Chapter IV: Introduction (3)

Thus music and musical instruments having lost their chief support in the lordly though uncultured minstrel, other patrons had to be found. In Henry VII.’s reign, Dr Burney tells us of a certain “Dr Fayrfax of Newark Cornyshe” and a few others who set popular poetry to music, “which,” says he, in his dry way, “was uncouth but superior to the music.” Then again, we hear in the same reign of the “Stryng Minstrels at Westminster,” and of the “waits” who belonged to each town in England and made “merrie musick for the kynge” when he passed that way. Henry VIII.--whose musical abilities were of no mean order--included two viols in the State band in the year 1526. The fifteen trumpets and ten sackbuts, receiving the most pay, with which the viols had to compete, doubtless allowed them no chance of being heard, but they were there, and it was their _début_ in the royal music; _dejâ quelque chose_. Henry VIII.’s son, Edward VI., increased the number of viols in his musical establishment to eight, which was a significant augmentation, when we find that his father’s sackbuts had been reduced to six. About this time compositions styled “songes for severall voyces” came into vogue, no doubt instigated by the visit to these shores of the great Netherlands composer, Orlando Lassus. The first of these “severall voyce” compositions was published by Winken de Worde in 1530, and we make mention of them here because it was these very “songes” for “three, fower, and five voyces” that later became “Apt for voyce and vialls,” and were eventually succeeded by that form of composition called “Fantesies.” In 1540, the Italian gambist, Ferabosco, established himself in London, and gave lessons in the art of viol playing, and, as the cult of the gamba grew in England, ventures in the land of concerted music were made by musicians of the period. In the dumb show English play entitled _Gorbodic_--performed in 1561--the earliest English tragedy to be acted on the stage, music was executed by voices and musical instruments between the acts. The first act opened with the instructions that: “Firste the Musicke of Violenze began to play, durynge whiche came in uppon the stage sixe wilde men clothed in leaues.” Likewise Gascoyne’s _Jocasta_, of about the same date, was preceded by a dumb show accompanied by viols, cittaras, bandoras, and other musical instruments. The year 1558 saw the publication by Anthony Munday of “A Banquet of Daintie Conceits,” to be sung to the lute, bandora, virginals, or any other instrument, and in 1593 one of the earliest and best music printers of the day, William Barley, brought out an important work entitled “A New Booke of Tablature containing Instructions to guide and dispose the Hand, to play on sundry Instruments, as the Lute, Orpharion, and Bandora.” Then came, in 1597, the famous lutanist John Dowland’s “First Booke of Songes or Ayres of foure Parts, with Tablature for the Lute. So made that all the Parts together, or either of them, severally may be sung to the Lute, Orpharion, or Viol da Gambo.” The year 1599 gives us the Psalms of David, “in Metre to be sung and played on the lute, orpharyon, citterne, or base violl,” by Richard Allison, “to be solde at his house in the Duke’s Place near Alde-gate,” and dedicated to the Countess of Warwick. It is interesting to note that some MS. lute compositions of Allison’s are preserved in the British Museum. In the same year, Thomas Morley, gentleman of the Chapel Royal and pupil of William Byrd, “by whose endeavours,” says Anthony Wood, “he became, not only excellent in music, as well as in the theoretical as practical part, but also well seen in the Mathematicks in which he was excellent,” published his “First Booke of Consorte Lessons, made by divers exquisite Authers for six Instruments to play together,” dated 1596. The “six instruments” selected to “play together” consisted of the “Treble Lute,” “The Pandora” (a species of bass-lute), “The Citterne” (small guitar), “The Base violl,” “The Flute,” and “The Treble violl.” What this mixture sounded like it is difficult to surmise. No doubt the players sat round a large circular table with their “parts” spread out before them; no doubt there was a fine display of lace ruffles and graceful white hands: no doubt there were many glances exchanged between the coquettish lady with the “Treble Lute” and the dark man playing “The Base violl”: no doubt the beauties of the “exquisite authors” were perhaps somewhat lost upon these two, but “The Pandora,” “The Citterne,” “The Flute,” and the “Treble violl” were more intent upon the music, and strummed away to their hearts’ content. Side by side in a ring lay the parts before the performers then, but to-day, what a strange irony of Fate it is that has scattered them about in different museums and libraries.

In the British Museum you will find the Flute part printed by “Thomas Snodham for John Brown” and “sold at his shop in Dunstones Church Yard in Fleet Street 1611.” The “Trebel violl” part is preserved in the library at Magdalen College, Oxford. “The Pandora” part is at Christ Church, Oxford, and the “Cittern” part is in the Bodleian Library, Oxford. The “Base Violl” part and the “Treble Lute” part have, curiously enough, disappeared completely. Did the lady of the “Lute” jilt the gentleman of the “Base violl” and he in a fit of rage--consequent on the event--destroy the treacherous parts that were the means of bringing them together; or, did they elope, live happy ever after, and leave directions for the parts--so full of tender reminiscences--to be buried with them?

Morley attempted no other composition of the kind, for the very good reason that he did not supply a “public want” as do so many of our modern composers and authors. The reissue of his work in 1611 proved that it was appreciated at a later date, but at the time of the first publication the English people had not yet broken away from the habit of combining voices with musical instruments. So Morley had to capitulate, and in 1600 contented himself with pleasing the popular taste by bringing out “The first booke of Little Aires to sing and play to the Lute with the Base violl.” People delighted in singing these little “Aires” in those days. It was a favourite pastime and must have put a stop to a great deal of gossiping, scandalous chit-chat. The “Base violl,” like the guitar in the barber’s shop, was kept hanging on the wall, ready to hand, and when an unloquacious visitor appeared, how delightful it was to reach down the “Base violl” and sing a “Little Aire” to its accompaniment!

John Maynard wrote a similar set of compositions which were also published by Snodham in the same year. These he named “The XII. Wonders of the World,” classified under the following headings:--“The Courtier,” “The Deune,” “The Souldiour,” “The Phisition,” “The Merchant,” “The Country Gentleman,” “The Bachelor,” “The Marryed Man,” “The Wife,” “The Widow,” “The Maide.” Each of the little songs are provided with an accompaniment for the lute and bass-viol. The style of the poetry is quite in the Gilbertian vein, as may be judged by the following lines purporting to describe the duties of a medical man:--

“Studie to uphold the slippery fate of man
Who dies when we have done the best and all we can.
From Practise and from bokes, I draw my learned skill
Not from the knowne receipt or Pothecaries bill.
The Earth my faults doth hide
The World my cures doth see
What youth and time effects is oft ascribed to me.”

This curious and interesting little volume concludes with some “lessons” for the lute and viola da gamba, in all of which the player of the bow instrument never quits the first position. The whole is dedicated to Maynard’s “Honoured Lady and Mistