generally held that for some years, roughly between 1660-70,
Stradiuarius simply made up, blocked out, drew, glued, mixed varnish,
and worked generally, but without signing his own name to any
fiddles. He was _learning_; but in 1660 he begins to sign his name,
not from pride, but because his master made him do so. From before
that date to about 1670, which brings us to within fourteen years of
Nicolo Amati’s death, he made what are sometimes called Amati Strads.

At this time Antonio followed closely the violins of the early Nicolo
rather than the grand Amati pattern, but he appears to have followed
his master’s developments continuously, slowly, but surely.

There exists a Stradivari violin with a label Nicholai Amati (anno
1667), and about that date (when he married) Antonio seems to
have left his master’s workshop, but still continued closely to
copy Nicolo, and many violins of his between 1660 and 1670 pass
as Amatis, whilst others are called Amati Strads, and some are
apparently joint productions.

When Stradiuarius married (about 1667) and left Nicolo Amati, he set
up round the corner in the same street as the brothers Guarnerii, and
almost next door to them, in the square opposite the great Church
of S. Domenico. From about this time connoisseurs notice a great
improvement in Stradivari’s technique; but up to 1672 at least,
remaining a close copyist of Amati, he doubtless kept on terms of the
closest intimacy with Nicolo, now in his decline, and benefited by
the abundance of orders flowing in for Amati violins which the old
master was unable to execute.

From 1660 to 1684 was a period of great activity, perhaps haste;
even some pot-boiling Stradivari violins may then have been made as
the young family increased. Antonio’s wood is often plain about this
time, and not up to the best taste and selection of his master, but
he evidently remained his right-hand man to the end; and when Nicolo
died, at the ripe age of eighty-eight, he left all his tools and his
plant not to his son Girolamo, then about thirty-five, but to Antonio
Stradivari, then just forty years old.

In 1680, four years before the death of Nicolo, Antonio had so far
prospered as to be able to buy his house (which I visited in 1880),
at 1 Piazza Roma, for about £800. Desiderio Arisi, a Cremonese, has
left an interesting MS. in which he speaks of “his intimate friend
Antonio Stradivari.” The MS. is dated 1720, or seventeen years before
the death of Stradivari.

Arisi alludes to a point of great interest which early excited my
attention and curiosity--the many-sidedness of the man. “In Cremona,”
writes Arisi, “is also living my intimate friend Antonio Stradivari,
an excellent maker of _all kinds of musical instruments_.” Indeed,
he could make anything that was in demand, and he did; he could
“fancy-purfle” to order, inlay, make fiddles in odd shapes, or
with a twist in the curve here or there, or longer or shorter for
experiment, or big or small.

The Marquis Carlo dal Negro of Genoa owned a Stradivari harp in 1820.
The master was not above making mandolines and lutes to order. Messrs
Hill own a perfectly plain Stradivari guitar in fine condition. It
is of exquisite close-grained wood. I have often wanted to hear the
sound of that guitar. I noticed a Stradivari cithern in the South
Kensington Loan Collection with an elaborately carved female head of
great beauty. I did not wonder that he who could carve such scrolls
could carve a head or anything else.

There are, or were, within the present century, other gems of
workmanship, some of which it is to be feared have perished,
children’s fiddles, instruments made with small figures, flowers,
arabesques. Everything that comes from his hand is finely accurate
in drawing. Sometimes his decoration is merely painted in black,
sometimes ivory, ebony, or mother-of-pearl is used, but everything
Stradivari did was perfectly done; he qualified himself to the _n_th,
as mathematicians say, for each branch of his art.

In these days one man draws, another blocks out, another inlays,
another finishes. Stradivarius did all, and did all consummately
well. His heads and arabesques are worthy of Cellini, his inlaying
of the finest Florentine marqueterie; his scrolls and curves are of
Pheidian beauty; his varnishing is his own.

On the death of Amati, Stradiuarius and the Guarnerii had the Cremona
market to themselves, and whilst the competition was quite wholesome,
there is no reason to suppose that their rivalry was other than
a friendly one. They had all been brought up together, they had
worked as boys together, they had doubtless lent each other tools,
touched up each other’s backs and bellies, varnished each other’s
ribs, criticised each other’s scrolls from boyhood; and now that the
Cremona violin was in the ascendant, and kings and nobles from Spain,
France, Germany, Saxony, and even England were anxious for Cremona
fiddles, there was a market for them all.

The bitterness of competition is not always due to rival makers,
but often to over-production; and such a thing as over-production
of fiddles in those days was unknown. Nay, the orders that came in
could not be executed fast enough. Music walked faster than the
instruments could follow it. When the King of Poland wanted a Strad
violin he knew his man, and sent his Capelmeister Voleme to Cremona,
with orders to stop there and bring back the twelve violins ordered
for the court orchestra. “So,” says Arisi, “Voleme arrived in 1715
on the 10th June, and remained there three months, and when all the
instruments were ready he took them with him to Poland.”

But at this time Stradivari was at his zenith. “There is not in the
world,” writes Lorenzo Giustiniani, a Venetian nobleman, to the great
artificer in 1715, “a more skilled maker of musical instruments than
yourself, and as I wish to preserve a record of such an illustrious
man and famous artist, I trouble you with this letter to ask whether
you feel disposed to make me a violin of the highest quality and
finish that you can bestow upon it.”

But we must not anticipate.

After the death of the illustrious Nicolo Amati, this patient
pupil, this careful copyist, this accurate and tireless student and
experimentalist, begins to assert his strong individuality. His
scroll departs from the feminine Amati type, and becomes striking
and independent, his sound-holes recline more, his corners are
pronounced, his middle bout curves are prolonged, his varnish is
almost fancifully varied from rich gold to soft velvety red. His wood
is now invariably chosen with the utmost care, and as he made chiefly
for the nobility, royalty, and the higher clerical dignitaries, he
was not only on his mettle, but he could afford to work just as he
chose.

In 1682, Michele Monzi, a rich Venetian banker, sent him an order for
a chest of violins, altos and ’cellos, which were to be presented to
our King James II. They were so much liked that his Majesty ordered a
viol di gamba of Stradiuarius in 1686.

[Illustration:

        Rode Strad         Spanish Tenor         Spanish Strad

                          Christina Strad

                               CELO]

In 1685, Cardinal Orsini, afterwards Pope Benedict XIII., had ordered
a violoncello and two violins of him, besides making him “one of his
private attendants,” an honorary title, but equivalent to appointing
Stradiuarius instrument-maker to the Cardinal Archbishop. We commend
this fact to his Holiness Pope Leo XIII. (1897), who has lately
placed the violin on his _index expurgatoritus_ of instruments, as
being too frivolous for the solemnities of divine service! Yet Pius
IX. was a pretty good fiddler.

In 1687 Stradivari makes his famous set of instruments for the
Spanish Court, inlaid with ivory, with a scroll-work running round
the sides. One of these rarities--a violin--found its way into the
hands of Ole Bull, the famous violinist. It has been since sold in
England to Dr Charles Oldham of Brighton. The tenor is, I believe, in
existence. When last in the market, it had lost its ivory purfling,
which has since been exquisitely replaced by Messrs Hill.

There are extant several very small violins made evidently to order
about this period. The fallacy of different sizes for different ages
from childhood upwards is one which will always smile to makers
and those acute persons who teach the violin and buy their pupils’
instruments, which of course have to be changed as the children grow
up, for larger and larger ones. I have always protested against this.
A child of eight had much better play the violin like a violoncello
(at the age of seven, as I did myself) than be given a small one; but
when I was eight I could hold a full-sized violin to my chin--not
quite in the correct position, no doubt, but near enough. Thus from
the very first, when at six or seven years of age, I played the
violin like the violoncello, I never had to _unlearn my intervals_
in stopping the strings. _The brain learns intervals._ An habitual
tenor player never plays the violin quite in tune, and _vice versâ_;
and so every time a larger violin is placed in the pupil’s hands, the
brain is bothered with the narrower stopping learned in the preceding
period. Still, no one can regret the exquisite cabinet, almost toy
specimens, made by the Amati and Guarnerii as well as by Strad.
Artistically they are gems; musically, fallacies. I have never got
anybody to agree with me about not using dwarf fiddles. Joachim, I
believe, contended that for a child to use a large fiddle stiffens
his muscles. I don’t believe it; it certainly did not stiffen mine.
I believe I am also in a minority in my partiality for old bridges.
Neither theory is, in fact, “good for trade.”

In 1690 Stradivari executed a celebrated order for the Prince
of Tuscany, through the Marquis Bartholomeo Aribati. Of these
_chefs-d’œuvre_ the Marquis writes: “I assure you the Prince has
accepted your instruments with more pleasure than I could expect. The
players in the orchestra are unanimous in expressing appreciation.
They declare your instruments to be quite perfect; they all say
they never heard a violoncello with such a tone as yours. My having
brought to the knowledge of such a person as his Highness your great
skill will doubtless procure you many orders from his exalted
house”--and then follow more orders for two tenors. On this occasion,
we learn, from the relics of Stradivari in the possession of the
Marquis della Valle, that the great violin-maker characteristically
enough made the most beautiful cases for the royal instruments,
decorating them profusely with armorial bearings and symbols
appropriate to each instrument.

[Illustration:

       Rode Strad           Spanish Tenor        Spanish Strad
]

The order was given in 1684, but the instruments were not handed in
till 1690. The Grand Duke, it seems, came back for more, as there was
found amongst his instruments a violin of the grand pattern bearing
the later date, 1716.

I cannot forbear to call attention to the exquisite
chromo-lithographs of the Tuscan violin, and the lucid description
and history of this last-named famous masterpiece, in Messrs
Hill’s handsome monograph. He declares it to be in the very finest
preservation still, with an unbroken and authentic record, and to
possess all the noblest qualities of the incomparable master. It is
on the very verge of his great period, bearing the date 1690, and
was bought by Mr David Ker in 1794. The Tuscan viola and violoncello
are still in the Institute at Florence, and I advise all lovers of
Cremona who get the chance to go and inspect them.

The only other point of great general interest before the year 1700,
when Stradivarius enters on his golden period, is the deliberate
manufacture of a certain number of violins on a pattern distinct from
the Amati, and from any patterns adopted by himself before 1686-1694,
or after 1700. These instruments are known as long Strads, and they
seem to be a sort of constructional or experimental link between
the smaller Amati pattern and the grand Strad pattern of 1700-37--a
model evidently suggested by the grand Nicolo, but not adopted by the
cautious Strad till some years after Nicolo’s death.

From 1694 to 1700 Stradivari not only went out of his way to make
long Strads, which not only looked longer because they were narrower
and pinched in, but actually were longer--_i.e._ 14-inch, as compared
to the 1690 13-inch Strad. In other respects also he walked through
his own traditions. Having mastered all violin lore, he was evidently
at last trying a series of daring experiments to settle in his own
mind once and for ever certain problems of tone.

We have known painters trifle with colour in the same way.
Gainsborough would paint his blue boy, and Whistler symphonies in
green, mauve, or anything else unexpected, and Turner would recreate
the light that never was on sea or land; but in reality it was no
trifling, but study in arrangement of colour. So you can have study
in construction, empirical ventures, and a testing of tone problems,
whether in sound or colour.

As Stradivari mused and carved, and glued and varnished, year after
year, his meditations might run thus: “Flatten the belly--thicker
here or there according to wood, density of fibre; air column
restrained by narrow width, as in the long pattern, but same
cubic inches of air allowed for in length or height of ribs, only
differently defined by different shapes of instruments. Enlarge
width, thin planks, but try different thicknesses; see how different
densities of wood go together. Try old seasoned wood for back, newer
for belly, or _vice versâ_; if wood hard, thin it; if soft, thicken
it; try effect of higher ribs on flat curves; lower the ribs on more
bulgy curves and grooved sides. What did Nicolo aim at with his grand
pattern? Adopt his width and size, and flatten his belly. Try and
save his sweetness (did the grooves give that?) with the flatter
back and belly, which gives louder tone, adopting the mathematical
curve of nature, suggested by the vibration of a string; certainly
that gives power. Is a joined back, or a back in one piece, best or
indifferent? That would depend on wood attainable. How would it be
to patch bits of precious wood if inter-congenial? That generally
succeeds. A good secret that, but an open one--wanted always the
patcher!”

This idea of patching was certainly one of the most inspired thoughts
that ever occurred to him. He seems to have kept wood of the finest
acoustic properties for his best orders. He had favourite planks; we
can trace one of these by a stain that runs through the grain, and
the wood crops up again and again in some of his best fiddles.

The plank must have been known to his pupils, for the remains of it
were worked up after his death.

“Now for the sound-bar,” ponders Stradivari; “thick or thin,
according to the density or elasticity of the back and belly. And its
position? A little transverse, of course--slightly diagonal to be in
the line of vibration. Study effect on power of different strings
by placing it a fraction of an inch one way or another; place it
slightly aslant for experiment. And the varnish?” But that will call
for a few separate paragraphs by-and-by.

I have tried to indicate the kind of observation and meditation,
demanding unlimited time, patience, and love, which Stradivari
devoted for the better part of a century to his art, and without
which those Cremona _chefs-d’œuvre_, the Dolphin, the Messie, Tuscan,
Betts, and Pucelle Strads, could never have come forth.

I have alluded to Strad’s taking late to the large Amati pattern for
violins, inclining for some time to the small size. I do not know
that any one has yet noticed that in violoncellos Strad reversed this
order of work, making his early violoncellos large, and diminishing
their size. As he reached his golden period he probably felt that the
demands made by virtuosity and tone-power were quite alike consistent
with a larger type of violin and a smaller and more manageable size
of violoncello.

The violinist is well aware of the value of Strad’s golden period,
which will cost him gold; for, after about 1700, a fine Strad will be
worth to him from £1000 and upwards, according to its condition.

The long apprenticeship was at last over, and in 1700 the master
had reached the ripe age of fifty-six, an age at which so many have
achieved their greatest work. He was at the acme of his power,
experience, and fame; no one could teach him anything now, and
apparently he had nothing to learn. He could at last wield his tools
as a Millais or a Tadema wields his brush, a Flaxman his pencil, a
Canova his chisel, or as a Mozart or Wagner handles his score. He
knew what he wanted, and he could do it, and do it with a spontaneous
ease and joy which seems even now to smile to us from the saucy
corners of his bouts, the free daring curves of his grand pattern,
and the lightly tossed and lifted scrolls.

No one has failed to notice the masterful ease, the emancipation from
all mannerism, the cool defiance of precedent and uniformity, and
even symmetry, which characterises his great period from 1700 to 1730.

The violins are not all alike. Strad knew that the secret was not
merely in the pattern or shape; he could vary his curves, and yet
produce masterpieces, because he knew all about the air column, the
wood densities, and the proportions and quantities which should be
combined for the requisite result, and he could mix them differently
like a master colourist. He no more treated every violin as if it
had the same constitution than does a physician treat every human
body alike; it is not so much nitrogenous or carbonaceous food, and
so much liquid, but it is these and other things used in proportion,
according to your digestion and temperament, which will produce in
that instrument, your body, the harmony of health; and how close is
the analogy between the constitution of a violin and that of a human
body--how varied is the texture, the tissue, quality, fibre, and
density of the component parts of each--I have endeavoured to point
out as succinctly as I could.

So, in the grand period, the grand pattern Strads are all made
with a trained, almost inspired instinct, according to those laws
which govern the tone qualities aimed at; but the fiddles are by no
means alike to look at. They have the charm of imaginative variety,
combined with the unity of supreme excellence.

To this great period belongs the Dolphin Strad, so called, it is
said, from the melting and almost iridescent tints of the varnish.
To me, however, the violin almost suggests the life, freedom, and
elegant poise of that graceful fish whose name it bears. The beauty
and acoustic properties of the Dolphin wood are quite special, and
can easily be compared with other violins of the same period, some of
which are much plainer to look at, and somewhat different in form,
and though very charming, hardly so bell-like in tone.

The last time I had the privilege of touching the Dolphin Strad was
at my lecture on violins before the Royal Institution in 1880. I
shall never forget its ringing notes and its exquisite sensibility.
It seemed anxious to speak before it was spoken to; when touched,
it seemed to do all for itself like magic. Instead of the player
showing it off, it shows off the player; he begins to feel he has
nothing to learn in tone production. It is almost like sitting at
those ingeniously contrived pianos that make elaborate music, and
you merely have to put your hands on a dummy keyboard, press the
keys, and appear to be playing, and then you roll off Chopin and
Mendelssohn perfectly, though you can scarce play your scales! Since
then Vuillaume’s sound-bar has been replaced with a stronger one by
Messrs Hill. It seemed to me quite perfect before, but I suppose one
must bow to experts in such matters.

The best opinion limits the number of instruments which Strad made to
about two thousand, only eight hundred of which at most are known to
be extant. Compared with any other maker except Vuillaume, both as
regards output and survival of work, Strad probably bears the palm.

An elaborate description, a careful portraiture of every known Strad,
together with its history, as far as recoverable, I must leave for
some more gifted and industrious recorder. I believe Messrs Hill are
preparing the most complete monograph on Stradivari which has ever
yet or is ever likely to appear, and I only wish I could dip into
their MS. and steal a few pages. It will certainly, when it appears,
be a monumental work, and there is no time to lose, as many of these
gems are known to have been destroyed, others dismembered, whilst
some are at the bottom of the sea. There are, however, a few more
famous specimens, which are of such unique interest that they cannot
be passed over even in so general a survey as this.

Mr Croall (1897) of Edinburgh is the happy owner of M. Artôt’s Strad,
varnished dark red, quite perfect, and one of the finest known for
tone; it is dated 1716. Lady Hallé still plays on Ernst’s violin,
bought for £500, and presented to her by the Earl of Dudley and
some others. I shall never forget the wonderful effects elicited
from it by the great magician Ernst in his palmy days, nor can I
understand the statement recently made that its tone is difficult to
elicit. I have heard the faintest vanishing whisper of its strings on
the Covent Garden stage when, as a boy, I was seated up in the top
gallery at one of Benedict’s monster season concerts early in the
fifties.

A romantic interest attaches to two Stradivari violins which have
come down to us in absolutely perfect condition: one is called the
Messie, the other the Pucelle or the Virgin.

The Messie was secured by Vuillaume after the death of that
remarkable man Luigi Tarisio, to whom further on I devote a special
section. It bears date 1716.

Tarisio would never let it be seen till Vuillaume possessed it; it
had then never been touched or played upon. He lengthened the neck,
but, without _inserting_ his new neck, he fixed it to a block placed
outside the ribs. Count Cozio de Salabue had bought it in 1760, but
never allowed it to be played upon.

Tarisio bought it after the Count’s death, and at his own death in
1854 it passed to Vuillaume, and was exhibited (No. 91) in the South
Kensington Loan Exhibition of 1872, and for the first time unveiled
beneath glass to the gaze of admiring thousands.

When I first saw the Messie I could not believe my eyes. It was
covered throughout and uniformly with thick rich red-brown varnish,
laid on with a firm brush, level and lavish. It seemed to have
left the workshop only the day before; the anointed glitter of the
fresh varnish was upon it, it looked hardly dry. It is of the grand
pattern, but not heavy and massive like some of the great Del Gesù’s,
but beautiful as a Pheidian carving, full of a certain special grace
and elegance. One “∫” is a shade lower than the other--a practice _so
common_ with Strad, especially in his later period, that it must have
been intentional, his artistic eye not tolerating even the suggestion
of mechanical uniformity. The Greeks worked similarly, no two sides
of their Corinthian capitals ever quite matching.

The “Messiah” back is in two pieces, the corners are absolutely
unrubbed, and completely covered with varnish--of no other specimen
can this be said. The head is light and graceful, “the scroll,” as
I have elsewhere observed, thrown off like a ribbon lightly curled
about the finger, and drawn in, one side of the scroll cut a little
lower than the other; the lines of the scroll are picked out with
thick black paint; only faint traces of this remain in other violin
heads. The black outline was artistically conceived, as it called
full attention to the scroll curve, always so characteristic a part
of violin physiognomy.

As the Messiah recently bought by Mr Crawford of Edinburgh for £2000
has now been played upon, it seems a pity that the world should not
sometimes be allowed to hear its voice; and I venture to say that a
well-advertised concert, in which two of our finest violinists should
be invited to play on the Messiah and the Pucelle--_i.e._, each
player upon each instrument once, thus giving four solos, so that the
audience might hear the same violins under different fingers--would
be an epoch in the musical world. The announcement would doubtless
pack St James’s or any other London hall.

The Pucelle or Virgin is the last Stradivari violin I have space
to notice. The “Virgin” is so called because its interior organism
had, up to the time when it came into M. Vuillaume’s hands, not been
interfered with--_i.e._, the inside bass bar had never been touched.
All the old violins have had these bars strengthened, and their necks
lengthened, to meet the strain of the modern high-pitch tension of
the strings on the belly, and the lengthened finger-board which the
development of advanced virtuosity demands.

These readjustments the Pucelle owes to Vuillaume. She is in fine
preservation otherwise, although her varnish is a good deal rubbed
in places. Her contour, so fanciful are even good judges, is by some
considered more graceful than that of the Messiah, but less graceful
by others. To me there seems to be little to choose between them;
each is a distinct conception.

The Virgin’s varnish is of a rich soft brown and yellow tone, rather
contrasting with the Messiah’s bright red. The head is stronger and
less graceful than that of some Strads (the Dolphin’s, for instance);
the Virgin’s back is in two parts, the belly is a little higher than
that of the Messiah. The only vestige of repair about her is where
the chin has rubbed into the purfling, which has accordingly been
renewed. The corners are somewhat fancifully cut, running straight
out in the top bouts, and hanging away in the lower bouts; there is a
rather marked indentation of the curve beneath them.

The Virgin is labelled 1709, and she reached Paris in 1840 (of course
it is a Tarisio violin); it has been owned by Mons. le Roy, a banker,
and passed to his heir, Mons. Glanday. She is now the property of a
member of the same family, and is very jealously guarded by her owner.

In vain does imagination seek to recover the image of the great maker
as he lived and moved and had his being through ninety-three years of
shower and shine. Undisturbed by petty sieges and local disturbances
and changes of administration, sought for and admired impartially by
the friends and the foes of his country, he wrought out calmly his
own matchless ideal.

Violins have no politics, and the great republic of Art dominates
the ages, and comprehends whilst it survives the rise and fall of
dynasties and empires.

I sometimes seem to see the grand old man standing at the door of
his modest but comfortable house--a tall, thin, perhaps rather gaunt
figure, most likely not a man of many words, carrying on for ever
mental processes connected with his subtle handicraft, seldom seen
without a chisel in his hand.

Behold him just risen from his stool, or come round to superintend or
criticise a carelessly cut scroll of Bergonzi, his best pupil; and
before he goes up into that almost sacred attic, open to the air, at
the top of the house, where hang the varnished fiddles and anointed
strips a-drying, he mutters a rebuke or rectifies a curve.

The old man comes to the door, and stands for a moment looking down
the street. He wears his woollen nightcap and his inevitable leather
apron; he salutes the neighbours as they pass, but they do not stop
to speak to him, they know he has no leisure for that. Only later,
at the café-cabaret, it may be, he will chat with Joseph Guarnerius,
and exhort him to more refinement; or tell his sons they will never
uphold the reputation of the firm if they do not work harder; and
as it is known that the master detests interruptions at home, in
those moments of rare leisure when he emerges with the regularity of
clockwork to sip his _vino_ or _sirop_ or coffee, Capelmeister A. or
Padre B. or Monsignor C. may surprise him for a chat, and inquire
timidly when the violoncello or quartet of violins ordered are likely
to be ready, and get for reply something too enigmatic or oracular to
be of any service; so patrons or patrons’ emissaries had to sit down
at Cremona and wait on the master’s convenience for the masterpieces
that could be got nowhere else.

His prices seem to have been altogether moderate, but we must
remember that the value of money was far greater in those days, a
sovereign going then nearly as far as five go now.

He sold his violins for £10 (= £40); the original price of his
violoncellos and violas does not seem to be known.

Although he had a large family, he must have made, if not inherited,
money, for there seems to have been a proverb current at Cremona, “As
rich as Stradivari.”

Some years ago, fresh from my visit to the house of Stradivari, then
still standing in the Piazza Roma, Cremona, I gave a full description
of the great maker’s _entourage_, which I need not here repeat; but
a single paragraph may serve better than anything that I can now
write, at the distance of over a decade, to place the reader in the
atmosphere in which Antonio Stradivari worked for more than half a
century.

I stood in the open loft at the top of his house where still in
the old beams stuck the rusty old nails upon which he hung up his
violins. And I saw out upon the north the wide blue sky, just
mellowing to rich purple, and flecked here and there with orange
streaks prophetic of sunset. Whenever Stradiuarius looked up from
his work, if he looked north his eye fell on the old towers of S.
Marcellino and S. Antonio, if he looked west the Cathedral with
its tall campanile rose dark against the sky, and what a sky! full
of clear sun in the morning, full of pure heat all day, and bathed
with ineffable tints in the cool of the evening when the light lay
low upon vinery and hanging garden, or spangled with ruddy gold the
eaves--the roofs and frescoed walls of the houses.

Here, up in the high air, with the sun his helper, the light his
minister, the blessed soft airs his journeymen, what time the
work-a-day noise of the city rose and the sound of matins and vespers
was in his ears, through the long warm days worked Antonio Stradivari.

Before the time came for the busy hand to fail, Antonio ceased to
sign all the violins that he made; but, with an old man’s natural
pride, he continued to sign a few down to the year of his death,
registering the number of his years in each case, and it is from one
of the latest of these, dated 1736, that we know his age.

He sank quietly to rest, evidently worn out naturally and nobly, if
not with his eye quite undimmed and his natural strength unabated,
certainly still full of marvellous vigour, unpalsied senses, and
undulled perception.

When the Chapel of the Rosary in the Church of S. Domenico, opposite
to which he had lived all his life, was pulled down, his funeral
tablet was rescued, and it is now in the Town Hall at Cremona; but
where are his ashes? Are they in the present family vault of the
Stradivaris, in the Campo Santo of Cremona, or in the parish of S.
Matthew? I was unable to ascertain. The tablet bears the following
simple inscription:--“Sepolcro di Antonio Stradivari E svoi Eredi,
Anno 1729.”

Many of his family had preceded him to the grave, both of his wives
and six of his eleven children, his last wife dying only nine months
before him, a significant and painful event in a life so regular
and uneventful, and one which may not unnaturally have hastened
his own end. None of the family seem to have been buried in the S.
Domenico vault, but in one belonging to Signor Francesco Vitani, in
the parish of S. Matthew; so it may be Antonio lies there.

[Illustration]

The Church of S. Domenico was pulled down several years ago; the
house of Stradiuarius was destroyed only recently. The Piazza S.
Domenico is now the Piazza Roma, and when an average Cremonese is
asked about Stradivari, he thinks of the fashionable _avocat_ of
that name, who appears to spend his time chiefly at Milan, and may
possibly resent the notion that a man in good society should ever
have had ancestors connected with fiddle-making. _Sic transit._

The achievements in violin-making up to the first quarter of the
eighteenth century are clearly summed up in the names of Antonio
Stradivari and Giuseppe (del Gesù) Guarneri.

It would be an interesting and thorny question to debate whether any
variations of importance or additions in excellence have since been
noticeable, and of course we naturally look to the best Cremonese
makers, who followed these giants of tone-power and sweetness.

The name of Carlo Bergonzi at once stands out as worthy, if not to
be bracketed with that of the two mighty men, at least to receive
their mantle and reflect something of their lustre. Carlo Bergonzi
was Stradivari’s favourite pupil; he lived next door, and afterwards
occupied Stradivari’s own house with his son.

He finished many of his master’s late violins, and issued some
others after his death collected from the débris of the great man’s
workshop; and Stradivari left him all his tools and plant.

He worked at Cremona between 1720-47 or 50, and followed at first
Stradivari’s example; for as Antonio made his early fiddles on the
pattern of Nicolo Amati, so did Bergonzi closely copy the grand Strad
pattern. But later on, and before the death of the old man, Bergonzi
conceived the ambition of attempting to weld the power of Giuseppe
Guarnerius with the round, bright, bell-like sweetness of the
Stradivari. To what extent he succeeded must be left to the judgment
and decision of connoisseurs, but the grand quality for which his
violins are increasingly appreciated is, no doubt, their powerful
sonority; that he clearly saw must be the indispensable quality for
all violins of the future.

The old tinkling days were over; the feeble, scraping, and muffled
viol tone was a thing of the past. The instrument had finally emerged
from the cloister, was no longer to be a mere adjunct to the voice
in dim sacristies and cathedral choirs; its sphere henceforth was to
be out in the wide, wide world, its triumphs were to be won in the
concert room, the opera house, and the grand musical arenas of solo
virtuosity.

And so, undoubtedly, what Bergonzi aimed at was body of tone and
_carrying power_, and he won it. This dominant idea has modified
even his pattern. He looks bold and loud. Yet is the pattern not
Guarneri, but Stradivari modified. Notice the larger breadth of the
top curve, a certain bold angularity about the bouts, and a freer
development of the lower part of the violin as well; the sound-holes
set lower and nearer to the purfling, and the flat model which
Stradivari discovered to be favourable to loudness. The scroll is
also characteristic--flatter in some places than that of his master,
but made to look bold and full of self-assertion by reason of the
strongly-defined and prominent curl of the ear, which stands out and
at once challenges attention.

The whole build is massive. The Bergonzi will outlast the Strad; it
will be the survival, if not of the fittest, of the strongest. The
very varnish is laid on with a lavish hand, to allow for wear and
tear; it is even clotted in places, and is said in some specimens
to have cracked and become scurfy. It is of a red Cremona brown,
velvety, and quite the right sort.

Until within the last few years Bergonzi has not received his dues;
the scarcity of his instruments may in part account for this; but in
France, and especially in England, he is now fully recognised and
much sought after. There are, however, only about sixty authentic
instruments of his known. His working life was but about twenty-five
years. Two notable Bergonzi violins are those in the possession
of Miss Eissler and Signor Simonetti. There is a famous Bergonzi
double-bass of singularly fine quality now in possession of Mr I.
Sears of Boston. In Count Cozio de Salabue’s collection there were
two very fine Bergonzi violins, dated 1731 and 1733.

There were five other Bergonzis--a son and grandsons; they all made
fiddles, but they were of no account, and were far surpassed by some
other makers who themselves belong to the decline period of the
Cremona school.

Although I have called Bergonzi Stradivari’s best pupil, it would be
very unfair to ignore the merit of Lorenzo Guadagnini (1695-1740),
the only one of that name who poses as a pupil of Stradivari. He was
born at Piacenza, but lived at Cremona till about 1740. In about 1795
he removed to Milan after leaving his master at Cremona, but returned
to die in his native town. His make is bold, his model flat, his
varnish not so rich as his master’s, his head original, but without
the grace of Antonio.

His son, Giovanni Battista, born at Piacenza, 1711-1786, made
violins which are almost more highly esteemed than his father’s. He
imitated Stradivari perhaps more closely than his father, but Count
Cozio de Salabue, who thought very highly of him and bought several
instruments from him, is careful to mention that Giovanni Battista
Guadagnini prided himself upon being no mere copyist. In fact, the
Guadagnini in the hands of Mr Willy Hess is quite equal to the best
of Lorenzo’s work. He was always changing his place of residence, and
wandered from Piacenza to Milan, and at last to Turin, where he died.
His own explanation was that the envy of rivals made each town too
hot for him, but his neighbours said that his frequent migrations
were due to his own hot temper. There were seven Guadagninis who made
violins between 1695 and 1881, but of these the first two, father and
son, alone need be taken account of.

It has been the fashion to separate the Italian makers into schools
according to the place at which they happened to live--the Milanese,
the Venetian, the Neapolitan, the Bolognese, etc.; but it is much
more important to notice the influences under which the chief makers
worked than to identify them with special towns.

A Cremonese who works at Venice but carries the Cremonese traditions
with him, is still a Cremonese, and belongs to the Cremona school.

Thus, the “mighty Montagnana,” as the novelist Charles Reade called
him, made Cremona violins and violoncellos at Venice. He worked
between 1700-40 as a pupil of Stradivari, and survived his master
only three years. But he came to him when the Cremona art was
already perfected, and studied the finest models, assisting in all
probability at the very manufacture of the most wonderful instruments
in the world. With such a training, on his arrival at Venice he
easily took the lead and kept it, and to this day his instruments,
especially his matchless violoncellos--alas! too few in number--are
little if at all inferior to the best of Antonio.

Montagnana’s outline is by no means a servile copy, of Stradivari.
It is flattened at top and bottom, and seems to the eye less
graceful; but in his selection of wood, his glorious varnish, the
relative thickness of his slabs, and in the cunning knowledge of
those fibre densities in back and belly which are likely to sound
well together, he is second to none.

Montagnana no doubt embodies and transplants to Venice the Cremona
secrets. As I noticed in the case of Bergonzi, Montagnana, owing to
the paucity of his instruments as well as to the splendour of his
contemporaries, Strad and Giuseppe Guarneri, has not until lately
received the honour which is due to him. He suffers, too, from having
often been labelled Guarnerius or Bergonzi, makers who had the vogue
of the day. These frauds are now being unmasked, and the few great
successors of the Cremona giants, Bergonzi, Montagnana, Guadagnini,
and Balestrieri (very fine in Guadagnini’s style, flat, big build,
powerful tone), and Storioni, have at last a chance of taking their
proper places and fetching their prices.

When we come to Lorenzo Storioni (1769-99) we come to the last maker
of importance who can with any show of plausibility be called even a
second or third rate master of Cremona. Storioni’s model was Joseph
Guarnerius, but he copied him more in his rough work than in his
great qualities. In his varnish we notice the singular change which
came over the Cremona varnish after about 1760. Up till then all the
Cremona violins have the Cremona varnish; after that time it simply
disappears. Why is it? This interesting problem I shall have to
consider in my chapter on Cremona varnish.

Storioni’s instruments are not much esteemed in England as yet, but
are thought a good deal more of in Italy.

I may here fitly mention the Gagliano family, who are associated
with the Neapolitan school, but really derive their importance
from Cremona. Alessandro Gagliano, the first of the name, was
distinguished for his very fine red varnish, 1695-1730. A violin
remarkable for its tone is the Gennaro Gagliano that has been used by
Mr Otto Peiniger for solo purposes during many years.

Alessandro Gagliano was actually in early life a _bonâ fide_ pupil of
Stradivari. Finding himself, no doubt, unmercifully overshadowed by
the prestige of the immortal workshops in the square of S. Domenico
at Cremona, and being a person of native enterprise, Alessandro
Gagliano migrated to the South, carrying with him the Cremona
craft, and founded the so-called Neapolitan school. His model was,
of course, the approved flat one of the golden age, 1700-37, but
his scroll is small and rather mean, the ∫ ∫ are set low down, and
the work is sometimes lacking in finish. It is in the varnish of
Alessandro Gagliano that we see some connection with Stradivari, his
varnish very often being fine in colour and of the right texture.

Attempts have been made to classify the various towns in which
Italian violins were made during the Cremona period into schools,
which is about as profitable an occupation as the attempts to divide
the work of individual makers into distinct periods--one period runs
into another, and one school runs into another.

Roughly speaking, you find but two influences--the Cremona, _i.e._,
the Nicolo, the great Giuseppe and greater Antonio influence with its
flat form, gentle curves, and red and yellow varnish; and the German,
_i.e._, the Stainer model, of which I shall presently speak, with its
elongated form, arched belly, deep side-grooves, and brown-yellow
varnish.

Some fine Venetian and Milanese makers like Montagnana and Serafino
inclined to Stainer, whilst the Roman and Neapolitan adhered more
to the Cremona type; but Stainer himself learnt at Cremona, and all
the best men like Tecchler (Rome) and Gagliano (Naples) who went
South copied either Stradivari or Giuseppe Guarnerius. The Milanese
school, on account of the great importance of the capital, naturally
attracted good makers like Grancino, Testore (pupil of Grancino), and
Pietro Giovanni Mantegazza (1687-1720).

Venice, Florence, and Bologna can also boast of a few respectable
names, but I prefer, for the sake of completeness, to treat them
later more in catalogue style, for the guidance of the student, and
not to mix them up with the great central figures which have formed
the subject, and I hope absorbed the attention, of the reader of this
section.




CHAPTER VI

VIOLINS IN GERMANY


Of course, by this time, “every schoolboy,” to use Macaulay’s famous
phrase, knows that most things--including, alas! violins--can be made
in Germany faster and cheaper than anywhere else; and if we trust to
German writers like Dr Schebek, we might almost believe that viols,
not to say the violin, originated in Germany.

I am quite willing to leave the viol origin an open question. If, on
the one hand, Albert Dürer and his father-in-law both made violins
and dated back to 1500, Benvenuto Cellini tells us that long before
1500 his father made the finest Italian viols at Florence; and an
ingenious writer has now unearthed a print by Maso Fineguerra, the
father of engraving about 1460, in which Thalia is represented
playing on a small violin pochette or kit--which, by the way, has
rather upset the idea that the kit was a reduced violin, but seems
to show, on the contrary, that the violin followed the kit instead
of the kit following the violin, the kit being in reality a small
violin. It is thus triumphantly argued by Mr Fleming that even the
predecessor of, and every suggestion of, the violin came from Italy;
but in his ardour he fails to notice that although an Italian print
shows a woman playing on a kit, the kit she plays on might all the
same have been “made in Germany.”

If I see an English picture with a tomahawk and a boomerang, I do not
assume at once that the objects depicted were necessarily “made in
England.”

But, as far as this book is concerned, such questions are of quite
secondary importance. It is sufficient to notice that the first
instruments possessing the distinctive features of what we call the
viola and the violin, as distinguished from the viol tribe, came from
Brescia and Cremona; and that the greatest, if not the earliest,
German maker, Jacobus Steiner or Stainer, is commonly reputed to have
studied at Venice, or, as some say, learnt his art under Nicolo Amati
at Cremona.

As we approach the great figure of Stainer we are in the presence of
a man who stands only second in popular estimation to the greatest
of the Cremona masters. Indeed, so great a musician and eminent
an authority as Sir John Hawkins writes in 1776: “The violins of
Cremona are _exceeded_ [_sic_] only by those of Stainer a German
whose instruments are remarkable for a full and piercing tone.”
The popularity of an English maker, Duke, who followed the German
Stainer model, and whose fiddles were all the rage when good Sir
John wrote, may have a little blinded his eyes to the Cremona
_chefs-d’œuvre_--few of which, if any, he had ever seen. But it is no
small tribute to the power of the German that for at least a hundred
years he retarded the due recognition of the Cremonas and gave a
faulty direction to the violin pattern throughout England, France,
and Germany.

The arguments in favour of Stainer having visited Cremona in his
early life rest a good deal on romance--the story of his having
been a pupil of the great Nicolo, whose daughter he is said to have
refused to marry, is unreliable. Whether he went home or stayed at
home and married the village belle whom he appears first to have
compromised, and who bore him seven daughters and one son after
marriage and one daughter before, it matters very little to us.

Poems and novels have been written about this unhappy child of
genius, but, as far as I can gather, the only reliable facts seem to
be these, and they have been quite recently unearthed and sifted by
Herr Ruf, who died at Hall in 1877:--

Jacob Steiner or Stainer was undoubtedly born at Absam, a village not
far from Hall. The townlet lay on the high-road between the Tyrol and
Italy, and doubtless nothing that went on in the northern cities of
Lombardy was long in finding its way to Hall, for mules and pedlars
constantly carried all sorts of merchandise--viols, and violins, and
lutes amongst other things--to and fro. The great argument against
Steiner ever having received early instruction at Cremona seems to
be that he affected the tubby raised bellies and deep side-grooves
of the old German viols; but it must be remembered that if as a boy
he came under Nicolo Amati’s influence, it was at a time when Nicolo
himself approached far more nearly the raised viol form than he
did later on when his own model improved. The Steiner pattern is
therefore consistent with all these theories:--

Firstly, that Steiner adopted the raised pattern which he found at
Cremona, and which was then common throughout the violin-making
world; that, returning early to Absam, he adhered to it, and, perhaps
from motives of national pride, accentuated it _Germano more_.

Secondly, that he visited Cremona later, when his own model was
already formed, and was too proud to alter it.

Thirdly, that German he was, and German he remained, and never went
to Cremona at all.

       *       *       *       *       *

All these questions, upon which much ink and paper have been spent,
remain more interesting to the antiquarian than to the collector.
Still, an indescribable interest and a deep human pathos seem to
cling about the meagre facts of this remarkable man’s life.

Stainer’s popularity was so enormous that ten times the number of
violins he could ever have made have been attributed to him, and his
name has been forged quite as often as that of the great Stradivari.

Stainer married in 1645, and was appointed one of the Archducal
servants, 1669; he advanced rapidly in favour, became violin-maker to
the Emperor’s court, and was turning out instruments as fast as he
could make them, forming such admirable pupils as Klotz and Albani,
when he fell a victim to the _odium theologicum_.

Heretical books were found in his possession, or heretical opinions
were expressed by him, or both. He was, in fact, a Lutheran, and a
Lutheran in Absam was far too near to the preserves of Mother Church,
and very soon, like a hawk on a pheasant run, he was shot down.
Stainer was also miserably in debt, and perhaps somewhat litigious,
as people of genius and independence of character are wont to be.

In 1677, having got out of prison, Jacobus petitioned the Emperor
Leopold, whose protégé and employé he had been, and who was a
great musical amateur, for money. Leopold lost his opportunity;
unlike Ludwig of Bavaria, who won for himself an easy immortality
by supplying Wagner with funds, Leopold turned a deaf ear to the
immortal violin-maker.

Stainer seems to have dragged on a wretched existence for six years
longer, overburdened with care and debt. The attentions of his wife
and eight daughters did not prevent him from going mad with worry
and want; nay, a helpless and incompetent family may even have
contributed to this so unhappy close of a splendid but blighted
career.

They show even now at Absam the bench to which the wretched man is
said to have been bound when his paroxysms came on. He died in 1683,
not only insane but insolvent. His wife died in great poverty six
years afterwards, in 1689.

There seems no room in this sad life-story for his sentimental
retreat into a monastery on account of his inconsolable grief for the
death (?) of his wife. Had she been such an inestimable blessing,
we might have expected her to have kept her gifted husband alive,
managed his household more thriftily, rescued him from his debts,
moved the hearts of his great patrons, or at least saved him from
going mad.

But, on the other hand, eight daughters were doubtless a trial to
a couple who seemed always hard up; and the one son, born in 1657
and dying in infancy, as we learn from a tombstone in the Pilgrims’
Church at Absam, deprived the great artificer of a coadjutor who
might have been interested in building up the firm, and, perhaps,
brought into it those business faculties without which the most
brilliant abilities in every department of life so often make
shipwreck.

A certain Marcus Stainer, whose reputed date is about 1665-69, and
who called himself citizen and violin-maker, it is difficult to
connect with the illustrious Jacob, although he has been called his
brother, and some say he was a monk and actually assisted Jacob
Stainer in the workshop.

The great violinist Tartini is said to have possessed two of this
man’s instruments, called Peter and Paul.

Veracini, another eminent soloist, is said to have lost both of them
in a shipwreck.

Herr von Reimer possesses a violin with label “Markus Steiner Burger
und Geigenmacher, anno 1659” (not a very clerical label, by the way),
and that is all that can be ascertained about this other Stainer; for
of an Andreas Stainer, 1660, nothing but the name is known.

So everything tends to keep the ill-fated genius Jacob apart. Alone
he remains as the one important rival of the Cremonese school; alone
he stands at the head of all the Germans. Genuine Stainer instruments
are rare; Stainer labels, copies, and forgeries are innumerable, and
one of the greatest curses of the fiddle market.

The general look of a Stainer is so distinct from that of any maker
except such as copied him, that it must arrest the attention of even
a casual observer.

The Stainer belly is much higher than the back, the rise is kept up
through half its length; the varnish is yellow (or as in the Elector
Stainers), with a sort of pale-rose flush in it.

The early pattern, deep Amati side-grooves, the long-shaped,
beautifully thrown end of the scroll, sometimes a lion’s head carved
with the art of a Stradivari, the narrow purfling lying close to
the sides of the strong, roundly moulded edges, the circular-topped
sound-holes rather shorter than the Cremonese, peg-box often dark
brown, contrasting with the palish-yellow belly--such are the leading
characteristics of the great Jacob.

His earlier specimens bear varnish something akin to the Amatis; they
are also of the smaller pattern. A good example of them is one in the
possession of Mr Russell of Bedale, Yorkshire, dated 1645.

Jacob’s finest type may be seen in the famous Elector Stainer; of
these he is said to have made twelve, one for each of the Electors.
The popular legend refers them to his Benedictine monastery, but
there is no shadow of proof that he ever was there at all; perhaps,
however, if one Markus Stainer who is reputed to have made Peter and
Paul was a monk, _he_ may have been a Benedictine monk, and as the
obscure Guarneri who did get locked up seems to be responsible by
transference for the great Joseph del Gesù’s legendary incarceration,
so Monk Markus may do duty for J. Stainer’s reputed sojourn and
residence in a Benedictine monastery. It matters very little when
the Elector Stainers were made; most connoisseurs are agreed that
the two quite authentic “survivals of the fittest” are miracles of
workmanship, beauty, and the perfection of Stainer tone.

The Stainer tone! What is there about that tone, which for 150 years
so fascinated the musical world as to dull the perceptions of so
experienced a professor as Sir John Hawkins to the more exquisite
timbre of the finest Cremonas? No one but myself is responsible for
the following conjecture.

Perhaps there is less tonal difference between the early Amati and
the later Strad than between the early Amati and the full-blown
Stainer; and it may have been the sharp, pungent contrast--the type
of tone that was _quite new_, as it were an original creation--which
at once arrested and held the ear of that epoch. For, after all,
musicians in the seventeenth century were only beginning to be
cultivated in the delicate appreciation of tone _nuances_. The proof
of this would not be far to seek. It is quite notorious, though
to us amazing, that the differences between the Amati, the Strad,
the Guarnerius, and the Bergonzi or Ruggerius, should not have been
more clearly apprehended. When, for instance, a man--an orchestral
leader, too--had bought a Ruggerius and paid for a Joseph, we do not
find that he was dissatisfied with it until he discovered that the
_label_ was false. The superb qualities of the great Joseph have been
appreciated only since the Strad craze; but the world-wide cult of
Strad dates from Tarisio, who began his work of violin exploration
and discovery in 1827, dying only in 1854. But any tyro would be
arrested by the clear, sharp, biting tone of Stainer. A violinist
in the orchestra could make his Stainer cut through all the first
fiddles, and once the taste for that sort of tone was excited, it
would be to the ear what curry, or vinegar, or quinine bitter, or
absinthe is to the palate. The Stainer tone is a sort of drastic,
stinging stimulant to the ear, almost an intoxication; and the ear
that has been once caught by it craves for it, and misses it even in
the loud richness of Joseph, the exquisite velvety timbre of Amati,
or the superb ringing brightness of the great Antonio.

Thus, in his own original way, Stainer met the crying want of his
age for loud and piercing tone. He was the very antipodes of the
tubby, muffled sound of the old viols. With a bound he reached the
opposite pole. The coarse ears of the multitude were at once tickled
and “grisé,” as the French say, by his wiry intensity; and soloists
soon found that it was an immense help to wield a novel and stinging
timbre which, without any special gift of theirs, awakened attention
like the roll of a drum, or the blast of a cornet, or the tinkle of a
triangle.

These considerations alone, in my opinion, account for the popularity
of Stainer in all ages; the bulk of hearers belong to the musically
untrained, who like pungency, and desire above all to have their ears
tickled.

Just in proportion as music developed and the musical ear got trained
to higher and higher refinement, so that specialities of tone became
a cult for the ear, as specialities of colour for the eye, just in
that measure did the great and subtle qualities of the Cremona school
emerge, whilst the rage for Stainer, Klotz, and Duke declined.

I have no wish to disparage these last-named fine artificers. The
increasing rarity of their instruments, and the really splendid
qualities which we grant ungrudgingly to the best of them, must
always make them much prized, and I fully expect that in a few years
there will be a revival of the Stainer craze, and that his violins
may then touch Cremona prices. I shall be very glad if they do; it
will mean that at last we shall get something like a definite sifting
of this great master’s best specimens, and that in this shaking
in auction rooms, and in the cabinets of collectors, the forged
parasites and impudent copies which have for years sailed under false
colours--labels (libels, I mean)--will fall off into the limbo of
violin refuse and other things “made in Germany.”

The best pupils and followers of Stainer were Klotz and Albani;
but as it became the fashion to dub every one who made respectable
violins in Germany about that time, and showed traces of the Stainer
model, “pupils” of the great man, modern writers have grown properly
cautious about dogmatising.

If all Stainer’s reputed pupils had really worked with him, they
ought certainly to have married his eight daughters and relieved him
of some of his heavy family responsibilities.

Sebastian Klotz or Kloz (1675) and his son Mathias (1696-1709) made
excellent violins, and some prefer the son’s to the father’s. There
were, besides, four other Klotz, relationship uncertain. Sebastian
of Mittenwald visited Florence and Cremona; but although when he
returned to his native town he announced his intention of making
a second Cremona of Mittenwald, he and his family adhered mainly
to the Stainer model, and reproduced very successfully the Stainer
tone. Vidal says that his sons inundated Germany with false Stainers.
Of the great violin manufactory which, on the suppression of the
Mittenwald Fair in the seventeenth century, is said to have revived
the commercial prosperity of the town, no trace now remains; but it
is certain that, whilst the Klotz family lived and worked, a pretty
steady stream of pseudo- (or _scuola_) Stainers poured forth from
Mittenwald till about the year 1750.

The Albani family, like the Tecchler, stand midway between the
Cremona and the Absam school, but Albani _père_ (1621-73) was
certainly Italian, though he was born and lived at Botzen, in the
Italian Tyrol, where he made German fiddles in the Italian style
and for the Italian market, although his son Joseph was also bitten
with the Cremona model. Albani’s violins pass for Italian; they are
varnished red, and rival the Amati tone, and the Joseph Albanis are
more highly esteemed than the violins of Albani _père_.

It is further significant of Albani’s popularity in Italy, that
the most accomplished maestro and composer of the early part of
the eighteenth century, Corelli, played on an Albani. This appears
certain from an examination made by Mr Arthur Hill of the will of
the late William Corbet, who had a large collection of rare fiddles,
and disposed of them in his will, where mention is made of an Albani
fiddle, which he left with the memorandum that it had _belonged to
Corelli_. This is a very interesting example of a carefully excavated
fact, and does Mr Arthur Hill great credit.

Tecchler, also called a pupil of Stainer, is perhaps most esteemed
for his violoncellos, the best of which run the Strad ’cellos very
hard. A very fine Tecchler ’cello is in the possession of Mr E.
W. Hennell (1898), and there are several others in this country.
Tecchler seems to have made few, if any, violins, which is strange,
as his master made few, if any, violoncellos; he worked in Rome
between 1695 and 1735. His instruments are sometimes rather
cumbrous; his varnish is yellow, like Stainer’s.

The subsequent history of “violins made in Germany” is, to say the
least, very mixed; nothing so good as Stainer was done there before
him, and nothing equal to him has been done there since.

The golden age of German violin-making begins and ends with Jacobus
Stainer.




CHAPTER VII

VIOLINS IN FRANCE


Italy and Germany have to look back to their golden age, but it seems
as if France and England had to look forward.

France and England have never yet gone beyond a doubtful silver age,
but there is good reason to think that the manipulation and alchemy
of time, whilst thinning out by wear and tear and loss the older
gems, will not only transform the Piques and Lupôts, and perhaps the
Vuillaumes and Chanots, but also the Banks, Forsters, and Fendts, and
probably the Dukes and Hills, into golden quality, with very advanced
prices; and so, instead of being, like Artemus Ward’s future,
_behind_ them, they may still be found to have their future _before_
them.

The French work contemporaneous with the Cremona period is not
nearly so interesting, nor do the makers appear to have been nearly
so capable as the men who followed them towards the close of the
seventeen hundreds. This is no doubt accounted for by the streams of
violins pouring out of the Italian and German workshops, the superior
reputation of Cremona, which drew at once the patronage of the
Spanish and French Courts, and perhaps the small demand for stringed
instruments in France compared with the huge demand in Italy and
throughout Germany.

So there was a poor market as yet for French work.

In Italy, in the luxurious little Duchies and Principalities, as
well as in the churches, and in Germany in the small Electorates,
each of which supported its band and gave an indirect impetus to the
churches, Reformed and Roman Catholic, violin-making flourished, and
so it came to pass that Italy and Germany made for all the world.

The Cremona period in France can boast of but two considerable names,
Jacques Boquay (1705-30) and Pieray (1700-25). Boquay worked on the
early Cremonese model, which had already been left behind by the
modified forms of Stradivari (1700 great period). His violins have
not yet reached a high selling figure, but may possibly rise; they
are by no means scarce; his varnish is reddish-brown, transparent,
warm and soft. He reverted to the Jerome Amati type, arching even a
little more than Jerome.

The quality of his tone is good, but it lacks power, which in these
advanced days tells against him except for cabinet playing.

Claude Pieray (1700-25) worked in Paris, and followed the later Amati
contour, but he was far enough removed from the Cremonese influence
to follow a line of his own. Whilst varying, some think capriciously,
the thickness of his wood, and not always securing the best quality
of wood, he varnished pale red, and turned out a small and large
pattern; but he evidently inclined to the larger pattern of the late
Amati Strad.

A violin of Pieray’s was advertised in the sale of Tom Britton, the
musical coal-heaver, as “a very beautiful violin, and _as good as a
Cremona_,” which shows that even at that date the Stainer influence,
then so strong in England, had not dimmed the fame of Cremona.
However, it would of course have been absurd to compare him to
Stainer, the affinity between Pieray and Amati being too obvious.

But the really great silver-gilt if not golden age of French
violin-making dawned with Lupôt (1736-58), was extended by Pique
(1788-1822), Vuillaume (1798-1875), Chanot (1801), Gand (1802), and
Aldric (1792-1840), famous for his varnish; and Fent,[2] an admirable
copyist, whose violins often sell as Lupôt’s copies of Strad.

The labours of these great French disciples of Cremona, copyists and
occasional forgers as they were, are sufficient to decide for ever
the superiority of the Strad model over all others. Their lives were
chiefly occupied in reproducing the unique Antonio minutely without
attempting the least modification of the ultimate Cremona form, which
he had defined.

The firm of Lupôt, immortalised by Nicolas Lupôt (1758-1824), dates
back to 1696 or somewhat earlier. The father and grandfather of
Nicolas Lupôt resided at different times at Plombiers, Luneville,
and Orleans, but Nicolas was born at Stuttgart in 1758. He returned
to Orleans in 1770.

[Illustration: F. TOURTE]

[Illustration: N. LUPOT]

Nicolas Lupôt was a man of great discernment, and not carried away
with the fashion of the times. Although during the first twenty years
of his life he must have seen and heard the German model of Stainer
extolled, neither his own work nor yet his father’s show any leaning
towards it. His eye was enamoured with the Stradivari grand pattern,
and his best violins are such loving and faithful copies of the
great Antonio that many amateurs and some professional judges have
been deceived by them. But Lupôt never got rid of the glassy, chippy
French varnish, and although his warm orange tints are generous and
the varnish has been laid on with a lavish hand, the rubbing bare
by time of a Lupôt is very different from that fading away upon the
fibres of a Strad, where always a subtler film protecting the wood
seems to linger, a sort of mist of varnish to the end.

But Nicolas Lupôt was a great workman, and, as Hamlet modestly puts
it, “indifferently honest”--that is, honest as violin copyists go. He
did not imitate, he _copied_, and varnished throughout; he never aged
his copies prematurely, or tried to take in buyers; he reverenced his
great Cremona model too much to palm off his own work as those of the
master. Of course his violins have rubbed since and aged since, but
they have aged and rubbed honestly, and are every year increasing
in value, and distinctly mellowing in tone and sensitive quality.
The moment Nicolas Lupôt arrived in Paris, early in this century,
his talents were recognised; orders flowed in, and he remained and
remains without a rival in the French school.

He was appointed maker to the Paris Conservatoire, which involved
the manufacture of the annual prize violin to be presented to the
gold medallist of the year, and to this academic privilege we are
doubtless indebted for some of his finest efforts. A violin which
would annually at the time be associated with one of the chief
musical events of the year, and come under the criticism of all
musical Paris, would certainly call forth the mettle of one who
admittedly “took the cake,” but was not without formidable rivals.

One of these rivals was Pique. He was in the habit, it is said, of
buying Lupôt’s fiddles unvarnished, varnishing them, and labelling
them with his own name. He had better have left the varnishing alone
and contented himself with a fraudulent label. It is surprising
that he should have stooped to such a device. Pique is quite a
considerable person, second only to Lupôt as a maker. He must have
been influenced by commercial considerations, but his dishonesty is
a great tribute to the superior popularity and merit of Lupôt. Still
Pique was so clever that he could have afforded to be honest.

       *       *       *       *       *

François Gand, who entered as Lupôt’s pupil in 1802, was much beloved
by his master. He became his best pupil, married his daughter, and
succeeded to his business in the Rue Croix des Petits Champs in 1824.

Time has invented a new industry--the art of repairing--which
François Gand raised to a veritable fine art (Mennégand, Kolliker,
Rambeaux and W. Ebsworth Hill have since rivalled him). Pique would
join and split mutilated grain in such a way that, without the aid of
a microscope, the patch or closed fissure cannot be spotted. He would
spend days over mending a crack; it became with him a sort of passion
of ingenuity.

It was almost worth breaking a fiddle to have it mended by Gand, and
his exquisite skill and profound knowledge as a repairer no doubt
gave rise to the common but risky notion that an old violin was
improved by being mended, as some surgeons pretend that a skilful
operation will not only prolong life, but positively improve the
constitution. The firm of Gand and Bernadel is still of high standing
in Paris. The violins of François are useful and solidly built, but
lack altogether the Italian grace and finish of his master, Lupôt.

Pique (1788-1822) is by some held to have run Lupôt very hard as a
copyist of Stradivari. Pique avoids at once the error of the vulgar
copyist, who cannot refrain from emphasising the peculiarities of his
model, and the sin of the brazen forger, who bakes and rubs, treats
with acids, and simulates the cracks and the wear and tear of time.
But Pique had some conscience. He may have passed himself off as
Lupôt, but at least he never posed as Stradivari.

Those conversant with Pique’s instruments observe a very high and
conscientious finish throughout. Spohr, the violinist and composer,
played for many years on a Lupôt, and was never tired of extolling
both Lupôt and Pique. Pique died in 1822, two years before Lupôt,
and his violins improve every year, and will by-and-by fetch prices
second only to those of Lupôt, which are already up to £200 (1897).


A VIGNETTE OF J. B. VUILLAUME.

If I were to seek for an appropriate pendant to the figure of
William Ebsworth Hill in London, I could not find a better one
than Jean Baptiste Vuillaume of Paris. Yet the two men were very
different;--the careful, neat, systematic enthusiast, with a shrewd
eye to business, and the dreamy worker always apparently in the midst
of a chaos of material, out of which he alone could select at a
moment’s notice what he required; the ready purveyor of whatever sort
of article happened to be wanted, and the careless distributor of his
wares, who forgot what he owed his customers, and kept them waiting
for months; the clever copyist, the reverent repairer, the ingenious
brain for ever evolving new sorts of bows, fiddle shapes, screws; and
the idolater of the old forms, who had so firmly grasped the truth
that violins and all that belonged to them had culminated at Cremona
before the middle of the eighteenth century, that he never aspired to
invent anything new or alter anything old;--the Parisian, who made
many fiddles, and died rich; the Londoner, who made few fiddles,
but repaired innumerable antiques, and died with but a moderate
competence. The force of contrast could go no further; nay, you can
look at the two men’s faces, and see the secret of their characters
writ plain enough.

[Illustration: J. B. VUILLAUME]

[Illustration: WILLIAM EBSWORTH HILL]

I can remember old Hill’s dreamy gaze, peering at me with screwed-up
eyes through his spectacles. You were nothing in particular to him,
duke or pauper; it was your fiddle that gave you the importance
or the reverse in his eyes. But look at Jean Baptiste Vuillaume’s
portrait--it lies before me as I write: the jaunty embroidered and
tasselled velvet skull-cap, the well-arranged black satin tie, the
well-cut coat, the grave sharp look and keen eye, not dreaming at
all, but taking everything in at a glance; the mouth a little aslant,
as we often see it in men of speculative and ingenious minds; the
firm fine nose, and the strong quiet face, but a face that betrays
a mind ever alert, capable of dominating its owner’s gifts, his
customers, and the market generally, whilst the man was genuinely
devoted to the art and craft which made him great, and rich, and
famous. Yes, the two great connoisseurs might well hang side by side
in twin frames, for they are two types, united by a like enthusiasm
and speciality of craft and knowledge, but differently interesting,
variously unique each in his own way.

Both were hereditary violin-makers, and the tendency--I had almost
said the cult--was born and bred in the blood.

Vuillaume was early saturated, in his father’s workshop at Mirecourt,
with all the secrets and arts of the trade, long before he served his
apprenticeship. But Paris drew the young fellow, then only nineteen,
with an irresistible magnetism.

Victor Hugo, that typical Parisian of Parisians, has somewhere
described the Frenchman’s inborn love of his capital, the centre to
him of life, art, pleasure, movement, industry, and invention. So to
Paris must your Jean Baptiste go. But to whom?--to whom but Chanot
(Francis), incomparable worker, copyist, forger, suitable adept,
indeed, for such a bright novice.

With Chanot, Vuillaume remained till 1821, when he went over to Lété,
the organ-builder, who also dabbled in fiddles, and was glad to
have at his beck and call as a foreman such a specialist, with all
the experience of Mirecourt and the craft of Chanot at his back; in
fact, he lost no time in taking the young man into partnership, and
the partner throve so well that he married in 1828, being then just
thirty years old.

Things ran smoothly with Vuillaume; his wife did not drink, or abuse
him, or waste his money. His home was happy, and, in the sunshine of
domestic peace, his talents expanded in the direction of that growing
market which was created by the taste for old fiddles, excited by
Tarisio, and supplied by the not always scrupulous skill of Chanot.

But Vuillaume went one better than Chanot. Chanot’s trick was to
produce such deceptive copies or patch with counterfeit backs
and bellies of his own--or to forge downright a whole antique,
to be foisted upon some unwary but ill-informed enthusiast. But
Vuillaume, to his honour be it said, soon discerned that the world
at large could not be won by fraud, but that men were the slaves of
imagination and sentiment. This timely and philosophic discovery made
him famous and wealthy, almost at a bound. He loved the old Italian
fiddles; he had the best opportunities of seeing them; his admirable
technique enabled him to copy them accurately--to counterfeit the
wear and tear, even the cracks and worm-holes, the inlaying, the
rubbed varnish, the old wood; and for about five pounds, or even
less, he proposed to provide people with new fiddles, which looked
like old ones worth fifty or a hundred pounds.

The device succeeded beyond the dreams of avarice. Orders poured in
faster than they could be executed. Just look at the old man’s face.
Can you not see the shrewdness, betrayed by that slight pucker in
the lip, which discovered and worked this now familiar tendency of
human nature to possess what _seems_, if you can’t afford to buy what
_is_ really good? It is the secret of cheap art, shoddy satsuma,
coarse blue china, common silks, oleographs, and sham Palais Royal
jewellery galore--every bazaar reeks with it; whilst the biggest
warehouses are not above selling a made-up wine that deceives the
palate, a walking-stick not ebony, only paint or stain, and furniture
not really inlaid, but ditto ditto. So Vuillaume began early those
amazing copies, chiefly of Stradiuarius, which even now deceive the
innocent, and for a moment may even puzzle a connoisseur. Well, it
was no doubt shoddy, but shoddy of the best sort; shoddy raised to a
fine art, like those roses so subtly made out of silk or cambric that
we might easily pop them into water to prevent them from fading.

This new-found copying industry was a delight as well as a profit to
the clever French craftsman.

He loved a Cremona; he copied it as men copy the old masters again
and again, till they know every touch of the immortal workman, and
revel in its reproduction.

“I have completed,” remarked Vuillaume in his declining years, “three
thousand instruments, all sold, all paid for, and the money spent,
and it affords me great satisfaction.”

Like Ebsworth Hill, Jean Baptiste loved to do it all himself. Every
instrument was varnished carefully by his own hands, and many are
made throughout by him.

But what is the actual merit of Vuillaume’s violins? Fine work, yes;
admirable counterfeits, yes; but the great expectations raised by the
appearances are unfortunately not always answered by the tone. His
best are good, and will run into forty pounds, perhaps more; but his
worst are dear at five pounds. Nor can Vuillaume pretend to rival in
power his great French predecessors, Pique or Lupôt, who copied, but
without registering the defects of age, accident, and decay, which
are so cleverly reproduced in Vuillaume’s typical specimens.

It is an exaggeration to say that Vuillaume baked his fiddles; but
he treated the wood chemically in various ways, besides reproducing
cracks and even worm-holes; and this artificial age put upon
his planks not only fails to carry the mellowness and timbre of
wood grown naturally old, but seems actually to impair instead
of improving its quality, and this is but too apparent as the
instruments recede in time farther and farther from the hand of the
too cunning artificer.

There are, however, a few fine quartets of instruments, one of which,
made for the Comte de Chimay, was lately exposed to public view in
Messrs Hill’s windows in Bond Street. These are varnished equally
throughout, and no attempt at aging the wood or tampering with the
surface is visible. The work throughout is charming and finished,
as in the best Cremonese models, and the only wonder is, that as
everything about them is so good, the tone is not better; still,
everything is relative. But Vuillaume claims to be judged by a high
standard, and so we judge him.

Vuillaume’s ingenious brain was ever devising improvements and
novelties, but few of them have turned out successes.

He made a violin tenor, but it never came into use, it being too
cumbrous. He made a steel bow; but, although hollow, it was found to
be too heavy. He made a sourdine tailpiece which acted on the bridge,
but it has never superseded the usual simple dummy contrivance. He
made a self-hairing bow, which is still sold by Mr Withers; but most
violinists prefer to pay a small sum and get their bows haired, just
as most men prefer to get themselves shaved--it is less trouble, and
does not cost much.

Apart from his undoubted finish as a workman, and skill as a copyist,
Jean Baptiste Vuillaume’s title to fame will rest largely on his
connection with Tarisio. As we have seen, he not only dealt with him
living, but bought all the violins found in the bedroom along with
the peasant carpenter’s lifeless body.

His possession of the Messie, which he kept in a glass case, and
never allowed any one to touch, was a source of great anxiety to him
during the Paris Commune in 1870.

He writes to Madame Alard, his daughter, who married the celebrated
violinist of that name: “In my last I spoke to you of Alard’s violin
and my Messie, and of certain valuables I have here. I do not know
what to do with them, for if one survives, one will be able to
recover the valuables when the hubbub is over; and some _sous_ can be
buried, but violins cannot be buried.” And again: “Where ought I to
place all these in case of pillage?”

He referred chiefly to his violins, and old medals received in the
Paris Exhibition from 1827 to 1855, and the Great Exhibition medal in
London, 1851.

Later on we are relieved by reading: “I have found quite a safe
hiding-place protected from fire, _et puis à la grace de Dieu_!”

All went well with the treasures, and in 1875, when he died, the
Messie fell to the joint share of his only two children, Jeanne
and Claire. Jeanne (Madame Alard) bought out Claire’s interest for
five hundred pounds, the violin at that time being valued at one
thousand. In 1890 Messrs Hill bought it for Mr R. Crawford for the
unprecedented figure of two thousand pounds, the largest sum ever
given by a dealer for a single instrument. Mr Charles Reade valued it
at six hundred, but that was several years ago, when a first-class
Strad could be obtained for about three hundred and twenty pounds.
Prices have run up since then, and (like “Charley’s Aunt”[3] as we
write) are “still running”!

Down to the end of his life Vuillaume was a great dealer, and he
hurried over to London when quite an old man to attend the sale of
Mr Gillot’s fiddles. He mistook the date, and arrived a day after
the sale. He came into Mr Hill’s shop in Wardour Street, and gave
vent to his disappointment. Mr Hill, whom he always visited when in
London, had bought several instruments, and had a second deal with
Vuillaume then and there, much to the Frenchman’s gratification. It
is interesting to catch this glimpse of the two greatest dealers
and artificers of the age face to face for one moment, and in such
friendly and characteristic relations.




CHAPTER VIII

VIOLINS IN ENGLAND


It is an amusing fact that hardly a Continental writer on musical
instruments, M. Vidal excepted, has thought it worth while to give
any reasoned account of the English viol and violin-makers who have
occupied such a distinguished place in the history of the art.

I heard the other day of an American school atlas which left out all
the islands in the world as unimportant details calculated to confuse
the minds of young students. England, of course, being a small
island, was one of the first to disappear.

The names of Barak Norman, Banks, Forster, and Duke may be somewhat
confusing, but we must risk the mention of them just for the sake of
an approximate completeness.

The fact is, that in Queen Elizabeth’s time the English were really
almost a musical people. Whether the viols came across from the Low
Countries or Germany or from Italy has never seemed to me a matter
of much importance. Undoubtedly the viol and its descendants is
cloisteral, and that means Italian, since all the arts along with
Christianity spread from the great Italian centres--Rome, Florence,
Milan, Brescia; and in Elizabeth’s time Italian influence is as
marked in English music as it is in the Shakspearian drama, or in
these gorgeous brocades, silks, and tapestries that still dazzle us
behind glass at the South Kensington Museum, or in such Elizabethan
gems of Renaissance architecture as Knole and Hatfield, which seem to
touch as with the glory of a foreign world the palatial seats “of our
old nobility.”

Modern music rises in Elizabeth’s reign with Monte Verde and the
discovery of the octave and the perfect cadence.

Along with it rise the Italian singing-schools of Naples; whilst the
viols, improved to meet the new demands, culminate in the Brescian,
Maggini and the Cremonese Amati patterns (the very word Madrigala,
the hymn of the Mother of God, is Italian and cloisteral), and the
viols which accompanied such part-songs were doubtless of Italian
origin.

But, for all that, the viols were genuinely naturalised and
acclimatised in England, and for a short time it seemed as if England
were even going to lead the art of viol manufacture.

The father of Galileo the astronomer declared in 1583 that the
best lutes were at that time _made in England_, and we know that
lute-making and viol-making so invariably went together that in
France and Italy the violin-maker is to this day called a “lutier”;
and J. J. Rousseau remarks, a little loosely perhaps: “The viol
passed from the Italians to the English, who _first_ began to compose
and play harmonised pieces for it, and who imparted the knowledge to
other kingdoms.”

Mace, an old writer and quite a musical expert (1676), mentions
the viols of Ross (1598) and Smith (1633) as “old instruments” in
his day. But the movement did not go on, and I cannot for a moment
doubt that what checked the rise of music and the manufacture of
musical instruments in this country was that same Puritan craze which
snubbed art, smashed the stained glass, and mutilated our cathedrals
throughout the land.

Viols had by this time crept out of the cloister and joined hands
with the frivolous Rebek, used at fairs and pothouses. At all events,
in Cromwell’s time and the “Barebones-praise-God period,” everything
that savoured of festivity was tabooed, and the fury against art
seemed part and parcel of all sincere religion, according to the
masses at least.

To Cromwell’s honour be it set down that he was personally no
such extremist, and that he, moreover, saved for us Raffael’s
cartoons; but still music in any of its secular forms was mightily
discouraged by the Puritans, whilst in its higher religious form it
was associated with Prelacy and Papacy, and we have to wait for that
reaction in favour of the world, the flesh, and the devil, which
marked the Restoration, and which also made provision for the more
innocent as well as the more perilous delights of music in the home,
the concert room, the theatre, and the sanctuary.

In Charles I.’s band (1625) there were “eleven violins and four
viols,” so at last the violin was creeping up; but not until Charles
II.’s restoration did the full-fledged violin come in with a rush of
“four-and-twenty” fiddlers, over whom presided no less a person than
the immortal Thomas Purcell, who, in a brief span of life, achieved
his almost Mozartian fame, and died at the early age of twenty-seven,
just ten years younger than the incomparable Wolfgang Amadeus.

The King had no doubt got his notion of fiddle bands from Louis
XIII.’s “petits violons du roi”; and from the French Court, our
“merrie monarch” borrowed a good many other ideas of a less
respectable and harmless character.

The King was so seriously addicted to music that he could hardly
hear a sermon and never eat his dinner without the solatium of his
four-and-twenty fiddlers.

“They played before him at his meals,” writes Anthony Wood in the
diary of his life, “as being more airy and brisk than the viols”;
and the grave Evelyn much resents the invasion of the upstart “petit
violon” and its profane intrusion. He writes in 1662: “One of his
Majesty’s chaplains preached, after which, instead of anthem or
solemn wind music accompanying the organ, was introduced a concert of
twenty-four violins between every pause, in the French fantastical
light way, better suiting a tavern or a playhouse than a church.”

’Tis an ill wind that blows nobody and nothing any good, and we
cannot doubt that his Majesty’s royal mistresses, like the Duchess
of Cleveland (Barbara Palmer), the Duchess of St Albans (Nell Gwynn,
the actress), the mother of the Duke of Monmouth (Lucy Walters), the
Duchess of Portsmouth (Louise de Querouaille, a French girl), greatly
favoured all the more frivolous diversions with which secular music,
and especially the new-fangled violin, were associated.

These ladies were bound to be musical, as music undoubtedly delighted
the “merrie monarch,” and flattered his jaded tastes by its frequent
novelty and emotional excitations.

The revellers at Whitehall soon attracted to the capital the greatest
violin players from foreign parts. The supremacy of the new violin
pattern was achieved, and the rage of virtuosity began.

Even John Evelyn succumbed to the witchery of Thomas Balzar, a Swede,
who arrived in 1656. He seems to have been the Paganini of the
period, and electrified the Court. Evelyn calls him “incomparable”;
he played off at sight the most amazing difficulties with ravishing
sweetness and “improvements”; he played a full concert on his single
instrument, so that the rest flung down their violins, acknowledging
the victory. As to worthy Mr Paul Wheeler and Mr Mell, who were the
Spohrs and De Beriots of their day, they had to hide their diminished
heads.

We are not surprised to hear after this that his Majesty installed
the great Balzar as director of his twenty-four violins, retained his
services at court, and buried him in the cloisters of Westminster
Abbey.

It will be convenient to focus our attention on English violin-making
about this time, for doubtless the arrival of these foreign players,
and the popularity of the king’s band, gave a great impetus to our
native manufacture. The supply of foreign violins, for which there
was now a growing demand abroad--_i.e._, in England and France--began
to give out as the century waned. There were plenty of old _viols_,
but no _old violins_ to fall back upon; the violin was a new product;
and, as the court set the fashion, we should naturally expect
the English viol-makers would be wide awake to the importance of
supplying the new want, and such was the case.

The Brescian and Cremonese fiddles were hardly known in England, and
what the Italians made were chiefly for home consumption.

As the English were great viol-makers in Elizabeth’s time, we may
ask: Why did they allow the Italians to take the lead in violins? Why
is the English school of violins at least fifty, and the best English
violins a hundred years later than the early Cremona _chefs-d’œuvre_?
Why is Nicolo Amati’s date 1596-1684, whilst W. Forster is 1713-1801,
Duke 1769, and Banks 1795? The answer is not far to seek: the fact
that violin manufacture was checked by the Puritan movement in
England, whilst its progress in Italy was steady and continuous,
enabled the Italians to steal a march upon us which turned us into
pupils, and pupils afar off too, when we resumed the industry. I do
not say that the superior climatic conditions and generally the art
atmosphere of the small Italian courts must not also be taken into
account; but when attention was called to improved tonal quality, and
a timbre, power, and sensibility undreamed of by the old viol-makers
became _de rigueur_, in response to the demands of virtuosity and the
advance of the musical art, Italy was bound to win; such Tyrolean
woods, such varnish, such sun, such sentiment, as was required for
the perfect evolution of the violin, could hardly be found outside
Italy. Both Spain and Germany confessed to the fact, nor could
England put it aside. Accordingly, the highest praise that was ever
given to an English maker was given to Benjamin Banks (1727-95), who
was called “The English Amati”; but to this day no one has ever been
called “The English Stradivari”!

Passing by Aireton (died in 1807), who copied Amati, but used yellow
varnish; Henry Jay (1744-77); the famous kit-makers (the kit is a
tiny instrument with normal neck and finger-board, used chiefly by
dancing-masters), the Kennedys, father and son (1730-1870), most
prolific but mediocre fabricators, chiefly of violins and tenors;
Panormo and Parker, the two first excellent eighteenth-century
makers; we make special mention of John Rayman, one of, if not the
earliest, English violin-maker. “An extraordinary Rayman” was amongst
the violins owned by Britton, the musical coal-heaver. Urquhart was
also a maker of exceptional originality.

Pamphilon (1685) was a fair and excellent workman, high model,
moderate tone, with quite splendid varnish. “Peter Walmsley, at Ye
Golden Harp in Piccadilly,” good copyist of Stainer and an excellent
maker, we are bound to notice on account of his early date and more
solid reputation.

“Barak Norman” worked and sold fiddles at St Paul’s Churchyard
(1683-1740). His label runs thus, with a ✠ and crown above it,
similar to the labels of Del Gesù, some of which he may have seen:
“Barak Norman and Nathaniel Cross, at the Bass Viol in S. Paul’s
Churchyard, London, fecit 1702.”

Mr Walter Brooksbank of Windermere had one of the Cross viol da
gamba, in which, after the style of the early bell founders, the
instrument is supposed thus to speak for itself. “Nathaniel Cross
wrought my back and belly” (the scroll and sides being by Barak
Norman).

Meares, about whom little to speak of is known, except that he was
probably a pupil of Rayman’s, is reputed to have taught Barak Norman.

Meares is known to have adopted the Brescian model. He was probably
the earliest English maker of violoncellos. He retains some of
the decorative use of purfling, which rapidly went out as the new
violins came in. He runs his purfle into his monogram with attendant
flourishes. Meares made at first chiefly viols, after that tenors of
excellent quality.

His violins are much esteemed. He was a close copyist of Maggini.

Three of his viols were exhibited in the South Kensington Loan
Collection of 1872, but one of them, dated 1690, had been cut down.

It remained for Stradiuarius, in the dawning year of the eighteenth
century, to discover and fix the model of the bass viol that needed
no cutting down.

The musical world owes a debt of eternal gratitude to the Forster
family; there were four of them.

“Great-grandfather John (1683), maker of spinning-wheels and violins.

“Grandfather William, _the_ Forster, commonly called ‘Old Forster.’

“Father William, No. 2, who also made spinning-wheels.

“William, No. 3 (1764-1824).”

His sons, the two brothers William (1733-1824), and Simon Andrew
(1731-1869).

The second Forster (1739-1807), William, called “Old Forster,” bears
off the palm.

Born in the north, a native of Brampton, he made his market, like his
father, out of the spinning-wheel industry of Cumberland, but he was
a many-sided man, a great repairer of viols, and afterwards a maker
of violins, the greatest maker in the north--the greatest maker in
all England.

He commended his violins to the public by playing on them himself. He
was not beneath playing at country dances and on village greens.

We may be sure he never lost an opportunity of parting, for a
consideration, with the violin he played upon--since naturally,
people would often be seized with a desire to possess themselves of
an instrument which they had heard discourse such excellent music and
to the purpose.

Indeed, I have sometimes known professors in these days who would so
cunningly play to their pupils that they have been able to palm off
for considerable sums quite inferior instruments.

How much more easy must it have been for the man who made them,
and made none but the best, and played them on occasions when his
purchasers’ spirits were high and their dispositions yielding, to
dispose of his exceptional wares.

About 1759 Forster seems to have concluded that Cumberland was played
out, and, sighing for new worlds to conquer, he came south. He was
quite a young man, but in the great whirlpool of London, as it was
even then, he seems to have sunk so low as cattle-driving, but that
is in itself a tribute to his versatility and pluck. Presently he
sets up in the Commercial Road, East, but finding there neither
demands for spinning-wheels nor fiddles, takes to gunstock-making,
till he at last “strikes ile” with one Beck, of Tower Hill, and there
makes such fiddles that Beck grows fat while Forster remains lean.

Unable to get his wages raised, he leaves Beck in 1762, and sets up
at Duke’s Court, a site now occupied by the National Gallery.

For about ten years Forster adopted the high Stainer pattern, then
so popular in England, and attracted the patronage of amateurs like
Colonel West. Afterwards he set up in St Martin’s Lane, and then
went to 348 Strand. He had by this time attracted the attention of
royalty, and the Duke of Cumberland, George III.’s son, is said even
to have once dined with him off black pudding.

Old Forster’s versatility and enterprise is still further shown by
his opening communications with the great Joseph Haydn, and it is
chiefly to him that England owes the introduction and publication of
Haydn’s immortal Symphonies.

The shrewd old man doubtless saw the profit which lay hid in a scheme
which would popularise the greatest _writer_ for stringed instruments
who ever lived, and he had not miscalculated.

The same cleverness which prompted him to give the English a dose of
the Stainer model when Stainer was the rage, prompted him to revert
to the later Amati grand pattern as he reached his ripe maturity. He
also changed his varnish before the close of his life, and is said
to have found the secret of solving amber with the assistance of the
chemist Delaporte, who invented some stuff known as the Verins Martin.

Amongst his patrons were George III., who, as Prince of Wales, was
fond of playing the violoncello, probably one of “Old Forster’s,”
and who, when he asked Haydn, who had been listening to him, how he
thought he played, received the altogether diplomatic reply, “Vy,
your ’ighness do play like a Brince.”

Peter Pindar (Dr Walcot) and Bartolozzi the engraver were also
amongst Forster’s patrons. He made but four double-basses, and his
tenors and ’cellos are thought better of than his violins. They are
steadily rising in value. He died in the same year as Haydn (1808).
His son William already suffered much from the foreign competition,
which was just beginning to tell, the duty which protected the
English manufactures having been removed.

William made some very good instruments, but they do not equal his
father’s; and he made a great deal of rubbish for the trade besides.

There was no doubt a certain erratic vein in the Forster family,
which in Old Forster took the shape of amazing versatility and
profitable enterprise, but which in his son and grandson degenerated
into speculative eccentricity. The son went in for buying grocery,
and invested in other bad businesses. The grandson turned out very
unmanageable, but clever and many-sided; he worked for a time with
Thomas Kennedy, but got away from him and went in for play-acting,
sometimes taking a turn in the orchestra at the violoncello desk. He
made about fifteen instruments altogether, two or three of which only
approached the Forster high level. He died in 1824, suddenly, whilst
still quite a young man.

His brother Simon made a large number of violins--tenors and ’cellos;
they are those signed S. A. Forster, but they do not rank very high.
He was the first to write a history of the violin, and has deserved
well of all succeeding writers, who quote him with a touching
simplicity of faith, as though, forsooth, because the first, he must
needs be the best authority.

At the name of Benjamin Banks all tenor and ’cello players lift their
hats; for although the later importation into England of Cremonas
has somewhat obscured our countryman’s fame, his splendid work--even
surpassed, as some think, by his sons James and Henry--is bound to
hold the market again; and a name extolled by the great virtuoso
Lindley, whose favourite instrument was a Banks, is not likely to be
neglected by Lindley’s successors, even though they may be the happy
possessors of Stradivari basses.

Benjamin Banks (1727-1795) was a contemporary of Old Forster
(1713-1801), but there is no reason to suppose that the two
artificers ever met or materially interfered with each other; for
Banks worked at Salisbury, whilst Forster worked in London, and no
express trains bore fiddles or fiddle-buyers swiftly to and fro in
those days.

Benjamin Banks copied Nicolo Amati very closely; but Mr Sandys
speaks of a rare long-shaped violoncello of his quite of the Stainer
pattern, with the round-topped Stainer sound-holes. This was none
other than the great Lindley’s famous instrument which so nearly
escaped destruction in a coach accident. The passengers had a bad
shaking and a bad spill, and Lindley and his violoncello among them;
but the rare enthusiast, in the midst of the confusion, had but
one thought. He flew to his ’cello-case, and was found seated in a
ditch, quietly playing away to assure himself that his beloved was
uninjured.

Mr Lucas had an excellent Benjamin Banks violin, but Banks tenors
and violoncellos are more esteemed. Banks made no double-basses;
his varnish is yellow-brown, of excellent quality, but badly laid
on, that on his bellies being often clotted, so that, in technical
parlance, it is said to kill the grain.

The Earl of Pembroke, who presumably knew no better, ordered a
violoncello of Banks to be made entirely out of an old cedar-tree,
which had been blown down in his lordship’s park (Wilton). It was, as
might have been foreseen, a great failure in tone. Of course Banks
made it “right enough,” and pocketed the money, but it is doubtful
whether the Earl ever got his money’s worth.

I remember a very carefully made violin, all of silver, another
expensive freak of ignorance and eccentricity; doubtless it sounded
like a tin kettle, and was musically of no use whatever. Some of us
may have heard an ingenious itinerant violinist playing on a tin
biscuit-box with similar results.

Benjamin’s scrolls are not very elegant, but that does not affect
his tone. Benjamin had a very good idea of his own importance, and
probably, too, a suspicion of the extent to which his name would be
taken in vain after his death. He tried to make this more difficult
by not only varying his labels in about four different ways, but also
stamping his instruments in several places with his own peculiar
seal, B.B.

Benjamin’s sons fell far below their father, but the old man left
quite a number of white unvarnished instruments in a cellar when the
business was sold, all of which were duly completed and sent forth
with his name, to which, however, they have but a partial right; for,
as his sons worked with him, it is by no means certain that every
fiddle in Bank’s shop at the time of his death was made by Benjamin
_père_.

Duke (1754-69) was remarkable as having largely contributed to create
in England the Stainer furore which so confused the judgment of
amateurs in this country, and retarded for at least fifty years the
triumph of the Stradivari grand pattern. In reality the best Dukes
are on the Amati pattern, but they are few in number, and though
there are innumerable fraudulent Dukes about, a real Duke is seldom
seen. The fraudulent Dukes exaggerate the high bellies and deep
grooving of the earlier Amati, and thus pass for Stainer pattern.
Duke’s varnish is also of a yellow or yellow-brown hue. It is not
likely that Duke’s reputation will increase, though the rarity of
genuine Dukes and the plentiful number of counterfeits may still run
up a few real specimens to fancy prices.

I cannot close this brief survey of the old English makers without
a mention of Bernard Fendt (1756-1832). He was originally a Swiss
cabinet-maker, but coming to London, went into business with Thomas
Dodd, for whom, and with whom, he began to make violins. Fendt soon
got hold of another cabinet-maker, a compatriot, and Dodd took him
also into the business. These two clever artificers soon raised
Dodd’s business to great prosperity, and Dodd thus had the honour of
putting his own name in their violins. All he had done, however, was
to varnish them, but he did that superlatively well, so that Dodd’s
varnish became as famous as Dodd’s bows.

Fendt afterwards left Dodd and worked for John Betts, who was famous
for his imitations of Amati, which he said paid better than making
fiddles with his own name in them. Many of his best imitations were
made by Fendt, who has thus created the reputation of two makers
besides himself. His son, who died only in 1851, would have equalled
his father had he not been seduced by the vicious practice of
prematurely aging his violins, thus pandering to the taste for old
fiddles at the expense of the fiddles themselves--for it is notorious
that such frauds do not improve by age.


A VIGNETTE OF W. E. HILL.

Dark--yes, to my eyes very dark; but the light in William Ebsworth
Hill’s old shop in Wardour Street was good enough for him; a greater
glare might have flouted those hundreds of old brown fiddles,
and dusty débris of fiddles, which that very moderately sized
establishment was hung, lined, strewn, and littered o’er with.

So the dim light, relieved on foggy days with a casual gas-jet, or
even a candle-end, seemed better than the garish sunlight for that
dusky brood--even as the moonbeam, according to Sir Walter Scott,
touched the grey ruins of Melrose more tenderly than the light of
day.

There were no electric lamps in those days (in 1870), consequently no
patent asbestos appliances for converting the impure London gas into
a specious and blazing rival.

Mr Hill tried to do too much. In his back shop he conducted repairs,
and frequently brought his “repairs” into the front shop. I have seen
him there, behind the counter, busy with gouge, knife, or scraper.
When customers or applicants for advice arrived--some with cheap
German fiddles which they fondly believed to be rare specimens of
Cremona, others with their own good, bad, and indifferent instruments
to be done up--they were received one and all with the same mild and
tolerant inattention, born not of incivility, but of abstraction.
Such as knew Mr Hill in those days, knew the nearest approach we
shall perhaps ever see to the great Cremona makers. I do not say that
any of Mr Hill’s work (barring his exquisite repairs and carving) is
likely to rank with theirs; he was an admirable maker, but he very
soon left off making. When the duty on foreign violins was removed
there poured into England a continuous stream of fiddles, which
entirely swamped the demand for new ones of English make. Mr Hill,
following the market, turned his attention to repairing and dealing;
but the art and craft atmosphere, the knowledge, the familiarity
with violin constitution, the infallible intuition and single-minded
love of the violin for its own sake, as a thing of beauty, wonder,
mystery, more than enough to monopolise a lifetime of devotion--this
is what made Mr Ebsworth Hill the spiritual heir of the grand old
fiddle-makers. “Why,” he said to me once, “talk about not knowing
the touch of this or that maker? I know the sort of tools Stradivari
or Joseph used. I can see the mark of a special favourite knife here
or gouge there. I know which way he used to cut and slice, and how
he held his tool for such and such a kind of finish. I can see ’em
at work, and the handling of one is no more like another’s than the
touch of one painter is like another’s.”

When you took a fiddle in to show Mr Hill, you had to wait Mr Hill’s
good time; he seldom answered immediately he was spoken to, but would
look up dreamily through his spectacles without laying down his file
or knife, and let off some such dogmatic and oracular sentence as:
“You want to know how I can tell a fiddle. Well, I don’t know how I
can tell; and there are days when I don’t trust my judgment--days I
can’t see, for instance. I leave off looking at fiddles for a day
or two; and when I come back I take up this fiddle and that, and
just at first I can’t see anything--those fiddles tell me nothing;
it’s a peculiar state of mind--just as a player or a surgeon’s hand
gets out, so a judge’s eye gets out. I know exactly when I see and
when I can’t see, and when I can’t see I hold my tongue; and I know
exactly how much I can see, but I don’t tell everybody.” The casual
visitor could make very little of old Hill at first. There was a
curious sort of inner otherwhereness--to coin a word--about him. Some
people found him very trying indeed. You never knew whether he heard
what you said; but when at last he favoured you with a remark, you
discovered that he had not only heard your words, but that he had
accurately gauged _you_.

His action was often unexpected and sometimes alarming. I one day
entered his shop with a friend who had a fiddle which he much
prized, and indeed it was a really valuable instrument, but needed
overhauling.

We both stood in front of the counter, and old Hill was bending over
a scroll that he was fitting on to a new neck. I addressed him on
behalf of my friend, but he took no notice whatever; he remained
absorbed in his delicate adjustments; and no Prince of the blood
would have fared any better than we did until he had finished what he
was about. Again I mentioned my friend’s name: “Mr ---- has brought
you his fiddle to look at by my advice. Perhaps you can tell him what
ought to be done.” Hill looked up, nodded, eyed my friend through his
spectacles with cold interest, and then resumed his work. I had to
rouse him a second time before he seemed to grasp the fact that my
anxious friend had taken his precious Cremona from its case and was
standing with it in his hand ready for the magician’s inspection.

At last Hill laid down his tool, and taking the instrument in his
hands, gave it one quick glance and a couple of taps; he then
deliberately looked in its astonished owner’s face, tore off the
finger-board, loosened the neck, and drove a knife under the belly.
The fiddle was soon in pieces, and he threw the loose fragments aside
in a heap, took up his repairs again, and said he would attend to the
matter by-and-by, and the gentleman need not stop; and we got no more
out of old Hill that day, who immediately became reabsorbed in his
work.

I shall never forget the rueful and amazed look with which my poor
friend beheld the tearing to pieces of his Cremona, but I touched him
on the arm, and seeing that Hill was in no mood for talk, got him
out of the shop, assuring him that it was all right, and that the
great repairer had shown more interest than usual in his valuable
instrument, or he would never have torn it to pieces then and there;
and with such words I strove to comfort my perplexed and anxious
friend.

I am bound to add that although Hill kept him waiting several months,
when the fiddle came back its owner was more than satisfied, and
declared that he then heard his Cremona for the first time.

Mr William Ebsworth Hill came of a family of violin-makers and
violin-players. Joseph Hill, who was born 1715, was proud to trace
his descent from the “Mr Hill” mentioned in Pepys’ Diary as being
employed to alter his lute and viall.

Joseph was a prolific and excellent violin-maker, and carried on
business in the early part of the eighteenth century at the sign of
the Harp and Flute in the Haymarket.

He had five sons; all made violins and three played professionally,
whilst the other two, like the present four brothers Hill in Bond
Street, followed their father’s vocation alone. The third son, Lockey
Hill, was the father of Henry Lockey Hill, who became in his turn
the father of William Ebsworth Hill, known in the middle of this
century as Mr Hill of Wardour Street. Hill’s father, Henry Lockey,
an excellent violin-maker, died in 1835. The Hills seem prolific in
sons, and Lockey left four sons. Henry distinguished himself as an
admirable quartet player, and well do I remember the splendid tone of
his Barak Norman tenor at Willis’ Rooms as far back I think as 1848,
when, with Sainton, Piatti, and Cooper--one of the best, as it was
almost the earliest string quartet cast in London--he assisted in
delighting and educating a select public in the mysteries of chamber
music, which has been since so freely expounded by Ella’s Musical
Union and the Monday Popular Concerts.

Berlioz always spoke of Henry Hill in terms of the highest praise; he
even went so far as to say that he considered him one of the first
performers in Europe.

It is seldom that a tenor player ever comes in for direct
commendation. He acts as a sort of go-between to violoncello and
violin; but his individual efforts, although so important to the
combined effect, are usually lost sight of between the grand work of
the bass and the brilliant lead and musical embroideries of the first
and second violins.

There are too few concertos or strong parts written for the poor
tenor, the Cinderella of the establishment, which is regrettable when
one thinks of the glorious violas of Maggini and the Amati. Mr Hill’s
Barak Norman is now the property of Mr Doyle.

William Ebsworth Hill, our great repairer, connoisseur, and dealer
all in one, was born in 1817. He was educated at the Borough Road
School, under the well-known Dr Lancaster, but it is certain that
he went early to the bench, for at the age of fourteen we find him
employed in cutting bridges in his father’s workshop.

For this purpose he used only a bradawl and a knife, and towards the
end of his life he returned to bridge-cutting, and has left many
beautiful specimens. His sons have a collection of two hundred, and
no two of the same pattern; they have also reverently preserved
under glass his simple tools. He worked with extraordinary rapidity,
equalled by his fastidious finish. He preferred the commonest
tools, so only they were of the finest metal. He used to scorn the
mechanical labour-saving appliances which now enable workmen to turn
out hundreds instead of dozens of fiddles, and he heartily despised
artificers who needed an elaborate plant before they could produce
anything decent. A good maker, he was wont to say, could make a
fiddle “with a knife and fork.” Mr Hill’s skill in bridge-making on
one occasion misled so eminent a judge as Monsieur Fétis, of the
Brussels Conservatoire. In 1851, the Prince Consort having expressed
a wish to hear a concert of old instruments, a viol d’amore which
was to be played by Ebsworth’s brother, Henry Hill, required a new
bridge, which Ebsworth very quickly made. I remember hearing Hill
perform on this viol d’amore with seven strings, at one of Monsieur
Julien’s Popular Concerts at the old Surrey Gardens. The elaborate
arpeggios were most fascinating, and unlike anything I ever listened
to before or have ever heard since. In due time the viol d’amore,
which had been lent by the Brussels Conservatoire, was returned,
and Monsieur Fétis, who was the Principal, and engaged at that time
in writing his valuable monograph on Stradivari, was very much bent
upon hunting up old bridges. He happened to pitch upon the viol
d’amore bridge, which he declared to be a highly interesting specimen
of the artistic work of the great Cremona period. Mr Alfred Hill,
one of Ebsworth Hill’s sons, happened to be at Brussels, and his
attention was called to Monsieur Fétis’ eulogium on the antique viol
d’amore bridge. “That,” says Mr Alfred to Monsieur Victor Mahillon
the curator, “is not an old bridge; it was cut by my father.” An
incredulous smile overspread the worthy curator’s face, which was
quickly changed into a look of apologetic admiration and surprise
when Mr Hill, junior, turning up the bridge, pointed to “W. E. Hill”
stamped upon it.

Ebsworth Hill’s father died in 1835, and not long afterwards
Ebsworth, wishing to perfect himself in the technique of his art,
went to study under the accomplished maker Charles Harris, of Oxford.

About 1838 he set up for himself in St George’s Road, Southwark.

Mr Woolhouse, the well-known collector, was one of his earliest
patrons; but his fame soon spread, and he found he had more work than
he could well manage. He was also much resorted to as one of the few
men whose judgment on a violin admitted of no appeal, and who could
be trusted to give an honest opinion.

From Southwark, Hill went to Wardour Street, which for many years
was as much the violin quarter in London as the Rue Croix des Petits
Champs is in Paris. It was there, when I was little more than a
boy, that I first made Mr Hill’s acquaintance. I used to take him
my fiddles, and I was always drawn to the young boys, his sons, who
frequented their father’s shop, and had the profoundest sense of
his importance and ability. It is not too much to say that Arthur,
Alfred, William, and Walter Hill have enjoyed unique opportunities
from their earliest childhood, and have not failed to qualify
themselves assiduously for the high position that the firm of Hill &
Sons now holds in the violin world.

The boys inherited violin tendencies. They were steeped from
childhood in violin tradition. They had special chances for seeing,
handling, and diagnosing most of the great violins now extant. No
time or money was spared by their father on the boys’ education, and
certainly no boys ever made a better use of their privileges.

Alfred and Walter went to Mirecourt, to study all that could be
taught in the most scientific and celebrated workshop in the world.

Arthur stayed at home and kept his eye in, being always in close
attendance on his father, and never missing an opportunity of
acquiring a new fact, or a fiddle, old or new, which was likely to
bring grist to the mill or credit to the firm.

From what has been said it may have been inferred, and not
erroneously, that Ebsworth Hill was not, financially speaking,
a business man--though he did all his own business. For years
everything that came into the shop passed through his hands; he
made every repair, doctored every fiddle, adjusted every screw,
regulated or replaced every sound-bar and sound-post, and even strung
the fiddles for his clients with his own hand--in short, he did or
closely superintended everything; division of labour, to the extent
to which it is now carried, being a thing unknown in those early days.

That such a system could not bring in large profits was obvious. Hill
had many bad debts; his memory for fiddles was infallible, but his
memory for accounts shocking, and he was cheated right and left.

His fame was so widespread that orders poured in which could not be
executed; and when the old man’s apparently inexhaustible powers of
work began to give out, the sons, who had watched proceedings for
years and slowly qualified themselves for every department, came in
and broke up the one-man system--not before financially confusion was
becoming worse confounded. They trained their workmen, distributed
the work, kept proper accounts for the first time, and in a few
years built up what is, perhaps, when considered in all its branches,
the largest individual violin-dealing industry in the world.

Mr Hill was a man of striking appearance: thin, spare, with light
hair, and moustache early gone grey; blue-grey eyes, very keen; a
thoughtful face, often lighted up with a whimsical smile--for the man
was full of humour, though mostly of a genial sort.

He was very much more of an all-round man than people who merely
conversed with him on violins would suppose. Highly educated, in the
usual sense of the word, he was certainly not; but he had a great
acquaintance with human nature, and an extraordinary insight into
character.

His sly remarks on men and their manners, including their morals,
were a perpetual feast to all who were admitted to his intimacy. In
his own special line he was without a rival. He did not always say
what he knew, but he never said what he did not know.

He was frequently appealed to in doubtful cases, but was greatly
opposed to litigation, and it was difficult to extract from him any
opinion likely to lead to it.

Once in the witness-box he was what the lawyers call a dangerous
customer. His manner was perfectly quiet, assured, and straightforward.
He was absolutely decided, and would never budge from his opinion, and
under pressure of cross-examination often raised a laugh at the expense
of counsel.

His sons have treasured many of his wise and witty sayings. On one
occasion he refused to sell to a customer who already owed more than
he could pay. Hill remarked dryly when the gentleman had left the
shop, “That man’s complaint is wind in the pockets.” Of an amateur
who was proud of showing off his style on his fiddles, Hill, looking
up from his work, would say with a comical twinkle, “Hark, now, he’s
doing the lovely.”

The manner was often worth more than the matter.

His memory was as extraordinary as Tarisio’s. On one occasion a claim
was brought against a railway company for sixty pounds’ damage to the
belly of a violoncello. The company demanded a valuation, and damages
to be assessed by Hill. The claimant at last angrily submitted.
Hill reported on the instrument, which he repaired for about thirty
shillings. Five pounds he thought would be very liberal damages. The
owner was furious, and would not even accept fifteen guineas. Mr Hill
was at last called up, and made the following unpleasant statement:
“This instrument does not belong to this man at all. It is one of the
instruments belonging to her Majesty, and used by the members of the
private band.” The _soi-disant_ owner was perfectly dumbfounded, but
was obliged to confess that he had actually borrowed the instrument
when employed as deputy in the Queen’s Band several years before, and
had never restored it. Mr Hill had only seen it once before.

A violin, said to be by F. Panormo, was sold as such by a dealer in
Pentonville Road. It came into Hill’s hands many years afterwards,
who was asked to take it in part payment for another violin. He said:
“This fiddle was not made by Panormo; it was made by my father about
the year 1812 for my brother Henry, and owing to the difficulty of
getting good foreign wood, my father made the back and ribs from
English maple. It could not possibly have a good tone, but I should
like to have it, and will allow £10 for it.” Mr Hill immediately
proceeded to remove the belly. On the inside was written in pencil,
“Made for my son Henry in the year 1812.”

Mr Hill led an extremely abstemious life. His only relaxations were
reading and long walks on Sundays. Towards the close of his life he
found himself surrounded by his sons, superintending a large staff
of workmen, and his workshops at Hanwell, adjoining his country
home, are well known. For some years before he died the direction of
affairs had practically passed into the hands of his sons, whom he
had so admirably trained to succeed him, and to them is entirely due
the present great commercial prosperity of the firm.

William Ebsworth Hill sank gradually from senile exhaustion of brain
power, and died in 1895, aged seventy-seven.




CHAPTER IX

VIOLIN VARNISH


When a true chemist enters a laboratory fitted up with the usual
mysterious tubes, crucibles, “baths,” and general apparatus for
distillation, and his nose scents the aroma of gums, spirits,
essential oils, and what not, he experiences an atmospheric sensation
which enthuses him for his work. What the odour of stables is to the
lover of horses, or the smell of paint to the artist, that is the
laboratory aroma to the chemist.

I have no insight into crucibles, and I don’t like smells. The
proportion of subtle weights and measures, avoirdupois or troy, are
beyond me; the disputations of science and the general incapacity
of scientists to agree about mixed problems puzzles and sometimes
“impatients” me, as the French say.

In wading through various treatises on Cremona varnish I regret to
say I have experienced vague emotions of annoyance and perplexity
which I would fain conceal from the reader. I should like to pose as
the clear exponent of the famous Cremona secret, or hold some one
fixed opinion, buttressed by arguments weighty enough to confound all
opponents, and based upon the “triumphs of modern research.” The
triumph of modern research seems to me to consist in the discovery
that we have as yet failed to discover the Cremona varnish, as,
although we may speculate about it and at moments seem to come very
near the mark, as yet we cannot make the stuff, or, at all events,
apply it in Cremona fashion to our new fiddles.

It may be consoling, but not very satisfactory, to reflect that no
one has mixed it or applied it in Cremona fashion since about 1750;
but that fact only serves to whet the curious appetite, and each
writer braces himself for renewed disquisitions, visits workshops,
and scrapes bits off Cremonas when he can, perhaps dabbles himself
with gums and alcohol, and pumps fiddle-makers with a view to
wringing the secret out of the Cremona sphynx.

So entirely mixed is the whole subject that the violin world can’t
even decide in what the proper functions of the varnish consist. One
maintains that it is merely for the preservation of the wood, another
that it greatly affects the tone, and the third that it is chiefly
decorative.

To me it seems almost a truism to say that the varnish is good for
all three purposes: that it preserves the wood is certain, though
exactly how is open to discussion; that it affects the tone is
equally certain, though exactly how is still a moot point; that it
is decorative is obvious, though taste in the colouring has varied
with each school of makers as much as some makers have varied with
themselves.

For my part, after reading a dozen disquisitions on the Cremona
varnish, and inspecting hundreds of fiddles for a quarter of a
century, I applaud the courage and reticence of Mr George Hart, who,
in his valuable book on old violins, gives just five pages on Italian
varnish, with an intelligent description of its various appearances,
a brief quotation from the inimitable writer Charles Reade, and not a
single recipe.

As I am not writing for violin-makers, but only for collectors, I
shall certainly not rush in where authorities like Mr Hart fear to
tread, and shall content myself with a few probable suppositions and
a few more generally descriptive remarks.

Some authorities maintain that the wood should be first saturated
with oil before the colouring varnish is applied, a practice which
has a tendency to clog the pores, so that until some age has been
put on and the wood has become desiccated and shaken free from the
grosser oily particles, the vibrations are stifled and the tone
consequently dull.

Others declare that the sizing of oil should not penetrate the wood
far, but leave it free to desiccate by itself, and merely act as a
sort of veneer for the colour varnish which has got to be spread
over the transparent oil covering. The wood, in fact, has to be
sized first and varnished afterwards. Taking this view, the process
would be something of this kind: The white belly is cut from fine
pine which has been six or seven years drying in the sun, but never
exposed to rain and waits patiently for its anointing. A stick of
that resinous gum beloved of artists, gamboge yellow, from Gamboga,
Siam, or China, is then powdered and dissolved in pure alcohol; sloes
are sometimes added, or when a yellow ground is not desired, sandarak
and the long resinous tears of benzoin are treated with pure alcohol.
When the back, belly, and ribs are thoroughly dry, the colouring,
like a flavouring to taste, is added.

The chief colouring ingredients appear to be of two kinds of
sandal-wood, one yielding red orange tints, from Calcutta, and the
other a deeper red, from the Coromandel Coast. An alcoholic solution
of these is mixed with essential oil of turpentine, freely oxydised
(or exposed to the air) and laid on the perfectly dry surface in
successive layers, each layer being allowed to dry separately.

The colour coating thus lies like an agate film over the oil
sizing, and through the top varnish as through coloured glass may
be seen--dyed orange, or red, or brown--all the delicate curls and
fibres of the wood, shown up as by a kind of Röntgen rays by the oil
size.

We are told that the resins used may be divided into hard and soft,
and that of these the soft, such as mastic and dammar, are the best,
because the most elastic and friendly to the waves of vibration. The
mastic and dammar resins seem to unite, in the greatest perfection,
the three essential properties most suitable for varnish--elasticity,
solidity, and transparency.

The Cremonese are said to have used nothing but the soft resins. The
much-talked-of, old-fashioned dragon’s blood, a resinous gum from
the Draconian Draco, does not seem now to be commonly forthcoming.
The Calami Draco of Borneo has taken its place. The old dragon’s
blood has been much talked about, and credited with giving a certain
splendid sanguineous flush to some of the rare Cremonese bellies upon
which the judicious amateur dotes.

And now, what is amber varnish? The usual answer is, there is no such
thing. Certainly it was never used by Stradivari, for it is said
the secret of fusing that hard gum was only discovered by Martin
the chemist in 1737, the year of Stradivari’s death. On the other
hand, I hear that amber has been found in the varnish of Giuseppe
del Gesù--by what analysis I do not know. The usual way of rubbing a
violin and smelling the surface has always seemed to me to furnish a
most unreliable test. One saith, “I smell benzoin”; or another, “I
smell mastic”; and a third, “I smell amber”; and a fourth, “I smell
nought”; and this battle of olfactory organs is like to go on, as
saith the poet--

      “As long as man has passions,
      As long as life has woes”;

or, as we may say--

      “As long as man has nose.”

So here I desire to take my leave of this thorny subject, and with
a sense of relief I abandon crucibles to the expert, and oils and
resins to the disputatious, merely reminding our collectors for
practical purpose that the Brescian varnish is soft and brown,
but without the magical Cremonese transparency; the Cremona is
amber-coloured (early) or (later) light red orange, and sometimes
velvety brown, and very soft and glossy as it rubs away.

The Venetian varnish of many shades is very clear; the Stainer,
yellow-brown, with a subtle roseate flush at times; the normal
German, brown and muddy; the French, Cremonese in colour, but glassy
and chipping rather than soft and glossy. Some of the English varnish
is remarkable, that of Dodd even approximating closely to the Cremona
school, etc.

On the whole, the best solution of the Cremona mystery seems to me
that it was probably no mystery at all, which also best accounts for
the disappearance of the varnish towards the middle of the eighteenth
century. It is absurd to suppose that the varnish used by at least
one hundred makers for more than one hundred years (for Italian
violins from 1550 to 1660 up to 1740 all have it) could have been a
secret; it was probably the ordinary varnish of commerce, superseded
by the quicker and more convenient spirit-varnishes which came in and
thrust it out of the market, and these ready-made compounds proved
excellent for furniture which is not prized for its resonant or
variously tinted qualities, but they unfortunately put out of court
the kind of varnish best suited for violins--the yielding, soft,
elastic oil varnish; and the very ingredients, _e.g._ dragon blood
(of the liliaceæ trees), ceased to be in demand, and consequently
disappeared from the Italian markets.

The materials being now absent, the varnish was differently composed.
The trick of mixing it got lost along with the stuff to be mixed, and
the Cremonese secret, once an open secret, lapsed and lapsed, as it
seems, most irrecoverably.

At one time every one knew how the ancient war-galleys were rowed;
how the Pyramids were built; how Stonehenge was poised; how the
Medicean poisons were distilled, and how the old masters mixed their
colours; now no one knows.

Of the Cremona varnish it must be written, as we have to write of
these unexplained disappearances of the lost and missing--

                      “Gone, and made no sign.”




CHAPTER X

VIOLIN STRINGS


“To scrape the inside of a cat with the outside of a horse” is far
from an accurate or exhaustive description of violin playing, nor can
I understand why violin strings are called cat-gut at all, since they
are made from the intestines of the sheep, goat, or lamb, and have
absolutely nothing to do with pussy.

I can only suppose that the frightful and melancholy tones habitually
elicited by inexperienced players may have reminded people of the
nocturnal cat sufficiently to credit that maligned animal with
providing part of the mechanical apparatus for their production.

Of late years a great deal has been said about the extreme importance
of the strings, of adapting the player to the fiddle’s constitution,
etc. I freely admit that some players with very strong hands, like
Lindley and Dragonetti, can manage thicker strings with effect
better than people with weaker muscles. I also admit generally that
it would be a mistake to string a sensitive old Nicolo Amati with
thick strings, which a robust Joseph or Bergonzi might be able to
bear; that a raw new fiddle to be rubbed down in the orchestra will
also take to thick strings; and that it is pretty obvious, as every
player knows, that one cannot stop fifths in good tune if the strings
are not relatively well proportioned.

It is also a truism that it is best to buy the best strings, and
that false strings are abominable. But I do not go much beyond
this, and I would say about strings what I say about bows, that bad
workmen always complain of their tools, and that, as Paganini was
able--although as a mere trick--to discourse excellent music with
a tobacco-pipe or a reed, so his admirers were often surprised to
notice that he would go into the concert room with his strings very
much out of condition.

Practically I do not suppose that one violinist in fifty uses a
string-gauge; he soon learns to judge sufficiently by the eye what
his fingers want, what his tone requires, and what his violin exacts.

Still, in these days of analysis and detail, there being nothing left
untalked about, writers have fastened quite within the last thirty
years on the strings; but I have often noticed that players who fuss
most over these details, which are doubtless of importance, are those
who are least able to avail themselves of the perfect conditions
which they seek. Perfect gut, rosin by rule, and an exquisitely
poised bow, no more make a fiddler than scientific sanitation makes
a healthy subject. I cannot too persistently urge that the violinist
bends conditions to the magic of his will and his skill.

His business is to qualify _himself_, and then get the best fiddle,
bow, and strings that he can. This ought he to do, and not to leave
the others undone.

There is no reason to suppose that any advance in the manufacture
of gut-strings has been made since the seventeenth century. Even a
work by Le Roy, dated 1570, gives the best recipe yet known for the
detection of false strings.

“It is needful,” he says, “to prove them between the hands in the
manner set forth in the figure” (which we reproduce); and he goes on
to explain what everybody now knows--that if two lines only appear,
the string is true; if more, false. But he fails to add that such a
rough test only holds good for the thinner and simpler woven cords.
In Doni’s book (1647) we find such subtleties as these: “There
are many particulars relating to the construction of instruments
which are unknown to modern artificers, as, namely, that the best
strings are made when the north (and the worst when the south) wind
blows”--a suggestive hint relating to the acknowledged importance of
atmospheric, perhaps magnetic, and at any rate climatic, conditions.

How do we make our strings?

Putting aside mature sheep and goats, we kill our young Italian lamb
in September. We open him at once, and take the intestine whilst
still warm; stretch it on an inclined plane; scrape it and clean it
thoroughly without delay. We then steep it for about fifteen hours
in cold water, with a little carbonate of soda, and then substitute
tepid water for a few hours more.

Now we are ready to remove the fibrous or muscular membrane from
between the peritoneal and mucous membrane. This is done by women,
who scrape it with a cane. The precious selected membranes are
then soaked in jars containing an ammoniacal solution; they are
then rubbed through the fingers three times a day, treated with
permanganate of potash, cleaned, sorted, cut, and split; and,
finally, the threads are spun--three or four thin threads for first
violin strings, three or four thicknesses for the second, six or
seven for “D” string. Double-bass strings take up to eighty-five
threads. Further twistings, soakings, and polishings take place, into
which we need not enter, and the strings are finally dressed with
olive oil and then coiled.

I have gone into these details to show with what care and complex
elaboration string manufacture is carried on.

The false string is due to inequalities, lumps, and varieties of
texture in the gut; and if only the defective part can be distributed
either near the head or the tailpiece, outside the vibratory length,
your false string becomes true. This is why the experiment of
reversing the string, putting tail portion headwise or _vice versâ_,
will sometimes remedy the defect.

For the fourth or silver string the gut or silk (which is used)
is wrapped with pure silver, or copper, or alternate silver and
copper wire. The beautiful French patent silver fourth, as smooth as
polished steel, is incomparably best for solo playing; it is also
thinner, in my opinion too much thinner, than the mixed silver and
copper fourths, which are very serviceable for rougher orchestral
work.

The vice of silver strings is to rise (and of gut strings to fall)
with heat; but if your screws are in perfect order, and you are
expert enough, you will remedy either by a rapid subtle twist during
a bar’s rest, or a quick nipping the head of the peg between the
first and third joint of your left-hand forefinger. I have seen
Sarasate tune two pegs thus in the course of a very brief “tutti.”

Mr Hart may be accepted as a final authority on the relative merits
and the different schools of violin strings at present in the market,
and his dicta substantially agree with my own experience. Of course
he gives the palm to the Italian strings, which is largely due to
the good climatic conditions, which enable their manufacture to be
carried on in the open air and sunlight of that favoured clime.

In Rome strings are yellowish, hard, and brilliant, and a little
rough in finish.

The Neapolitans are smooth, soft in texture, and whiter in appearance.

The Paduans polished, durable, and frequently “false.” Strings “made
in Germany” (Saxony), as a set off against the swarms of trade German
fiddles, rank next to Italian.

The French rank third. Their larger strings are better than their
seconds, which are often brittle; their patent first _accribelles_,
made of silk, are hard and brilliant, but not comparable, in my
opinion, to a fine Roman gut “E” string.

The English make a good, serviceable, dull green looking string,
durable, uneven, and not unfrequently false. To my mind, English
strings are only fit for rank-and-file orchestral fiddling, but not
good enough for the loader. Mr Heron Allen, who has given great
attention to such details, says that the best strings in the market
are imported from Signor Andrew Ruffini of Naples, but I have always
had a weakness for Roman strings.

Too great caution, however, cannot be used in buying strings. Never
buy from any but the best firms; they can’t afford to keep “job lots,
going vera chep”--these may be bought up by provincial houses and
retailed to an undiscerning public.

Notice that small “job lot” people do not know how to keep their
strings--or, I should rather say, they keep them too long and too dry.

It does not follow that even the best strings will turn out successes
if they have been kept too long or too dry.

I once ordered £1 worth of Roman “E” strings for myself, and another
£1 worth for a friend. They all arrived as dry and brittle as mummy
wood; they all snapped as I put them on. In about a week I got a
furious letter from my unfortunate friend who had trusted me--all his
strings had snapped.

I have but one counsel to give. Take the best firm’s advice and pay
the best firm’s price--if you can afford it. Always keep a couple
of tested, _i.e._ stretched “E” lengths in your case. If you are a
soloist this will save you some annoyance and delay should your “E”
string go in the middle of a performance.

So far, then, and no further, need I discuss violin strings; but
there are two other violin adjuncts not important enough to call for
a separate chapter. I allude to the mute and the chin-rest. The mute
is occasionally fixed on the bridge to give the sound that singular
faint far-off twang like the whisper of a ghostly violin. The mute
has the singular property of making the violin abnormally sensitive
for the time. The mute is made of wood, metal, or vulcanite;
personally, I much prefer the metal mute--it does the business more
thoroughly. It is not a good practice to use the mute habitually
while practising to subdue the sound. The violin really resents the
use of the mute at all, but will put up with it for a short time
(just as a good horse will not resent a spur or a bearing-rein in
moderation). For a minute or two after the removal of the mute the
violin does not quite recover its tone; some of the particles in its
wood have been exposed to a different or eccentric vibration by the
dominating mute, and the full tonal vibration is not immediately
recoverable. It is as though you had put a man in boots with leaden
soles for a time, and then suddenly freed him; he would not at once
regain his full suppleness of movement.

Quite within the last thirty years the cult of chin-rests has become
almost universal. When I was a boy people held the violin honestly
under their chins, and a few used a silk pocket handkerchief. I much
prefer it to this day; but something between the chin and the violin
is no doubt good for the protection of old instruments already too
much rubbed by centuries of beards and bristles.

I have nothing to say against the various velvet, vulcanite, and
ebony fixed substitutes for the homely pocket-handkerchief, except
that in my eyes they are extremely ugly, and to my chin extremely
uncomfortable; but I may be very much out of date, and in such minor
matters “_chacun à son goût_,” or, as Pepys would say, “there’s an
end on’t.”




CHAPTER XI

VIOLIN BOWS


He who wields the violin bow aright wields the wand of a magician.
If ever mortal could call the spirits from the vasty deep, it is
the virtuoso who throws into sympathetic vibrations the cords of a
Cremona.

The wood of his wand, from the forests of Fernambuc or Pernambuco,
choice and seasoned, and delicately graduated and tapering, receives
through the varying pressure of his five fingers the waves of his
personal magnetism.

The back of his thumb will often touch even the hairs which are
in direct contact with the strings, and therefore the psychic and
emotional vibrations of the artist’s soul are wedded closely to the
physical pulses of sound which throb in the agitated air column of
the Cremona, and flow forth in the air waves (like light and heat),
filling space with their musical magnetism, and seeking only the
medium of kindred spirits and suitable organisms to utter through
the vibrating human nerve tissues of others the open secrets of the
player’s soul.

No Mesmer, or magician of the East, controls a more subtle force than
does the violinist, who, face to face with his audience, lifts his
tapering wand and rules therewith the

      “_Tides of music’s golden sea setting towards eternity._”

By those who indite exhaustive historical or constructive treatises
on the violin--the bow, like the violin, has been treated
archæologically--we have been led up to ancient monuments and shown
bows (or things supposed to be bows) on vases, sculptured frescoes,
missals and other monkish manuscripts. We have been sent out to wild
islands and continents, and introduced to the Ravanastron bow of
ancient Ceylon; the bow of the Moorish rebab; the ninth, eleventh,
twelfth, and thirteenth century viol bows of Europe--all more or less
primitive, with sometimes gut for hair, or hair loose, hair limp, and
with no means of regulating its tension except by the introduction of
the fingers to press the hair or tighten it for a moment.

In Paul Veronese’s Marriage at Cana (Versailles) this is well shown.
Paul himself was a viol player, and apparently held his bow chiefly
by the hair for this same regulative purpose.

C. Simpson (the division “viol”), 1667, gives a somewhat more
advanced viol bow, in which the hand splits the difference between
wood and hair and rests on both (Fig. iii). Of course, when held to
the chin, this clumsy finger regulation of the hair tension would
be less convenient to manage, and hence we come upon the eighteenth
century with a strip of notched metal (Fig. iv.) and a movable
sliding nut.

[Illustration:

 I

 Maggini   Nic Amati   Dolphin Strad   Joseph Guarnerius
  1630       1641          1714              1734

 II

 Corelli 1700
 Cramer  1770
 Viotti  1780
 Tartini 1740

 III

 Finger control
 17th cent.

 IV

 Cremabliere control
 18th cent.

 V

 Screw control 19th cent.:
 Paganini’s bow  Tourte  29 inch ’34

 VI

 19th cent.:
 Hair control.
 head.  handle.
]

As for our purpose the violin proper began in the eighteenth century
with the emergence of its true type from the viol tribe, so for our
purpose the violin bow begins with the emergence of the violin. A
glance at the bows of Corelli (1700), Cramer (1770), Viotti (1780),
and Tartini (1740) (Fig. vi.) will show the evolution in the
direction of the Tourte bow; and although Tourte (1740) is generally
credited with substituting the screw for the crémaillère, it will be
noticed that Corelli’s bow (1700) has already got the screw. But is
the Corelli bow authentic, or in reality a bow subsequent to 1740,
the earliest working date of Tourte _père_?

With François Tourte, the younger son, culminated the art of violin
bow making. He is the Stradivari of the bow. We give his portrait,
but father and son were both master-workers. Although the Stentor
(Fig. vi.) bow’s head has superseded, for some reason, the more
rounded form of François Tourte, nothing has been done since
in advance of Tourte, and “after Tourte” is still the greatest
recommendation a bow can have.

It is easy to see what called forth François Tourte. He came in
answer to a need. He doubtless heard of Tartini and examined
his bow. It was comparatively short and cumbrous. Forty years
afterwards Viotti comes to Paris, and with him dawns a new era in
violin playing. Refinements and delicacies of tone, upper shifts
and varieties of execution, various styles of bowing, dealing with
staccato, arpeggio, and rubato, methods varied and brought to
perfection, demanded qualities of balance, lightness, and elasticity
which would have been quite thrown away on the old sawing and
scraping school of the seventeenth century. The very Cremona violins,
beginning to mature as the century waned, called aloud for a suitable
and sympathetic companion to caress, excite, charm, draw from them
their sweetest tones and most vigorous powers.

François Tourte was rescued from the clock-making business, to which
he had been early apprenticed, by the sheer bent of his own genius.
His brother, who worked with his father, was not the genius, and, as
is often the case, the father failed to see which of the two sons was
to carry on the fame of the house, and there may have been jealousies
and disputes besides. The poor stuff given François to work upon
when, after eight years of watch-making, he was allowed to enter the
parental workshop a little, suggests that he was the male Cinderella
of the family.

He had to deal with strips of old sugar-barrels and fashion them into
bows, which he sold for about fifteen-pence each. But as soon as he
got a free hand he experimented with all kinds of wood, and arrived
at the conclusion that the only wood suitable for his purpose was
Fernambuc wood. It combined stiffness and lightness, but was very
difficult to obtain, on account of so many ports being in those
disturbed times blockaded. Fernambuc wood was only imported for
dyeing purposes, and the price had risen in Paris to five francs
a pound. Then, as only pieces with straight grain were required,
whole trees might be cut up in search of a few likely strips. This
accounts for the high prices of Tourte bows, even when first produced.

They were doubtless largely labours of love with this matchless
artificer, who could neither read nor write. The nut would be often
made of tortoise-shell, jewelled with mother-of-pearl, and gleaming
with a gold screw button. These cost £12, and would now fetch, if
ever they came into the open market, fancy prices. His bows, mounted
in silver with ebon nuts, sold for three guineas, and now fetch £30.

Tourte _père_ originated the backward bend of the bow, which is not
cut but artificially bent by heat; but both the father’s and the
eldest son’s bows are held to be now too short for the strain of
execution put upon them by modern players--not so François Tourte’s,
and all bows made “after Tourte.”

He fixed the proportions--length, between 29·134 inches and 29·528
inches. The weight of the bend is nicely poised with the gold,
tortoise-shell, or ebon of the nut; in each is a small wedge, as may
be seen in Fig. viii., which nips the hairs and keeps them flat. The
fine selection of hairs, 150 to 200 (modern exigencies require more,
or up to 250), the careful flattening of it out, the preference for
live hair, or hair combed out and not taken from dead horses who
may have lain some time in the shambles; above all, the exquisitely
graduated thicknesses, now held to be _de rigueur_, all characterise
the intuitive genius of Tourte.

I say advisedly “intuitive genius,” for Tourte had no education but
that of a watch-maker. This may, indeed, have given him his fine
sense of delicate and exact proportions, but it is still remarkable
that examinations of the diameter of Tourte bows in different places
give uniform results. The bows swell or taper in the same place, and
as the air columns in the violins of Strad give the same note, so do
the bows of Tourte yield the same proportions, which it has not been
found safe or expedient to depart from.

Violin bows may be smaller or larger, _i.e._ shorter or longer,
as far as I can see, without any detriment to Tourte’s principle;
children, women, and exceptionally long armed men may have to
use them, but the proportions, the wood, the balance, even the
mechanique, must be left as Tourte left them--perfect.

The one point in mechanique in which the invention of F. B. Vuillaume
may be thought to have improved upon Tourte is in his fixed nut for
viola, tenor, or violoncello bows. This consists of a metal nut,
which alone is moved by the screw up and down inside the main nut,
which remains rigid; thus the length of the hair exposed for playing
always remains the same.

The only other original maker of the first rank and excellence, who
has been nicknamed the English Tourte, was John Dodd. He was born
in 1752, and lived chiefly at Kew, and there he was buried. He was
always out at elbows, even when his reputation was at its height.
Poor Dodd had his friends and admirers. He was his own worst enemy;
he was undersized in stature, and walked with a shuffling gait. He
wore his clothes until they were in rags, and a broad-brimmed hat
somehow gave him an additionally dilapidated air.

I am afraid he drank, for although his habits were said to be
regular, the most regular of them all was his four daily visits to
the public-house, where he consumed what to less experienced topers
seemed an immoderate quantity of a drink called “pearl.”

When the old fellow was known to be excessively hard up, kind Mr
Richard Platt, a musical professor of the town, and Dr Sellé, who
has given us some of the above details, came to the rescue. But the
bow-maker tired them all out, and ended at last in the Richmond
Workhouse.

I will not say whether he can be exactly cited as a frightful example
of the degrading effects of liquor, for he died of bronchitis at the
altogether respectable age of eighty-four.

Indeed, he had his qualities; no bribe or stress of want could make
him swerve from his sense of what was due to his art.

His wood is as magnificent as his workmanship. He doubtless had his
secret, but it was possibly one that he could not impart. He would
take no apprentice, for fear he should learn the trick; and whether
he could or could not teach it, he refused £1000 offered him by some
one who wanted to learn it. Dodd’s bows are not very uncommon; he
died only in 1836, and, strange to say, these true musical wands do
not run into a five-pound note yet (1898).

John Dodd the bow-maker must not be confounded with Thomas Dodd the
fiddle dealer and varnisher, who employed Fendt and Lott to make the
fiddles. John Dodd the bow-maker was the brother of Thomas Dodd. John
lived in Blue Bell Alley, Mint Street, Southwark, before he went to
Kew, but the rustic suburbs suited his habits, and as he had acquired
a European reputation before he died, it little mattered where he
lived.

Vuillaume of Paris made excellent bows, and even founded a school of
bow-making. Many bows that don’t sell as his are stamped “d’après
Vuillaume,” “scuola de,” which is certainly more respectable than a
forged label to which violin dealers do so commonly resort.

Vuillaume’s hollow steel bows have never “caught on,” though good
players have used them now and again. But then a good player can use
any bow, and whilst a good bow is a luxury, a real violinist will
be able to perform very respectably with a bad one. It is said that
Paganini on one occasion excited the wonder and enthusiasm of his
audience by performing on his instrument with a long churchwarden
clay pipe, and at another time with a rush!

It would be unfair even in a sketch like this, which only professes
to seize the salient point of general interest to collectors and
amateurs, not to mention Jacques Lafleur (1760-1832), an admirable
imitator of Tourte.

Lupôt, brother of the great violin-maker (1774-1837), was the first
to line with metal the groove in the underside of the nut, to
prevent wear and tear of the ebony or tortoise-shell.

Domminique Peccate (1810-74) is also thought to have almost rivalled
Tourte. He was originally a barber, and transferred the delicacy of
hand required in tonsorial operations to the fine adjustments and
elegant tapering and octagonal proportions of violin bows.

Peccate went to Vuillaume in 1826, stayed with him eleven years,
and then became foreman to François Lupôt. He ended his life at
Mirecourt, where he began it; latterly he worked entirely on his own
account.

We have now among us one James Tubbs, whose bows are already known
throughout the world owing to their attractive appearance and good
balance. Time will alone decide Tubbs’ position in the scale of
bow-makers, for time alone will determine the question of “last,”
“warp,” and flexibility, and general endurance of efficiency.

On rosin, about which pages have been unnecessarily written, I have
but one word to say--get it pure. You can do this by confining
yourself to the best shops, or those who deal with them. Go to Hill,
Chanot, Hart, Withers, and Vuillaume.

Some ignorant people talk of rosin as “greasing the bow.” Smooth
horsehair or greased horsehair is, of course, useless. It is not
the absence but the presence of friction which sets the strings
in vibration; it is the surface of the horsehair, roughened by
infinitesimal particles of rosin, which prevents the horsehair
touching the string with a continuous pressure, so that it receives
in reality a succession of tiny shocks. This is what renders the
succession of vibrations so rapid as to sound continuous.

Without rosin, the violin, in spite of strings and bow, and the art
of all Cremona, would be mute.

To average rosiners let me give a word of advice, early given me by
my old master, Ouri, pupil of Frank Mori: “Don’t rub the horsehair
down smooth with long sweeps, but powder the rosin off into the hair
with quick rubs and a light hand; in this way you avoid rubbing the
oleaginous particles of the gum into stickiness.”

I notice that the best players use plenty of rosin and never let the
bow get thirsty. I remember the matchless violinist Remenye taking
up my violin and bow and calling aloud for rosin. “Why, you have
no rosin on; you cannot expect the violin to speak without.” Yet I
thought my bow had plenty of rosin on, but it was not enough for
Remenye, who powdered it away in clouds. But please to remember that,
however thirsty the bow may be, the _violin_ does not require to
drink, and the habit of smothering and smearing its beautiful smooth
belly with thin glutinous dust is a most vile one, and worthy only of
third-rate second violins at fourth-rate music halls. These musical
galley-slaves may not have time to clean up; you of the Stradivari
and the Amati violins and the Tourte and the Dodd bows _ought_ to
have, or you are no fit guardian of such treasures.




CHAPTER XII

VIOLIN TARISIO


This extraordinary man, originally an obscure Italian carpenter,
at once created and answered that demand for Italian violins which
followed both in England, and to a great extent in France, the rage
for the German, and especially German of the Stainer and Klotz
pattern.

Luigi Tarisio, like W. Forster, eked out the scanty income which he
derived from making tables and benches for the peasants by playing
dance music on a very poor fiddle at village routs.

He wandered from place to place, what time the vintages were being
gathered in, and the simple folk, who turned out in their Sunday
finery for a little relaxation and merriment, doubtless regaled
the Italian carpenter with open-hearted hospitality, whilst he, in
return, mended their benches and fiddled for them at the vineyard
cabarets.

Our Charles Mathews has given in his delightful autobiography
interesting glimpses of that free, open-air, open-hearted life;
for he also, for a time, lived amongst these rustics of a favoured
clime, enjoying their simple pleasures, and contributing in his own
peculiar way, by his histrionic gifts and a somewhat free-handed
distribution of coin, to their revels and their needs.

Luigi Tarisio soon began to be dominated by the spell of his violin;
he got to notice other violins, to repair them all in the way of
trade, to possess them, not always very honestly, pitting his own
growing knowledge of their merits against the ignorance or necessity
of their owners. Gradually Tarisio the carpenter and Tarisio the
fiddler seemed to be merged in Tarisio the cunning repairer and
Tarisio the still more knowing buyer.

He bought chiefly by exchange, for money he had little or none;
but he began in the early years of this nineteenth century to lead
that nomad life--as it seemed to outsiders, the life of a common
pedlar--which enabled him to glide without suspicion into half the
sacristies and convents in Italy.

Wherever he went, bag on shoulder, and basket of tools in hand, his
cry was not “knives to grind,” nor “shoes to mend,” but “violins to
repair.”

He usually had with him a decoy violin or two, in the shape of
common fiddles in good playing order; and over a glass of lemonade
or a bottle of wine, in some local café or monasterial domicile of
priest or cathedral musician, the cunning Tarisio would view with
unaffected pity the miserable old battered Cremonas which were then
lurking in a thousand ecclesiastical nooks, split as with the “wolf,”
ill-adjusted, ill-strung, and generally out of sorts, and whipping
out his common fiddle in perfect order, would play a few notes
on each, so manifestly to the disadvantage of the Cremona that an
exchange was soon effected, and Tarisio would decamp with an Amati,
a Strad, a Joseph or Bergonzi treasure, which, after a little clever
mending, might be worth a fortune; and in this way he possessed
himself, often for a few francs, of instruments which now fetch over
£1000 in the open market--if ever they get there.

Tarisio, with the infallible instinct of a born collector and
connoisseur, in a few years was able to gauge accurately the merits
of the different great Italian makers. He knew exactly where to rank
the Amatis, and how to separate the qualities of the great Nicolo
from those of Andrea; he understood the supreme excellence of Antonio
and the power of Giuseppe, and all other grades of merit of which
even the admirers of the Cremona school in England seemed entirely
ignorant of. All Amatis at that time were lumped together, and
Stradivari and Giuseppe Guarneri were hardly known at all.

But Tarisio knew all this, and a good deal more, before he tossed his
heavy bag of old violins one day over his shoulder and set out, they
say, on foot, or anyhow else he could, for Paris; for what market
was there in Italy for such priceless Cremonas when their owners
were prepared to give them up for fiddles worth from five to twenty
shillings?

But why did Tarisio go to Paris? He probably judged wisely that the
Stainer craze, and the huge crop of common violins then being made
in Germany, would have killed his market nearer home. Then he must
have heard when a boy how Napoleon I. had ransacked the art treasures
of Italy, and how, under the advice of the cultivated Marquis
d’Avèze, who had narrowly enough escaped the guillotine in 1793, the
great conqueror had inaugurated a high Art Exhibition for the people.

The famous bronze-gilt horses from S. Marco, Venice, the Dying
Gladiator, the Apollo Belvedere, the Cupid and Psyche from Rome, and
Raffaello’s Transfiguration itself, had been carried in triumphant
procession through the streets of Paris, and installed in a vast hall
for the benefit and instruction of the people. Of course a rage for
everything Italian was the result, and the shrewd Tarisio may have
thought, why not a rage for old Italian fiddles?

One day in the year 1827 there arrived at the shop of M. Aldric,
at that time a famous violin dealer in Paris, a travel-worn man in
ragged clothes, who had begged and fiddled his way for days and weeks
across country. He carried a huge dustman’s sack over his shoulder.
He seemed to M. Aldric a very poor sort of pedlar, grimy and unkempt
enough to claim kinship with the man who had “used somebody’s soap
sixteen years ago, since when he had used no other.”

The fashionable violin dealer was at first inclined to show him the
door, but probably something in Tarisio’s independent manner betrayed
that indefinable quality we call character, and, more in amusement or
out of pity than with any serious intent to make a deal, M. Aldric
allowed the pedlar to empty his sack of fiddles on his counter. It
is easy to imagine his astonishment at what he saw; but he seems to
have kept up his indifferent manner, not supposing the poor creature
before him could be in the least aware of the treasures he sought to
dispose of.

M. Aldric was soon undeceived.

He quickly found the tables turned upon him.

The clever French tradesman was conversing with the greatest
violin connoisseur that the world has ever seen, or in all
human probability ever will see, for no one can ever again have
Tarisio’s opportunities, even should he unite in himself Tarisio’s
extraordinary qualities.

Now, the pedlar, with all his enthusiasm and self-sacrifice, was a
man of exceeding cunning, and had that tact, quickness, affability,
and bonhomie which is well known to tourists in Italy, and has often
proved so fatal to the amateur of old laces, pottery, and objects de
vertu, or to such as may have tried to do a little fancy collecting
as they passed through the Italian towns, and haggled over bargains
in small curiosity-shops and market-places. So, with due astuteness,
the shrewd carpenter had not brought his _best_ wares on this his
first visit; he had come on a voyage of discovery, and only produced
a small pattern Nicolo Amati, and half a dozen Maggini, Ruggerii,
and such-like. He had with him no Strad, no Joseph, not even a grand
pattern Nicolo, but he had brought enough.

M. Aldric, concealing his emotion, and fervently hoping the shabby
man did not know the value of his wares, offered him a small sum for
the lot, which Tarisio refused, doubtless with those picturesque
invocations of horror to the Virgin and all the Saints which seem
necessary to the Italian who attempts to convey to a “screw” the
mingled indignation and pity excited in his generous and artistic
breast by a mean offer.

Tarisio was certainly disappointed; but he forgot that he himself had
to _create_ the market; and so at last he left, with his empty bag
indeed, but with his ragged pockets far from full.

Back to Italy, back to his monasteries and cabarets, a little
dazzled; but, with unabated energy, he recommenced his search.

He was now beginning to be known far and wide as a clever repairer
and a convenient dealer. As his stock of good, bad, and indifferent
fiddles increased he could offer a greater selection, and readily
parted with the worst ones, nicely done up, to his ignorant and
confiding but not over-wealthy Italian patrons.

When next he journeyed to Paris he met with a different reception.
Vuillaume, Thibaut, and Chanot the elder opened their privileged
doors to him, and especially Vuillaume had the acumen to see that
in Tarisio he had lighted upon what gold-diggers call a veritable
“pocket,” and gave him higher and higher prices for the harvest of
Amatis, Strads, Guarneri, and Bergonzis which now flowed steadily
into Paris through this odd medium.

Tarisio was far more than a connoisseur and dealer; he was a
singular and most whole-hearted enthusiast. As the novelist Charles
Reade (who was himself a great fiddle dealer and knew Tarisio) has
well said, “The man’s whole soul was in his fiddles. He was a great
dealer, but a greater amateur. He had gems by him which no money
would buy from him.” Mr Reade then goes on to relate how once, when a
splendid equipage rolled by him in Paris, the carpenter remarked, “He
would sooner possess one Strad than twenty such carriages.” He would
stalk the back or the belly of a valuable fiddle until he recovered
the whole, just as the Roman antiquary stalked the fragments of the
Hercules Farnese, finding the trunk in one place and the head in a
ditch miles away.

Chanot had stumbled upon the cracked belly of a Strad violin in
Spain. Ortega, the fiddle-maker, had sold the remainder, ribs and
back, to a Spanish lady, fitting them nicely with a brand-new back
made by himself! The precious belly caught Tarisio’s eye in the shop
window, and he at last worried Chanot into parting with it for 1000
francs. Off went Tarisio to Madrid, extracted from the bewildered
Ortega, who had sold the patched Strad, the required information,
interviewed the donna who possessed the patched Strad, and who,
after the fashion of the high-born Spaniard, at once said, “Sir, the
instrument is at your disposition,” which only meant that she would
part with it for a consideration, or what she considered to be the
good round sum of 4000 francs. This was a mere bagatelle for such a
treasure, which, refitted with its own belly by Vuillaume, is now
known as the Spanish Bass.

It was sold for £800, and exhibited in the south Kensington
Collection of 1872 (No. 188).

On one occasion, says Charles Reade, Tarisio was crossing the Bay of
Biscay with his famous Spanish Bass. The ship rolled; Tarisio clasped
his treasure tightly and trembled. It was a terrible gale, and for
one whole day they were in real danger. “Tarisio spoke of it to me,”
continues his friend, “with a shudder. ‘Ah! my poor Mr Reade,’ he
exclaimed, ‘the Bass of Spain was all but lost!’” As to Tarisio also
being lost, that did not seem to matter so much!

It is not too much to say that, with hardly a memorable exception,
all the great Cremonese and Brescian fiddles, which now command such
_prix fous_, have passed through the cunning hands of Luigi Tarisio
the pedlar, and most of them have at one time been benefited by the
tender and artistic skill of Vuillaume, his great patron.

When Tarisio, who by this time wore a decent coat, and no longer
carried Cremonas in a sack on his back, visited England in 1851,
he was received by the whole trade as a person of rare quality, as
indeed he was.

Mr John Hart took him to see Mr Goding’s unique collection. As
one by one the owner took his treasures out of a glass cabinet,
before ever he had got within two paces of Tarisio, he was amazed
at hearing their names called out. A glance was sufficient. Tarisio
had had them all through his hands--the “King” Guarnerius, Lafont’s
Guarnerius, the matchless Bergonzi, the Marquis de la Rosa’s
Amati, Ole Bull’s Guarnerius, the famous Serafino ’cello, called
the Beauty--all of which might never have reached Mr Goding had it
not been for the enterprise and indomitable energy of the Italian
carpenter who now stood before him.

Barring a narrow circle of dealers, it may seem strange that so
remarkable a man should not have been more widely known and esteemed
during his lifetime; but we can well understand that the restricted
circle of dealers amongst whom he moved, did not find it to their
interest to place their special Cremona “pocket” within reach of the
wealthy amateurs out of whom they themselves were busy making their
market.

Tarisio, had he been dealer first and enthusiast second, might have
done better financially; but he did not do badly, and he wanted
little except the privilege of handling Cremonas to the end of his
life and dying in their good company.

He did both. Although there was a strain of geniality about
Tarisio, he never seemed to unbend except in the company of
fellow-enthusiasts; and as he was too cautious to give himself
away to Italians, from whom he was gradually securing the spoils
which built up his fortune, fame, and immortality, the only people
who really knew Tarisio were the few foreigners like Vuillaume,
the Chanots in France, John Hart the dealer and Charles Reade the
novelist in England.

In his own land he remained to the end nothing but the quiet,
unobtrusive repairer and occasional dealer in dilapidated fiddles.

It seems he had removed to Milan, where he was quite safely hidden,
along with his fiddles, up in an attic at the top of a second-class
restaurant in the Via Legnano Porta Tegnaglia.

No one was ever allowed to enter his room. He locked himself in, and
he locked himself out. They saw him going up and down the staircase,
and that is all they saw of him.

One day in 1854 Tarisio dragged himself up those stairs for the
last time. Whether he had any premonition of his end, none may
know--certainly no one was with him when he died--only it was noticed
that he locked himself in, but came out no more; nor had he gone down
to the restaurant for any of the necessaries of life.

At last the neighbours thought it time to ascertain what was taking
place in that mysterious attic. They seemed to have watched his
strange movements closely, but their efforts to find out who he was
and how he lived had been hitherto fruitless, as he made a point of
carrying on his particular and nomadic business at a distance from
his abode. They were not going to be baulked any longer, so they
knocked, but there was no answer.

At last they broke open the door, and a strange and piteous sight
burst upon them. There, on a squalid couch, lay the pedlar, quite
dead.

Around him all seemed chaos--piles of fiddle-boxes, fiddles in and
out of cases, tenors, ’cellos, violins in pieces and violins whole.
Half a dozen Strads there; a Gasparo (afterwards Mr Bennett’s), a
Ruggieri (Mr T. R. Bradson’s); about a hundred Italian fiddles, by
different makers.

Here, too, was found the “Messie” or “Messiah.”

These trophies created little enthusiasm at the time, but to the joy
of the relatives, two nephews, who had been hunted up with difficulty
by the municipal authorities, a sealed packet was found containing
valuable securities and a considerable amount of gold.

The rest is matter of common history.

The instant his friend and patron Vuillaume heard of the magician’s
death he hurried to Milan, and visited the nephews at their farmhouse.

“Where are the fiddles?”

“At Milan; but we have six here.”

On the spot Vuillaume opened the cases. The first contained a
splendid Strad, the second a Joseph del Gesù, the third a Carlo
Bergonzi, the fourth and fifth two Guadagninis, and the last the
famous Messiah, preserved by Count Cozio de Salabue, intact until
1824, when it was bought by Tarisio.

Vuillaume came to terms with the nephews for these six, and then lost
not a moment in visiting the famous attic at Milan, where he found
246 more, which he bought at once for £3166, leaving the astonished
heirs no doubt laughing in their sleeves, under the impression that
the _gobe-mouche_ of a Frenchman had been nicely hi-diddle-diddled by
the wily Italians.

When we remember that a couple only of these gems would realise now
more than the sum Vuillaume paid for the lot, we may well remember
the proverb, “He laughs best who laughs last.”


A VIGNETTE OF PAGANINI.

I have advisedly steered clear in this collector’s volume of
violin-players and violin-music, excepting in so far as they acted
or reacted in any way upon the violin and its progress towards
perfection. From this point of view, the growth of music appears to
be responsible for the definition and survival (as the fittest) of
the violin, violoncello, and double bass; and virtuosity is certainly
responsible for the lengthening of the violin-neck and finger-board,
the strengthening of the sound-bar to resist an increased
string-tension, and the lengthening of the bow. But virtuosity can
claim nothing more than these trifling details. The Strad pattern
of 1684 to 1700 has remained completely unaffected by the feats,
vagaries, or demands of soloists.

In this the grand pattern violin stands out in sharp and singular
contrast to the old grand pianoforte. The imperious demands of Liszt
and Thalberg, Rubinstein and his followers, have compelled a series
of improvements in strength, sonority, delicate mechanism, and
sensibility, undreamed of by the old firms, and only perfected by the
later Erards, Broadwoods, Collards, and Steinways. But not a single
substantial improvement has been made in the violin since the last
one left the hand of the great Antonio at Cremona, and not even a
trifling modification of any sort has been adopted or applied to the
grand violin of the golden period for at least a century. The excuse
then for introducing the name and portrait of Paganini into this
book is not because he reacted in the least degree upon the art of
violin-making, but because he accepted it as an absolutely finished
art, and asked for nothing which he found not in Strad and Joseph.

[Illustration: NICOLO PAGANINI]

Now this is important and interesting, because Paganini was the
greatest of all players in this culminating century of the musical
art--a man admittedly unsurpassed in the opinion of violin experts
like John Ella, Cipriani Potter, Onry, and others, who, for forty
years after his death, listened to all the phenomenal violinists of
an age which boasts of Ernst, Joachim, Wieinawski, and Sarasate and
Ysaye. As it has not been possible to produce the face and figure of
any of these great old makers, with the one exception of Lupôt, who
belongs at best to the silver age, I have thought it worth while to
glorify their work by reproducing the grand though eccentric face
and figure of the one man who has invested their _chef-d’œuvres_
with that romantic glamour, that almost unearthly prestige which the
violin alone amongst instruments can lay claim to.

Paganini’s favourite violin, a Joseph Guarnerius, lies in its case
under glass to this hour, open for all eyes to inspect, in the Town
Hall at Genoa, his native town, to which he has bequeathed it. His
dying directions, that no one should ever play upon it, recall
Shakespeare’s curse upon those who should move his bones. The great
musician’s orders have not been quite so scrupulously observed as
those of the immortal bard of Avon. In “My Musical Life” will be
found my “Homage à Paganini,” together with a woodcut of Danton’s
very fine bust, given to me by John Ella, who played in the orchestra
among the violins when first Paganini visited England.

Nothing is so ephemeral as the fame of an orator, actor, or musician,
unless they leave books or music behind them. Henceforth the
phonograph may do something to give future generations some idea of
the fascination which lived and died with them; but no phonograph
will ever give us even a faint echo of Siddons’ declamation or
Paganini’s playing; these are alike buried with the generation which
they charmed and electrified. But in Leigh Hunt’s description of
Paganini’s performance we have something like a pictorial phonograph,
if I may hazard the hibernianism, of the “Pale Musician’s” mighty
personality and power. Somewhere between the forties and fifties,
I remember, as a very young boy, standing awestruck before a thin,
gaunt, dislocated wax effigy of Paganini in an ill-fitting dresscoat,
with wild dreamy eyes and arm uplifted high--just as Leigh Hunt
describes him--before his bow came down like a crash of thunder on
the strings; but let the lively and graphic essayist who heard him,
speak for himself:--

“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 akimbo 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 bent and the raised hand of the wonderful musician, with the
instrument at his chin, just going to commence, and looking exactly
as I described him--

                            --‘His hand,
      Loading the air with dumb expectancy,
      Suspending ere it fell a nation’s breath,
      He smote, and clinging to the serious chords,
      With godlike ravishment drew forth a breath
      So deep, so strong, so fervid thick with love,
      Blissful yet laden as with twenty prayers,
      That Juno yearned with no diviner soul
      To the first burthen of the lips of Jove.
      Th’ exceeding mystery of the loveliness
      Sadden’d delight, and with his mournful look
      Dreary and gaunt, hanging his pallid face
      ’Twixt his dark flowing locks, he almost seem’d
      Too feeble, or to melancholy eyes
      One that has parted with his soul for pride
      And in the sable secret lived forlorn.’

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 exclaimed, ‘_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.”




CHAPTER XIII

VIOLINS AT MIRECOURT, MITTENWALD, AND MARKNEUKIRCHEN


MIRECOURT

Mirecourt in Lorraine has the glory of being associated from so early
a date as 1566 with the Cremona workshops.

Andrew Amati, who made six small fiddles for Charles IX. about that
time, employed Nicolas Renauld of Nancy, who was a pupil of the
celebrated Mirecourt lutist Tywersus, to assist him in finishing
these important court orders, which did so much to establish the
supremacy of the “petit violon” over the crowd of competing viols
which then held the popular ear, and, as we have seen, died very hard.

The great princes of Lorraine occupied a castle of pleasure called
Ravenel, at a short distance from Mirecourt.

These accomplished noblemen, touched with Florentine culture, often
made excursions into Lombardy, and delighted in the refinements of
the Italian princedoms and duchies.

They brought back with them pictures, ironwork, laces, musical
instruments.

Tywersus, their private lute-maker, was deeply influenced by the
work and models of the early Amatis, and from the school of Tywersus
came Nicolas Renauld, Jean Medard, and Nicolas Medard. When Amati
left Paris, whither he had gone to present his violins in person to
Charles IX., he left behind him Nicolas Renauld, who slipped into
the lucrative post of luthier to his French Majesty, and we find his
friend and co-worker Medard installed in the same fat office under
the Grand Monarque, Louis XIV., who, with his expensive mistresses,
certainly spared no money or patronage to secure those who could
in any way minister to the extravagant court pomp and artistic
amusements of the Pompadour and the Petit Trianon.

Meanwhile Mirecourt, in the heart of the Vosges mountains, with easy
access to the grand timbers of their ancient forests, within beck
and call of Lombardy, and in close touch with the great Italian
fiddle-makers, Mirecourt long held supremacy as one of, if not the
most important mart of fiddle manufacture.

It shared with Mittenwald and Markneukirchen the honour of supplying
that rapidly growing violin market which was now springing up, and
whilst Cremona made largely for home consumption and a few foreign
courts, Mirecourt undertook the more modest but equally useful duty
of multiplying Cremona school violins, which circulated far and wide
throughout the French provinces, and frequently reached our own
shores; indeed the fiddles often passed for Cremonas.

The popularity of these Cremona replicas brought on that inevitable
deterioration in quality which always follows over-rapid production
and cheap wares, and at one time Mirecourt, in spite of its elaborate
industry, was fast becoming a byword for bad fiddles. Happily the
danger was seen and speedily checked, and Mirecourt now stands out
as perhaps the greatest and most excellent emporium of modern violin
manufacture.

All who wish to know what can be known, go to Mirecourt, just as
people who study art go to Rome and Florence, or people who study the
fashions go to Paris.

To Mirecourt we owe Rambaux, who was born there in 1802 and died
there only in 1870.

Francis and George Chanot both came from there.

The Lupôt family are claimed as natives of Mirecourt, although the
greatest of them, Nicolas, whose violins run some of the finest
specimens of Cremona very hard, was a native of Stuttgard. His father
was a Frenchman, and came from Mirecourt. All his traditions belong
to Mirecourt, and these, as we all know, he carried with him to
Paris, where he died in 1824, and was succeeded by Gand.

The names of Maucotel, Medard, Menegand, Silvestre, and Deragay, and
above all Vuillaume, must always shed an imperishable lustre upon the
little town in the Vosges mountains.

Every one of the Vuillaumes, eight in number, including the immortal
Jean Baptiste, were born at Mirecourt. Two settled at Brussels, three
at Paris, but all the others lived and died at Mirecourt.

William Ebsworth Hill was careful to send his sons to this
celebrated school of violin art, and we may be sure that they did
not come away until they had possessed themselves of everything that
Mirecourt had to teach the violin maker or the connoisseur.

M. Thibouville Lamy of Mirecourt, who has trade branches in Paris and
London, manufactures a violin at about 3s. 10d. cost price, selling
at about 4s. 6d.; but Markneukirchen probably leads in cheapness and
quantity, if not quality, turning out quite playable fiddles for the
modest figure of £1 to £2, 10s.

The best Mirecourt fiddles will fetch from £6 to £10.

The Grand and Bemardel prices range from £16 to £20.

The ever-increasing demands for “trade fiddles” of all kinds, as
distinguished from the solo violins reserved for the use of virtuosi,
has called forth an abundance of fair makers beyond the limits of
Mirecourt, Mittenwald, and Markneukirchen.

In England it is enough to mention such names as Hill & Sons;
Duncan of Glasgow; the Chanots, London and Manchester; the late
Furber, London; in Paris, Bernardel, Silvestre, Germain, Audinot,
and Chardon; in Vienna, Zach, Bittner, Lembök, Voigt, Guttermann,
Rampfler; in Munich, Sprenger; in Frankfort-on-Maine, Lenk; in
Breslau, Liebich; in Brussels, Darche; in Lille, Hel; in Milan,
Marchetti; in Turin, Bros. Guadagnini; in Cremona, Ceruti; and for
further general information the reader may consult the tolerably
exhaustive catalogue index of makers at the end of this volume,
for the bulk of which I am indebted to the studious and admirable
labours of Miss Stainer. Her booklet is entitled “Violin Makers,” and
it forms one of the music primers of an educational series issued by
Novello & Co.


MITTENWALD.

In old days Mittenwald, quaintest of Bavarian towns, with its
frescoed houses and its picturesque river-side, for it is on the
banks of the dear Isar, overshadowed by the Wetterstein and Kurwändel
mountains, was a town of considerable importance from very early days
as the halting-place for the Romans on their way to the Danube.

It long retained its peculiar caravanserai character, which resulted
in the establishment of the handy mart or Mittenwald fair, for which
in more recent times the place was chiefly famous. After the removal
of the fair to Bozen, the importance of Mittenwald began to decline;
trade and commerce suddenly seemed to have made unto themselves
wings, until one Matthias Klotz, who in his boyhood is said to have
been apprenticed to no less a person than the great Nicolas Amati,
settled at Mittenwald, and wrote up outside his house: “Matthias
Klotz, Geigen Macher, im jahr 1684.” The prime hazel and maple, to
be found in the Wetterstein hills, is of splendid quality, and the
woods, then close up to the town, were full of old trees.

Thither, before the days of Matthias, was wont to come a dreamy,
ill-regulated sort of person, who excited the curiosity, and perhaps
ridicule, of the villagers by tapping their trees with a hammer and
then putting his ear close to the wood to hear the sound.

They thought he was mad, and he did go mad from worry and want, but
the sanest thing he ever did was to tap those trees and listen to the
sound.

His name was Jacob Stainer.

Matthias Klotz was only nineteen when he came to Mittenwald, but by
this time the Mittenwalders, who had heard how the eccentric tramp
with the hammer had gone back to Absam and made the place famous by
his fiddles, were prepared to receive the young workman with favour
and hospitality, for they hoped he might do something of the kind for
Mittenwald.

They were not mistaken. One year before Klotz arrived at Mittenwald,
Stainer had died incoherent and insane at Absam, and now that the
greatest of German makers was dead, Mittenwald was soon destined to
become noted in its turn for its fiddles.

It is generally affirmed that Klotz was a pupil of Stainer. Certainly
his relations with Nicolas Amati are not very well defined. The
probabilities are that he was a pupil of both--in the sense of being
familiar with their work. The fact that his violins are sometimes
mistaken for Stainer, points to the strong Absam influence which
was upon him--it could hardly be otherwise--whilst the tendency
noticeable in the fiddles of his son Sebastian, who certainly did
visit Cremona, to bring down the model flatter than was fashionable
at this time, indicates that the firm at all events reflected the
later Amati model of Nicolas, who died the very year Klotz came to
Mittenwald.

Had Matthias or Sebastian Klotz attended to the methods either of
Stainer or Amati more carefully, they would have observed that wood
cut in spring with the sap in it was not calculated to last like
the drier autumn timber. Whether from haste or ignorance, the Klotz
wood, especially that used by Matthias and Sebastian, is sometimes
found to be worm-eaten, but Sebastian’s fiddles are much esteemed.
His brothers, George and Egidius, and his nephew, Joseph, son of
Egidius, all made fiddles of the same type--varnish running from
yellow to brown, and laid on rather more lavishly than was the habit
of Matthias, founder of the firm.

The Mittenwald industry, although now less prolific than that of
Markneukirchen, preceded it in point of time, and undoubtedly it was
through Bavarian Mittenwald that the Cremona influence reached Saxony.

Master Reiter, whose teacher was Johan Vauchel of Wurzburg, is now
the most prominent Mittenwald maker, and Herr Neuner, who was a pupil
of Vuillaume, directs the school and factory. The school instructs
about twenty boys, and is under Government.

Out of eighteen hundred Mittenwalders, three hundred are
fiddle-makers.

The place provides from fifteen to twenty thousand instruments per
annum, including zithers and guitars. I will not say that Herr
Reiter, who is an artist versed in the old secrets and the old
enthusiasms, is personally responsible for the “trade fiddles” that
annually pour from the Mittenwald workshops. He himself has made
comparatively few fiddles, but he supervises them all, and remarked
to a visitor the other day, “I, Master Reiter, never let one go out
of my hands that has not been thoroughly tested, and I have sent out
into the world, to Russia, to America, Athens, and where not, some
two hundred violins and twenty-five ’cellos, besides having repaired
some four hundred others.”


MARKNEUKIRCHEN.

Quiet resting-places, secluded valleys of the Tyrol, mountains of
Saxony!--Mittenwald, Markneukirchen, Mirecourt; sleepy Italian
towns!--Brescia, Cremona, once provincial villages like Mirecourt,
far from the stir of mighty cities!--such retreats seem to have been
ever favourable to the development of violin manufacture. Something,
too, of simple and almost _naïve_ religious sentiment has entered
into the production of the earlier violins, most of which were, after
all, chiefly intended for the sanctuary, Catholic or Protestant.

The arts and craftsbook of the Worshipful Guild of Violin-makers
of Markneukirchen, 1677 to 1772, has lately been unearthed and
translated by the many-sided and indefatigable Heron Allen, and it
throws a kind of sudden flashlight upon the origin of an industrial
centre which has since become one of the most famous emporiums of
violins “made in Germany.”

Here we read how a mere handful of masters and workmen went out from
kith and kin into a wilderness--some would say a paradise--for the
sake of worshipping God in their own way--that is to say, the new
reformed Lutheran way. They settled, to the number of sixty-six,
about the year 1627, at the retired and mountainous village of
Markneukirchen. The old book which records their uneventful annals
begins characteristically enough with, “In the name of the Holy
Trinity, Amen”; and then follow the names of twelve families, the
principals being Reicher, Hans George, Polles, Gaspar, Schönfeldes,
and Gaspar Hopf; and from this modest nucleus, emigrants, chiefly
from Graslitz, grew the famous Guild, which by-and-by was responsible
for scattering abroad violins innumerable, labelled with every known
name, and of quality good, bad, and indifferent; for it is a notable
peculiarity of the Markneukirchen makers that, whilst they were
compelled by the rules of the Guild to produce diploma instruments
and others of recognised quality, the cost of production has got
down as low as about four shillings, and a very playable instrument,
labelled Stradivari, is actually sold for a sum not much above that
astonishing cost price.

Many of these workers were all-round men, and did not confine
themselves to fiddle-making. Thus, Carl Frederick Jacob was
carpenter, locksmith, and general instrument maker; one Andrea
Gher, 1587, was a schoolmaster; whilst Gasper Reichel was a barber.
Gottfried Pitz was admitted to the Guild on easy terms, because he
had served his country as a cavalry soldier.

The master-workers were mostly people of some substance. They had to
pay a tax of one florin on being admitted to mastership; but sons of
a master were admitted on a reduced fee of five florins.

Most of the masters were expected to have a decent house, with a
room large enough to entertain the Guild with their wives at a
banquet on their installation. As this cost some money--there were
various ways of lightening the burden when the candidate happened
to be a desirable addition to the Guild--he was allowed to pay in
instalments, or part was remitted by favour. A popular means of
effecting economy was to _propose_ to marry the daughter of a master;
that at least staved off payment. The apprentices often got in cheap
that way.

Hans Adam Narlitzer, who “intended” to marry a master’s daughter, was
admitted on reduced terms, on the understanding that, if the match
did not come off, he was to pay up in full.

One Kretchman also “intended” to marry the youngest daughter of Hans
Martin Schönfeldes; also Johann Christian Envel, in 1761, had “half
a mind” to marry the youngest daughter of Reichel, and was admitted
for ten thalers; but in case he could not make up his mind to marry
the girl, _or any other master’s daughter_, he would have to pay
thirty-one thalers. In no case is it _recorded_ that any of these
gentlemen failed to marry as per contract; the masters’ daughters
probably took very good care of that, or would have sufficient
influence to suppress the fact of their rejection.

With the spread of the Reformed opinions, there at first arose
a certain demand for violins in the new churches; but the rigid
Lutherans soon smelled the odour of abuse and reversion to Romanism,
and discouraged any approach to ornate services, or an over-supply
of instrumental accompaniment. A decree that the violins used in
Church should be reduced in numbers naturally spread consternation
throughout the little country town; but the growing demand for
stringed instruments of good quality for secular bands soon
counteracted the effect of sectarian bigotry and clerical parsimony;
and when one Joseph Haydn, bandmaster to Prince Esterhazy in Vienna,
practically founded the modern orchestra with its symphony, and
created the modern oratorio and quartet, the demand for violins
and basses led to a prodigious development of the Markneukirchen
industry; and as the masters not only had ready access to the best
Cremonese models, but were surrounded by some of the finest maple
timber in the world, felled in forests full of seasoned trees
hundreds of years old, the fame of the Markneukirchen makers soon
spread throughout Europe.

At Mittenwald a similar community flourished, and the crop of German
instruments made, and still made, by these enterprising artificers
have flooded all the orchestras of the world, providing them with
samples of every maker, from Gaspar and Maggini to Stradivari,
the Guarneri, Bergonzi, and Guadagnini. The Mittenwald makers owed
their inspiration chiefly to Egidius Klotz, pupil of the great
Stainer. They were as famous for their fine hazel-fir timber as the
Markneukircheners were for their maple; it was also through the
Mittenwalders that the Cremona methods filtered readily into the more
northern region--Markneukirchen, Prague, Nuremburg, Wurzburg, and
Franken.

The increased demand for instruments resulted necessarily in a
tendency to deterioration, which did not escape the attention of the
Guild, and rigid rules were drawn up, called “Beneficent Mandates for
the Suppression of Abuses.”

Every master had to prove himself equal to producing one masterpiece
as a sample of his skill, though it was freely admitted that a cheap
demand involved a cheap type of instrument, which could not be
expected to rival the diploma standard of tone and finish.

The quaint record of the Markneukirchen arts and craftsbook ends with
the year 1772, and with the words “_Deo Gloria_.” Since that date the
names of Reichel, Schuster, and Paulus have all been _en evidence_
at various European Exhibitions as medallists and exhibitors of
distinction; but, after a great fire in 1840, a good many families
left the town, and thus the old centre became like a flower that had
overblown itself, and began to obey the inevitable law by which a
mature centre distributes itself gradually, losing as it were its own
central wealth in its circumference, as the seeds of the dandelion
get blown abroad over all lands.




CHAPTER XIV

VIOLIN TREATMENT


The notion that the more a fiddle is knocked about the better it is,
is similar to the theory that the more you knock about a horse the
better he goes.

A good horse will take a great deal of spoiling, and so will a good
fiddle. Your well-bred beast, even when broken down, if you turn him
out to grass and attend to his ailments, will recover marvellously,
and so will a violin, if you glue him up, readjust his nervous
system, keep him dry, and coax him a bit.

The delusion that a fiddle is all the better for being maltreated
is due to this:--Many people observe that their old, battered,
disorganised fiddles, which went into the skilful repairer’s hands
sounding like tin kettles, come out with the true Cremona timbre; but
that, my deluded friend, is not in consequence, but in spite of the
knocking about to which your favourites have been exposed.

The fiddle-doctor has attended to your violin’s internal economy, and
gently healed its bruises, killed the wolf or fiddle stomach-ache
from which it was suffering, glued tight the rattling back, ribs,
belly, fixed the loose sound-bar, and readjusted your Cremona’s very
soul (_l’âme du violon_), which is the sound-post and so it fares
well; but remember, ’tis better to keep a fiddle in repair and use
than allow it to get out of both, and go a mere wreck to the workshop.

I am not forgetting, when I say “use,” that the incessant and
continued playing upon an instrument is said to result in its getting
what Joachim calls “played out,” and that collectors have been great
benefactors by withdrawing choice instruments from wear and tear,
giving them thus long periods of suspended animation; but, as a
general rule, so long as a violin lasts--and how long it will last is
still a vexed question--fair wear and tear and attention is just as
good for a fiddle as work, exercise, and cleanly habits are good for
man and beast.

Neglect is _never_ good; knocking about is _never_ good!

Lay it to your heart, O young player!

What is that precious thing committed to your care? You have brought
it home from the auction-room--your Amati. There was a conspiracy to
keep down the bidding. An influential dealer wanted to buy it cheap,
having already half sold it in advance for twice as much as he meant
to give; he went up to £40 at the auction and stopped, but you were
the dark horse and made another bid; he winked at the auctioneer,
supposing it to be a bogus bid; the man with the hammer paused and
looked at the dealer, who shook his head; for once the dealer had
been too clever and lost his Amati for a £5 note. It was knocked down
to you.

You get it home; there is something wrong about it; the timbre of the
A string is unequal--sweet, but too weak--it has a crack in one rib.

You don’t expect a trumpet-sound like that of a Joseph, or quite the
bell-like ring of a Strad, but you do mean to have a quality like
the ripple of water--a round, soft, and incomparably sensitive and
_intime_ tone, not to be surpassed by Strad and never reached by
Stainer.

Of course your early Nicolo has got to be overhauled. He has got
a crack--perhaps more than one. Why, he is already more than two
hundred years old, and may have a mark of the young Stradivari’s
chisel about him. Of what attention is he not worthy! Take him to a
subtle violin medicine-man, who will at a glance see what he has got
to deal with, and will sit down before him and think!

He will then take him up, handle him, tap him, pull him to pieces
with excessive care and reflection. When you get him back, you may
still be not quite satisfied, but wait. _Your_ treatment has to begin
where the fiddle-doctor’s ends.

The convalescent home comes after the hospital--your house is the
convalescent home.

The glue must dry; the changed sound-post must grow to the
newly-directed strain and tension of the vibrating boards; the
refixed flanks must learn to deal with the air column, and the
filled-up crack, by constantly thrilling with the rest, must have
time to forget that it ever was a crack!

Be not impatient. Play upon it gently at first, and by-and-by draw
out its tone; lay it aside and watch that no harm comes to it; let it
lie open, with a soft silken wrapper on the strings--near, not too
near the fire; it must not get hot, but, like good claret, just the
temperature of a comfortably warm room.

Think of it in winter as you would think of your pet canary;
don’t let it get chilled at night; let it be in your own bedroom,
or wherever there is an atmosphere and temperature fit for a
well-cared-for “human.”

’Tis half human; ’tis caressed by your hand; it lies close to your
cheek; ’tis breathed on by you when you press it, in moments of rare
inspiration and musical trance, between your chin and your left
breast, where its vibrating back actually _feels_ the pulses of your
own heart. The waves of sound that you generate from it are saturated
with the magnetism of your touch; the trembling pressure of your
fingers comes from the shaking of your own life-blood as it beats in
the mysterious valves of the heart, and seems to mingle with those
more than atmospheric, those _psychic_ waves which travel out upon
the air in a flow of magic sound conveying your inmost self to the
inmost selves of others!

So this half-human thing must live with you and be cared for by and
fare with you, and be kept in good humour.

See that no clot of dirt be in its case, no speck of rosin to vex and
fret the smooth amber-coloured back. Take it out lovingly; polish it
with soft handkerchief; keep it shining wherever the varnish still
shows up, and scrupulously clean elsewhere.

The vile notion that a coat of rosin does good, and may be left with
advantage like a festering mass on the belly underneath the strings,
is a most grievous delusion!

Why suffer the corrosion of the varnish with a foreign substance to
remain there more than on any other part of the wood?

Rosin is for the strings, not for the belly, and the strings are for
friction, and are intended to be scraped through and worn out and
replaced, but the belly is for vibration and is never intended to
wear out.

Your rosin is life to the strings, enabling them to speak, but ’tis
death to the wood, stifling its pores and striking it dumb!

Never touch your violin with oil, or spirit, or colouring. Only a
skilled repairer can venture to do that, and even he will not always
be wise.

I have seen really good old instruments too much cleaned or daubed
over ruthlessly with muddy brown varnish, much, as Ruskin says,
he saw men with knives and mops of paint at Venice scraping away
and splashing over with raw blue the vast old faded skies of Paul
Veronese!

A spick and span mania seizes at times upon restorers of all schools.

A relative of mine had a Spagnoletti restored to him by a cleaner,
but so repainted as to be worthless.

Have not half the cathedrals in the land been disfigured by
whitewash, starched and bleached just like so much dirty linen, and
the old frescoes obliterated like so many disfiguring stains; and
even now, in these more enlightened days, how many old carvings have
been replaced by modern routine-work sculpture, whilst the walls,
façade, and floor of grand old St Mark’s at Venice have been smeared
over with Salviati’s modern mosaic. Thus have I seen a Maggini
botched and browned over so completely with bad German varnish as to
leave only faint traces here and there of the original coating.

Never in the matter of varnish dare to _replace_ what time has
stolen; that loss of old varnish is a tribute paid not ungrudgingly
to “the Vandal years,” who have spared the life and been unable
materially to injure the fabric of the rare old instrument. Above
all, thou favoured guardian of a Cremona, never let it get near damp,
or suffer from any other mouldering or corrosive influence.

A friend of mine, finding that the worm had got into his violin
_case_, which contained a Guadagnini, proceeded to saturate his case
with benzoin, and before it was properly dry replaced the precious
instrument, with the result that the old varnish was brought up in
blisters all over the back, which is now one crinkled mass, as rough
to the touch as a nutmeg-grater. The varnish was completely ruined,
and what is worse, the violin has never sounded like itself since; a
clear proof to my mind that the varnish affects the tone, or at least
that damaged varnish impairs it.

It is not at all an uncommon thing to find a violin, which has been
left unplayed upon for some months, sulky when first taken out.

Do not be rash or fidget with the bridge or soundpost. Warm the
fiddle up gently; rub it lightly with all due care, and play on
it without taking any notice of its temper; go on for a couple of
hours; you will find, to your surprise, that it has recovered all
its own sweetness and charm, and will be ready to charm you with
the delightful sensitiveness of its response. All that was really
wanted was for the temporarily disused channels of vibration to be
again filled with sound--the pores--the desiccated hollows to be
once more shaken up in the old way. The instrument has really gone
to sleep--some of its nerve currents have got sluggish--that is, the
desiccated powder molecules have stuck in the pores and must be set
rolling again. But, like one just awakened, the fiddle takes a little
time to be “all there,” as the idiom runs.

Something similar may be observed in a large hall. When, after the
atmosphere has been quiescent for some time, speaking first begins,
the speaker will not be heard well; the atmosphere is stiff, and only
when the whole of it has been set in vibration--and that takes a
little time--does it become sensitive and sufficiently elastic to be
capable of transmitting the slightest inflections of sound.

There is, again, an electric as well as an atmospheric and molecular
state of the air and all other vibratory substances, but this is
a side of acoustics extremely little understood, and can only be
dealt with empirically by speakers, singers, players, and especially
handlers of violins, who will instinctively make use of some laws
which they do not understand, and which indeed do not yet seem to
have been correctly formulated.

I feel that something ought to be said about the position of the
sound-post, though frankly I would rather not say anything.

Whatever advice one gives is certain to be wrongly and mischievously
applied.

Technically, the sound-post should be a little behind the right foot
of the bridge, if you look from head to neck, which is of course
the left foot if you look from neck to head. It ought also to be
straight--if it is aslant--unless the surface of the ends be cut on
a slope. Of course it clings but partially to back and belly, whose
throbs it is intended to blend; a little too near the bridge will
often produce a light hard tone; a little too far will tend to a
loose, muffled, or tubby quality; a little to the right will brighten
the right string at the expense of the left, and _vice versâ_. Get
it exactly in the fit place, and you attain the utmost sensibility
and equal sonority of which your violin is capable. But so capricious
are the vibrational laws, and so subtle are the peculiarities of
each violin’s nervous system, that the position which at first has
failed to yield good results will ultimately be found to have won its
way to the heart of your violin, the instrument adjusting itself to
what was at first an uncongenial treatment of its nerves, until the
nerves learn to sympathise, and even rejoice, in special directions
of pressure and tension induced by the sound-post. When this happens,
better let well alone and don’t attend to outside advice of experts.

It is seldom wise to encourage an amateur, or any but a skilful hand,
to trifle with the position of the sound-post. If it _must_ be moved
or has fallen down, why then by all means take the advice of an
expert; go to the doctor.

The same sort of advice may be given about the position of the
bridge. Granted that you have a bridge which suits your instrument
(and the importance of this I have elsewhere dwelt upon), then
consider whether ’tis worth while to move your bridge at all. The two
little side slits in the ∫ ∫ indicate approximately the position of
the bridge; let a violin-doctor determine the right height, which,
remember, must be modified according to its position, and the slope
and elevation of the finger-board. But here again there is a vague
and subtle margin for readjustment; the importance of the bridge’s
position is of course directly related to the whereabouts of the
sound-post, as the bridge is a prime factor in dealing first with the
vibrations transmitted by the sound-post from belly to back.

There are violins which gain brilliancy by the bridge leaning a
little forward, but this is of course dangerous, as a little more,
and down comes the bridge. The theory of course is for the feet
of the bridge to grip equally at all points the surface of the
belly--flat and close, and with equal pressure. Now, if the bridge
leans forward, the grip of the back part of the feet is slightly
lifted, whilst the pressure of the front part is accentuated, and
if it leans backwards, precisely the reverse takes place. Yet so
capricious are fiddles, that some do not seem to like to have their
bridges quite straight, and so they have got to be humoured.

Without grave cause I should advise not meddling with bridge or
sound-post after they have been readjusted by a good repairer. He
may not have been quite right; he may not have had the time or
patience to deal with your _malade imaginaire_ of a fiddle--for
amongst fiddles as amongst people, there are _malades imaginaires_
which baffle the profession--but your fiddle-doctor will be probably
more right than you--fussy, irritable, discontented, inexperienced
amateur, and, if you leave off tampering with the works, the fiddle
will very probably adjust itself and get all right.

Then of course you must remember that whenever you touch the bridge
you touch the elevation of the strings above finger-board. Put bridge
back, you slacken the touch for the player by bringing the strings
close down on the finger-board; put it forward or tilt it, and you
lighten the touch; make it harder for the fingers by lifting the
strings higher from the finger-board.

And now a word about your finger-board. This is generally made
of ebony; the old masters used various brownish woods, choosing,
of course, the harder ones, which they often inlaid beautifully.
Sometimes even they used ivory; you may perhaps have noticed that on
some violins you have a difficulty in stopping fifths, or indeed any
chords, in tune. This, unless you are a mere blunderer, comes from
the state of your finger-board. You may not have noticed it, but you
will observe that the strings, by constantly being squeezed by the
fingers against the smoothly-arched surface of the ebony, have worn
channels in the wood, but channels of unequal depths; the consequence
is that the same pressure, forcing two strings down on unequally
raised surfaces, fails to produce that relatively equal pressure
necessary for producing your true fifth; the string also being
sunk, it does not get the full benefit of the finger’s pressure,
as the shock of impact will be broken by the higher level of the
finger-board on either side of the sunken string.

In this way the tone _quality_ as well as the _intonation_ suffers
from what so constantly eludes observation--a worn finger-board.

Of course a new finger-board, or the restoration of an old one, is a
very easy matter, and can in no way affect, except for the better,
any violin.

It may safely be said that no violin now in use has either its
original finger-board or, for the matter of that, its original neck.
Strings of very ill-assorted thickness are also responsible for
imperfect fifths.

The management of the pegs sometimes presents difficulties to the
novice. Rosewood, ivory, and boxwood have been tried, but ebony
seems to be the favourite, though many incline, as I do personally,
to rosewood, which is less dense, and thus, in contact with the
maple-head (which is again less dense in fibre than the rosewood),
offers a less hard and violent contrast than does the iron ebony to
the porous maple.

But the all-essential thing is for the pegs to be nicely fitted, and
it is a vile practice to rosin the pegs to make them stiffer, or to
rub them with lead-pencil or whitening to make them turn more easily.

If your peg sticks, it is either because it does not fit the hole,
is not smooth, or because you have rammed it in too far in order to
resist the pull of a string, probably coiled round and round the pegs
in a tangled, twisted mess.

There never should be a need for this over-ramming in of the screw,
nor would there be if, when you pulled up your new string to pitch,
you immediately let it down, drew the stretched part tight, and then
screwed up again, when you would find, instead of ever so many coils,
you had reduced the number to one or two, which would at once lift
the strain from your screw, and make it needless for you to force it
in till it stuck and almost refused to move at all.

You should be able, when your fiddle is at your chin, to nip the
peghead between the first and third joint of your forefinger, and
adjust the pitch to a nicety and in a moment; but then the resistance
of the screw must be so nicely balanced with the tension of the
string as to allow of its moving easily when gripped, and keeping in
its exact place when left.

It is a very strange thing that, whilst all sorts of mechanical
contrivances for moving violin screws have been suggested, and even
tried and adopted for guitars and double basses, the violin retains
its simple and primitive screw; nor would any one who lays claim to a
decent position in the trade dream of advising a departure in this,
or indeed in any other respect from the custom of the Cremona school
and its successors.

Concerning the stringing of your violin, beyond the hints I have
given with regard to the accumulation of evils round the peg, there
is not very much to be said.

The quality, manufacture, preservation, and price of strings has
already been dealt with; and here, as in everything connected with
violins, there must be fine and sympathetic adaptation of strings
both to the performer and to his instrument.

A young girl will naturally incline to thinner strings than a strong
man, just as she will usually prefer a lower bridge, which will
reduce the resistance because of the reduced distance between the
strings and the finger-board.

Some players will prefer a thick first or third string, according to
the quality of tone they are able to elicit; some a smooth or rather
thin patent fourth in preference to the usual more roughly-coiled
and thicker G string, which, however, is preferable for orchestral
playing; but, as a rule, buy your strings according to gauge, if
you can’t trust your eye, in a good shop, and you will not be
disappointed.

Remember, as I have previously intimated, that any great inequality
in the relative thickness of your strings may be quite as much
responsible for your imperfect fifths as an old channelled
finger-board. Use plenty of rosin, and let the string be seasoned
with it right up to the bridge, but not much, if at _all_, below the
top of the finger-board. The rosin must be well rubbed in before you
attempt solo work, as any excess of what I may call raw undigested
powder will produce a most vile screeching.

The tone of a fine violinist never reminds you of the cat-gut and
rosin. In the pure disembodied tone of Piatti, Joachim, or Sarasate
we entirely lose the sense of all beggarly elements; they have
suffered a change into “something rare and strange.”

The rough-and-ready way of testing false strings by setting them
in vibration, holding by each end, and twitching till the double
line is seen, and if a third line appears condemning the string as
false, is a method often, not _always_, reliable. You can never be
quite sure till you have put the string on. If false, you _may_ get
a true length out of it by trying another part; but, as a rule, if
one length of a string is false, it is bad all through. A player,
especially a soloist, should always have a length or two of stretched
and tested firsts in his case, or, better still, in his waistcoat
pocket, before he goes on the platform, unless he can ensure the
presence of a second reliable instrument at hand in case of a sudden
breakage.

Strings have every kind of vice short of downright falseness. You
need not put up with wheezy or dull, or any sort of impure vibration,
and beware of laying the blame on the violin when the string is the
offender.

Of course, if the sound-bar or the back or belly of the violin is
loose, or the sound-bar askew, that will account for a good deal. By
tapping all round the front and the back, just where these join the
ribs, you can easily discover by a certain jar or rattle whether and
where something is loose; it may be one of the blocks or linings.

Test the fiddle and you may acquit the strings; test the strings and
you may acquit the fiddle.

You may sometimes experience a difficulty in playing the A or D
string without striking the E or G; this may be due to your own
clumsiness, but it may also be due to the curve of your bridge being
too flat, or someone or more of the strings having eaten too deeply
into the bridge.

If your hand perspire much--and all hands perspire--your strings,
especially your E string, will rag out. It is difficult to say
exactly at what stage in the ragging process it is advisable to
change your string. It is strange, but true, that the tone of an old
ragged string is not materially impaired. I have sometimes fancied
that such thorough tough and seasoned strings are even improved in
spite of age and infirmity. Certain it is that the smoothest string
will go without warning, and the raggedest will sometimes hang on
down to a mere thread.

Paganini perspired frightfully, so much so that he always carried a
dry shirt in his violin case, and a gentleman noticed that when he
opened his case to take out his violin for a public solo, his strings
were in rags.

I have sometimes observed that, oddly enough, a second or third
string is less durable after it has ragged than a first; the wearing
of the threads which compose the thick strings seems less hard and
tight than those of the thin chanterelle, or the resultant material
is softer and gets soaked and cheesy, and like cheese is readily cut
through by the nails.

Lastly, the amateurish and falsely-assumed economical habit of
slackening all the strings each time the violin is replaced in its
case is a delusion and a snare; it only worries your instrument’s
nervous system.

Slacken your _bow_, not your strings.

The violin gets accustomed to the normal strain, and adjusts itself
to it, and resents being deprived of its due tension as much as an
athlete would resent his dumb-bells being removed.

The strings are quite as likely to break by being constantly fidgeted
up and down, and the violin is much more likely to get demoralised by
the wearing action and reaction of a varying strain, than if you let
it alone with all its strings at their accustomed pitch.




CHAPTER XV

VIOLIN DEALERS, COLLECTORS, AND AMATEURS


I Have come to the conclusion, “after long years,” that there are
three things about which your averagely honest man has no conscience
whatever--the first is a horse, the second is an umbrella, and the
last, but not least, is a fiddle.

He will buy from some needy ignoramus a fiddle worth £100 for a £5
note, if he can. He will sell a fiddle which cost him £5 for £100,
if he can. Truly, the _caveat emptor_ of the ancient Romans covers a
multitude of sins.

On the other hand, the extreme ignorance of many persons who have
violins to sell offers singular temptations to dealers, who are a
class of people constitutionally on the make.

In bygone days, people who did not play the violin used to be
criminally careless about the instruments that happened to be in
their possession. Cremonas might lie for years in damp attics, or
hung up in disused cupboards on rusty nails, or away in the dust of
ages on the top of old beds and cabinets. Even if the fiddle was
ultimately stolen--borrowed and not returned--it was thought hardly
worth a serious inquiry; it “was all to pieces” or “only an old
fiddle”; and, indeed, I have before now seen such with the belly off
converted into serviceable dustpans.

Credulity has succeeded to ignorance, and now any one who has any
sort of shabby-looking fiddle fancies he has got a rare Cremona!

He will advertise it unblushingly in the halfpenny papers, bring it
gravely to supposed judges, and make a favour of even showing it to a
dealer.

Nothing will shake the confidence of these simple folk in their
spurious wares; they will bring out a common brown German _dated_
Maggini, and you point out that Maggini never dated his instruments;
they suppose you to be envious. Or they show you a Stainer rashly
dated fifty years after that maker’s death (such an one was lately
brought to me), with a label so recent that you wonder at the
brazen fraud. As to the good and tolerably deceptive French copies
of Strad, their name is legion, and for a moment a person fairly
conversant with fiddles may be deceived by such a subtle and withal
honest copyist as Lupôt, but to the eye of the experienced dealer
the varnish is quite enough. The varnish that chips off instead of
rubbing away, thus leaving the raw wood more exposed than permeated,
is not Cremona varnish.

Of course as to the new labels in modern type I have nothing to say.
No one but a complete fool in fiddles could be taken in by them.

Still, when all gross cases are put aside, there is an excusable
margin left for honest error, especially when personal interest is on
the side of error.

I have very little doubt that my old friend, the late Mr Cox, well
known as an acute picture dealer, really believed in a certain violin
which he called the Red Knight. He bought it at the great sale of
Gillott’s fiddles as a rare Joseph Guarnerius.

I would never tell the old man to his face that his Joseph was a very
plausible red Landolpho copy of Joseph, and I was even weak enough
to allow it to lie on the table of the Royal Institution side by
side with the “Dolphin,” Enthoven’s Maggini, the Emperor of Russia’s
Strad, a genuine Nicolas, a Joseph and a Jacob Stainer; in short, the
Red Knight lay by favour for one evening in company with some twenty
gems of worldwide reputation.

In the course of my lecture, to please my old friend, I took up the
Red Knight, remarking, “Here is a fine violin _labelled_ Joseph
Guarnerius, once the property of Mr Gillott, now owned by Mr Cox.” I
said no more.

A few weeks afterwards the Red Knight was sold for £300, partly on
the strength of my having vouched for it at the Royal Institution.

Meanwhile the Jupiter of judges, William Ebsworth Hill, had been
consulted by the purchaser, who, on finding that he had only got hold
of a Landolpho, wanted his money back.

I think they would have gone to law if they could have counted on me
as a witness; but when I was threatened with a subpœna, I replied,
“I would certainly go into the box, but should have utterly to deny
that I had vouched for the genuineness of the Red Knight or expressed
any opinion whatever about it except that it was ‘a good fiddle
_labelled_ Guarnerius,’ worth perhaps £60 but not £300.”

The upshot was that I was not subpœnaed. Mr Cox refunded the money
and the buyer restored the fiddle.

No one doubts but what Mr Gillott, of steel-pen celebrity, did
obtain, chiefly through Charles Reade of “Never Too Late to Mend”
fame, a great many very fine fiddles, but I am afraid that Mr C.
Reade was also responsible for some comparative rubbish like the
Red Knight. Certainly I find a very dubious Strad tenor (one of
Gillott’s) labelled 140 in the South Kensington collection. As to
this particular collector’s specimen, if I grant him his belly and
his sound-holes, it is about all that I can do--for Strad never threw
that scroll nor touched with plane or chisel that back and ribs.

I brought home from Australia a so-called Peter Guarnerius--really an
excellent violin--but it was no more a Guarnerius than a Strad, and
was sold far under its value as a Camillo Camilli, which it probably
was. But what will you? After all, a fiddle at any given time is
worth what it will fetch.

The most impudent fraud or the most blatant delusion which has ever
come under my notice was the so-called Maggini exhibited by Mr J. W.
Joyce (110, South Kensington Exhibition, 1872).

It was made by Bernhardt Fendt, and I gave in the _Pall Mall Gazette_
of the period its history and the names of its chief owners; but it
was not removed, neither was the Amati tenor (No. 147), labelled and
hung as Maggini, ever re-labelled, nor was a Klotz fiddle which bore
a Stainer label ever corrected.

The only fraud I succeeded in dislodging was a spurious
Bergonzi--also sent up by Mr J. W. Joyce--which after my attack on
the South Kensington collection of 1872 disappeared.

The poor thing, no worse than the Bernhardt Fendt which brazened it
out like a false claimant, was merely made a scapegoat of.

These be among the humours of your loan collections!

But we must be indulgent. Some mistakes are sure to be made, but it
is only fair to remember that the fiddle world is vastly indebted to
these grand fiddle exhibitions all the same. The exhibition of 1885
at South Kensington was not one whit less important than the 1872
show.

The 1885 specimens were more discreetly selected than those of 1872.
They had the advantage of being largely controlled by Mr Hill.

Besides the usual supply of leading Italian makers, the English
school was remarkably well represented. There was found a capital
Ford, a maker who has not received due credit for his excellent work.
A good Duke and Walmsley, and a yellow fiddle by Tobin, a man quite
noticeable for the cut of his scrolls, which are always full of
character.

There was an interesting John Lott, richly varnished. A romantic
interest must always attach itself to this fine maker on account of
his early Bohemian life, recorded by Charles Reade in a memoir called
“Jack of All Trades.”

Charles Reade, who knew Lott intimately, tells us how at one time he
travelled through Europe with a menagerie and became famous as the
keeper of a most clever but vicious elephant called Djek, who, after
killing ever so many men, had to be demolished herself with a cannon,
and was then cut up for elephant steaks to feed the town.

It was only after the loss of Djek that John Lott came again to
London and took up the fiddle trade, which he had learned in boyhood.

Joseph Hill, Lockey Hill, and Banks, were also well seen at South
Kensington in 1885. There was also a matchless Urquhart, very
venerable--Anno 1666--the date of the great fire of London, which
happily spared it!

The Stradivarius case contained Mr Hill’s interesting 1732 Strad (now
Ysaÿe’s violin), which, although made so late in his life, was signed
by the old man, who after 1730, as a rule, had left off signing his
instruments.

A truly serio-comic chapter might be written on the huge prices given
for frauds. A friend of mine gave £200 forty years ago for a supposed
Strad (which was only a Lupôt) at a time when £40 was a long price
for the clever Frenchman.

A violin professor I know sold a very poor Strad the other day, but
made a very good thing out of it. When the lady showed it me, I took
a liberal view, and said that £300 would have been a long price. Her
countenance fell.

“Good gracious! I gave £600!”

“Keep it long enough, and _anything_ by Strad will fetch that; but
probably not,” I added, “in your lifetime or mine.” This was some
years ago.

On the other hand, bargains in Strads and Josephs, Bergonzis and
Stainers, are still no doubt to be got, but only about as often as
bargains in Raphaels, Rubens, Rembrandts, or Tintorets; but amateurs
of pictures and fiddles are mostly wrecked on school-pictures and
school-fiddles, often getting fair money’s worth, but _not_ what they
_pay for_.

Betts purchased one of the finest Stradivari in the world for 20s.
When John Lott opened it in Vuillaume’s presence, he found the
original bass-bar. The bar--so Charles Reade tells us--was low and
short, and quite incapable of bearing the strain of concert pitch,
and John Lott replaced it with one stronger. The Betts Strad was sold
to George Hart for 800 guineas--a heavy price fifty years ago.

Mr John Hart, father of George Hart, picked up a violoncello in
Oxford Street for a sovereign or two. The timbre caught his ear as he
passed three street-musicians--violin, cornet, and ’cello.

Lindley, the great player, came into his shop and bought a fine
Forster ’cello for a round sum. This was the Oxford Street ’cello.

The destiny of violins has ever been one full of ups and downs, and,
like human beings, they have been literally kidnapped, as in the case
of Spohr’s, which was lifted from behind his travelling carriage;
shipwrecked, like the Peter and Paul, _vide_ page 96; murdered by
those Vandals who patch stray bits of slaughtered Cremonas into
modern fabrics, and sold for slaves, as in last century, to be
scraped in dim churches or ancient orchestras, until found out to be
royalties in disguise by the Chanôts and Vuillaumes of the nineteenth
century.

One would suppose that the stealing of a first-class instrument would
be next to impossible. Hardly a fiddle of mark now exists which is
not known to one or other of the great dealers in Paris, London, or
Berlin; and whenever it changes hands, it is likely to come before
them again for inspection and verification. Yet some of the famous
Spanish Court Strads have vanished no one knows where, and another
famous Strad from the Plowden Collection, whilst in possession of one
of our diplomats at St Petersburg, disappeared, and has never since
been traced.

Many years ago I left a Vuillaume, labelled Albani, in a railway
carriage when I got out to take refreshment. I was not gone five
minutes, but in that five minutes my Vuillaume had gone.

After the death of a well-known nobleman, a certain so-called Strad
in an elaborate case, with finely-mounted bows, was submitted to
Mr Hill for inspection. It was nothing but a common German fiddle;
but Mr Hill told me he had no doubt that the original occupant
of the noble case had been stolen. Probably many such thefts have
been committed by dishonest servants. Nothing could be easier
than to substitute one fiddle for another in houses--and they are
legion--where people do not know one fiddle from another, and where
fiddles lie unused and unvisited in lofts and cupboards, I might
almost say from generation to generation. No soloist who travels
should fail to insure his treasure. Sarasate had a heavy insurance on
his violin when he went to America.

But worse than theft is mutilation. The chances are that what is
stolen, unless it be stolen deliberately to cut up, will some
day reappear intact; but the chances are small that a mutilated
instrument will ever collect its _disjecta membra_.

Still, as in the case of Tarisio’s Spanish bass, that too is
possible, just as the recovery of the Hercules Farnese statue, before
alluded to, was possible.

A well-known amateur whose Strad had been taken to pieces for repair
and the pieces wrapped in bits of paper, on unfolding the fragments
found the head missing. The loss seemed irreparable, but a day or
two afterwards an old apple-woman picked it up in the gutter, and
happened to take it to the very fiddle-shop charged with the repair
of the Strad. That Strad head was worth just 2s.--to the old woman!

Nothing is easier than the perpetration of a fraud by a clever
copyist if he chooses to attempt it. Incredible as it may appear,
Paganini was shown by Vuillaume two fiddles, one of which was his own
and the other a counterfeit, and was quite unable at the moment to
decide which was which.

Chanôt’s copy of the Carlino or Kerlino 1454 viol, No. 14, South
Kensington 1872 Exhibition, completely deceived me until I had the
opportunity of handling both instruments at leisure.

These frauds extend to bows. The Tourte and Dodd bows in existence
that know not Dodd or Tourte are legion.

I should recommend my readers never to leave a valuable bow in their
case when they send their violins for repair.

I lost a good Dodd myself in that way. Fine bows are not safe even
in the orchestra anteroom; they get “changed.” It seems so simple to
some people, when a bow, a crush-hat, or an umbrella happens to be
lying about, to mistake it for their own and leave theirs behind,
especially if it is inferior in quality to the one they chance to
catch up by mistake! As luck will have it, ’tis seldom a worse one
that gets caught up!

A friend of mine happened to leave a fine Tourte bow in his case,
and then he sent his fiddle for repairs to a smart dealer who shall
be nameless here. When the case returned, it had a bow in it, but it
was a copy, and a very good copy, of a Tourte. In this instance the
dealer restored the original under pressure.

In everything connected with a fiddle and a bow I say, Beware!
Beware! Further, let me say to amateurs, not one in a thousand
of you, even with practice and opportunity, is fit to judge of a
violin; you may easily know what _suits_ you, and that no doubt for
practical purposes is the essential. You can hardly know what is
_genuine_.

Over and above culture and wide observation and experience, a certain
instinct is required, and few are they that have it. Why, my friend,
if William Ebsworth Hill, from whose judgment there was no appeal,
got “his eye out” when only for a few weeks he left off looking at
fiddles, or distrusted his own judgment on certain days, as to my
knowledge was the case--for he was at once the most diffident and
absolute of men--what chance have you? Why, none at all!

I will go further than this, and declare that half the violinists now
before the public are no more judges of a _genuine_ fiddle than my
cook. A man may be a judge without being able to play, and a man may
play divinely and not be a judge. At the same time Charles Reade’s
opinion would have been even more valuable than it was had he played
himself. He never would have written those foolish paragraphs about
modern-made fiddles sounding as well as old Cremonas had he played
himself. It is all the difference between a man who looks at another
man on horseback and one who has got to ride the horse himself; the
first may not see much difference in two horses, but the second soon
finds it out!

Playing the fiddle won’t make you a judge, but you will be a better
judge if you can play the fiddle. I remember showing Remenyi a very
fine copy of Strad which had deceived many. He walked up and down my
room playing upon it with delight, and pronounced it a genuine Strad
beyond a question. It was a Lupôt for all that.

As for your ordinary amateur, he will judge by an old-looking label,
being unaware that forgers keep old battered counterfeit type in
stock, or he will note the place of the little buttons which fasten
the inner blocks, supposing that each maker had his favourite
position for these buttons from which he never deviated. Others will
prate about Strad’s wasp sting purfle running counter to the angle
of his corners, or declare that one maker never made his back in two
pieces, whilst another never made it otherwise.

But there is one mark occasionally found in old Italian violins which
I do not remember to have seen forged or imitated, or indeed even so
much as alluded to by any writer.

If the amateur happens to have an instrument with a little round
hole in the back of his fiddle a few inches below the nut, filled up
skilfully so as to be almost imperceptible, he may be quite sure he
has got an old violin, probably one of the oldest, as the practice
of falling suddenly on the knees and letting the violin hang, in
processions in which the singers went before and the minstrels
followed after, has long been abandoned.

That little hole, so cunningly plugged, shows the place where a
slight chain connected the instrument to a button-screw or hook, so
that at the elevation of the Host, the minstrel might suddenly fall
on his knees without the fear of dropping his fiddle. I have an old
Andrew Guarnerius so plugged, and the violinist Oury first pointed
this out to me and explained the reason of the plugged hole!

Scores have sent me descriptions of their fiddles, and expected me
to pronounce on the genuineness of them, or are sure that they own
a real Strad or Amati, because theirs (in their opinion) exactly
corresponds to my description of Strad or Amati in “Music and
Morals.” All this shows that the outside public have not the faintest
inkling of true violin lore.

Oliver Wendell Holmes felt this when he wrote to me in 1885.

He had himself written very charmingly on the violin, and the passage
is quoted with approval even by so redoubtable a critic as Mr George
Hart in his admirable book “The Violin” (1887).

Oliver Wendell Holmes had the acuteness to see that all _mere_
picturesque writing was valueless from a technical point of view, and
he thus expresses himself to me in a letter dated December 5, 1885:--

“I never knew until I read what you say of the instrument what
profanation I had been guilty of to touch one, much more to write
about it!” and he was kind enough to add: “You have given a life
to the fiddle such as nothing but its own music ever gave it
before!”--words which, coming so spontaneously from the author of the
“Autocrat of the Breakfast-table,” I think I may be allowed to quote
with pardonable pleasure.

There is a point interesting alike to collectors, amateurs, dealers,
and players, which I feel somewhat strongly about in view of much
recent, and, as it seems to me, ignorantly conducted controversy.

It is whether, as far as tone and sensibility are concerned, the
best modern fiddles are not quite as good as the best old ones. We
hear repeatedly stories of Strads and Josephs being played side by
side with modern fiddles, whilst the best judges have failed to
detect the superiority of the old over the new. This test is most
unsatisfactory. The ear is as easily confused as the palate. It is
currently reported that if you taste alternately port wine, cream,
and sherry, you will not, after a few sips with your eyes shut, be
able to tell the difference; but no one argues from this that _there
is no difference_. The ear is not only easily confused about the
quality, but even about the direction of sound.

Let one man shut his eyes and another snap his fingers on the right,
left, and above the other’s head several times running, and this one
shall be utterly unable to tell after a few turns where the fingers
are being snapped. No one is a real judge of the distance from which
a sound comes. If, then, we can be easily puzzled when plied with
such tests about the direction and the distance, no wonder if tests
expressly designed to confuse us about timbre should be equally
successful. But the question is practically settled by soloists
invariably preferring a fine old fiddle to a fine new one, not as
connoisseurs, but as _players_, and there must be a reason for this.

Therefore, I will hear of no talk, even from the lips of a Charles
Reade, about the varnish, the finish, the artistic beauty in form
or colour of the old violins being largely responsible for this
avowed preference. It is tonal power--quality, sensibility, volume,
timbre--a something _personal_, as it were, to the old fiddles, which
points to certain real qualities in their makers which have not since
been rivalled, and this is quite apart from the item of age.

Age will make a good fiddle better, but it won’t make a bad fiddle
good; it may also be possible to prematurely age a new fiddle, not
with heat or acids, but quite legitimately, by incessantly and for
long periods of time grinding it through every semitone of its
compass, and well-made modern fiddles will doubtless improve every
year, like good wine, up to a certain point. They will then probably
deteriorate. But the age at which the old Cremonas are bound to
deteriorate has happily not yet been reached.

The root of the matter lies here.

A listener behind the door may not know the difference between a
Strad or Joseph or some other, but the _player does_. A spectator in
the Park may see no great difference between the pet horse ridden by
the lady and the even more handsome quadruped upon which her groom
follows; but _she_ knows. So the hunter knows his horse, and values
him above another horse which looks better; the beast he rides will
answer to his will, go anywhere with him, and rise to every occasion.

This is what your Strad fiddle does.

All violinists will tell you that there is a _reserve_ of force about
a Strad; you can “pull out,” and you will never be disappointed.

All lovers of Amati will tell you that they find in Nicolo a
trembling sighing sensitiveness, a tenderness, and a tone delicate to
the point of vanishing, which endears Amati to the women, and still
leaves his finest instruments unapproachable for cabinet-playing.

And all players will tell you that for domination and downright
big-battalion power, Joseph Guarnerius del Gesù has not his equal.

And the reason for this real, not fancied, supremacy of the great
makers and their best pupils?

The reason is complex, no doubt--so complex that, when all
precautions have been taken to imitate wood, proportions, varnish,
workmanship, so as thoroughly to deceive the eye, the modern
_chef-d’œuvre_ is, in spite of puzzled auditors, still not identical
in quality with the old Cremona gems.

I was called the other day to judge a set of English bells, cast with
the same proportions of tin and copper, of exactly the same size,
weight, and model as a suite of Belgian bells cast by Severin Van
Aerschodt; but the sound?

Ye gods! No silver clang and tin-kettle parody could be further apart
than were those English and Belgian bells.

But to return to our fiddles. The reasons of Cremona supremacy remain
to be tackled.

I hazard the following points:--

_1st._ Selection of wood. No doubt the old Lombardian forests, with
their salt-impregnated roots, provided rare planks. The vaunted
American woods fail technically to satisfy the Cremona requirements.

_2nd._ The knowledge, at first empirical, then intuitive, born of a
lifelong study of the relative density of woods fitted to vibrate
together. Nothing can teach this, no rule or measurements; for every
plank varies in porousness, density of fibre, age, and seasoning.

Charles Reade was napping when he expressed a hope that a certain
Stradivari back, mated with a new belly, might some day be united to
_some_ Stradivari back of which he knew; but unless it happened to be
_the_ belly Strad had selected for that particular back, what reason
is there to suppose that the result would be satisfactory?

_3rd._ I am of opinion that the old method of careful oil-sizing and
the subsequent application of gum materially affected the tone.

Think for a moment only of what is implied in the saturation--too
much or too little of the wood--with oils, spirit, gum of this or
that quality.

Necessarily some vibratory capacities must be affected--for better,
for worse--by the filling in, one way or another, of the wood
pores; and do not the commonest of modern artificers admit that the
Cremona varnish, and the exact mode of its application, is as yet
undiscovered; and when they speak otherwise, do they not laugh in
their sleeves?

_4th._ Admit that the _proportions_ are exactly equal, the column
of air almost identical in cubic measure, about 512 to the second;
still remains the vibratory qualities of infinite varieties of
grain--coarse or close, loose or serried--in wood fibre acting upon
that air column.

The old makers varied their models, but, no doubt, had regard to the
thicknesses and the subtle relations between the hard and soft woods
which would produce the power or quickness of reply, or sweetness, or
penetratingness aimed at.

It _may_ be that the secret for the production of these is quite
incommunicable, just as a painter, an actor, a singer, a sculptor
will do a thing before you, which you cannot do, which he cannot
teach you how to do, though he place his brush, his chisel, his
music, his toga and footlights at your disposal.

_5th._ We have no time for failures; they had. Endless experiment,
endless comparison, observation, meditation, unlimited leisure:
one and the same man made each part, and knew the interpenetrative
qualities and the mutual adaptation of the sundry parts.

We now have subdivision of labour; each man makes one of the parts,
and some one else puts them together. How can such backs accord
with such bellies? How can such ribs cotton with such strange and
fortuitous planks? Truly a scratch company brought together like
strangers, yet expected to accept their arbitrary assortment, and
make sweet harmony together. But they were not fastened together, in
view of one another, by one and the same master-mind, who knew what
was good for them, and what they were good for!

_6th._ But given the possibility of favourable conditions--time,
absorption, infinite experience, and all the accumulated knowledge of
the past--and given a modern Nicolo, Strad, Joseph, or even Bergonzi,
and given climate, and given wood galore, and might not we expect
Cremona results?

Why, yes, with Cremona conditions, certainly, or at least a very fair
approximation; and I am far from saying that we are not on the road
to it.

Until lately it has not been worth while for makers like the Hills,
the Gands, or the Chanôt firms to do aught seriously but repair or
parody closely for the eye the old fiddles.

But such of Vuillaume’s fiddles as have not been aged with heat and
acids, and the fine £10 to £30 violins now being made conscientiously
by Messrs Hill, in proportion as old fiddles become rare and
inaccessible, must come to the fore. Anyhow, players will, it is
hoped, give up the idiotic folly of paying large sums for indifferent
old fiddles, even with respectable names, when they can get really
fine new ones for half the money with twice the tone--a good tone,
too, which a very few years will suffice to mellow.

We write these words in the interest of dealers, collectors, players,
and artificers alike--indeed, it would be well worth while for
collectors even now to get hold of the finest attainable specimens
of new work. As a mere speculation it would be at least as sound an
investment as laying down good vintages of port or sherry.

A good Hill recently made, price £30 or £40, _e.g._ the fine copy
of the Tuscan Strad, only requires age to mellow it into a price of
three figures.

These new and garish-looking instruments, which, after all, do not
look more gaudy than the Messie Strad, are exceedingly loud in tone,
and withal very sensitive.

A certain tartness of timbre merely calls aloud for another ten or
twenty years to soften and refine it into the Cremona tone.

Meanwhile, the aspirants to Cremona excellence are entertainingly
numerous. From time to time I get letters accompanied with samples
from people who claim to have discovered the secret of the Cremona
varnish.

Here and there some enterprising maker will get a literary friend to
extol him as the successor of Stradiuarius.

I came across a pamphlet the other day assigning Cremona rank to
a worthy musician who makes fiddles _en amateur_, and a certain
German working in America, whose violins present all the usual
characteristics of instruments made in Germany. I actually got half
through this remarkable document, written _au grand serieux_, before
I discovered that it belonged to the liver pill, patent syrup, and
soap class.

Rumours may reach you from America of the wonderful Californian wood.
Well, European experts tell me that, fine as is the marking, it does
not yield the required timbre, and that the planks now coming over
from the old forests of Herzgovina and Bosnia are far superior for
fiddle-making purposes.

Then think of the care and study in selection made by those old
Italian artificers who frequented the Brescian and Cremonese markets,
and haggled over special bits of timber. They knew exactly where it
came from--the peculiarities of the soil, iron or salt impregnated
from whence it came; whether it was cut as it should be, in autumn,
with the sap out of it, and exactly how long it had been cut, and
to what conditions it had been exposed before it came to be worked
up. The subtleties were endless. Who troubles their heads about such
things now?

No! The fact about modern fiddles you, my anxious inquirer, may take
it for granted is what I have stated. Take good new fiddles by Hill,
Chanôt, Bernardel, Gand, and, according to the time and individual
or one-man power and skill spent upon them, they will rank high, and
higher by-and-by; and if ever the genius and the conditions which
obtained at Cremona, anno 1700, are again found, then, and not till
then, will the peers and rivals of the Cremona masterpieces be seen
and heard--and paid for.

It may be rash to attempt a scale of prices, when the experience of
the last fifty years proves that we have to deal with a _sliding_
scale. Forty years ago my father bought a rather small Andrea
Guarnerius at Puttick & Simpson’s for £4, which could not now be
picked up under £20. No Cremona from 1660 to 1760 can be got for much
less, though many better fiddles can be got for half that price.
Of course the rise in the Strads is quite phenomenal. Stainer, on
the other hand, is not valued as highly by comparison as he was last
century; whilst, owing to the rarity of real Stainers, the demand for
Klotz and Albani, more easily attainable, has somewhat increased, and
generally all the second and third class makers are being hunted up
and command good figures now, just as a man who can’t get Charles II.
silver will put up with William and Mary, Queen Anne, and even the
early Georges.

It is quite safe to buy Urquhart, Ford, Banks, Forster, Furber
(Henry, David, or John), and Pamphilion; but the once popular “Duke”
days are pretty well over.

Lupôt should be _always_ secured, and Vuillaumes that have not been
cooked with acids and heat; and no collector will go far wrong with
Pique.

Venetian fiddles, and especially violoncellos, near akin to Cremona,
will be sure to rise; and, as a rule, the Northern fiddles will
command a better figure than the Southerners--Rome and Naples.

But all such hints are general, and must be taken for what they are
worth, for stray specimens will often turn up belonging to almost any
school, which will have rare merits and can hardly be accounted for
by any systematic classification.

The following up-to-date (1898) scale of prices may be a useful but
rough guide to the collector with money that burns his pocket:--


PRICES

[1898]

  Stradivari                     £2000 to £200
  Joseph Guarnerius               1000  ”  100
  Other Guarnerii                  300  ”   30
  Nicolo Amati, and the brothers
    Anthony, and Gerome            500  ”   80 or £50
  Stainer                          200  ”   30
  C. Bergonzi                      600  ”   40
  Maggini                          500  ”   50
  J. B. Vuillaume                   60  ”   20
  Lupôt                            200  ”   50
  Pique                             60  ”   10
  Forster (’cellos)                100  ”   20
  Duke                              40  ”    5
  Banks                            100  ”   20

There are two general rules, which, like all rules, may have some
exceptions--not many:--

I. Never buy a fiddle simply at the owner’s valuation; judge it by
your own knowledge if you have any, or that of an expert if you have
none.

II. If you buy at auction, always go a few pounds better than the
highest bid offered by a _dealer_, and if you win, you will be in
luck.

III. Before sending a valuable violin to be “done up,” select your
repairer carefully. A fiddle maker is not necessarily a fiddle
restorer, and may be quite ignorant of the traditions which should
regulate this branch of the luthier’s art.

IV. Get your violin’s pedigree _as far as you can_ in detail, with
names and dates. Had this been always done, exhibitions would have
been spared many a delusion and collectors many a fraud.




POSTLUDE


My task is ended.

The shades of the great melodious dead still seem to hover around
me--as their echoes

                      “Roll from Pole to Pole,”

and from

                    “Soul to soul,
      And grow for ever and for ever.”

Violins may be made hereafter, copies may deceive the eye, sounds
bewilder the ear, but there will never again be an Amati or a
Stradivari, any more than a Phidias or a Raphael.

The age of discovery comes but once.

It is big with the future up to the moment when it resumes in itself
the golden heritage of the past. We may imitate, but we cannot
reproduce; nor will that thrill of perfection--that emotion of
eternal novelty which we experience in contemplating and sounding
the Cremona masterpieces--ever electrify those who handle their pale
effigies, uninformed by that secret magic which only appertains to
absorbing things done for the first time.

Hail! to the mighty dead, whose incommunicable touch is still felt by
millions upon millions from generation to generation!

Hail! to the mystic life, which still circulates throughout the
arteries of ten thousand orchestral organisms!

Hail! to the undying names of those who first imprisoned (in order
to set free) the passionate longings and divine aspirations of
humanity--in the

                          SOUL OF A CREMONA!

[Illustration:

 Nicolaus Amatus Cremonen. Hieronymi Fil., ac Antonij Nepos Fecit.

 Gasparo da Salo, In Brescia.

 Andres Guarnerius fecit Cremonæ sub titulo Sanctæ Teresiæ 1696

 Joseph Guarnerius fecit ✠ Cremona anno 1793 IHS

 Gio Paolo Maggini in Brescia.

 Anno 1733 Carlo Bergonzi fece in Cremona

 Antonius Stradiuarius Cremonensis Faciebat Anno 1709
]




DICTIONARY OF VIOLIN MAKERS


  AACHNER, Philipp. A Mittenwalder, 1772; ordinary German characteristics.

  ABBATI, Giuseppe. He worked at Modena, according to Forster,
  1775-93.

  ABSAM, Thomas. Lived at Wakefield, in Yorkshire; but his name,
  identical with the birthplace of Stainer, suggests a German origin.
  Employed by Pickard, of Leeds; his labels run: “Made by Thomas
  Absam, Wakefield.” Date 1810-49.

  ACEVO. Doubtful whether he ever existed. Fétis saw a bass viol
  which he connected with his name. It was signed at the back, “Marin
  Marais,” but it is all very shadowy.

  ADAM, Jean Dominique, son of Jean Adam. Both worked at Mirecourt,
  according to Vidal; both made bows, and the son made the best, and
  signed all he sold himself, 1823-69.

  ADAMS, C. Takes rank merely as a local maker at Garmouth, Scotland,
  1800.

  AGLIO, Giuseppe dall’, of Mantua; varnish bright yellow, 1800-40.

  AIRETON (Airton), Edmund, of London. Made good fiddles on the Amati
  and Steiner models; he varnished yellow, 1727-1807.

  ALBANESI, Sebastiano, is said to have lived at Cremona; his work is
  almost unknown, 1720-44.

  ALBANI, Mathias, b. about 1621, Botzen (Tyrol); d. there 1673.
  (_See_ p. 102.)

  ALBERTI, Ferdinando. Milanese; yellow varnish. Label: “Ferdinando
  Alberti, fece in Milano, nella contrada delle pesce al segno della
  Corona, nel anno 1740-60.”

  ALDRIC. Maker and great repairer. Labels: “Fait par Aldric,” or
  “Rue de Seine, 71, près celle de Bussy, Aldric, luthier, Paris, an.
  18--.” (_See_ p. 174.)

  ALESSANDRO. A Venetian maker, 1540.

  ALETZIE, Paul. Worked at Munich; good tenors and violoncellos,
  German type, 1710-20.

  ALLARD, François. Successor of Maubert, 9 rue du Petit-Pont,
  1788-89.

  ALVANI. A Cremonese maker, 1750.

  AMATI, Andrea. The father of the Cremona school, 1525. (_See_ Chap.
  V.)

  AMATI, Antonio, elder son of Andrea Amati; b. Cremona about 1560.
  (_See_ Chap. V.)

  AMATI, Girolamo, second son of Andrea Amati; b. about 1562. (_See_
  Chap. V.)

  AMATI, Girolamo, third son and successor of Nicola Amati; b. Feb.
  26, 1649. (_See_ Chap. V.)

  AMATI, Giuseppe. Said to have lived in Bologna, seventeenth
  century. (_See_ Chap. V.)

  AMATI, Nicola, younger brother of Andrea Amati, is said to have
  worked with him, 1568-80. (_See_ Chap. V.)

  AMATI, Nicola, son of Girolamo Amati; b. Dec. 3, 1596; d. April
  12, 1684, aged eighty-eight, according to the registers of Cremona
  Cathedral. (_See_ Chap. V.)

  AMBROGI, Pietro. Cremona and Rome. “Petrus Ambrogi, Crem. fecit
  Romæ, an. 17--.”

  AMBROSI, Pietro. A Brescian maker; very mediocre, 1712.

  AMBROSIO, Antonio d’. Neapolitan, 1820.

  AMELOT. French maker in Lorient; yellow varnish; mediocre, 1812-29.

  ANCIAUME. Existence doubtful.

  ANSELMO, Pietro. Cremona and Venice; small pattern; deep yellow
  varnish; fair maker, 1700.

  ANTONIAZZI, Gregorio. Bergamo, 1738; labels bear: “in Colle, 1738.”

  ANTONIO, Cypriano.

  ANTONY, Girolamo. Cremonese pattern; yellow varnish, 1751.

  ARDENOIS, Johannes. Ghent, 1731.

  ARTMANN. Weimar, cir. 1760; pupil of Ernst of Gotha; Amati pattern;
  yellow varnish.

  ASKEY, Samuel. Pupil of John Morrison; employed by Corsby, cir.
  1825.

  ASSALONE, Gaspare. Roman; Amati pattern; over-arched; poor yellow
  varnish.

  AUBRY. Paris; a nephew of Aldric (who dealt with Tarisio); inferior
  to his uncle, 1840.

  AUDINOT, Nestor Dominique, b. at Mirecourt 1842; worked under
  Sébastien Vuillaume; took up his business in 1875 at the age of
  seventeen; is very industrious, and makes excellent instruments.
  Labels: “N. Audinot, luthier, élève de Vuillaume, Paris.”

  AUGIÈRE. Pupil of Clément, Paris; good maker; red and brown
  varnish, 1830.


  BAADER, J. A., & Co. Mittenwald; wholesale producers on cheapest
  terms; their Stainer copies are good, 1854.

  BACHELIER. Inferior French maker, 1777-89.

  BACHMANN, Carl Ludwig. An excellent maker of Berlin, 1716-1800;
  violins, violas, and ’cellos often mistaken for Cremonas; a viola
  player; maker to the Prussian Court; founder of the Berlin Amateur
  Concerts; inventor of screw pegs for double-basses.

  BACHMANN, O. Good maker, of Halberstadt; first-rate repairer; wrote
  on violin construction, 1835.

  BAGATELLA (Bagattella), Antonio. Padua; good restorer; much
  employed by German princes; made few good instruments, but wrote
  learnedly on violin construction, 1750-82.

  BAGATELLA (Bagattella), Pietro. Padua, 1760-66.

  BAILLY, Paul. Mirecourt; fair maker; Chicago Exhibitor, 1893.

  BAINES. London; pupil of Furber, 1780.

  BAIRHOF, Giorgio. Naples; Gagliano school.

  BAJONI, Luigi. Milanese, 1840-76.

  BAKER, Francis. London, 1696.

  BAKER, John. Oxford, 1688-1720; excellent tone; yellow varnish;
  transition maker.

  BALESTRIERI (Balestieri), Pietro, brother of Tommaso. (_See_ p. 88.)

  BALESTRIERI (Balestieri). Tommaso, brother of Pietro. (_See_ p. 88.)

  BALLANTINE. Scotch, 1850-56.

  BANKS, Benjamin, son of George and Barbary Banks, 1727-95. (_See_
  pp. 130-132.)

  BANKS, Benjamin, second son of Benjamin Banks (1727-95), b. Sept.
  13, 1754; d. Jan. 22, 1820. (_See_ pp. 130-132.)

  BANKS, James and Henry, fourth and sixth sons of B. Banks
  (1727-95). (_See_ pp. 130-132.)

  BARBANTI, Silva Francesco. A maker at Correggio, 1850.

  BARBIERI, Francesco. Veronese; early Guarnerian pattern, 1695.

  BARNES, Robert Pupil of Thomas Smith; set up with John Norris,
  1765; employed Aireton, but used their own trade label.

  BARNIA, Fedele. Milanese, 1716-51.

  BAROUX. Paris; very good bow-maker, 1830.

  BARRETT, John. London; a contemporary of Barak Norman and Nathaniel
  Cross; long and arched pattern; yellow varnish; sweet tone;
  labelled: “John Barrett, at the Harp and Crown in Pickadilly,
  London, 1731.”

  BARTON, George. London; d. cir. 1810.

  BASSOT, Joseph. Paris; fine maker; brown and reddish varnish;
  earlier yellow and inferior; label: “Joseph Bassot, luthier, Paris,
  1802.”

  BAUD. Versailles; experimented omitting sound-bar, but not a
  success.

  BAUSCH, Ludwig Christian. Good bow-maker; Naumburg and Leipsic,
  1805-71.

  BAUSCH, Excellent bow-maker; silver medallist, Dresden; friend of
  Spohr, 1840.

  BECKMANN (Bekman), Sweno. Stockholm; rough maker, 1700-6.

  BEDLER, Norbert. Würzburg, 1723.

  BELA, Szepessy. Good contemporary maker; worked at Budapest and
  Munich, and is now in London; copies Strad and N. Amati.

  BELLONE, Pietro Antonio, known as Il Pescorino, Milanese, 1694.

  BELLOSIO, Anselmo. Venetian; pupil of Serafino and master of M. A.
  Cerin, 1720-80.

  BELVIGLIERI, Gregorio. Fairly good Bolognese maker, 1742.

  BENEDICT, Jose. Cadiz, 1738.

  BENEDICTI, Donate de. Cremona, 1674.

  BENTI, Matteo, b. 1579. Brescia; contemporary of Maggini.

  BERETTA, Felice. Como; Guadagnini school; bow-maker, 1760-85.

  BERGÉ. Toulouse, 1771.

  BERGONZI, Benedetto, d. 1840. (_See_ p. 86.)

  BERGONZI, Carlo. Cremona; the first of the great Bergonzi family of
  makers; b. (?); d. 1747.

  BERGONZI, Carlo, third son of Michel Angelo. (_See_ p. 86.)

  BERGONZI (Baganzi), Francesco. Named as early as 1687.

  BERGONZI, Michel Angelo, son of Carlo; b. 1722; d. after 1765.

  BERGONZI, Nicola, eldest son of Michel Angelo.

  BERGONZI, Zosimo, brother of Nicola.

  BERNARDEL, Auguste Sébastien Philippe. An excellent maker who
  worked under Lupôt and Gand. Firm: “Bernardel et fils,” then “Gand
  et Bernardel”; Paris (1849) gold medal, London (1855) gold medal.

  BERNARDEL Frères. Ernst Auguste and Gustave Adolphe, sons of
  Sébastien Philippe.

  BERTASIO, Luigi. Piadena, 17--.

  BERTASSI, Ambrogio. Piadena, 1730.

  BERTET, Joseph R. French maker; little known, 1754.

  BERTRAND, Nicolas. Paris; a few early fiddles, 1686-1735.

  BETTS, John Edward, known as “Old John Betts”; b. 1755, at
  Stamford, Lincolnshire; d. March 1823; was buried at Cripplegate
  Church; pupil of Richard Duke, senior. (_See_ p. 132.)

  BETTS (Ned), Edward, nephew of John Betts; like him a pupil of
  Richard Duke. He died between 1815 and 1820.

  BIANCHI, Nicola. Pupil of Guadagnini, 1800 to 1875; Genoa, Cremona,
  and Paris; fair maker.

  BINDERNAGEL. Gotha, 1745-1804; inferior maker.

  BITTNER, David. Viennese, 1862-80; made chiefly for America.

  BLAIR, John. Edinburgh, 1820.

  BLAISE, Mirecourt. 1820; indifferent.

  BLANCHARD, Paul François, 1865-94; worked with J. B. Vuillaume;
  very good violins; his workmen turn out good cheap ones; follows
  Strad; Mirecourt and Lyons.

  BODIO, Giambattista. Venice, 1792-1832.

  BOIVIN, Claude. Paris, 1735-53; fair maker.

  BOMBERGHI, Lorenzo. Florentine, seventeenth century.

  BOMÉ, Thomas. Inferior; French.

  BOOTH, William. English; 1779-1858; good repairer.

  BOOTH, William, son of W. Booth, senior; b. 1816, Leeds; d. 1856; a
  clever workman.

  BOQUAY (Bocquay), Jacques, b. at Lyons. 1700-30. (_See_ p. 105.)

  BORBON (Bourbon), Gaspar. End of sixteenth century; Brussels;
  Gaspar model.

  BORELLI, Andreas, 1730-47; Parma; Guadagnini model.

  BORLON, François. Antwerp maker, 1680-1710.

  BOUCHER. London, 1764.

  BOULLANGIER, Charles, b. 1823, Mirecourt; d. October, 1888. Learnt
  his trade in Mirecourt till 1843; worked with Vuillaume and Gand
  and Bernardel, also for Edward Withers, London; good copyist of
  Strad.

  BOUMEESTER (Baumeester). Amsterdam maker, 1637-68.

  BOURDET, Jacques. Fair French maker, 1751.

  BOURGARD, Jean. Worked in Nancy about 1780-87.

  BOUSSU. Bruxelles about 1750-80; fairly good Amati pattern.

  BRAGLIA, Antonio. Modena, eighteenth century.

  BRANDIGLIONI. Brescia; copied Maggini.

  BRANDL, Karl. Budapest; exhibited in London Exhibition, 1862.

  BRANZO, Barbaro Francesco. Padua, 1660.

  BREMEISTER, Jan. Amsterdam, 1707.

  BRETON, J. F. Paris, 1740-80.

  BRETON, Le, b. 1780, at Mirecourt. No great value; 1812 to 1830.

  BROSCHI, Carlo. Parma, 1730-44.

  BROWN, James, b. 1755, d. Sept. 1830. Silk weaver in Shoreditch,
  London; pupil of Thomas Kennedy; chiefly a repairer of instruments.

  BROWN, James, jun., son of the above; both father and son fair
  workmen; b. Nov. 1786; d. 1860, at White Lion Street, Norton
  Folgate; apprenticed to his father, but was principally employed to
  make bows.

  BROWN, son and pupil of James Brown, jun. When about twenty years
  old, ceased to make instruments.

  BROWNE, John. Cornhill, London, 1743; copied Nicholas Amati.

  BRUBACH, Antoine, b. Jan. 22, 1847, Mirecourt; head of “Klein et
  Cie.,” Rouen.

  BRUGÈRE, Charles Georges, b. Nov. 10, 1865, at Mirecourt; excellent
  maker; only labels what he makes himself.

  BRUGÈRE, Charles Malakoff, d. 1894. Son of above; made about 100
  good fiddles; the family still work at Mirecourt.

  BRUGÈRE, François, brother of Charles Joseph Brugère. Had three
  sons, all makers.

  BUCHSTADTER (Buchstetter), Gabriel David. Ratisbon, 1752; Cremona
  flat pattern; good orchestral instruments.

  BUDIANI, Giavetta. Some of his large bass viols adapted for
  double-basses with four strings; contemporary of G. P. Maggini.

  BUONFIGLIUOLI, Pier Francesco. Florentine, seventeenth century.

  BURGLE, Johann. A maker in Griezbach, 1828.

  BUSAS, Domenico. Vicenza, 1740.

  BUSSETO (Buseto), Giammaria del. Cremonese viol-maker, 1540-80;
  said to have taught Andrea Amati.

  BUSSOT. Paris, 1788.

  BUTHOD. Cheap Mirecourt maker; good strong fiddles fit for
  orchestral use; turned out about 900 instruments a year;
  contemporary of Vuillaume.


  CABROLI, Lorenzo. Milan about 1716; indifferent.

  CABROLY. Toulouse about 1740-47; fair.

  CAESTE, Gaetano. Cremona in 1677.

  CAESTO (Caesta), Pietro Antonio della. Treviso, 1660-80; copied
  Strad.

  CAHUSAC. London about 1788. Worked with Banks’s sons.

  CALCANI (Calcagni), Bernardo. In Genoa, 1710-50; copied Strad
  carefully and with good effect.

  CALONARDI, Marco. Cremona, seventeenth century.

  CALOT (Callot), b. 1810. Paris and Mirecourt; fine workman: good
  tone.

  CALVAROLLA, Bartolommeo, of Torre Baldone (Bergamo). About 1753-67,
  Bologna and Bergamo; fair.

  CAMILLI, Camillus (Camilus di Camila). Mantua about 1739-50; copied
  Strad; resembles also Landolfi; excellent tone.

  CAMILLIO, Davido. Cremona, 1755.

  CAPPA, Giofredo (Goffredo), 1590-1640. Worked with the Amatis;
  unequal in work; his instruments have often been cut down.

  CAPPA, Giachimo (Gioacchino) and Giuseppe. Working in Saluzzio, and
  in Turin about 1661-1712; indifferent.

  CARCASSI, Lorenzo Francesco and Tommaso. Florence, about 1735-58;
  not first-rate.

  CARLO, Giuseppe. Milan, 1769.

  CARLOMORDI, Carlo. Verona in 1654.

  CARON. Versailles, 1775-85. Maker to the Queen; not remarkable.

  CARTER, John. Worked in London, 1780-90, for John Betts. Good;
  often sold for Betts’.

  CASINI (Cassini), Antonio. Modena about 1660 to 1700. Made large
  violoncellos; fair.

  CASPAN, Giampietro. Venice about 1650; Amati pattern; violins
  small, yellow varnish.

  CASSANELLI, Giovanni. Ciano in 1777.

  CASSINEAU. Paris; maker of all sorts.

  CASTAGNERY (Castagneri), Andrea. Worked in Paris, 1732-57; he made
  good instruments.

  CASTAGNERY (Castagneri), Gian Paolo. A maker from Cremona, who
  worked in Paris about 1630-62; very good and sweet tone.

  CASTELLANI, Luigi, son of Pietro Castellani. Florence, 1809-84;
  good restorer of fiddles, but made none.

  CASTELLANI, Pietro, b. Florence, second half of the eighteenth
  century. Made only a few violins.

  CASTELLO, Paolo. Genoa about 1750-80; fair.

  CASTRO. Worked in Venice, 1680-1720; indifferent appearance, but
  good wood.

  CATENAR (Catenari), Enrico. Turin about 1670; fair; a follower of
  Cappa.

  CATI, Pier Antonio. Florence, 1741; famous for his “kits.”

  CAVALORIO. Geneva, 1725.

  CELLINI, Giovanni, the father of Benvenuto Cellini, b. in Florence;
  d. there of the pest, 1527 or 1528. Architect; lute and viol maker.
  His viols, made about 1500-5, had a great reputation.

  CELONIATI (Celionati), Giam Francesco, 1732. Good maker; Amati
  pattern; yellow varnish. “Joannes Franciscus Taurini, anno 1732.”

  CERIN, Marc Antonio. A maker in Venice, 1780-93; pupil of Anselmo
  Bellosio; fair maker.

  CERUTI, Enrico, son of Giuseppe Ceruti; b. 1808; d. Oct. 20, 1883.
  Cremona, at 14 Via Borgo Spera; made about 365 instruments; much
  esteemed in Italy.

  CERUTI, Giovanni Battista, 1755, Cremona; d. 1817. Pupil of Lorenzo
  Storioni; good; made about 500 instruments; varnish yellow.

  CERUTI, Giuseppe, son and successor of Giovanni Battista, 1787; d.
  1860, Mantua. Fair maker; chiefly repairer.

  CHALLONER, Thomas. Worked in London in the eighteenth century.

  CHAMPION, Jean Baptiste. Paris in 1783.

  CHAMPION, René. Paris, 1731; finished and graceful; varnished like
  Boquay.

  CHANOT, François, son of a musical instrument maker in Mirecourt;
  b. 1787, d. 1828. (_See_ p. 112.)

  CHANOT, Georges, a brother of François; b. March 26, 1801; d. Jan.
  10, 1883.

  CHANOT, Georges, son of Georges Chanot.

  CHANOT, G. A. Manchester.

  CHAPPUY (Chapuy), Nicolas Augustin. Paris about 1732-76; fairly
  good; badly varnished. Fr. Habeneck played on one of his violins
  for many years.

  CHARDON, Marie Joseph, son-in-law and pupil of Georges Chanot,
  sen.; b. May 22, 1843, Paris. He succeeded his father-in-law in
  1872; good maker; better restorer.

  CHARDON, Marie Joseph Antoine Georges. Worked under his father.

  CHARLE. Paris in 1748.

  CHARLES, Theress. From Mirecourt, but settled in London, in King
  Street, Soho.

  CHAROTTE. Mirecourt; d. 1836; settled in Rouen in 1830; indifferent.

  CHATELAIN, François. About 1777-91; good maker; collaborated
  sometimes with Renault.

  CHÉRON, Nicolas. Paris, 1658-91.

  CHERPITEL, Nicolas Emile. Mirecourt, 1841-93; worked with the Gands
  at Paris; very good workman.

  CHEVRIER, André Augustin, b. in Mirecourt. Paris, and then in
  Brussels, 1838.

  CHIAVELLATI, Domenico. Lonigo in 1796.

  CHIBON, Jean Robert. Paris, 1775-85; indifferent.

  CHIOCCHI (Chiocci), Gaetano. In Padua nineteenth century; good
  maker and repairer.

  CHRÉTIEN, Hippolyte, 1845-89. Lyons; excellent maker and restorer.

  CHRISTA, Joseph Paul. About 1730-40.

  CHRISTOPHLE, Jean. Avignon, 1655.

  CLARK. London, living at Clerkenwell. A pupil of Matthew Furber.

  CLAUDOT, Augustin. Paris, beginning of eighteenth century; large
  pattern, yellow varnish; wood good, work carefully finished;
  branded his instruments with his name, “Augustin Claudot.”

  CLAUDOT, Charles. Paris; but probably came from Mirecourt;
  indifferent.

  CLÉMENT. Paris, about 1815-40, in the rue des Bonnes-Enfants; a
  good deal sought after.

  COFFE-GOGUETTE. Mirecourt, 1834; excellent maker; fine tone.

  COLE, James. Manchester; pupil of Tarr and George Crask, 1858.

  COLE, Thomas. London about 1672-90; good tenor maker.

  COLLIER, Samuel. London, at “Corelli’s Head” on London Bridge,
  about 1750-55.

  COLLIER, Thomas. London, 1775.

  COLLIN, Claude Nicolas. Mirecourt; d. 1864; pupil of N. F.
  Vuillaume, Brussels.

  COLLIN-MÉZIN, Charles Jean Baptiste, son of C. N. Collin.
  Mirecourt, 1841-89; excellent maker and restorer; good Strad and
  Amati copyist.

  COLLINGWOOD, Joseph. Worked in London about 1760, at the “Golden
  Spectacles” on London Bridge.

  CONTRERAS, Joseph, 1710-80. Madrid or “Granadino”; beautiful Strad
  copyist; has passed for Strad.

  CONTRERAS, son of Joseph Contreras.

  CONWAY, William. London about 1745-50.

  CORDANO, Jacopo Filippo. Genoa about 1774.

  CORNELLI, Carlo. Cremona, 1702.

  CORSBY, George. London; believed to be a brother of Corsby of
  Northampton.

  CORSBY. Northampton about 1780; chiefly made double-basses.

  COSTA, Agostino. Brescia and Venice in the seventeenth century.

  COSTA, Marco della. Treviso, 1660-80.

  COSTA, Pietro Antonio della. Worked in Treviso about 1740-65; fair
  Amati model.

  COUSINEAU, Georges, 1753-1824. In 1788 was entitled “Luthier de la
  reine”; made all sorts of instruments.

  CRAMOND, Charles. A maker in Aberdeen, 1821-34.

  CRASK, George. Worked in various places, Salford, Manchester, etc.;
  prolific worker; Italian pattern.

  CROSS, Nathaniel. London about 1700-51. (_See_ p. 125.)

  CROWTHER, John, 1755-1810. He worked occasionally for John Kennedy.

  CUCHET, Gaspard, 1729.

  CUNAULT, Georges, b. 1856, Paris; Miremont, 1874-82; a good workman.

  CUNY. Paris about 1740.

  CUTHBERT. Maker of viols and violins in London, seventeenth
  century; fair.

  CUYPERS, Johannes. The Hague about 1779.


  DANIEL. Antwerp about 1636-56; two specimens in Antwerp Cathedral.

  DANIEL, Charles. Marseilles in 1762.

  DARCHE, C. F. Brussels; was a pupil of N. F. Vuillaume (a brother
  of the Parisian maker); better restorer than maker.

  DARCHE, Nicholas. Aix-la-Chapelle.

  DAVID. A contemporary of Pierray; Paris about 1730; indifferent.

  DAVIDSON, Hay. Huntly, 1870.

  DAVIS, Richard. London; employed by Norris and Barnes; but when
  Norris died in 1818, he succeeded to the business. He knew little
  of violin-making, and always remained more of a dealer in, than a
  maker of, instruments.

  DAVIS, William. London (in 1846 sold business to Edward Withers);
  restored violins; Maucotel worked for him.

  DAY, John. Ingenious amateur maker, devoted to reproduction of
  Cremonas, nineteenth century.

  DEARLOVE, Mark. Leeds, 1812-20.

  DEARLOVE, Mark William, son of Mark Dearlove. Leeds, 1828-62;
  employed good workmen--Absam, Gough, Fryer.

  DECOMBE (not De Comble). Paris, eighteenth century.

  DE COMBLE, Ambroise, b. at Tournai, Belgium, end of the seventeenth
  century; worked till 1760; said to have been a pupil of Antonio
  Stradivari at Cremona; instruments scarce, well made, of excellent
  wood, and have a rich tone.

  DECONET, Michele. Venice about 1742-79; Cremona school.

  DEFRESNE, Pierre. Rouen, 1730.

  DEHAYE (Deshayes), nephew and only pupil of Salomon, 1775-1825,
  Paris; more dealer than maker; sold all sorts.

  DEHOMMAIS, 1870. Successful amateur maker.

  DE LANNOY, N.J. Lille about 1740-75; fair maker.

  DELANOE, Pierre Jean. Paris, 1754.

  DELANOIX. Brussels about 1760; good maker.

  DELANY (Delaney), John. Dublin in 1808; an original egotist, 1808.
  Label bears: “Made by John Delany, in order to perpetuate his
  memory in future ages. Dublin, 1808. Liberty to all the world,
  black and white.”

  DELAU, Lucien, 1836-48. On the death of Charotte he joined Jeandel
  in violin-making, and they continued the business at Rouen.

  DENNIS, Jesse, 1795-1855. London; apprenticed to John Crowther,
  1805; worked under Matthew Furber.

  DERAZEY, J. Mirecourt; successor to J. Nicolas, jun.; sold his
  fiddles; made good cheap ones, from 5 to 150 francs; a prolific
  firm.

  DEROUX, Sébastien. Mirecourt and Paris; b. 1848; making in 1898;
  good restorer; best Cremona models. Signs: “A. S. D.”

  DESCHAMPS, Claude. Paris, 1783-85.

  DESJARDINS. Caen, 1763.

  DESPONS, Antoine. Paris about 1610; rare, but not very good.

  DESROUSSEAU. Eighteenth century.

  DEVEREUX, John. He worked with B. Simon Fendt in London; migrated
  to Melbourne.

  DICKENSON (Dickinson), Edward. Strand, London, about 1750-90;
  Stainer model; inferior.

  DICKESON (Dickson), John, b. in Stirling. London and Cambridge,
  about 1750-80; excellent.

  DIDELIN, Joseph. Nancy, 1765-75; poor maker.

  DIDION, Gabriel. Mirecourt; d. 1881.

  DIEHL (or Diel, as it was originally spelt). Friedrich, son of
  Nicolaus Diehl; 1814-67; Darmstadt; fair.

  DIEHL (Diel), Heinrich, a son of Johann Diehl.

  DIEHL (Diel), Jacob, son of Nicolaus Diehl; d. 1873; Bremen in
  1834, then Hamburg.

  DIEHL (Diel), Johann, a brother of Nicolaus Diehl. Mayence.

  DIEHL, Martin. Mayence, eighteenth century; work poor.

  DIEHL (Diel), Nicolaus, b. 1779, d. 1851. Son of Martin Diehl, to
  whose business he succeeded.

  DIEHL (Diel), Nicolaus Louis, d. 1876. Was a son of Jacob Diehl;
  worked in Hamburg; he published a work on Italian violin-makers.

  DIEULAFAIT. A viol-maker; Paris in 1720.

  DINI, Giambattista. Lucignano in 1707.

  DITTON. London about 1700. In Thomas Britton’s Collection was a
  “good violin by Ditton.”

  DODD, Edward, b. 1705, Sheffield; d. 1810, London, at the age of
  105. First bow-maker of this name. He lived in Salisbury Court,
  Fleet Street; buried in St Bride’s Church.

  DODD, James, second son of Edward. Also made bows.

  DODD, James, son of James Dodd, sen.; was a good bow-maker.

  DODD, John, eldest son of Edward Dodd; b. 1752. (_See_ p. 116.)

  DODD, Thomas, third son of Edward Dodd. Employed Bernhard Fendt and
  Lott; proud of his varnish; an all-round man, and dealer in all
  sorts of instruments; violoncellos fetch £50.

  DODD, Edward and Thomas, sons of Thomas Dodd, sen. Both learnt from
  Bernhard Fendt, and carried on the business at St Martin’s Lane.

  DOMINICELLI (Domincelli). Ferrara, 1695-1715; studied in Brescia;
  copied the Amati pattern; varnish of a golden colour.

  DOMINICHINO, Giuseppe. Verona, 1700; Amati pattern.

  DONATO, Serafino. Venice, 1410-11.

  DONI, Rocco. A priest in Florence, 1600-60; made lutes and violins.

  DOPFER (Döpfer), Nicolaus. Mayence (?) about 1768; instruments well
  made, slightly arched; sound-holes small but well cut, varnish
  brown.

  DORANT, William. Spitalfields, 1814.

  DORFFEL (Dörffel), Johann Andreas. A violin and lute maker in
  Klingenthal, Saxony, in 1743.

  DRINDA, Giacomo. Pianzo, eighteenth century.

  DRÖGMEYER, Hermann August. Bremen; wrote a book on violins, 1891.

  DROULEAU or Droulot. Paris, 1788-1800.

  DROUYN, Dimanche. Paris.

  DUCHÉRON, Mathurin. Contemporary of Boquay, working in Paris in
  1714.

  DUIFFOPRUGCAR (Duiffoproucart), Gaspard, 1514. (_See_ p. 18).

  DUKE, Richard. London about 1750-80. (_See_ p. 132.)

  DUKE, Richard, son of Richard Duke.

  DULFENN, Alexander. Leghorn in 1699.

  DUMÉNIL, N. Paris, 1786.

  DUMESNIL, Jacques. Paris about 1655-60.

  DUNCAN. Aberdeen, 1762.

  DUNCAN, George. Glasgow, 1887.

  DURFEL (Dürfell), J. G. Altenburg, 1778; double-basses excellent;
  violins very arched; muddy dark brown varnish.

  DU RIEZ, Nicolas. A good French maker; Abbeville, 1663.


  EBERLE, Johann Ulrich. Prague about 1730-60; good Cremona copyist.

  EBERTI, Tommaso. Italian maker about 1730-50.

  EDLINGER, Thomas, b. in Bohemia, and was living in Prague 1712-15.
  Good.

  EGLINGTON. London in 1802; fair tone.

  ELÉMENT, Jean Laurent. Paris in 1783.

  ELSLER (Esler), Johann Joseph. Mayence about 1715-30; bass viol
  maker; transition on verge of the violin.

  EMILIANI, Francesco de. Rome about 1715-20; fine workman; yellow
  varnish.

  ENGLEDER, Andreas, Munich, 1854; an original designer.

  ENGLEDER, Ludwig. Bamberg, 1854; German pattern; fair tone.

  ERNST, Franz Anton, b. Dec. 3, 1745, Georgenthal, Bohemia; player
  and maker; Stradivari pattern, and some say approached Stradivari
  tone.

  EULRY-CLÉMENT. Mirecourt, 1800.

  EURY. About 1810-30, Paris; an excellent bow-maker, 1820. He was
  working at 20 rue des Lyonnais-Saint-Jacques in 1820. His bows are
  justly celebrated, and are thought to rival even those of François
  Tourte. He generally marked them with his name.

  EVANGELISTI. Florence, eighteenth century.

  EVANS, Richard. London about 1742-50.

  EVE, Jacques. German model, arched; brown varnish; good workman.


  FABRIS, Luigi. Venice in nineteenth century.

  FACINI, Agostino. A monk at Bologna, 1732-42; delicate workman;
  yellow varnish.

  FALAISE. French follower of Pique; Cremona pattern; yellow varnish.

  FARINATO, Paolo. Venice about 1700-30; fair maker, Serafino pattern.

  FEBBRE. Amsterdam in 1762.

  FENDT, Bernhard. (_See_ p. 132.)

  FENDT, Bernhard Simon. (_See_ p. 132.)

  FENDT, Francis, fourth son of Bernhard Fendt. (_See_ p. 132.)

  FENDT, François, best known in France as Fent.

  FENDT, Jacob, third son of Bernhard Fendt.

  FENDT, Martin, second son of Bernhard Fendt.

  FENDT, William, second son of Bernhard Simon.

  FERATI, Pietro. Sienna, 1754-64; poor maker.

  FÉRET. A pupil of Médard; Paris, 1708; good maker.

  FERGUSON, Donald. Huntly, Aberdeenshire.

  FERGUSON & SON. Edinburgh, beginning of the nineteenth century.

  FERRARI, Agostino. Budrio (Italy), eighteenth century.

  FERRARI, Alfonso. Carpi (Modena), 1738.

  FERRARI, Carlo. Sienna in 1740.

  FEURY or Ferry, François, son-in-law of Leclerc the violin-maker.
  Paris about 1750-60; violins small pattern, the sound-holes small,
  varnish red, work good.

  FICHTL, Martin. Vienna, 1750-57; careful in wood and varnish.

  FICKER, Johann Christian. Cremona, 1720-22; German style.

  FICKER, Johann Gottlieb. Cremona about 1788-89.

  FIKER, Johann Christian. Neukirchen (Saxony), eighteenth century.

  FIORILLO, Giovanni. Ferrara, 1780; German and Italian patterns;
  violoncellos are best.

  FIORINI, Giuseppe, son of Raffaele Fiorini, b. 1867. Excellent
  maker.

  FIORINI, Raffaele, b. at Pianoro. Worked at Bologna.

  FIRTH, G. Leeds, 1836; pupil of William Booth, sen.

  FISCER, Carlo and Giuseppe, brothers. Milan about 1760-64; inclined
  to German style, but good varnish.

  FISCHER, Anton, b. 1794, d. 1879. Vienna.

  FISCHER, Zacharie, b. Nov. 5, 1730, Würzburg; d. there Nov. 27,
  1812; first began baking his wood to age it; his violins are still
  liked.

  FLEURI (Fleury), Jean François. Paris, 1783-85.

  FLEURY, Benoist. Paris, 1751-91; fair maker.

  FLORENUS (Florinus), Guidantus or Florentus. Bologna about
  1700-60; far from first-class.

  FONCLAUSE, Joseph (called “Le Mayeux”), b. 1800 à la Conté; d.
  1865, Paris. Mirecourt, and employed by Vuillaume.

  FORCHEVILLE, J. Baptiste. Early pochette-maker.

  FORSTER (Foster or Forrester), John, b. Kirkandrews, on the Esk.

  FORSTER, Simon Andrew, son of William Forster (1764-1824). (_See_
  p. 126.)

  FORSTER, William, son of John Forster; b. 1713-14; d. 1801. (_See_
  p. 126.)

  FORSTER, William (“Old Forster”), son of William Forster
  (1713-1801). (_See_ p. 126.)

  FORSTER, William (“Young Forster”), son of William Forster
  (1739-1808). (_See_ p. 126.)

  FORSTER, William, eldest son of William Forster, 1764-1824. (_See_
  p. 126.)

  FRAISER, Giorgio. Cremona, 1666; worked for Nicola Amati.

  FRANCK. Ghent, 1800-30; chiefly a clever repairer.

  FRANKLAND. London, 1785; employed by the William Forsters.

  FREBRUNET, Jean. Paris 1750-60; good maker; yellow varnish.

  FRITSCHE (Fritzche), Samuel. Leipzig, 1787; pupil of C. H. Hunger;
  good maker (Cremona model) and fine repairer.

  FRYER, Charles. London and Leeds, 1830-40.

  FURBER, David. Pupil of John Johnson (1750-60), a maker in London.
  (_See_ p. 234.)

  FURBER, Henry John, son and pupil of John Furber.

  FURBER, James, first son of Matthew Furber, sen.

  FURBER, John, third son of Matthew Furber, sen.

  FURBER, Matthew, sen., son of David Furber.

  FURBER, Matthew, second son of Matthew Furber, sen.


  GABRIELLI, Antonio. Florence, 1760; good violins.

  GABRIELLI, Bartolommeo. Florence about 1730.

  GABRIELLI, Cristoforo. Florence, 1730.

  GABRIELLI, Giovanni Battista. Florence, 1740-70; good tone,
  excellent wood, yellow varnish; his violoncellos and altos
  considered best.

  GAETANO, Antoniazzi, b. Aug. 7, 1825, Cremona; good maker, has
  gained medals of honour; his sons, Ricardo and Romeo, work with him.

  GAFFINO, Giuseppe. An Italian, worked in Paris, 1745-83; careful
  maker.

  GAGLIANO (Galiano), Alessandro, b. 1640. (_See_ p. 89.)

  GAGLIANO, Antonio, son of Giovanni, grandson of Nicola. (_See_
  “Raffaele Gagliano.”)

  GAGLIANO, Ferdinando, eldest son of Nicola, grandson of Alessandro.
  (_See_ p. 89.)

  GAGLIANO, Gennaro, second son of Alessandro, brother of Nicola;
  b. about 1680, at Naples; d. 1750. He was the best maker of this
  family.

  GAGLIANO, Giovanni, fourth son of Nicola, nephew of the great
  Gennaro; d. 1806.

  GAGLIANO, Giuseppe and Antonio, second and third sons of Nicola;
  lived at Naples.

  GAGLIANO, Nicola, eldest son of Alessandro; b. about 1675, at
  Naples; d. there about 1745.

  GAGLIANO, Raffaele and Antonio, sons of Giovanni, grandsons of
  Nicola.

  GAILLARD-LAJOUE, J. B. Mirecourt; d. about 1870; first an
  apprentice and then first workman in the workshop of Gand; fair
  maker.

  GAIROUD, Louis. Nantes about 1740.

  GALBANI, Piero. Florence in 1640.

  GALBICELLIS, G. B. Florence, 1757.

  GALBUSERA, Carlo Antonio. Follower of Chanot; made a guitar-shaped
  model; violins much praised, but little known now.

  GALERZENA. Piedmont, 1790.

  GALLAND, Jean. Paris, rue St-Honoré, about 1744-50.

  GALRAM, Joachim Joseph. Lisbon in 1769.

  GAND, Charles Adolphe, eldest son of Charles François Gand; b. Dec.
  11, 1812, Paris; d. Jan. 24, 1866.

  GAND, Charles François, eldest son of Charles Michel Gand; b. Aug.
  5, 1787, Versailles. (_See_ p. 108.)

  GAND, Charles Michel, the head of the Gand family; b. 1748, at
  Mirecourt; d. 1820, Versailles.

  GAND, Charles Nicolas Eugène, second son of Charles François Gand;
  b. June 5, 1825, at Paris; d. Feb. 5, 1892, Boulogne-sur-Seine.

  GAND, Guillaume, second son of Charles Michel Gand, 1792-1858.

  GARANI (Garana), Michelangelo. A maker in Bologna about 1680 to
  1720; small value.

  GARANI, Nicola. 1700. Fair instruments, Gagliano pattern; plain
  wood, yellow varnish.

  GARENGHI, Giuseppe. Brescia, 1857.

  GASPARO DA SALÒ, son of Francesco Bertolotti, b. 1542. (_See_ p.
  30.)

  GATTANANI. Piedmont, 1785-90.

  GATTINARI. Enrico. Turin, 1670-75.

  GATTINARI, Francesco, son of Enrico Gattinari. Good maker, 1700-5;
  red varnish.

  GAUTROT. Mirecourt, 1855.

  GAVINIÉS (Gavaniès), François. 1700-63, Bordeaux; 1730 Paris, and
  was living in Rue St-Thomas-du-Louvre, 1734-63. Unequal maker of
  violins, some cheap and poor, others very superior.

  GEDLER, Johann Anthony and Johann Benedict. Fussen, Bavaria, about
  1750-96. Poor violins.

  GEISENHOF (Geiffenhof, Geigenhof), Franz, b. 1754; d. 1821. Fairly
  good.

  GEMÜNDER, August, b. 1814, Würtemberg; d. Sept., 1895, New York.
  Excellent maker, fine copyist.

  GEMÜNDER, George, brother of August Gemünder, b. 1816 in Würtemberg.

  GERMAIN, Emile, son of Joseph Louis Germain. Turin, 1870-88.
  Studied at Mirecourt. Prolific maker, good varnish, fair tone, fine
  repairer.

  GERMAIN, Joseph Louis, b. July 23, 1822, Mirecourt, 1868; worked
  with F. Gand family and B. Vuillaume. Excellent maker and repairer.

  GERONI, Domenico. Ostia, Italy, about 1800-20. Inferior.

  GHERARDI, Giacomo. Bologna, 1677.

  GHIDINI, Carlo. Parma, about 1746.

  GIANOLI, Domenico. Milan, 1731.

  GIBBS, James. London, 1800-45. Was employed by J. Morrison, George
  Corsby, and Samuel Gilkes.

  GIBERTINI, Antonio. Parma, 1830-33. Stradivari pattern. Employed by
  Paganini as a repairer.

  GIGLI, Julio Cesare. Rome, 1730-62.

  GILBERT, Nicolas Louis. Metz, 1700.

  GILBERT, Simon, son of Nicolas Louis Gilbert. Metz, about 1737.

  GILKES, Samuel, 1787-1827. Morton Pinkney, Northamptonshire.
  London. Worked for William Forster (1764-1824). Nicola Amati
  pattern; clever maker.

  GILKES, William, son of Samuel Gilkes, about 1811-75, in Grey
  Coat Street, Tothill Fields, Westminster, London. Prolific maker;
  chiefly double basses.

  GIOFFREDA, B. Turin, in 1860.

  GIORDANO (Giordane), Alberto. Cremona, about 1735-40.

  GIORGI, Nicola. Turin, 1745.

  GIRANIANI. Leghorn, 1730.

  GIRON. (_See_ “Villaume.”)

  GIULIANI. Cremona, 1660. Pupil of Nicola Amati.

  GOBETTI, Francesco. Venice, 1705. A pupil of Antonio Stradivari.
  Alleged fine wood, varnish, and tone.

  GOFFRILLER (Gofriler), Antonio. Venice, 18th century.

  GOFFRILLER, Francesco. Venice. Fair maker; yellow-brown varnish.

  GOFFRILLER, Matteo. Venice, 1690-1740. Careless in wood but careful
  in work; yellow varnish; arched pattern violin excellent.

  GONNET, Pierre Jean. Paris, 1775-83.

  GOSSELIN. An amateur maker in Paris about 1814-30.

  GOSSET. Rheims, 1769.

  GOUVERNARI, Antonio. Cremona, 1600-10.

  GRABENSEE, J. A. Düsseldorf, about 1850-55.

  GRAGNANI, Antonio. Leghorn, about 1741-80. Rough workmanship;
  inferior wood; sweet tone.

  GRAGNANI, Gennaro. Leghorn, 1730.

  GRAGNANI, son of Antonio Gragnani. Inferior to his father.

  GRANCINO, Francesco and Giam Battista, sons of Giovanni and
  grandsons of Paolo Grancino. 1710-60. (_See_ p. 90.)

  GRANCINO, Giovanni, son of Paolo Grancino. Milan 1690-1730.

  GRANCINO, Paolo. Worked at Milan, 1665-90. Pupil of Nicola Amati at
  Cremona.

  GRAND-GÉRARD. Vosges, 1790-1810. Also Paris. Prolific but inferior.

  GRANDINI, Geronimo, sen. Mirecourt. Some merit.

  GRANDJON, sen. Mirecourt.

  GRANDJON, J., son of Grandjon, sen. Mirecourt. Fair maker.

  GRAY, J. Fochabers, Banffshire, Scotland, in 1870.

  GREFFTS, Johann. Fussen, Bavaria, in 1622.

  GREGORI. Bologna, 1793.

  GRIMM, Carl, b. about 1792; d. 1855, Berlin. One of the best German
  makers.

  GRIMM, Ludwig, son of Carl Grimm.

  GRISERI, Filippo. Florence in 1650.

  GROBITZ, A. Warsaw in 1750. Good violins on the Stainer pattern.

  GROLL, Matthew. Meran, Tyrol, in 1800.

  GROSSET, Paul François. Paris, 1747-59. Pupil of Claude Pierray.
  Inferior.

  GROSSI, Giuseppe. Bologna in 1803.

  GROU. 1752.

  GRULLI, Pietro. Cremona, 1883.

  GUADAGNINI, Antonio, son of Gaetano, grandson of Carlo Guadagnini,
  b. 1831; d. 1881 at Turin. (_See_ p. 86.)

  GUADAGNINI, Felice, son of Carlo Guadagnini. Turin, 1835.

  GUADAGNINI, Francesco and Giuseppe, sons of Antonio Guadagnini.
  Turin.

  GUADAGNINI, Gaetano, son of Giambattista, grandson of Lorenzo.
  Turin about 1750.

  GUADAGNINI, Gaetano. (_See_ “Carlo Guadagnini.”)

  GUADAGNINI, Giambattista, son of Lorenzo, b. 1711 at Cremona; d.
  Sept 18, 1786, at Turin.

  GUADAGNINI, Giovanni Battista, brother of Lorenzo Guadagnini.
  Milan, Piacenza, and Turin about 1695-1775.

  GUADAGNINI, Giuseppe, second son of Giambattista, grandson of
  Lorenzo, b. 1736; d. about 1805.

  GUADAGNINI, Giuseppe. (_See_ “Carlo Guadagnini.”)

  GUADAGNINI, Giuseppe. (_See_ “Francesco Guadagnini.”)

  GUADAGNINI, Lorenzo. b. at Piacenza (?) about 1665. A pupil of
  Antonio Stradivari at Cremona.

  GUARINI, Joseph. Germigny, Vosges. Good violins, double purfle,
  powerful tone.

  GUARNERI, Andrea. b. about 1626 at Cremona; d. there Dec. 7, 1698.
  (For the Guarneri family, see p. 51.)

  GUARNERI, Caterina (?), daughter of Andrea.

  GUARNERI, Gian Battista, son of Bernardo, younger brother of Andrea.

  GUARNERI, Giuseppe, known as “del Gesù,” the greatest of the
  family. (_See_ p. 51.)

  GUARNERI, Giuseppe Giovan Battista, second son of Andrea. b. Nov.
  25, 1666, Cremona; d. soon after 1738.

  GUARNERI, Pietro, son of Giuseppe Giovan Battista Guarneri,
  grandson of Andrea, b. April 14, 1695. 1760.

  GUARNERI, Pietro Giovanni, eldest son of Andrea. b. Feb. 18, 1655,
  at Cremona; d. about 1740.

  GUÉDON, Jacques Antoine. Paris, 1775-77.

  GUÉRIN, Alexandre Sauveur, 1834-88, Hyères. Pupil and successor of
  Edmond Daniel; works at Marseilles; repairs old instruments and
  makes new ones on the pattern of Stradivari; much admired.

  GUERRA, Giacomo. Modena, 1810.

  GUERSAN, Louis. A maker in Paris about 1730-69; one of the best
  French makers; great experimentalist; used spirit varnish.

  GUGEMMOS (Gugemos). Fussen, Bavaria. Eighteenth century; poor maker.

  GUGLIELMI, Giobattista. Cremona, 1747.

  GUIDANTUS, Joannes Florenus. Bologna, 1685-1728.

  GUIDOMINI, Lorenzo. Milan, 1740.

  GUILLAMI. A Spanish family, 1680-1780.

  GUITON, R., of Cork. Good.

  GUSETTO, Nicola. Florence, 1730.

  GUTERMANN. Vienna, nineteenth century. Good.


  HAENSEL, Johann Anton. Was maker and musician to the Duke of
  Schönburg at Rochsburg, 1800-15.

  HAFF. Augsburg, eighteenth century.

  HAMBERGER, Joseph. Pressburg, Hungary. Firm still maker at Vienna.

  HAMM, Johann Gottfried. A German who worked in Rome about 1810;
  violins ivory edged.

  HAMMIG, W. H. Leipzig, tenth century; good work.

  HARBOUR or Harbur. A maker, London, 1785.

  HARDANGER. Norway.

  HARDIE, James & Sons. Edinburgh, 1837-90. Industrious makers and
  exhibitors. Maggini, Stradivari, and Guarneri models.

  HARDIE, Matthew, 1825, and Thomas, 1856. Good violins, violas, and
  violoncellos on the Amati pattern.

  HARDIE, Peter. Dunkeld, 1773-1863. Excellent violoncellos.

  HARE, Joseph (or John), 1700-30. Reacted against Stainer pattern in
  favour of Stradivari. London, 1726.

  HARHAM. London, 1765-85.

  HARMAND. Mirecourt in 1772.

  HARRIS, Charles. London, 1780-1800. Seldom labelled; his work good,
  especially ’cellos, Stradivari and Amati pattern; red varnish.

  HARRIS, Charles, eldest son of Charles Harris. Worked for John
  Hart, nineteenth century; yellow varnish.

  HART, John Thomas, 1805-74, London. Pupil of Samuel Gilkes; made
  few instruments; reputation for experience and skill in repairing.

  HASSERT. Eisenach, eighteenth century. Good instruments, not much
  arched, beautiful wood, amber-coloured varnish; good copyist.

  HASSERT. A brother. Eisenach, 1790, in Rudolstadt. Instruments too
  much arched; rather harsh tone.

  HAYNES, Jacob. London, 1746. Stainer pattern.

  HEBERLEIN, Heinrich, jun. Clever maker in Markneukirchen,
  nineteenth century.

  HEESOM, Edward. London, 1748-50. Stainer pattern.

  HEIDEGGER. Passau.

  HEL, Pierre Joseph, 1842-95. Seven years in Mirecourt, then
  with Sébastien Vuillaume in Paris, and Nicolas Darche at
  Aix-la-Chapelle. In 1865 he started his own business at 14 Rue
  Nationale, Lille; full of ingenuity; peculiar methods of seasoning
  wood without fire; has received much praise and many honours; a
  beautiful maker.

  HELD, J. J., b. July 17, 1823-89, Flamersheim, Rheinbach (Cologne).
  Great repairer and careful maker of about sixteen instruments a
  year; much esteemed.

  HELL, Ferdinand. Vienna, 1854. Eccentric maker of a trumpet-violin.

  HELMICH. Continued Carl Grimm’s business.

  HENDERSON, D. Aberdeen.

  HÉNOC (or Hénocq), François. Paris, 1775-89.

  HÉNOC (Hénocq), Jean (?Georges Bienaimé). Maker, Paris, 1768 to
  about 1790.

  HENRY. Paris.

  HENRY, Carolus, son of Jean Baptiste Henry, 1803-59; prolific
  maker; inventor of a barytone fiddle (not a success); a good maker
  otherwise.

  HENRY, Eugène, son of Charles Henry, 1843-92; an excellent maker of
  fine repairs; business continued by Charles Bruyère.

  HENRY, Jean Baptiste, b. 1757-1831, Mataincourt, Mirecourt
  (Vosges). He was the head of the present family of makers.

  HENRY, Jean Baptiste Félix, eldest son of Jean Baptiste Henry.
  1793-1858. Paris. Pupil of his father; in Bordeaux, 1822; in
  Marseilles, 1825. In 1844 he returned to Paris. A prolific maker,
  but never signed.

  HENRY, Octave, son of Jean Baptiste Félix Henry. 1826-54. Paris. In
  Grenoble in 1854; made a great many violins.

  HENRY. A violin bow-maker; 1812 at Mirecourt; 1870, Paris; worked
  with Chanot; made excellent bows.

  HILDEBRANDT, Michael Christopher. Hamburg, 1765-1800; good work;
  fine repairer.

  HILL, Henry Lockey, son of Lockey Hill; grandson of Joseph Hill; b.
  1774; d. Aug. 1835. (For Hill family see p. 133).

  HILL, John. Red Lion Street, Holborn, 1794.

  HILL, Joseph, b. 1715; d. 1784. He was a fellow-apprentice of
  Banks, working at “Y^e Harp and Hautboy,” in Piccadilly, London,
  under Peter Wamsley, about 1740-42. Worked till 1772. His sons,
  William, Joseph, Lockey, and Benjamin, were all makers.

  HILL, William, son of Joseph Hill. Worked in London about 1740-80.

  HILL, William Ebsworth, son of Henry Lockey Hill, 1817-95. The
  present members of the firm are his four eldest sons: William
  Henry, b. June 3, 1857, followed the musical profession for
  some years before joining his brothers in the business; Arthur
  Frederick, b. Jan. 25, 1860; Alfred Ebsworth, b. Feb. 1862, who
  worked for some time at Mirecourt (Vosges), and was the first
  Englishman to go there to study; and Walter Edgar, b. Nov. 4,
  1871, who also worked at Mirecourt. They employ a large staff of
  assistants in their workshops at Hanwell. (_See_ p. 133.)

  HIRCUTT. London about 1600.

  HOCHBRÜCKER. Donauworth, Bavaria, 1699. Later at Augsburg. Made
  some violins, but is chiefly known as the inventor of pedals for
  the harp, about 1720.

  HÖHNE. Dresden and Weimar.

  HÖRLEIN, Carl Adam, b. 1829-75. Winkelhof, Würzburg; great
  reputation both as maker and repairer.

  HOFFMANN, Anton. Courtmaker in Vienna, 1850.

  HOFFMANN, Martin. Leipzig, 1725; in Leipzig from about 1685;
  violins and violoncellos of good tone, inelegant pattern; shows
  well the transition period between viol and violin by recurrence to
  older types of a five-stringed violoncello.

  HOFMANS, Matthias. Antwerp, 1700-50; choice maker in the Cremona
  style.

  HOLLOWAY, John. London. 1794.

  HOMOLKA, F. Kuttenberg, Bohemia, 1850; good maker, but wood rather
  too thick.

  HOPKINS. Worcester; exhibited a double-bass in London in 1862.

  HORIL, Giacomo. Rome, 1720-50.

  HORNSTEINER (Hornstainer), Joseph. Mittenwald, 1730; good
  double-basses; mediocre.

  HORNSTEINER (Hornstainer), Mathias. Maker in Mittenwald, 1770-1800;
  better than Joseph.

  HOSBORN, Thomas Alfred. London, 1629. A bass viol exhibited in
  Paris, 1878.

  HUET, Henri. Paris, 1775-90; good workmanship.

  HULINSKI. Prague in 1760; instruments were well made; varnish
  red-brown.

  HULLER, August. Shœneck, 1735-76.

  HULSKAMP, G. H., b. in Westphalia. Settled in New York, U.S.A.
  In the 1862 London Exhibition he exhibited violins made on a new
  pattern. Instead of the ordinary sound-holes, was one round hole in
  the middle of the violin, just below where the bow sets the strings
  in motion; his innovations ineffectual.

  HUMEL, Christian. Nuremberg in 1709.

  HUNGER, Christoph Friedrich, b. 1718, Dresden; d. 1787, Leipzig;
  excellent instruments.

  HUREL, Jean. Paris, living in 1686, Rue des Arcis, at the sign of
  “A l’image de St Pierre”; from 1689 to 1717, Rue St Martin, near
  the Fontaine Maubué. He was maker of instruments “pour la musique
  du Roy.”

  HUSSON. _See_ “Buthod.”


  IVRONTIGNI, Wougelli. Turin.


  JACOBS, Peeter. Amsterdam, about 1690-1740; prolific maker;
  sometimes mistaken for Nicola Amati; grand pattern; whalebone
  purfling; sweet tone.

  JACOBS. Amsterdam; probably son of Peeter; used dark red varnish of
  good quality.

  JACOT, A., eldest son of Jean Charles. Paris, 19th century.

  JACOT, Jean Charles. Metz, 1811-87.

  JACQUOT (Jacquart), Charles, 1804-80. Mirecourt; much esteemed;
  careful finish; a learned connoisseur and successful exhibitor.

  JACQUOT, Etienne Charles Albert, eldest son of Pierre Charles
  Jacquot, b. 1853-82, Nancy.

  JACQUOT, Jules Victor, second son of Pierre Charles Jacquot, b.
  Aug. 12, 1855.

  JACQUOT, Pierre Charles, son of Charles Jacquot; b. March 10,
  1828-94. Nancy; had a great reputation, and exhibited beautiful
  instruments at various Exhibitions; his two sons worked with him.

  JAIS, Johann. Botzen, 1775; varnished brown.

  J’ANSON, Edward Popplewell. Manchester. Learnt from William Booth,
  jun.

  JAUCH, Johann, b. Gratz, Styria; in Dresden, 1765-74. Cremona
  pattern; learned maker; tone rather harsh.

  JAY, Henry. A maker of viols in London about 1615-67; justly
  celebrated, and on the verge of the violin period.

  JAY, Henry. Worked in London about 1746-68. He was best known
  for the small violins or “kits” that he made, which were used by
  dancing-masters; also made some violoncellos.

  JAY, Thomas. Working in London from about 1690; made some excellent
  violins.

  JEANDEL, Pierre Napoleon, 1812-79. Courcelles-sous-Vaudémont
  (Meurthe), Rouen, and Paris; red varnish; good tone.

  JOHNSON, John. London, 1750-60. Stainer pattern.

  JOMBAR, Paul, Paris. He worked for Gand and Bernardel; started his
  own business in 1892.

  JORIO, Vincenzo. Naples, 1847, Good.

  JOSEPH, J. Vienna, 1764.

  JULIANO, Francesco. Rome, 1620-70.


  KEMBTER. Dibingen, 1725-30. Varnish yellow or reddish; neat maker.

  KENNEDY, Alexander. Scotland, 1695-1785. Excellent maker; high
  repute; spirit varnish, brown; Stainer pattern.

  KENNEDY, John. London, 1816. Buried in Shoreditch Church. Pupil of
  Alexander Kennedy. Violins and violas, all very arched; Stainer
  pattern.

  KENNEDY, Thomas, 1784-1870, London. Son of John Kennedy. Worked
  sometimes for William Forster; made at least 300 violoncellos, as
  well as other instruments. Good tone, fine finish.

  KERLINO, Joann.

  KIAPOSSE, Sawes. St Petersburg, 1748-50.

  KIESGEN, Louis. Paris. Fine workman. Pattern of Gand; red varnish.

  KIRSCHSCHLAG. Tyrol, 1780.

  KLEIN, A. In 1884, Rouen. Important firm. Red varnish. High
  Exhibition awards.

  KLOSS, Ernst. Breslau.

  KLOTZ (Kloz), Egidius. (_See_ p. 119.)

  KLOTZ, George, son of Mathias and grandson of Egidius Klotz.
  Mittenwald, 1750-70.

  KLOTZ, Johann Carl. Mittenwald, about 1740-55. Excellent work; dark
  varnish.

  KLOTZ, Joseph, brother of George Klotz. Mittenwald, 1774. Also
  followed the Stainer pattern.

  KLOTZ, Mathias, son and pupil of Egidius. 1650. His three sons,
  George, Sebastian, and Joseph, were all makers.

  KLOTZ, Michael and Carl, two brothers. Mittenwald about 1770. A
  great many of the violins with “Stainer” labels are made by members
  of the Klotz family.

  KLOTZ, Sebastian, a brother of Joseph and George Klotz. 1700-40.
  The best maker in the family. Large pattern, not much arched;
  varnish is excellent, the tone clear and full.

  KLÜHER. Markneukirchen, Saxony.

  KNITTING, Philipp. Mittenwald, 1760.

  KNITTLE (Knitl), Joseph. Mittenwald, 1790.

  KNOOP, Wilhelm. Meiningen. Stainer pattern; good.

  KOEUPPERS, Jean. The Hague, 1755-80. Well-made fiddles; ugly yellow
  varnish.

  KOLB, Hans. Bavaria, 1666.

  KOLDITZ, Johann. Rumburg, Bohemia, 1796. Good violins and violas.

  KOLDITZ, Mathias Johann. Munich, 1720-55.

  KOLIKER, Jean Gabriel. Paris, 1783-99. Clever repairer.

  KRAMER, H. Vienna in 1717.

  KRIGGE, Heinrich. Danzig, 1756-58. Maggini pattern, model large
  size, neat edges and work, and double purfling in ink.

  KRINER, Joseph. Mittenwald, 1785-95.

  KRUPP, Pierre. Worked in Paris, Rue St Honoré, 1777-91; he also
  made harps.

  KÜHLEWEIN UND TETZNER. Makers in Markneukirchen. Exhibited in
  Munich, 1854.

  KÜNTZEL. Berlin. He exhibited a quintet of instruments in London,
  1862; tone excellent.

  KUNTZEL, Laurent. 1790. Hof Bavaria and Breslau, 1815-55. Excellent
  violins on Italian model.


  LACROIX, Salomon. Nineteenth century.

  LAFLEUR. London, brother of the Parisian maker.

  LAFLEUR, Jacques. A bow-maker in Paris. Excellent disciple of
  Tourte.

  LAFLEUR, Joseph René, son of Jacques. 1812-74. Excellent bow-maker.

  LAFRANCHINI, Jacobo de. Worked for Maggini.

  LAGETTO, Louis. An Italian maker; Paris, 1745-53; early Italian
  model.

  LAMBERT. Prolific but indifferent maker.

  LAMBERT, Jean Nicolas. Paris, 1743-85. Not remarkable.

  LAMBIN. Clever repairer in Ghent, 1800-30.

  LAMY, N. Alfred Joseph. A bow-maker; 1850-89, Mirecourt; excellent.

  LANDI, Pietro. Sienna, 1774.

  LANDOLFI, Carlo Ferdinando. Milan, 1740-75. Unequal maker; at his
  best often mistaken for Joseph or Peter Guarnerius; £50 outside
  price, but rising in value.

  LANTEZ, M. E., son-in-law of Grandjon, sen. Mirecourt.

  LANZA (Lansa or Lausa), Antonio Maria. Brescia about 1675; followed
  the patterns of Gasparo da Salò and Maggini; excellent maker.

  LAPAIX, J. A. Lille (Nord, France), 1840-55. Tried many new shapes
  with moderate success; industrious and ingenious.

  LAPRÉVOTTE, Etienne. Mirecourt; 1856, Paris. Made good violins;
  beautifully finished; also guitars.

  LARCHE. Brussels, 1847. Dyed his fiddles with acids, with usual
  result of impoverished tone.

  LARCHER, Pierre. Tours, 1785. Pupil of Guersan, Paris, but work
  dissimilar; brown varnish of poor quality.

  LASKA, Joseph. 1738-1805, Prague. Pupil of J. Kolditz; worked for
  best makers in Dresden, Berlin, Vienna, and Brünn; his violins
  popular in Bohemia, Saxony, and Poland.

  LAUTTEN, L. W. Tyrol. One “fine and handsome” violin known.

  LAVAZZA (or Lacasso), Antonio Maria. Milan about 1700; Stradivari
  pattern; good varnish, pale red.

  LAVAZZA, Santino. Was working in Milan at the same time as Antonio
  Maria Lavazza.

  LEB. Pressburg, eighteenth century; one of the best German makers
  of his time.

  LE BLANC. Family of makers who, through four generations, worked in
  Paris, eighteenth century.

  LEBLANC, Claude. Mirecourt, eighteenth century.

  LECLERC, J. N. Paris, 1760-80; good maker and repairer.

  LECOMTE (or Fouquet-Lecomte), Antoine. Paris, 1775-1800.

  LECUYER, Pierre. Paris, 1775-83.

  LEDUC, Pierre. Paris, 1647; one of the oldest makers there.

  LEEB, J. Carl. 1792-1819. Vienna.

  LEFEBVRE (Lefebre), J. B. A Frenchman who worked in Amsterdam,
  1735-70; Amati pattern; yellow varnish.

  LEFÈVRE (Lefebvre). Toussaint Nicolas Germain. Paris, 1783-89.

  LEGROS de la Neuville, Nicolas. French maker, eighteenth century;
  guitars, violins, and violoncellos.

  LE JEUNE. A family of makers who for several generations worked in
  Paris; nineteenth century.

  LE JEUNE, François. Paris, eighteenth century; violins and viols;
  not remarkable.

  LE JEUNE, Jean Baptiste. Made harps and violins in Paris;
  eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.

  LE JEUNE, Jean Charles. Paris in 1776; succeeded by his nephew,
  Guillaume Martin, in 1822.

  LE JEUNE, Louis. Paris, 1783-89.

  LE LIÈVRE. Paris, 1750-80.

  LEMBÖCK, Gabriel. 1814-92. Budapest; worked with Fischer in Vienna;
  copied Guarnerius; much esteemed.

  L’EMPEREUR, Jean Baptiste. Paris, 1750; few instruments.

  LENK, W., b. 1840; 1881, Schönbach bei Eger, Bohemia; worked under
  Klüher in Markneukirchen; then Berlin, Breslau, Vienna; finally
  settled at Frankfort; fair maker.

  LENTZ (Lenz), Johann Nicolaus. Came from the Tyrol to London;
  friend of Bernhard Fendt; varnished like Dodd and J. F. Lott.

  LEONI, Carlo. Treviso, 1861.

  LEONI. Parma in 1816.

  LE PILEUR, Pierre. Paris, 1750-55. Not very good.

  LÉTÉ, Simon, b. about 1768; 1828 made very cheap, good fiddles for
  £1; at one time a partner of J. B. Vuillaume.

  LEWIS, Edward. London about 1700. An excellent maker; yellow and
  red varnish; in Thomas Britton’s collection was an “excellent tenor
  by Mr Lewis” and a “rare good” bass-violin.

  LIEBICH, Ernst, b. Oct. 27, 1796-1876; Stradivari and Guarneri
  pattern; he was the father of

  LIEBICH, Ernst. 1830-84, Breslau. Italian pattern. His son,

  LIEBICH, Ernst. 1862-95, Breslau. Excellent repairer; makes few,
  but good; best Italian patterns.

  LIEBICH, Johann Gottfried. 1752-1813.

  LIEDOLF, Joseph Ferdinand. Vienna eighteenth century.

  LIGNOLI, Andrea. Florence, seventeenth century.

  LILLY, James. An English maker, 1821.

  LINAROLO (Linerolli), Francesco Giovanni. A family, seventeenth
  century; on the verge of the violin period; some of their
  instruments have been adapted for tenors.

  LIPPETA, J. G. Neukirchen, Saxony, 1771.

  LIPPOLD, Johann Georg. 1780. Fair maker; brown varnish.

  LOLIO, Giambattista. 18th cent.

  LOLY, Jacopo. Naples, 1627. Pattern of Grancino; yellow varnish;
  made large-sized tenors.

  LONGMAN AND BRODERIP, dealers who employed Jay or Benjamin Banks,
  and labelled with their own names.

  LORENZINI, Gaspare. Piacenza, eighteenth century.

  LOTT, George Frederick. 1775-1853.

  LOTT, George Frederick. 1800-1868.

  LOTT, John Frederick, son of G. F. Lott. (_See_ p. 219.)

  LOTZ, Theodor. Pressburg. 1730-40. Good violins.

  LOUIS. Geneva.

  LOUVET, Jean, brother of Pierre Louvet. Paris, 1730-60. Made bad
  fiddles, but good hurdy-gurdys and harps.

  LUDICI (Ludge), Geronimo Pietro. An amateur maker in Conegliano in
  1709.

  LUGLONI, Giuseppe. Venice in 1777.

  LUPO, Pietro. Antwerp. In 1559 he is said to have sold to a
  musician sent by the town of Utrecht, “five violins enclosed in
  their case,” for the sum of £72.

  LUPÔT, François, son of Laurent Lupôt.

  LUPOT, Nicolas. The greatest of the family. (_See_ p. 106.)


  MACGEORGE. Edinburgh, 1800-20.

  MACINTOSH. Dublin, 1830-40. Pupil of Thomas Perry.

  MAFFEOTTO, Giuseppe. Rome, eighteenth century.

  MAGGINI (Magino or Maglino), Gio Paolo. (_See_ p. 32.)

  MAIRE, Nicolas. A violin bow-maker in Paris; 1800, in Mirecourt;
  1878, Paris; apprenticed to Jacques Lafleur; he made excellent bows.

  MALDONNER. Füssen, Bavaria, 1760.

  MANN, Hans. Naples, 1720-50. His instruments are rare; Stradivari
  and Guarneri patterns.

  MANTEGAZZA (or Mantegatia), Pietro and Giovanni. Two brothers
  working in Milan about 1750-1800; they made many good altos.

  MANTOVANI. Parma, eighteenth century.

  MARATTI, Giambattista. Verona about 1690-1700. Good tone.

  MARCELLI, Giovanni. Cremona in 1696.

  MARCHETTI, Enrico. Turin, nineteenth century. Good maker.

  MARCHI, Giovanni Antonio. Bologna, 1740-95. Good violoncellos and
  violins; violins high model; beautiful maple-wood back and sides;
  varnish golden yellow.

  MARCO, Antonio. Venice, 1700.

  MARCONCINI, Giuseppe. Pupil of Storioni; Ferrara, where he died at
  a great age, 1841; unequal maker; very good sometimes.

  MARCONCINI, Luigi. A pupil of Omobono Stradivari, 1760; Ferrara and
  Bologna; good workmanship; pale red varnish.

  MARIANI, Antonio. Pesaro, 1640 to 1700; not of much value; reminds
  of Maggini, but rough, purfling double.

  MARINO, Bernardino. Rome. Worked up to 1805.

  MARQUIS DE LAIR. Mirecourt, 1800. Violins and violoncellos of
  Stradivari pattern; work poor, the wood not good; varnish ugly
  brown; tone bad.

  MARSHALL, John. London about 1750-60. Stainer pattern; work good.

  MARTIN. A family of makers in Paris, chiefly repairers.

  MARTIN, Jules. Germigny, Vosges.

  MARTIN. London, 1790-95, who lived at Hermitage Bridge, Wapping.

  MAST, Jean Laurent. Paris, 1750. His instruments are well made;
  violins; blackish varnish.

  MAST, Josephus Laurent, son of Jean Laurent Mast. Mirecourt; still
  there in 1820; better than his father, but not very noteworthy.

  MAUCOTEL, Charles, brother of Charles Adolphe Maucotel. 1807-60,
  Mirecourt. Studied under Gand; went to London; excellent tone.

  MAUCOTEL, Charles Adolphe, brother of Charles. 1820-58, Mirecourt.
  Apprenticed in Mirecourt; went to Paris; worked under J. B.
  Vuillaume; excellent copyist of Stradivari.

  MAUSSIELL (or Mansiedl), Leonhardt. Nuremberg, 1720-50. Stainer
  pattern; very good.

  MAYR (Maier), Andreas Ferdinand. Salzburg, about 1740-80. Is said
  to have made the small violin on which Mozart learned to play.

  MAYSON, Walter H. A maker in Manchester who began as an amateur,
  but soon adopted violin-making as a profession. His instruments are
  excellent.

  MEARES, Richard. A maker of lutes. London in 1677; lute and
  viol-maker on verge of the violin.

  MÉDARD, Antoine, b. 1621. (_See_ p. 187.)

  MÉDARD, François.

  MÉDARD, Henri.

  MÉDARD, Jean.

  MÉDARD, Nicolas.

  MÉDARD, Sébastien.

  MEIBERI, Francesco. Leghorn, 1745-50.

  MELLING. Paris, 1753-71.

  MELLINI, Giovanni. Guastalla, Italy, 1768.

  MELONI, Antonio. Milan, about 1670-95. Followed the Amati pattern;
  his instruments are small, but good tone.

  MENNÉGAND, Charles. Nancy, 1885. Apprenticed at Mirecourt; went
  to Paris and Amsterdam; worked with Rambaux; returned to Turin;
  consummate repairer.

  MENNESSON, Emile. 1842-98, Rheims. Has made 2380 violins; fine
  copyist of Stradivari’s “Messiah” period; gold medallist.

  MÉRIOTTE, Charles. Lyons about 1730-60. Made on the Stradivari
  pattern; yellow-brown varnish; good workmanship.

  MERLIN, Joseph. London, 1770-80. His violins and his mechanical
  pegs for violins and violoncellos at first the vogue, but have
  not maintained their place; he followed the high Stainer model;
  instruments were well made, but tone not good.

  MESSEGUER. A Spanish maker, 1646.

  METTE, François. A maker in the South of France.

  MEZADRI (Mezzadie), Alessandro. Ferrara, 1690-1720. Amati school,
  but failed to rival their grace; inferior tone.

  MEZADRI (Mezzadie), Francesco. A maker at Milan about 1700-20; his
  altos were of small pattern.

  MIALFI, Joannes. A Spanish maker about 1769; nothing remarkable.

  MICHAUD. Paris about 1788.

  MICHELIS, Pelegrino (or Peregrino) di Zanetto, son of Zanetto de
  Michelis, b. 1520. Made lutes and other instruments in Brescia; on
  the verge of the violin; a fine tenor known.

  MICHELOT, Jacques Pierre. Paris about 1780-95, at the sign of “A la
  Mélodie.” He made five-stringed viols and violins.

  MIER. London, 1786.

  MIGGÉ, Otto, b. June 16, 1857, Coblenz; made 80 violins and 14
  violoncellos; good tone.

  MILANI, Francesco. Milan about 1740-60. School of Lorenzo
  Guadagnini.

  MILHET. Bayonne, 1820.

  MILLE. Aix-la-Chapelle. A small pocket-violin is known.

  MILLER. London, 1750.

  MILLER, A. St. Andrews, Scotland.

  MINOZZI, Matteo. Bologna, eighteenth century.

  MIRAUCOURT, Ludovic (or Joseph). On verge of violin; still made
  viols in 1743.

  MIREMONT, Claude Augustin, son of Sébastien Miremont. 1827,
  Mirecourt; d. 1887, Pontorson (Manche); in 1844 to Paris, and
  worked first with Lafleur, then with Bernardel until 1852, when
  he left France for America, and settled in New York; returned to
  France; made chiefly violoncellos; excellent tone; Stradivari
  pattern.

  MIREMONT, Sébastien. Mirecourt, 1810.

  MODESSIER. Paris in 1810. His instruments a large pattern;
  excellent wood.

  MOERS, Jean Henri. Paris, 1771.

  MOHR, Philipp. Hamburg, 1650.

  MOINEL, Charles, nephew of N. E. Cherpitel. Paris, 1893. Continued
  Cherpitel’s business.

  MOITESSIER, Louis. Mirecourt, 1780 to 1825. He made a large number
  of instruments; many violins; rather common; fair tone.

  MOLDONNER. Fussen, Bavaria, 1756-98.

  MOLINARI, Antonio. Venice, 1672-1703.

  MONGENOT. Rouen, 1763.

  MONTADE (Montani or Montaldi), Gregorio. Cremona, 1690-1735. Pupil
  or imitator of Omobono Stradivari; fairly good.

  MONTAGNANA, Domenico. A celebrated maker in Venice about 1720-50.
  (_See_ p. 87.)

  MONTRON. Paris, 1780-90.

  MORELLA, Morglato. A maker of lutes, rebecs, and viols, 1510-50;
  has lasted into the violin epoch on account of his viols having
  been cut down for violas.

  MORONA, Antonio. Istria (Istrien) in 1731.

  MORRISON, John. 1760-1830. Poor maker; did job work for the trade.

  MOTTENHAVER, Edward. New York, U.S.A., who has taken out a great
  many patents for inventions.

  MOUGENOT, Georges. 1843-98, Mirecourt (Vosges). Worked in Brussels
  for N. F. Vuillaume, and succeeded him; uses “hands,” but plans
  and finishes himself; gold medallist.


  NADOTTI, Giuseppe. Piacenza, 1760-70.

  NAMY, Jean Théodore. Paris, 1755-1807; fine restorer; worked for
  Salomon’s widow in Paris.

  NAYLOR, Isaac. A pupil of Richard Duke; worked at Headingly, near
  Leeds, 1778-92.

  NERMEL, J. M. Paris, 1777-89.

  NEUNER, Ludwig. 1840, Mittenwald (Bavaria). Grandson of Mathias
  Neuner, also a clever maker of violins, who worked for some time
  in London; worked for J. B. Vuillaume, Paris; settled in Berlin;
  accomplished maker; sends out from his firm 20,000 instruments a
  year; very cheap and good money’s worth; can do better quality when
  he chooses.

  NEWTON, Isaac. London about 1775-1825. He made fairly good
  instruments, but used a dingy yellow varnish. Sometimes made
  violins and violoncellos for Betts, but these were always varnished
  by the latter.

  NEZOT. Paris, 1730-60; transition maker from viols to violins; only
  a few violins.

  NICOLAS, Didier, l’aîné (known as “deaf Nicolas”), 1757-1833,
  Mirecourt; clever workman and large employer; large pattern, loud
  tone; suitable for orchestra.

  NICOLAS, François Nicolas Fourrier (was known simply as “Nicolas”),
  b. Oct. 5, 1758. 1816, Paris. Made all the instruments used in the
  private orchestra of Napoleon I.; careful choice of wood; good
  proportions; closely copied from beautiful specimens of Cremona;
  not much in fashion now, but good violins of his still about.

  NICOLAS, Joseph, son of Didier Nicolas. 1796-1864. Mirecourt;
  eccentric maker; after his death his stamp and his father’s sold
  off with stock, and used for violins made by neither. Pupil and
  successor of his father.

  NICOLAS, Mathieu. Mirecourt. His instruments of ordinary
  workmanship, some yellow or red varnish.

  NIGGELL, Simpertus. A maker of viols and violins. Fussen, 1743-66;
  transition maker of viols and violins; flat pattern.

  NORBORN, John. London, 1723.

  NORMAN, Barak, b. 1688; d. 1740. (_See_ p. 125.)

  NORRIS, John, b. 1739, London; d. March 10, 1818; pupil of Thomas
  Smith; went into partnership with Robert Barnes in 1765.

  NOVELLO, Pietro Valentino, brother of Marco Antonio Novello.
  Venice, eighteenth century.

  NOVELLO, Marco Antonio, a brother of Pietro Valentino Novello; in
  Venice at the same time; good work.

  NOVERSI, Cosimo. Florence, seventeenth century.


  OBBO, Marco. Naples, 1712; ordinary work.

  OBICI (Obue), Bartolommeo. Verona in 1684.

  ODANI, Giuseppe Morello. Naples, 1738.

  ODOARDI, Giuseppe. Working until 1675, Ascoli, Italy; some
  confusion about his date, 1675-1740; died at 28; self-taught; an
  original genius; about two hundred violins; much valued when can be
  found.

  OHBERG, Johann. Stockholm in 1773; fairly good; a yellow varnish.

  ONEDA, Gio. Battista, b. 1529. A maker of cithers and violins (?)
  in Brescia about 1562.

  ONGARO, Ignazio. Venice, 1783.

  ORLANDELLI, Paolo. Codogno, Italy, eighteenth century.

  ORTEGA. 1840; maker and repairer. Madrid.

  OSTLER, Andreas. Breslau, 1730; chiefly viols.

  OTTO, Carl August, fourth son of J. A. Otto; b. 1801, Jena; d.
  1883, Ludwigslust; maker to the Mecklenberg-Schwerin Court.

  OTTO, Carl Christian, second son of J. A. Otto, 1792; Halle;
  repairs old instruments.

  OTTO, C. W. F. Louis, fifth son of J. A. Otto, 1805-84, Stockholm.

  OTTO, Georg August Gottfried, eldest son of J. A. Otto; 1789,
  Weimar; 1857, Jena; good maker.

  OTTO, Heinrich Wilhelm, third son of J. A. Otto; b. 1796. Amsterdam
  and Berlin.

  OTTO, Hermann, son of Ludwig Otto, 1859-84. Cologne, St Petersburg.

  OTTO, Jacob August; b. 1764, Gotha; d. 1830, Jena. Pupil of Franz
  Anton Ernst at Gotha; settled in Weimar; maker to the Court; worked
  also in Halle, Leipzig, Magdeburg, Berlin, and Jena; fine repairer,
  but made excellent violins and violoncellos. His five sons all
  became violin makers.

  OTTO, Ludwig, son of Georg August Gottfried Otto; b. 1821, Jena;
  1887, St Petersburg, Cologne, St Petersburg. He exhibited three
  violins, a viola, violoncello, and double-bass, in London, 1862.
  They were all well made, and were moderately priced.

  OTTO, Louis, son of Carl August Otto; b. July 15, 1844,
  Ludwigslust. Pupil of his father in Ludwigslust, 1860-65; in
  Cologne, 1865-66, then went to Hanover, 1872; then still there
  (1898); careful in selection of wood; large Stradivari pattern;
  excellent work; has made 238 violins, and many tenors and ’cellos.
  First prizeman, Chicago and Melbourne.

  OUVRARD, Jean. 1725-46; pupil of Claude Pierray. Transition maker,
  but true violoncello pattern, though continued to make viols.


  PACHERELE, Michel. A maker in Paris in 1779; followed Guersan;
  slightly arched; yellow varnish.

  PACHERELE, Pierre. 1803, Mirecourt; 1871, Nice; fellow-apprentice
  of J. B. Vuillaume at Mirecourt; worked at Genoa, and with
  Pressenda, Turin; made a great many violins, altos, and
  violoncellos, all of good workmanship; varnish too thick; took
  Stradivari for his model; a clever repairer.

  PACQUET. From Aix; working in Marseilles in 1785.

  PADEWET, Johann. A good maker; d. about 1874; started at Basle,
  1844, but moved to Carlsruhe.

  PADEWET, Johann, son of Johann Padewet; b. Aug. 23, 1851-95,
  Carlsruhe. Hanover, Berlin, under Aug. Riechers till 1874. Assisted
  by two workmen, he makes forty to fifty instruments (violins,
  violas, and violoncellos) a year, on the Stradivari pattern, using
  oil varnish of reddish-yellow or golden-brown colour; good repairer.

  PAGANI, Gian Battista. Cremona, 1747.

  PAGANONI, Antonio. Working in Venice in eighteenth century.

  PAGEOT (Pajeot), son of Louis Simon Pageot; b. Jan. 25, 1791,
  Mirecourt; d. there Aug. 24, 1849. A maker of bows. In his
  workshops about 8000 dozens of bows were turned out at prices
  varying from 6d. to 14s.

  PALATE. Liège, 1710; Italian pattern; excellent instruments.

  PALMA, Paolo. Lucca, 1760.

  PAMPHILON, Edward. A maker in London, on London Bridge, about
  1680-90. (_See_ p. 124.)

  PANDOLFI, Antonio. Venice, 1700-20; good; yellow-brown varnish.

  PANORMO, Edward, either a son or a grandson of Vincenzo Panormo; he
  worked both in London and in Ireland.

  PANORMO, George. London. Probably a grandson of Vincenzo Panormo.

  PANORMO, George Lewis, second son of Vincenzo Panormo. Very good
  bows; fine guitars and a few good fiddles.

  PANORMO, Joseph, eldest son of Vincenzo Panormo. London. Died in
  great poverty; good workman; violoncellos excellent.

  PANORMO, Vincenzo (known as “old Panormo”), b. Nov. 30, 1734,
  Monreale, a village near Palermo, Sicily; d. 1813, London. Began
  at sixteen; worked in England, Ireland, and Paris; perhaps with
  Bergonzi in Cremona; excellent maker; powerful tone; Stradivari
  pattern; clear yellow varnish; also guitars.

  PANZANI (Pansani), Antonio. Rome, 1735-85; good maker.

  PAQUOTTE Frères. Henri Félix, 1857, and Placide, 1864, sons of Jean
  Baptiste Paquotte, to whose business they succeeded in July 1888.
  Paris; a few violins; excellent in tone, but firm chiefly repaired.

  PAQUOTTE, Jean Baptiste. Nephew of Sébastien Paquotte; one of the
  best Paris makers of the day, 1860-88.

  PAQUOTTE, Sébastien. Mirecourt, 1800-63, Paris. In 1830 he founded
  the business in Paris.

  PARALDIC. 1722.

  PARDI. Paris, 1788.

  PARDINI, Bastiano. 1700.

  PARIS, Claude. Paris, 1775. In 1816 was joined by his nephew;
  spirit varnish, a red-yellow colour.

  PARKER, Daniel. London, 1740-85. A very clever workman, possibly a
  pupil of Urquhart or Pamphilon. Red varnish, wood excellent, tone
  clear and powerful. He made largely for the trade; his instruments
  are often sold under other names; no viola or violoncello of his
  known. About 1793 instruments valued at five guineas each; about
  1805 they realised as much as fifteen.

  PARTH (or Perth), Andreas Nicolas. Vienna about 1790.

  PASTA, Domenico and Gaetano. Brescia about 1700-30; followed the
  Amati instead of the Maggini pattern; poor tone; varnish brown.

  PATZELT, Johann Ferdinand. Vienna.

  PAZZINI, Gian Gaetano. Florence, 1630-70. According to label a
  pupil of Maggini; instruments are not common.

  PEARCE, George; b. Nov. 16, 1820, Warminster; d. 1856, London. In
  the workshop of S. A. Forster as errand-boy, taught violin-making,
  and became an excellent workman.

  PEARCE, James and Thomas. Brothers working in London, 1780-1800;
  work poor.

  PEARCE, William. London.

  PECCATE, Charles. Maker of bows in Paris, 1889.

  PECCATE, Dominique. 1810, Mirecourt; d. there, Jan. 13, 1874. In
  1826 was apprenticed to J. B. Vuillaume at Paris, and worked with
  him until 1837; then François Lupot died, and Dominique succeeded
  to his business at 18 Rue d’Angivilliers; returned to Mirecourt;
  ranks next to François Tourte as a bow-maker; at first sold for
  16s., now price quadrupled.

  PECCATE, jeune. A brother of Dominique; also made bows; worked for
  J. B. Vuillaume; work is inferior to that of his brother, 1856.

  PEDRAZZI, Fra Pietro. A Dominican friar; working in Bologna in 1784.

  PEMBERTON, Edward. London in 1660; instruments ugly, but tone good
  and the varnish fine. It has been suggested that a Pemberton was
  the maker of the instrument presented to the Earl of Leicester
  by Queen Elizabeth which has “J. 15/78 P.” engraved on the
  tail-pin--supposed to be the initials of the maker and the date of
  the year (1578) in which it was made. If so, he was the earliest
  English maker of the four-stringed violin.

  PERAULT. A maker in Paris, 1775-77.

  PÉRON (or Perou), Nicolas. Paris, 1775-90; appointed maker to the
  Duchess of Orléans; instruments well made; yellow-brown varnish;
  Gagliano pattern.

  PERRY, Thomas. A maker in Dublin, 1767-1827. He was in partnership
  with William Wilkinson; they made good violins.

  PERSOIT. Maker of excellent bows in Paris. He made for J. B.
  Vuillaume, 1823-41; but then started a business of his own. He
  marked his bows “P. R. S.”

  PETERS, Michael. Weyberg in 1801, judging from two labels in a
  bass-viol of seven strings; the first runs: “Dieses Instrument ist
  gemacht, anno 1627,” the second is “Arranschirt von Michael Peters
  in Weyberg, anno 1801.”

  PETZ. Fussen, Bavaria, 1770.

  PEZZARDI. Brescia, 1580-1610; violins similar to those of Maggini;
  sometimes sold as Maggini.

  PFAB. Hamburg.

  PFRETZSCHNER, Carl Friedrich, son of Johann Gottlob Pfretzschner.
  Worked in Cremona; no great merit.

  PFRETZSCHNER, Johann Gottlob. Cremona, 1794; not good.

  PFRETZSCHNER. Neukirchen.

  PICHOL. Paris.

  PICINO. Padua, 1712; instruments arched; dark varnish.

  PIERRARD, Louis, 1890. A maker of excellent violins, with red-brown
  varnish, and of good tone, Brussels; pupil of Mougenot, but started
  his own business in 1883; wrote “Traité de lutherie.”

  PIERRAY (or Pierret), Claude. A contemporary of Boquay; he worked
  in Paris about 1700-30.

  PIETE (PICTE), Noel. Paris, 1760-1810; beautifully finished
  workmanship.

  PILLEMENT, F. Paris, 1790-1820; capricious maker; dark varnish.

  PILOSIO, Francesco. Gorizia in 1748.

  PIQUE, François Louis; b. 1758 at Rorei, near Mirecourt; d. 1822,
  Charenton St Maurice. Went to Paris in 1777.

  PIROT, Claude. Paris, 1800-20; good violins, Italian pattern;
  bellies slightly arched, backs hardly at all; the sound-holes well
  cut; varnish thick, red-brown or pale yellow colour.

  PITET (or Pilet). A maker in Paris latter part of the seventeenth
  century; no great value.

  PIZZURMUS (Pozzurnus), David. Genoa, 1760.

  PLACK (Plach), Francis. Schœnbock, Bohemia, 1740-80; good violins.

  PLANE, W. Glasgow, 1860.

  PLANI, Agostino de. Genoa in 1778; commonplace.

  PLATNER, Michele. A Swiss; working in Rome in 1747; fair
  workmanship; rather arched; scroll well cut; varnish golden-red.

  PLUMEREL. Was working in Paris in 1740.

  PLUMEREL, Charles. Angers, France, in 1822.

  POIROS, Louis. French maker.

  POIRSON, Eloph. Paris, 1875-89; first an amateur, afterwards made
  for the trade; good work.

  POLIS. Luca de. Cremona in 1751.

  POLLUSCA (Pollusha), Antonio. Rome in 1751.

  PONS, César. Grenoble, 1780-1820; violins large size, arched; work
  not good.

  POLRON, Peeter. A double-bass used in the Cathedral of Antwerp is
  dated 1647.

  POSTACCHINI, Andrea. Firmo, 1824; excellent maker, and good
  repairer of instruments.

  POSTIGLIONE, Vincenzo. 1835 at Naples; good maker, and made many
  instruments, which rise every year in value.

  POWELL, Royal and Thomas. Two brothers who worked in London,
  1770-1800; employed by William Forster, and his son, William
  Forster; work neat and good.

  PRESSENDA, Giovanni Francesco; b. 1777, Turin; d. there, 1854.
  Was the son of a strolling fiddler, Raffaele Pressenda; went to
  Cremona; there studied violin-making under Lorenzo Storioni; learnt
  there to make the varnish for which his violins were afterwards
  noted; Stradivari pattern, not much arched, sound-holes well
  cut, proportions correct, wood good, but scrolls rather roughly
  finished; red-brown varnish of excellent quality.

  PRESTON, John. York, 1785-95.

  PREVÔT (or Prevost), P. Charles. Paris from 1775-89.

  PRIEUR, Claude Edme Jean. Paris, 1775-89.


  QUINOT, Jacques. Paris, 1660. Mentioned in 1680 as being “one of
  the most clever of the honourable luthiers of Paris.”


  RACCERIS. Mantua, 1670; similar to the Gagliano family, with one of
  whom he is said to have been in partnership.

  RAFFAELLE, Nella (or Della). Brescia, 18th century; pattern
  of Maggini; his instruments have the sides ornamented with
  inscriptions; brown varnish; no great merit.

  RAMBAUX, Claude Victor, 1806-71; at Darney in the Vosges; d. at
  Mirecourt. Went to Caen and worked under Thibout, 1824-27; then to
  Paris, where he worked with Gand; great repairer and adapter of old
  instruments by cutting down.

  RAMFPLER, Franz, 1834-90, Munich; pupil of Andreas Engleder,
  Munich; used his own invented varnish; made good fiddles.

  RANCE, Thomas. Brussels, about 1680-85.

  RANTA, Pietro. Brescia, 1733; Amati pattern.

  RASURA, Vincenzo. Lugo, 1785.

  RAU, J. F. Nuremberg; exhibited at Munich in 1854 a violin of good
  though rather coarse tone.

  RAUCH, Breslau, and Rauch of Würzburg, two brothers, 1730-60; good
  violins; used their own models; varnish red; tone sound.

  RAUCH, Jacob. Mannheim, 1720-50; good work; violins Stainer tone;
  excellent altos, violoncellos, and double-basses.

  RAUCH, Sebastian, 1725-90 Hamburg, and Leitmeritz in Bohemia;
  violins arched, not remarkable.

  RAUT, Jean. Bretagne; who worked in Rennes till about 1790; pattern
  of Guarneri; red varnish.

  RAUTMANN. Brunswick.

  RAWLINS. London in 1779.

  RAYMAN, Jacob; b. in the Tyrol, but settled in London about 1620-48.

  RAZENZO, Carole. Barcelona, 1690.

  REALLI, Cosmo Battista. Parma, 1667.

  RECHIARDINI, Giovanni (called “Zuano”). Venice, 18th century.

  REGNAUT (Renault), Jacques. Paris, 1665-85; a little pocket-violin,
  with silver purfling, was dated 1682; maker to the King.

  REICHEL, Johann Conrad, brother of Johann Gottfried. Neukirchen in
  1779.

  REICHEL, Johann Gottfried, brother of Johann Conrad. Absam; pupil
  of Stainer; work rough; red-brown varnish of poor quality.

  REMY. A French maker; 1840, Paris and London; Italian pattern; wood
  artificially aged.

  REMY, Hippolyte, eldest son of Jean Mathurin Remy. 1835-70 in
  Paris; no great merit.

  REMY, Jean Mathurin, son of Mathurin François Remy; b. 1770, Paris;
  d. 1854; his work same as father’s; oil varnish.

  REMY, Jules Hippolyte, second son of Jean Mathurin Remy; b. 1813,
  Paris; d. 1876.

  REMY, Mathurin François, 1775-91, Paris; yellow-brown varnish.

  RENAUDIN, Léopold; b. 1749, at Mirecourt; guillotined, May 7,
  1795. He settled in Paris, living in the Rue St Honoré from 1776
  till his death at the sign of “Aux amateurs”; fairly good violins,
  but too much arched; varnish almost black in colour; excellent
  double-basses.

  RENAULT, Nicolas. A French maker, 16th century.

  RENAULT, Sébastien. Paris, 1775-1805. Cithers of his are known
  dated 1779, 1786, and 1804; a violin is described as made on a
  good pattern, with yellow varnish of fair quality; worked with F.
  Chatelain. Advt.: “Renault et Chatelain, luthiers, font et vendent
  louent, achètent et raccommodent toutes sortes d’instruments de
  musique, etc., à Paris.”

  RENISTO. Cremona, 1735-40; pupil of Carlo Bergonzi, whose work he
  copied closely.

  RESLE, Andrea. Fiesso in 1740; good.

  REYNAUD, André. Tarascon, 1754-66; good violoncellos.

  RICHARDS. London.

  RICHELME, A. Marius. Marseilles; curves of the upper and lower
  bouts almost returning to the ancient viol-shape. He published in
  Marseilles, 1868: “Etudes et observations sur la lutherie ancienne
  et moderne.”

  RICOLAZZI, Lodovico, 1729.

  RIECHERS, 1836, Hanover; d. 1893, Berlin. Was first a pupil
  of L. Bausch at Leipzig, then moved to Berlin in 1872, at the
  special request of the violinist, Joseph Joachim; made excellent
  instruments on the Stradivari and Guarneri patterns; about 1000
  violins and over 200 violoncellos were made in his workshop.

  RIESS. A maker, Bamberg, about 1740-60; fair maker; Stainer pattern.

  RINALDI, Benedetto Gioffredo, Pupil of Pressenda; d. 1890. Turin.

  RIVOLTA, Giacomo. Milan, 1822. Good work.

  ROCCA, Giuseppe Antonio. Turin, 1835-55; worked at one time for
  Pressenda; Stradivari pattern; varnish is poor quality.

  RÖSCHER, C. H. W. Bremen, 1871.

  ROGER, G. Montpellier, 1820.

  ROGERI, Gian Battista; b. Bologna, 1650. Cremona, under Nicolo
  Amati; Stradivari was a fellow-pupil of his.

  ROISMANN, Johann. Breslau, 1680.

  ROL. Paris, 1753.

  ROMANO, Pietro. Pavia, 18th century.

  ROMARINI, Antonio. Cremona, 18th century.

  ROMBOUTS, Pieter. Amsterdam, 1705-35; he made violins, violas, and
  violoncellos, much arched; bright but thick varnish.

  ROOK, Joseph. London, about 1777-1830; good work; Forster pattern.

  ROPIQUET. Paris, 1810-30; he was an orchestral player; made some
  violins of no great value.

  ROSIERO, Rocco. Cremona, early part of 18th century.

  ROSIO, Paolo. 1857, Verolanuova; Brescia.

  ROTA, Giovanni. Cremona, 1800-10; rough work; varnish yellow.

  ROTA, Giuseppe Antonio. Turin, 1825; his work similar to that of
  Pressenda; varnish is red-brown.

  ROTH, Johann and Christian. Both about 1675, the former at
  Darmstadt and the latter at Augsburg.

  ROTTENBROUCK. Brussels, 1700-25; pattern of Amati; red-brown
  varnish.

  ROVETTA, Antonio. Bergamo, 1840-70.

  ROZE. Orléans, 1755-65; good workmanship; varnish yellow.

  RUGGERI (Rugieri), Francesco. 1668-1720. Was the first of a family
  of makers in Cremona, very often confused with Rogeri of Brescia.
  (_See_ p. 50.)

  RUGGERI (Rugieri), Giacinto, son of Francesco Ruggeri; b. in
  Cremona.

  RUGGERI (Rugieri), Guido. Cremona about 1720.

  RUGGERI (Rugieri), Pietro Giacomo and Giovanni Battista. Both
  working in Brescia about 1700-25.

  RUGGERI (Rugieri), Vincenzo, son of Francesco Ruggeri. Cremona
  about 1700-30, is also said to have worked in Brescia. He made many
  altos and violoncellos; work rough; last member of this family to
  make violins. He also used “il Per” on his labels, for the same
  reason, probably, viz., to distinguish his work from that of the
  Rogeri of Brescia.

  RUGGERI, Gianbattista. Cremona, _cir._ 1693.

  RUPPERT, Johann Heinrich. Erfurt about 1720. His violins, altos,
  and violoncellos were of a flat model, without linings, corner
  blocks, or purfling; loud tone, and dark brown varnish.


  SACCHINI, Sabattino. Pesaro in 1686.

  SACQUIN. Paris about 1830-60; instruments well made, especially the
  double basses; followed the Stradivari pattern.

  SAINT-PAUL, Antoine. Paris, about 1765-90. He was son-in-law and
  successor of Louis Guersan; his advertisement says, “Il fait
  et vend toutes sortes d’instruments de musique sçavoir; violons
  de Cremone, violons de sa façon et de toutes sortes d’auteurs;
  alto-violas, basses et contrebasses.”

  SAINT-PAUL, Pierre. Paris, 1740.

  SAJOT. Paris, 1730-35; instruments with flat backs; varnish
  yellow-brown; the work poor.

  SALINO, J. B. Rome in 1760; very arched; varnish bad, brown.

  SALLE, le Père. Paris about 1825-53. He made a few violins;
  beautiful copies of Guarneri; fine repairer and great connoisseur.

  SALOMON, Jean Baptist Deshayes. Rheims, 1747-70 (?); went to
  Paris, where his widow carried on the firm, employing Namy; later
  he settled in the Rue de l’Arbre-sec (about 1769). He died before
  1772, for in that year Namy is mentioned as working for the
  widowed Madame Salomon. He made few violins, but they show good
  work, and are on a similar pattern to those of Louis Guersan, his
  contemporary; they have yellow-brown varnish; unequal maker; some
  good violoncellos and bass viols.

  SALZARD, F. Paris.

  SANONI, Giovanni Battista. Verona, 1740; instruments much arched;
  rose-coloured varnish; good work.

  SANTAGIULIANA, Giacinto. Venice, 1830.

  SANTE, Pesaro. 1670.

  SANTE, Giuseppe. Rome, 1778.

  SANTO, Giovanni. Naples, 1700-30; copied Amati; small pattern; well
  made; varnish poor.

  SANTO SERAFINO; b. at Udine; worked in Venice about 1710-48. (_See_
  p. 90.)

  SANZO SANTINO (Santo Sentino). Milan, 18th century; good; resembles
  Grancino.

  SARACENI, Domenico. Florence, 17th century.

  SARAILLAC, François. Lyons, 1678-1712.

  SASSANO. Fine Italian maker; rarely met with; yellow varnish;
  beautiful free tone.

  SAUNIER, Edmond. 1754-80, Bordeaux and Paris. Was a pupil of
  Lambert of Nancy, the “Carpenter,” but did superior work.

  SAVANI, Giuseppe. Carpi, 1809.

  SAWITZKI (Sawicki), Nicolaus; b. 1792, Poland; d. 1850; settled in
  Vienna; good.

  SCARAMPELLA, Giuseppe, son of Paolo Scarampella; 1838-80 (?),
  Brescia, Paris, Florence. He restored the viola and the famous
  violoncello of Stradivari kept in the Istituto Musicale of
  Florence, and in 1884 succeeded Castellani as keeper of the
  collection of instruments there; makes new instruments, following
  the Stradivari or Guarneri del Gesù patterns; tone clear and
  strong; the work carefully done; reddish oil varnish.

  SCARAMPELLA, Paolo; b. Sept. 25, 1803, Brescia; d. April 7, 1870. A
  carpenter by trade, but made many violins, violoncellos, guitars,
  and mandolines.

  SCARAMPELLA, Stefano, son of Paolo Scarampella. Brescia, 1843;
  settled in Mantua; made many good violins.

  SCHAENDL, Anton. Mittenwald, 1753.

  SCHEINLEIN, Johann Michael, son and pupil of Matthäus Friedrich
  Scheinlein; 1751, Langenfeld; large Stainer pattern, but avoided
  the arching; full and pleasant tone; but wood not being thick
  enough, so not durable.

  SCHEINLEIN, Matthäus Friedrich, 1710, Langenfeld in Franken
  (Franconia); d. there, 1771. A violinist, but taking great interest
  in violin-making, began by repairing old instruments and finished
  by making new ones; much arched; dark brown varnish; work careful.

  SCHELMAYER, Christian. Cologne.

  SCHLICK, Leipzig.

  SCHMIDT. Cassel, 1817; Stradivari pattern, but edges are larger and
  purfling not so close to the sides; spirit varnish; wood of bad
  quality.

  SCHMIED. Vienna, 18th century.

  SCHÖNFELDER, Johann Adam. Neukirchen in 1743.

  SCHONGER, Franz. Erfurt, 18th century; fairly good.

  SCHONGER, Georg, son of Franz Schonger. Erfurt; better than his
  father, and left some good violins; Italian pattern; good repairer.

  SCHORN, Johann Paul; 1680-1716, Innsbrück; made excellent violins;
  much arched; good varnish.

  SCHÜNEMANN, Otto. German; appointed Director of the School of
  Violin-Making at Schwerin.

  SCHULZ, Peter. Ratisbon, 1854; German school; good.

  SCHUSTER, Gebrüder. Brothers who make cheap fiddles, 75s., good
  tone, at Markneukirchen.

  SCHUSTER, Michael. Also connected with the business in
  Markneukirchen, Saxony.

  SCHWARTZ, Bernard. French maker who settled at Strasburg,
  1795-1822; two sons, both makers.

  SCHWARTZ, Georges Frédéric; 1785-1849; and Théophile Guillaume,
  1787; Strasburg, 1861, sons of Bernard Schwartz. Pupils of
  their father, and at his death succeeded to his business, which
  became “Frères Schwartz.” Théophile was chiefly concerned in the
  instrument-making, Georges gave his time to making bows; he gained
  a well-merited reputation. His bows are generally marked near the
  nut with “Schwartz, Strasbourg.”

  SCHWARTZ, Théophile Guillaume, son of Théophile Guillaume Schwartz;
  b. Sept. 3, 1821. In 1852 he succeeded to the business in Strasburg
  at 2 Place Saint-Thomas; chiefly repairer.

  SCHWEIZER, Johann Baptist. Budapest, 1798-1875; pupil of Geisenhof
  in Vienna; his violins not arched; work neat.

  SEGHER, Girolamo; b. 1646. Was a pupil of Nicola Amati, and was
  working under him, 1680-82.

  SENI, Francesco. Florence in 1634.

  SERASATI, Domenico. Naples, 1710-50; fair.

  SICILIANO (Ciciliano), Antonio. Venice about 1600. A tenor and a
  bass viola da gamba in the Modena Museum, Vienna.

  SICILIANO, Gioacchino, son of Antonio Siciliano. Venice about 1680.

  SILVESTRE, Hippolyte; 1808, Saint-Nicolas-du-Port (Meurthe); 1879,
  Sommerviller, near Nancy. Was first a pupil of Blaise at Mirecourt,
  then of J. B. Vuillaume at Paris.

  SILVESTRE, Pierre, brother of Hippolyte; b. Aug. 9, 1801, at
  Sommerviller, near Nancy; d. 1859, Lyons. Was also a pupil of
  Blaise at Mirecourt, then went to Paris; worked with Lupot;
  excellent violins; made about 350 instruments, bearing his label:
  “Pierre Silvestre à Lyon, 185--.” When working with his brother,
  the label used was: “Petrus et Hippolytus Silvestre fratres
  fecerunt Lugdun.”

  SIMON. Salzburg, 1722.

  SIMON, Claude. Paris, 1733-88.

  SIMON, P.; b. 1808, Mirecourt. Went to Paris in 1838, where he
  worked for some months under D. Peccate; then to J. B. Vuillaume;
  made most excellent bows, and generally marked them with “Simon,
  Paris,” near the nut.

  SIMONIN, Charles. Mirecourt. Was apprenticed to J. B. Vuillaume at
  Paris, and became one of his most able workmen. In 1841 he settled
  in Geneva, then went to Toulouse; excellent maker.

  SIMOUTRE, Nicolas. 1788, Mirecourt; d. 1870, at Metz. His son,
  Nicolas Eugène, was also a maker.

  SIMOUTRE, Nicolas Eugène, son of Nicolas Simoutre. 1834-89,
  Mirecourt. Was first a pupil of his father, then of Darche in
  1852 at Paris; then of Ch. Roth in 1856 at Strasburg; worked in
  Strasburg, Mulhausen, Basle, and Paris; a prolific writer on his
  art.

  SIMPSON, James, and Son. Were musical instrument makers in London
  in 1794.

  SIRJEAN. Maker of bows in Paris, 1818.

  SITT, A. Prague, 1854. Stradivari pattern, which improve with age.

  SLAGHMEULEN, Jan Baptist van der. Antwerp, 1672. The varnish a pale
  brown.

  SMITH, Thomas. London, 1740-90. Pupil and successor of Peter
  Wamsley; fine violoncellos; Stainer pattern; rising in price. John
  Norris was a pupil of his. Label: “Made by Thos. Smith at the harp
  and hautboy in Pickadilly. London, 1756;” similar labels were used
  until 1766.

  SMITH, William. Hedon, Yorkshire, in 1786.

  SNEIDER, Giuseppe. Pavia, 1700-25. A pupil of Nicola Amati. Violins
  slightly arched; varnish is a rich yellow colour; instruments made
  by Girolamo, son of Nicola Amati, have often been attributed to
  Sneider.

  SNOECK (Schnoeck), Egidius. Brussels, 1731. Amati pattern; dark
  reddish varnish.

  SNOECK, Marc. Brussels, 1744. Clever repairer.

  SOCCHI, Vincenzo. Bologna, 1661.

  SOCQUET, Louis. Paris, 1750-80. Not good.

  SOLIANI, Angelo. Modena, 1752-1810.

  SOMER, Nicolas. Paris, 1725-50.

  SPEILER. A German maker, 18th century.

  SPRENGER, Anton. 1834, Mittenwald. Makes violins and violoncellos
  on the Stradivari and Guarneri patterns; oil varnish of good
  quality.

  STADELMANN (Statelmann), Daniel Achatius. 1680-1744, Vienna, who
  showed great ability in imitating the Stainer pattern; he used thin
  varnish of a deep amber colour; the work is well finished.

  STADELMANN (Statelmann), Johann Joseph, son of Daniel A.
  Stadelmann; good copyist of Stainer, 1764.

  STADL, Michael Ignatius. Vienna in 1770. Fair.

  STAINER, Andreas. Was working in Absam about 1660; made few violins.

  STAINER, Jacob, son of Martin Stainer and Sabina Grafinger. (_See_
  p. 93.)

  STAINER, Marcus, brother and pupil of Jacob Stainer; he worked in
  Laufen, Austria.

  STANZA, Giuseppe, b. 1663 in Venice. Pupil of Nicola Amati at
  Cremona.

  STATLEE, Anderl. Genoa, 1714. Pupil of Girolamo, son of Nicola
  Amati.

  STEININGER, François. Paris, 1827. Excellent maker.

  STEININGER, Jacob. Frankfort, 1775. Nicholas Diehl was a pupil of
  his.

  STIRBAT (Stirrat), David. Edinburgh, 1810-15; good.

  STORIONI, Lorenzo. 1751-80, Cremona. Worked at 3 Contrada
  Coltellai; he was one of the latest, if not the last of the
  celebrated makers of Cremona, and his instruments, though of great
  merit, show signs of decadence in the art. (_See_ p. 88.)

  STOSS, Bernard and Martin. Fussen, Bavaria; worked in Vienna; fair
  makers.

  STOSS, Franz. Fussen, Bavaria, 1750-98.

  STRADIVARI (Stradiuarius), Antonio, son of Alessandro Stradivari
  and Anna Moroni. (_See_ p. 61.)

  STRADIVARI, Francesco, son of Antonio Stradivari. 1671-1743.

  STRADIVARI, Omobono, son of Antonio. 1679-1742.

  STRAUBE (Staube). Berlin about 1770-75. Few known, but good;
  excellent repairer.

  STRAUS, Joseph. Neustadt, 1745-50.

  STRNAD, Caspar. 1750. He settled in Prague and worked there,
  1781-95; good maker.

  STROBL, Johann. Hallein in 18th century.

  STURGE, H. 1811-53, Bristol; repairer, Huddersfield.

  SULOT, Nicolas. Dijon, 1825-40. Eccentric maker.

  SURSANO (Sorsano), Spiritus. Cuneo, 1714-35; inferior.


  TACHINARDI. Cremona, 1690.

  TADOLINI. Modena, 19th century.

  TANEGIA, Carlo Antonio. Milan, 1725-30.

  TANIGARDI (Taningard), Georgio. Rome, 1735.

  TARR, William. Manchester, 1829-55; made some fair double-basses.

  TASSINI, Bartolommeo. Venice, 1754; followed Testore.

  TAYLOR, 1750, London; supposed pupil of Panormo; good instruments,
  principally double-basses, and clever at repairing old ones.

  TECHLER (Tecchler), David; 1666-1743. (_See_ p. 102.)

  TEDESCO (Todesco), Leopoldo, 1625-58; pupil of Nicola Amati in
  Cremona, 1653-54.

  TEODITI (Teoditti), Giovanni. Rome, 17th century.

  TERNYANINI, Pietro. Modena, 1755.

  TESTATOR, “Il Vecchio.” Milan, 1520; reputed transition maker from
  viol to violin.

  TESTORE, Carlo Antonio, eldest son of Carlo Giuseppe Testore.
  Milan, 1735-65; followed the Guarneri model; violoncellos and
  tenors very good; varnish golden-yellow.

  TESTORE, Carlo Giuseppe; b. at Novarra; settled at Milan about
  1687, and worked there till about 1720; pupil of Giovanni Grancino,
  for whose work his instruments are often mistaken; best workman in
  this family, but made few instruments. When the well-known Lindley
  “Grancino” violoncello was repaired in 1884, the removal of the
  Cremona label exposed the original label in good preservation,
  as follows: “Carlo Giuseppe Testore allievo di Gio. Grancino in
  Contrada Larga di Milano, 1690.” A double-bass of his was played on
  by the celebrated Bottesini at concerts; it had a splendid tone.
  Label: “Carlo Giuseppe Testore in Contrada larga di Milano al segno
  dell aquila, 1700.” He had two sons, Carlo Antonio and Paolo
  Antonio, both violin-makers.

  TESTORE, Giovanni, son of Carlo Testore, _q.v._

  TESTORE, Paolo Antonio, second son of Carlo Giuseppe Testore and
  the last maker of this name.

  THÉRIOT, J. B. Paris, 1783.

  THIBOUT, Aimé Justin. 1808-62, Caen.

  THIBOUT, Albert, son of Gabriel Adolphe Thibout. 1839-65, Paris;
  succeeded his uncle, Gabriel Eugène, as “luthier de l’Opéra,” and
  was succeeded in his turn by the brothers Gand.

  THIBOUT, Gabriel Adolphe, son of Jacques Pierre Thibout, 1804;
  Paris, 1858; not as good as his father.

  THIBOUT, Gabriel Eugène, son of Jacques Pierre Thibout. 1825 at
  Paris; succeeded his brother, Gabriel Adolphe, as “luthier de
  l’Opéra” in Paris; 1861, Boulogne-sur-Mer.

  THIBOUT, Jacques Pierre. 1777-1856, Caen. First worked at
  Caen, then under Koliker at Paris; fine maker; excellent tone;
  workmanship rivals best Cremona style; varnish red on amber ground.
  Advt.: “Nouveau procédé approuvé par l’Institut. Thibout, luthier
  du roi, rue Rameau, no. 8, à Paris, 1825.”

  THIBOUVILLE-LAMY, Jérôme. A little before 1867 he became sole
  proprietor of the various factories at Mirecourt; he gradually
  substituted mechanical for manual labour, and while increasing the
  number of instruments made, at the same time reduced their price,
  so that at last he was able to exhibit at Vienna in 1873 his famous
  violins at 4s., 8s., and 16s. each. By 1887, 35,000 instruments had
  been made by this firm. He was awarded a medal, Vienna, 1873; medal
  of honour, Santiago, 1875; prize medal, Philadelphia, 1876; and
  gold medal, London, 1885. He was made Chevalier of the Legion of
  Honour, April 10, 1877, and Officer, Jan. 15, 1892.

  THIN, Mathias and Georg. Vienna, 18th century; good.

  THIR, Johann Georg. Vienna, 1791.

  THOMASSIN. Worked under Clément at Paris, 1825-45; good.

  THOMPSON (Thomson), Robert. London, at the sign of the
  “Bass-Violin,” in St. Paul’s Churchyard, 1749-64; Stainer pattern.
  He was succeeded by his sons, Charles and Samuel, who worked about
  1775-85.

  THOROWGOOD, Henry. London, 18th century. Label: “Made and sold by
  Henry Thorowgood at the Violin and Guitar under the North Piazza of
  the Royal Exchange, 17--, London.”

  THUMHARDT, Munich and Straubing in the 18th century; German style.

  TIELKE, Joachim. One of a family of makers. Hamburg, 1539-1701. He
  was celebrated for the lutes, theorbos, guitars, and especially the
  viols of all kinds which he made, of very fine tone, ornamented
  with the richest and most varied inlaid work; one violin of his is
  also mentioned.

  TILLEY, Thomas. London, 1774.

  TIPHANON (Thiphanon), Jean François. Paris, 1775-1800.

  TIRLER, Carlo. Bologna, 18th century.

  TOBIN, Richard. London, 1790-1840; pupil of Perry, Dublin; worked
  for John Betts; followed the Stradivari or Guarneri patterns; good
  maker. A son of his was also a maker.

  TODINI, Michele, 1625. Lived in Rome; made a few violins.

  TOLBECQUE, Auguste, son of Auguste Joseph Tolbecque; 1830-51,
  Paris. He was a violoncellist; also worked at violin-making under
  Rambaux in Paris; made a small number of new instruments; extremely
  clever at restoring old ones.

  TONONI, Antonio. Bologna, 17th century.

  TONONI, Carlo, son of Felice. First worked, 1698-1739, Bologna;
  settled in Venice. His instruments vary; they are generally of
  a large pattern, not so highly arched as those of his brother
  Giovanni; varnish similar to that of Santo Serafino; yellow-brown
  colour. He often branded his monogram near the button of the
  tailpiece.

  TONONI, Felice. Bologna, 1670-90. He worked with his son Giovanni;
  their violoncellos have a great reputation in Italy.

  TONONI, Giovanni, son of Felice. Worked in Bologna till about 1705;
  few instruments of his are to be found.

  TOPPANI, Angelo de. Rome, 1720-40. His instruments are rarely
  seen, are similar to those of Techler, but more arched; varnish
  golden-yellow; sound-holes are cut large.

  TORELLI. Verona, 1625.

  TORING (Torring). Maker and repairer of violins; London, 1800.

  TORTOBELLO, Francesco. Rome, 1680; Maggini pattern.

  TOULY, Jean. Nancy, 1730-47. Label: “Fait par moy Jean Touly à
  Nancy, 1747.”

  TOURTE, François (“le jeune”); b. 1747, Paris; d. there, April
  1835. Was a younger brother of Xaver Tourte. (_See_ p. 163.)

  TOURTE, le Père. Settled in Paris about 1740.

  TOURTE, Xaver (l’aîné), eldest son of Tourte père.

  TRAPANI, Raffaele. Naples, 1810; workmanship is good; violins large
  patterns, with prominent edges and heavy purfling; the scroll
  Brescian type; varnish thick and of a red-brown colour.

  TRÉVILLOT, Claude. Mirecourt, 1698.

  TRINELLI, Giovanni. Italian.

  TRUNCO. Cremona, 1660.

  TRUSKA, Simon Joseph, 1734-1809, Raudnitz, Bohemia. Entered Strahow
  Monastery, Dec. 8, 1758, taking the vows, Jan. 1, 1761. Became
  proficient as a musician and composer, and then began to construct
  instruments, making violins, altos, violas d’amore, and bass-viols.

  TUBBS, James. A maker of excellent bows, Wardour Street, London.

  TURNER, William. London in 1650; splendid wood. Label: “William
  Turner, at ye hand and crown in gravelle lane neere Aldgate,
  London, 1650.”

  TYWERSUS. Instruments are similar to those of Andrea Amati. Nicolas
  Renault was a pupil of his. (_See_ p. 187.)


  UGAR, Crescenzio. Rome in 1790; work is German in character; brown
  varnish.

  UNGARINI, Antonio. Fabriano, 1762.

  URQUHART, Thomas. A maker in London about 1650-80; he was probably
  a Scotchman. His work resembles that of Jacob Rayman, with whom
  he may have worked, and shows great merit. His violins are of two
  sizes, some on a small, others on a large pattern, very arched, the
  corners not very prominent, the purfling narrow and placed close to
  the edge; the oil varnish, of a yellowish-brown or sometimes red
  colour, is of excellent quality, and is similar to Italian varnish;
  the tone is clear and silvery. His violins and violas are rare, and
  no violoncello of his has been seen. Urquhart is sure to rise in
  value, and some of his work is splendid in finish.


  VAILLANT (Vaillot or Vaillaut), François. Paris, 1736-83; good
  workmanship; varnish poor.

  VALENTINE, William. London, died about 1877; made good
  double-basses.

  VALLER. Marseilles, 1683.

  VANDELLI, Giovanni. Modena, 1796-1839; fair work.

  VANDERLIST. Paris, 1788-89. Guadagnini pattern and varnish. He
  branded his name on his instruments. Label: “Luthier, rue des
  Vieux-Augustins, près de l’égout de la rue Montmartre, Paris.”

  VAROTTI, Giovanni. Bologna, 1813.

  VARQUAIN. Paris, 1742.

  VAUCHEL, Joseph. Damm about 1840. He exhibited two violins at
  Munich in 1854, which had a fine tone, and was awarded the medal of
  honour. Hörlein was a pupil of his.

  VENZI, Andrea. Florence, 1636.

  VERBRUGGEN, Theodor. Is known as one of the makers in Antwerp in
  1641 by a double-bass which he made for use in the Cathedral.

  VERINI, Andrea. 1884.

  VERLE, Francesco. Padua about 1590. Label: “In Padova Francesco
  Verle.”

  VERMESCH, le Père. Beaumont-sur-Oise in 1781.

  VÉRON, Pierre André. Paris about 1720-50; good work; pattern
  Italian.

  VETRINI, Battista. Brescia about 1629; small pattern; wood is
  excellent; good yellow varnish.

  VETTER, Jeane Christophe. Strasburg in 1744.

  VIARD, Nicolas. Versailles, 1790.

  VIBERT, J. B. Paris, 1775.

  VIBRECHT, Gysbert. Amsterdam, 1700-10.

  VILLAUME ET GIRON. In a violin of fairly good workmanship was the
  printed label: “Villaume et Giron, Troyes, 170--.”

  VIMERCATI, Pietro. Do not confound with Gaspar, a lute-maker. A
  maker in Brescia in the 17th century; is thought to have been
  a pupil of Carlo Tononi in Venice; instruments arched; Maggini
  pattern.

  VINACCIA, Antonio. The head of a family of makers; worked in
  Naples, 1766-74; pattern of Gagliano. Two sons, Gennaro and
  Gaetano, were also makers, but chiefly of mandolines.

  VINACCIA, Pasquale, son of Gaetano, 1806-81.

  VINCENZI, Luigi. Carpi in 1775.

  VIORILLO, Giovanni. Ferrara, 1780; followed Stainer pattern.

  VIR, Hieronimo di. Bresa, Silesia.

  VITOR, de. A maker in Brescia in 1740; instruments similar in
  appearance to those of Maggini; large pattern; fine workmanship.

  VITUS DE ANGELIS. Bologna, 1609.

  VIVOLI, Giovanni. Florence, 1642.

  VOEL, E. Mayence, 1840; his instruments follow the Stradivari more
  than the German pattern; general workmanship good.

  VOGEL, Wolfgang; d. Feb. 17, 1650, Nuremberg; instruments much
  liked.

  VOGLER, Johan Georg. Würzburg in 1749. Label: “Johann Georg Vogler,
  Lauten und Geigenmacher in Würzburg, 17--.” His son was the
  celebrated Abbé Georg Joseph Vogler.

  VOGT. Good instruments, Vienna, in the Speigel-Gasse.

  VOIGT, Martin. Hamburg, 1726. His work is similar to that of
  Tielke. A bass-viol, the back inlaid in ivory, having Apollo,
  Venus, Mercury, and Diana represented, was dated Hamburg, 1726, and
  was exhibited at the South Kensington Museum, London, 1872.

  VOIRIN, François Nicolas. 1833, at Mirecourt; 1885, Paris. After
  working at Mirecourt, he went to Paris in 1855, and for fifteen
  years made bows for J. B. Vuillaume; he obtained as “collaborateur”
  a “mention honourable” at the 1867 Paris Exhibition; gold and
  silver medalist, Paris, 1867 and 1878; followed the Tourte pattern,
  but made the head of his bow less square; his workmanship shows
  wonderful finish and elegance. He was awarded a silver medal at
  the Paris Exhibition in 1878, the only prize given to bow-making;
  and some of his bows exhibited after his death at the Antwerp
  Exhibition were awarded a gold medal. He branded his bows with “F.
  N. Voirin, à Paris”; to this was added, on those bows exhibited at
  Paris, 1878, “Exposition, 1878.”

  VUILLAUME, Claude; b. 1772, Mirecourt; d. 1834. He is the first
  member known of this family of violin-makers.

  VUILLAUME, Claude François, fourth son of Claude Vuillaume; b.
  March 1807, Mirecourt. His son, Sébastien, was also a maker.

  VUILLAUME, Jean; b. 1700; d. 1740. A maker in Mirecourt; is said to
  have been a pupil of Stradivari, but his work shows no sign of it.

  VUILLAUME, Jean Baptiste, eldest son of Claude Vuillaume. 1798,
  Mirecourt; 1875, at Paris. (_See_ p. 110.)

  VUILLAUME, Nicolas, second son of Claude Vuillaume. 1800-71,
  Mirecourt. Worked with Jean Baptiste, his elder brother, for ten
  years at Paris.

  VUILLAUME, Nicolas François, third son of Claude Vuillaume.
  1802, Mirecourt; 1876, Brabant. He worked with his brother, Jean
  Baptiste, Paris; made fair instruments, and was a fine copyist of
  Stradivari.

  VUILLAUME, Sébastien, son of Claude François Vuillaume; b. 1835; d.
  1875, Paris. He was the last maker of this family, and continued to
  make bows on the same pattern as Jean Baptiste Vuillaume, having
  in his possession the machine for cutting bows which J. B. V. had
  invented shortly before his death. Bronze and silver medals: Paris,
  1867; Havre, 1868.


  WAGNER, Benedict. A maker of lutes and violins in Estwangen in 1769.

  WAGNER, Joseph. Constance, 18th century.

  WALDANER. Fussen, 1770.

  WALTER, Jean. Paris, 1775-1800.

  WAMSLEY, Peter. A maker in London about 1715-51. He had at one time
  a great reputation, especially for his violoncellos. He copied the
  Stainer pattern very closely, and also made a few imitations of
  Stradivari instruments; but in his attempts to obtain an Italian
  quality of tone he thinned the wood too much, making the tone sound
  hollow. His violoncellos with thicker wood have a fine tone, so
  have his double-basses; the latter are rare, and generally have red
  varnish.

  WEAVER, Samuel. London; known by his printed label, “All sorts of
  musical instruments made and sold by Saml. Weaver on London Bridge.”

  WEICKERT. Halle, 1800.

  WEIGERT, Johann Blasius. Linz, 1721; a viola d’amore known,
  labelled: “Joann Blasius Weigert Lauten und Geigenmacher in Linz,
  1721.”

  WEISZ (Weiss), Jacob. Salzburg, 1733-61.

  WENGER, Gregor Ferdinand. Salzburg, 1750-60.

  WENGER. Padua, 1622.

  WETTENENGEL, Gustav Adolph. Neukirchen, Saxony, 1828. He wrote an
  excellent practical treatise on violin-making.

  WEYMANN, Cornelius. Amsterdam, 1682.

  WIDHALM (Withalm), Leopold. Nuremberg, about 1750-80; imitated
  Stainer; wood carefully chosen, sometimes too thin; the varnish red
  colour, good quality. Several of his violins have double purfling,
  and are branded with his initials inside.

  WIGHTMAN, George. Only known by his label: “George Wightman, Wood
  Street, London, 1761.”

  WILLEMS, Hendrick. Ghent, Belgium, 1650-1700. An alto of large
  pattern has remarkably fine wood used for the belly; the corners
  are prominent and squared at the end; Brescian model; the neck ends
  in a lion’s head; the outline and the beautiful finish could almost
  be mistaken for Italian work, but the varnish is too dry. Nearly
  all his instruments have beautiful wood for the belly, but walnut,
  lime-tree, or plane-tree wood is frequently used for the back and
  the sides, especially in the case of the basses.

  WILLEMS, Hendrick. Ghent; some time after the previous Hendrick
  already mentioned. He made a violoncello or bass with five strings,
  labelled: “Heyndrick Willems tot Ghendt, 1717.” A violin, dated
  1743, had the belly made of carefully selected pine, the back of
  walnut, and the sides (very exceptional) of maple.

  WILLEMS, Jooris. Ghent, 1630-65; a cornet-player, 1634-71. The
  first mention of him is in August 1634; used lime-wood and
  finely-figured maple; Italian style.

  WILLER. Prague, 18th century.

  WISE, Christopher. Transition maker of viols and violins in London,
  1656; small pattern, not much arched; yellow varnish, good quality;
  careful work. Label: “Christopher Wise, in Half-Moon Alley, without
  Bishops-Gate, London, 1656.”

  WITHERS, Edward. He succeeded to William Davis’s business at 31
  Coventry Street, London, in December 1846. Both Charles Maucotel
  and Boullangier worked under him at one time.

  WITHERS, Edward, eldest son of Edward Withers, b. Oct. 22, 1844.
  Pupil of his father and John Lott. Commenced business at 31
  Coventry Street, London, in 1856; makes about twelve instruments
  per year, on the Stradivari and Guarneri patterns, using good oil
  varnish, amber colour.

  WITTING, Johann Georg. Mittenwald, about 1775; his instruments are
  well made; dark varnish.

  WORNUM, Robert, 1742-1815. A music-seller in Glasshouse Street,
  also a violin and violoncello maker.

  WORTE, Matthias. Augsburg, 1639.

  WRIGHT, Daniel. London, 1745. Label: “Made by Daniel Wright in
  Holborn, London.”


  ZACH. Vienna; makes good instruments.

  ZANFI, Giacomo. Modena, 1756-1822.

  ZANOLI, Giacomo. Padua, 1740.

  ZANOLI, Giambattista. Verona, 1730; rough work; German style.

  ZANOTTI, Antonio. Lodi and Mantua, 1734.

  ZANOTTI, Giuseppe. Piacenza, 18th century.

  ZANTI, Alessandro. Mantua, 1770; Stradivari pattern; poor varnish.

  ZENATTO, Pietro. Treviso, 1634.

  ZIMBELMANN, Filippo. Florence, 1661.

  ZIVERGER (Zwerger), Anton. Mittenwald, 1750; good wood; dark
  varnish; fair finish.




                         BIBLIOGRAPHY


It is very difficult to define my obligations to previous writers
and advisers when I owe almost everything to them; but I am bound
to state specially, that without Messrs Hill & Sons’ assistance and
counsel, and the works of Fétis, Vidal, George Hart, Heron-Allen, and
Mr Fleming, I could not have written this book at all. The preceding
list of makers has been largely adopted from Miss Stainer’s elaborate
Music Primer, “Violin Makers,” published by Novello.


ENGLISH.

HAMILTON, J. A. Hamilton’s “Catechism for the Violin.” London, 1848. R.
Cocks & Co. Fifteenth Edition, 1883, contains Preface by John Bishop.

FÉTIS, FRANÇOIS JOSEPH. “Biographical Notice of Nicolo Paganini.”
Includes a sketch of the history of the violin. Schott & Co. 8vo.

JOUSSE, J. “Theory and Practice of the Violin.” London, 1811.

MACDONALD, JOHN. “Practice and Theory of the Violoncello” (printed for
Author). London, 1811. Appendix, 1815. Also “A Treatise on the Harmonic
System, Divisions of Strings, &c. &c.” London, 1822.

OTTO, JACOB AUGUSTUS. “Treatise on the Construction, Preservation, and
Repairs of the Violin.” London: Longmans, 1833.

DUBOURG, GEORGE. “The Violin.” H. Colburn. London, 1836. Small octavo,
fifth edition. Enlarged by John Bishop, of Cheltenham, 1878. R. Cocks.

MACKINTOSH. “Remarks on the Construction and Materials employed in the
Manufacture of the Violin.” Dublin, 1837. 8vo pamphlet.

PAINE, JOHN. “A Treatise on the Violin.” Printed for the Author, 1850.

PURDY, GEORGE. “A Few Words on the Violin.” W. G. Goulburn, 1858.

SANDYS, WILLIAM, and FORSTER, SIMON ANDREW. “The History of the
Violin.” London, 1864. J. R. Smith, Addison, & Lucas. Large 8vo.

FÉTIS, FRANÇOIS, JOSEPH. “Notice of Anthony Stradivari.” R. Cocks.
Large 8vo. 1864.

PEARCE, JOSEPH, jun. “Violins and Violin-makers.” Longmans, 1866.

ADZE, WILLET. “Musical Notes,” including “Violinists” and “The Violin
and its History.” London, 1869. R. Bentley.

DAVIDSON, PETER. “The Violin.” Pitman: Edinburgh, Aberdeen, 1871. Small
octavo. Fourth edition, 1881.

READE, CHARLES. “A Lost Art Revived.” Gloucester, 1873. John Bellowes.
Large 8vo.

GOFFRIE, CHARLES. “The Violin.” Philadelphia, U.S.A., 1876. G. André &
Co. 8vo pamphlet.

SMITH, H. P. “The Construction of the Violin.” Syracuse, U.S.A., n.d.
(1877). Roblee & Co.

SCHEBEK, DR EDMUND. “The Violin Manufacture in Italy and its German
Origin.” London, 1877. W. Reeves. Large 8vo pamphlet.

BROADHOUSE, JOHN. “Facts about Fiddles.” London, n.d. (1879). W. Reeves.

PORTER, THOMAS. “How to Choose a Violin.” London, n.d. (1879). F.
Pitman. 8vo.

NICHOLSON, J. “Designs and Plans for the Construction and New Model of
Violin, and Arrangement of the New Model Violin.” London, 1880. Printed
by H. K. Lewis. Large folio.

HART, GEORGE. “The Violin, its Famous Makers.” London, 1875, 1884,
1880. Dulan & Schott. Large post 4to and small 8vo.

HART, GEORGE. “The Violin and its Music.” London, 1881. Dulan & Schott.

GEMÜNDER, GEORGE. George Gemünder’s “Progress in Violin-making.”
Astoria, New York, 1881. Published by the Author.

READE, CHARLES. “Jack of All Trades.” London, 1882. Chatto & Windus.

HERON-ALLEN, EDWARD. “Opuscula Fidicularum.” London, 1882. Mitchell &
Hughes.

HERON-ALLEN, EDWARD. “De Fidiculis Opusculum” II. London, 1883.
Mitchell & Hughes.

HERON-ALLEN. “Markneukirchen Arts and Crafts Book” (translated).

HILL & SONS. (1) “The Messie,” (2) “The Tuscan,” (3) “Gio. Paolo
Maggini.” Novello, Ewer & Co.

CHANOT, GEORGES. “Hodges _v._ Chanot.” London, 1882. Mitchell & Hughes.
Large 8vo pamphlet.

ENGEL, CARL. “Researches into the Early History of the Violin Family.”
London, 1883.


ITALIAN.

ZANNETI, GASPARO. “Il Scolaro.” Milan, 1645.

TARTINI, GIUSEPPE. A Letter from the late Signor Tartini to Signora
Maddalena Lombardini, translated by Dr Burney. London, 1771. R. Bremner.

BAGATELLA, ANTONIO. “Regole per la Costruzione de’ Violini, Viole,
Violoncelli, et Violoni.” Padova, 1786. A spese dell’ Accademia.

PANCALDI, CARLO. “Progresso Italiano nella Costruzione del Violino
operato da Antonio Gibertini da Parma.” Palermo, 1845. Tipografia
Maddalena. Small 8vo.

REGLI, FRANCESCO. “Storia del Violino in Piemonte.” Turin, 1863. Enrico
Dalmazzo. Large 8vo.

LOMBARDINI, PAOLO. “Cenni sulla celebre scuola Cremonese degli
stromenti ad arco.” Cremona, 1872. Tipografia dalla Noce. Large 8vo.

RINALDI, BENEDETTO-GIOFFREDO. “Classica Fabbricazione di Violini.”
Turin, 1873. Rinaldi. Large 8vo pamphlet.

VALDRIGHI, LUIGI FRANCESCO. “Liuteria Modenese antica e moderna.”
Modena, 1878. Toschi. 8vo.

---- Musurgiana No. 9. “Strumenti ad arco Rinforzati.” Modena, 1881. G.
T. Vincenzi e Nep. Large 8vo pamphlet.


FRENCH.

ROUSSEAU, JEAN. “Traité de la Viole.” Paris, 1687. Ch. Ballard. 8vo.

LEBLANC, HUBERT. “Défense de la basse de Viole contre les Entreprises
du Violon et les pretensions du Violoncelle.” Amsterdam, 1740. P.
Mortier. 16mo.

JACQUOT, A. “Music in Lorraine.”

TERRASSON, A. “Sur la Vielle.” Paris, 1741.

LECLAIR, JEAN MARIE. “Tablature idéale du Violon.” Paris, 1766. 8vo.

SIBIRE, L’ABBÉ. “La Chelonomie.” Paris, 1806. Brussels, chez l’Aullur
et Millet. Second Edition, 1823. Weissenbruch. 8vo.

CHANOT, FRANÇOIS. “Rapport fait à l’Académie des Beaux Arts 3 Avril
1819.” Paris, 1819. 4to.

CONTANGER (LE DR HENRI). Gaspard Duiffoprugcar et les Luthiers lyonnais
du xvi^e Siecle. Paris, 1893. Fischbacher.

SAVART, FÉLIX. “Mémoire sur la Construction des Instruments à Cordes et
à Archet.” Paris, n.d. (1819). Roret. 8vo.

MAUGIN, J. C. “Manuel du Luthier.” Paris, 1834. Roret 12mo.

MAUGIN, J. C., et MAIGNE, W. “Nouveau Manuel Complet du Luthier.”
Paris, 1869. Roret.

DESMARAIS, CYPRIEN. “Archéologie du Violon.” Paris, 1836. Dentu et
Sapia. Large 8vo pamphlet.

FOURGEAUD, ALEXANDRE. “Les Violons de Dalayrac.” Paris, 1856. Leclerc.
Large 8vo pamphlet.

[YOUSSOUPOW, PRINCE.] “Luthomonographie Historique et Raisonnée.”
Frankfort S/M., 1856. Ch. Fugel. Large 8vo.

GALLAY, JULES. “Les Instruments à Archet à l’Exposition Universelle de
1867.” Juanst. 8vo.

GRIVEL, VICTOR. “Vernis des Anciens Luthiers.” Grenoble, 1867. F.
Allier. 8vo.

GALLAY, JULES. “Les Luthiers Italiens.” Nouvelle édition du Parfait
Luthier de l’Abbé Sibire. Paris, 1869. Académie des Bibliophiles.

PLASSIARD, J. A. “Des Cordes du Violon.” Lille, 1876. Danet.

VIDAL, ANTOINE. “Les Instruments à Archet, les Faiseurs, les Joueurs
d’Instruments, leur Histoire sur le Continent Européen.” Suivi d’un
Catalogue générale de la Musique de Chambre. Orné de planches gravées
à l’eau forte par Frédéric Hillemacher. Paris, 1876: J. Claye. 3 vols.
4to. Edition-de-luxe.

COPPÉE, FRANÇOIS. “Le Luthier de Cremone.” London, 1880. Dulan & Co.
12mo.

SIMOUTRE, N. E. “Aux Amateurs du Violon.” Bâle, 1883. G. A. Bonfantini.


GERMAN.

REICHARDT, JOHANN FRIEDRICH. “Ueber die Pflichten des
Ripien-Violinisten.” Berlin und Leipzig, 1776. G. J. Decker.

BAGATELLA, ANTONIO. “Ueber den Bau der Violine.” Leipzig, n.d. (1806).
Kuhnel. 8vo.

WETTENGEL, GUSTAV ADOLPH. “Neuer Schauplatz der Künste und Handwerke.”
Ilmenda, 1828. B. F. Voigt.

BACHMANN, OTTO. “Theoretisch-praktisches Handbuch des Geigenbaues.”
Leipzig, 1835. G. Basse.

BAADER, J. “Chronik des Marktes.” Mittenwald.

ABELE, HYACINTH. “Die Violine.” Neuberg A/D., 1864. A. Zrechter. Small
8vo.

SCHUBERT, F. L. “Die Violine.” Leipzig, 1865. Merzeburger.

DIEHL, NICOLAUS LOUIS. “Die Geigenmacher der Alten Italienischen
Schule.” Hamburg, 1866, 1877. J. F. Richter.

WETTENGEL, GUSTAV ADOLPH. “G. A. W.’s weil Violin-bogenmachers zu
Markneukirchen.” Weimar, 1869. B. F. Voigt.

WASIELEWSKI, JOSEPH WILHELM VON. “Die Violine im XVII. Jahrhundert.”
Bonn, 1874. M. Cohen.

RITTER, HERMANN. “Die Viola Alta.” Heidelberg, 1876. G. Weiss. 4to.

NIEDERHEITMANN, FRIEDRICH. “Die Meister der Geigenbaukunst in Italien
und Tyrol.” Hamburg, 1876. Aug. Cranz, 1876.

---- Cremona. “Eine Charakteristik der Italienischen Geigenbauer.”
Leipzig, 1877. Carl Merzeburger. 8vo.




DESCRIPTION OF PLATES


PLATE I (_to face page 18_)

A Duiffoprugcar viol da Gamba, owned by Mr George Donaldson. This
matchless antique is doubtless one of many, but most of the rest
have perished; it stands almost alone as a poetic specimen of the
phantasy of the old viol makers. It is elaborately decorated on the
back, after the taste of the period, with an excess of ornament,
which the fine instinct of the subsequent makers of violins rejected
as prejudicial to tone. The habit of adopting a creature’s head,
or a face, for a scroll long lingered, and is not unknown in the
work of Stradivarius. In England numerous copies of Duke that have
been palmed off as original have lion heads. These instruments were
usually “made in Germany,” and it appears to have been a favourite
practice there to use such carved scrolls.


PLATE II (_to face page 38_)

A Maggini violin (the “De Beriot”) owned by Mr Antonietti. The
Maggini here given is an admirably preserved specimen of the great
Brescian master, who, next to Stradiuarius, did more than any one
man to inspire and define the ideal shape, from which even the Amati
at first departed, but which Strad had the genius to restore and
perfect. The corners, however, have been rubbed, and not in every
case renewed, otherwise it is in as perfect a condition as can be
expected in so old a fiddle. The scroll is cut with a care and an
advanced finish which reminds us of the bolder Strad period, 1700-30.
Maggini, oddly enough, was little honoured in the first quarter of
this century, but De Beriot had the insight to discern his merits;
and from the time he adopted him for his masterly and full-toned
performances, the Magginis rose, and have been continuing to rise, in
public estimation.


PLATE III (_to face page 50_)

Her late Majesty’s Amati tenor is in beautiful condition; it is
elaborately ornamented, in lieu of the usual purfling. It was,
doubtless, originally made to order for some great prelate; and it
bears on its back a noble coat of arms hardly decipherable, and the
image of John Baptist carrying a lamb (“Behold the Lamb of God!” John
i. 36). The instrument was used in Her late Majesty’s private band
by Mr Hann (1898). Like many old viols it has been somewhat reduced
in size. For the loan of this instrument I am indebted to the good
offices of Sir Walter Parratt, director of the late Queen’s private
band.


PLATE IV (_to face page 58_)

Paganini’s Joseph Guarnerius. This is a fine and very characteristic
specimen of the mighty Del Gesù. It is in his most powerful and
massive style (the head almost brutal in its bull-dog strength), with
full rich colour thickly laid on to match. Seldom, indeed, do we find
so much varnish left on the back of so old a violin. The instrument
has been very carefully dealt with. The story of how it passed into
Paganini’s hands is well known. An Italian amateur, who evidently
knew its value, lent it to the great maestro, and, after hearing its
marvellous qualities, as drawn forth by the Magician of the Violin,
declared that no other hand should henceforth set its chords in
vibration. Paganini left it to his native town of Genoa, and there it
may still be seen in the Town Hall. It was his favourite instrument;
and the giant Joseph Guarnerius was well matched with the giant
Nicolo Paganini.


PLATE V (_to face page 66_)

The Rode and Spanish violins and the Spanish tenor, it will be
observed, are all inlaid. Strad was no bigot, and although we may
confidently assert that he disapproved of all inlaying or decoration
on the bellies or backs, and confined it to its narrowest limits
when resorted to in lieu of the usual strip of purfling, he probably
judged that if it did not encroach upon the vibratory surfaces much
beyond a common purfle, it was comparatively harmless. It is likely
that the Rode Strad, whose history I am unable to record, was made
for Royalty or some great Prince Cardinal of the Church, the extra
decoration being considered due to the high rank of the patron, or
wrought in obedience to a special request. We have many evidences
that Strad was not above pleasing the individual whims of his
clients. He was himself an expert carver, and could inlay with the
best of them when he chose. The Rode Strad was sold to Messrs Hill
by M. Lamoureux, the eminent French conductor, and by them to Dr
Oldham of Brighton. The Strad ’cello is a good specimen of Strad’s
improved bass model. The size is brought down characteristically, and
the comparative smallness of the upper, contrasting with the ample
development of the lower part, gives the instrument an appearance of
lightness and grace; whilst the delicate and somewhat narrow head,
with its sufficiently massive and finely cut out scroll, admirably
balances the whole to the eye with a certain “chic” quite _a la
Strad_.


PLATE VI (_to face page 68_)

This plate contains profiles of the three Strads shown in Plate V.,
and is interesting as displaying the variety exhibited in Strad’s
scroll carving. The Spanish Strad has quite an Amatisé scroll, long,
light, and very restrained, and undeveloped at the lower extremity.
Notice the greater freedom of the Rode scroll, quite in Strad’s best
manner. The Rode model is also flatter in the back, but the bellies
are all flat in the approved style, after the earlier Amati groove
had almost entirely disappeared from the Cremona model.


PLATE VII (_to face page 82_)

A Panoramic View of Cremona, taken outside Porto Po from the banks of
the river, and engraved about 1830 by Caporali. Names of buildings,
counting from the right of the print: 1. Church of S. Pietro; 2.
Tower of the old prisons near the Town Hall; 3. Battisterio; 4.
Cathedral; 5. Town Hall Tower; 6. Torrazzo, the Cathedral Tower,
the highest in Italy; 7. Church of S. Marcellino; 8. Church of S.
Domenico; 9. Church of S. Agostino; 10. Church of S. Lucca; 11.
Church of S. Omobono, patron of the town; 12. Church of S. Agata; 13.
Church of S. Ilario; 14. Church of S. Luca. Signor Sacchi, a native
of Cremona, has kindly identified all the above for me.


PLATES VIII AND IX (_to face pages 106, 110_)

These portraits of Tourte, Lupot, Vuillaume, and Ebsworth Hill being
fully dwelt on in the text, need no further comment.


PLATE X (_to face page 162_)

This plate of backs, bellies, and bows, has been fully explained in
the text.


PLATE XI (_to face page 182_)

Portraits of Paganini abound. Landseer sketched a series, which,
however, are slightly of the nature of caricatures. It was difficult
to do otherwise. The Maestro’s features were so marked, his long
hair so weird, the tall forehead, the wide sensitive mouth, the dark
eyes, the ungainly and gaunt, almost dislocated attitudes of the man
lent themselves freely to a lively and not always sympathetic or
respectful pencil. The portrait, a rare one, here produced, hits the
happy mean. The finest representation of him is, however, Danton’s
small bust (admirably reproduced by Mrs Haweis’ pencil in “My Musical
Life,” where see my biographical study of Paganini).


PLATE XII (_to face page 238_)

For a fuller list of labels, the “Collector” had better consult Mr
Vidal’s most valuable book referred to in our Bibliography, from
which our seven specimens are reproduced. I may observe that a
forged fiddle may often have what purports to be a genuine label. A
reference, therefore, to these facsimiles may be useful.

Buyers should also beware of labels bearing dates _posterior_ to the
death of the alleged makers. I have seen Stainer’s so decorated.
Stainer labels in two different sorts of type, _i.e._, the name in a
running type and the rest in print, are never genuine. Duke copies of
Stainer, often very good ones, sometimes present this peculiarity.
Notice that Gasparo and Gio Paolo Maggini never _dated_ their
instruments. There exist numerous dated copies of Maggini--generally
recent copies--De Beriot having brought the great Gio into notice.
These are all frauds.

Stradiuarius changed his labels late in life, using a _v_ instead
of _u_, and spelling Stradivari or Stradivarius. This is called the
cursive _v_. Some Stradivarius-labelled violins have all the figures
of the date _printed_, _e.g._, 1712. These are forgeries. The last
two figures in the real labels being always filled up in ink, which
has much faded. It does not, however, follow that all thus filled in
are genuine--indeed, most are frauds. A particularly favourite date
for forged Stradivari labels is 1721.




INDEX


  Albani, 102

  Aldric, Paris dealer, 174

  Aireton, 124

  Amateurs, their opinions, 225

  Amati, the, 43, 44, 47

  Americans, their wood, 233

  Artôt’s Strad, 75


  Balzar, great violinist, 122

  Band, Charles II.’s, 121

  Banks, English maker, 130

  Barak Norman, English maker, 125

  Bernadel, French maker, 109, 189

  Betts, English maker, 133

  Bisexual violin nature, 22

  Boquay, French maker, 105

  Bows, _see_ Chap. XI.

  Buying fiddles, 235


  Carlo Bergonzi, 83;
    supremacy, 230;
    gems, 173;
    influence, 94

  Charles II.’s court, influence on music, 121

  Charles Reade, 180, 217

  Children, their fiddles, 68

  Collecting mania, 12

  Completeness of violin, 7

  Control of violin, 9

  Convalescent fiddles, 200

  Cracked fiddles, 198

  Cremona city, 42

  Cremona gems, discovery of, 173

  Cremona influence, 94

  Cross, English maker, 125


  Dealers, _see_ Chap. XV.

  Dodd, bow-maker, 133, 166

  “Dolphin,” a celebrated Strad, 74

  Duiffoprugcar, old maker, 12;
    his viol da Gamba, 19

  Duke, English maker, 132


  Elector fiddles by Stainer, 97

  English makers, _see_ Chap. VIII.


  “False” strings, 156

  Fendt, Bernard, 132

  Fiddles and umbrellas, 214

  Fiddle flukes, 220

  Fiddle frauds, 223

  Fiddle judges, 224

  Fiddles, new and old, secret of, 227, 233

  Fingerboard, 207

  “Finish” of old makers, 26

  Foster, the family of, 126-127, &c.

  France, violins in, _see_ Chap. VII.

  François Tourte, bow-maker, 164


  Gagliano, 89

  Gand, French maker, 109, 189

  Gasparo da Salo, 30

  Genesis of violin, _see_ Chap. I.

  German strings, 158

  Germany, fiddle-makers, _see_ Chap. VI.

  Geronimo Amati, 44

  Gillott’s Mr, collection, 217

  Giuseppe or Joseph Guarnerius, 53

  Goding’s, Mr, collection, 178

  Golden Strad period, 73

  Guadagnini, 86

  Guarneri family, 51

  Guild of Markneukirchen, 194-197.


  Hart, John, dealer, 180

  Hill, William Ebsworth, 133

  Holmes, Oliver Wendell, 226

  Horses, fiddles and umbrellas, 214


  Ignorance and neglect, 215


  Jaques, French maker, 105

  Jay, English maker, 124

  Jean and Nicolas Medard, 187

  Joseph or Giuseppe Guarnerius, 53


  Kennedys, the English, 1872 and 1885, 218;
    makers, 124

  Klotz family, 101, 191


  Landolpho, Italian, 216

  Lott, John, English, 219

  Luigi Tarisio, rediscoverer of Cremonas, 179, 181;
    _see_ Chap. XIV.

  Lupôt, French maker, 106, 168-188


  Maggini, early Brescian maker, 32-40

  Mantegazza, Venetian maker, 90

  Manufacture of strings process, 155

  Markneukirchen, early home of violin manufacture, 186, 193

  “Master” Reiter, Mittenwald maker, 192

  Maucotel, French, 188

  Medard, early Tyrol maker, 187;
    _see_ Chap. XIII.

  Menegand, French, 188

  “Messie,” a great Strad violin, 77

  Mirecourt, early home of violin manufacture, 189

  Mittenwald violin manufacture, 186

  Montagnana, Venetian maker, 87

  Mutes or sordini to deaden sounds, 159


  Neglect of English makers, 118

  Neglect of violins, 215

  New fiddles, 227, 233

  Nicolas Lupôt, _see_ Lupôt.

  Nicolo Amati, the best of the family, 47

  Norman, _see_ Barak Norman.


  Oliver Wendell Holmes, a letter, 226

  Ouri, the violinist, 170

  Over-restoration, 203


  Paduan strings, 158

  Paganini, 9-56, 182

  Pamphilon, English maker, 124

  Panormo, maker of guitars and fiddles, 124

  Paris, Vuillaume and Tarisio at, 176-178

  Parker, English maker, 124

  Peccate, Italian maker, 169

  Pernambuco wood for bows, 161

  Personal fascination in violin-playing, secret of it, 11

  Pieray, 105

  Pique, French maker, 108

  Prelude and postlude, 7, 237

  “Pucelle,” a celebrated Strad, 78


  Reade, _see_ Charles Reade.

  Reiter, _see_ “Master.”

  Remenyi, violinist, 170, 224

  Restoration, 203

  Revarder, Mirecourt maker, 188

  Rosin, treatment and use of, 202

  Rugerius, Italian maker, 50


  Salo, early violin centre, 30

  Savart’s experiments, 25

  Scale of prices, 236

  Secret or old violins, 228

  Sound qualities of old and new violins, 227

  South Kensington Collections, _see_ Kensington.

  Stainer, _see_ Chap. VI.

  Stainer, Miss, “Violin Manual,” 189

  Stradivarius, _see_ Chap. V.

  Strange finds, 77

  String gauge, 154

  Strings, violin, _see_ Chap. X.

  Story of the Markneukirchen Guild, 194-197

  Subdivision of labour a cause of decline, 231


  Tarisio, _see_ Luigi, 179, and Chap. XIV.

  Techler, German school, 102

  Thibouville-Lamy, French maker, 189

  Tourte, bow-maker, 164

  Treatment of violin, _see_ Chap. XIV.

  Tubbs, bow-maker, 169

  “Tuscan,” the celebrated Strad, 69


  Urquhart, English maker, 124


  Varnish, _see_ Chap. IX.

  Violin constitution, _see_ Chap. II.

  Violin dealing and collecting, _see_ Chap. XV.

  Violin progress, _see_ Chap. I.

  Violin rise, _see_ Chap. I.

  Violin treatment, _see_ Chap. XIV.

  Viols, _see_ Chap. I.;
    English, 119

  Vision of Stradivari, 79

  Vuillaume, 110, 168


  Walmesley, English maker, 125


                    PRINTED BY OLIVER AND BOYD, EDINBURGH




              _Uniform with this Volume_

                          Fine Prints

                     By Frederick Wedmore

               With 12 Plates.      7s. 6d. net

  Illustrations by Examples after Mantegna, Marc Antonio, Schöngauer,
  Dürer, Beham, Lucas van Leyden, Rembrandt, Watteau,
  Chardin, Reynolds, and Turner.

CONTENTS: Introduction--The Task of the Collector--Claude,
Vandyke, Ostade, Hollar--Rembrandt (Illustrations)--French Revival
of Etching (Illustrations)--Whistler and Haden--Later English
Etchers--Dürer: The “Little Masters” (Illustrations)--Italian
Line Engravers (Illustrations)--French Eighteenth Century Prints
(Illustrations)--Turner Prints (Illustrations)--Mezzotints
(Illustrations)--Lithographs--Appendix: Certain
Woodcuts--Postscript--Bibliography--Index.

  “The ‘collector of moderate means,’ for whose special behoof the
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  and find profit in the admirable guide to Fine Prints which Mr
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  completes a model volume of its kind. The work contains many
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  best men, rendered with admirable fidelity in the different styles
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  _The Magazine of Art_ says:--“Mr Wedmore is one of the few
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  England, our great period of mezzotint, and line engraving in
  Italy, as well as the prints of Turner, lithographs of the present
  day, and famous woodcuts of the past.”




              _Uniform with this Volume_

                         The Coin Collector

                        By W. Carew Hazlitt

                     _New and Revised Edition_

        Illustrated with 12 full-page Plates depicting 129 Rare Pieces

                         _Pub. 7s. 6d. net_


CONTENTS

Introductory--Collectors and Collections--Value of Coins--Unique or
Remarkable Coins--Greek Coins--Rome--Continent of Europe--United
Kingdom--The Coin Market--Terminology--Bibliography--Description of
Plates--Index.

  “Mr Hazlitt is an expert in regard to coins; his book from the
  practical standpoint is trustworthy.”--_Notes and Queries._

  “We may say at once that we have a very interesting and instructive
  volume before us. The subject is, of course, only lightly
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  in detail is made. This is as it should be in a book on coins in
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  “Perhaps as excellent an introduction to the study of a delightful
  pursuit as could have been written.”--_Daily Telegraph._

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                         The Book Collector

                        By W. Carew Hazlitt

  A General Survey of the Pursuit, and of those who have engaged in
  it, from the Earliest Period to the Present Time; with an Account
  of Public and Private Libraries, and Anecdotes of their Founders or
  Owners, and Remarks on Bookbinding and on Special Copies of Books,
  illustrated with a beautiful photogravure of a famous sale of books
  at Sotheby’s, square cr 8vo, art canvas, gilt top, fore and under
  edges uncut

                        _Pub. 7s. 6d. net_


“As Mr Hazlitt shows, his field of choice is wide enough. Ancient
typography fascinates some, but here a long purse is needed. Bibles
and Testaments, Liturgies, Books of Hours, or similar devotional
works appeal to others. The British Museum Library, for instance,
is singularly rich in editions in all languages of the ‘Imitatio
Christi.’ Books of travel, of voyages, and on topography, such as
county and town histories, have all their devotees, and of late
years the search for Alpine literature has become so much keener
that some books, printed barely forty years ago, have quite doubled
their published price. Yet even the systematic collector, as Mr
Hazlitt tells us, often runs risks. Here, as among all things human,
fashions and whims exist, and a particular class of literature may
have ‘booms’ and ‘slumps,’ like certain ‘stocks’ of a questionable
character. The books, for instance, in William Morris’s library were
‘below mediocrity in state,’ and of little intrinsic value, yet
they excited keen competition, and went for sums ‘which were simply
absurd.’”--_Standard._

“The subject abounds with stories, for, indeed, in a sense which the
author of the aphorism little imagined, _habent sua fata libelli_.
We might fill columns with curiosities about the buying and selling
of books from these pages. Mr Hazlitt, however, is not of the
non-literary collectors; no man could write such a book as this about
the subject if he were. Readers, therefore, as well as buyers, may
find ‘The Book Collector’ to their taste. Then there is the eleventh
chapter, with its many interesting anecdotes of inscriptions;
often the casual name or note which some purchaser or owner of a
bye-gone time has written will be of more interest than the volume
itself.”--_Spectator._

“There is pleasure nevertheless--nay, much intellectual and
sometimes pecuniary profit--in the pursuit, when intelligently
pursued. Mr Hazlitt discourses pleasantly on every side of
book-collecting, and his book will be valued by all interested in the
subject.”--_Chambers’ Journal._


FOOTNOTES:

[1] An unique set of instruments by the Amati family worthy of
mention is the quintett, composed of three violins, a viola, and a
violoncello, now (1898) in the possession of Miss Willmott.

[2] This Fent is no relation, as far as is known, to the family
working in England, whose name is spelt Fendt.

[3] A popular comedy (1898).




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the
text and consultation of external sources.

Some hyphens in words have been silently removed, some added, when a
predominant preference was found in the original book.

Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text,
and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.

  p61-> ‘the boy Giuseppe Gaurneri’ amended to ‘the boy Giuseppe Guarneri’
  p105-> ‘Jaques Boquay’ amended to ‘Jacques Boquay’
  p278-> ‘he branded’ amended to ‘He branded’




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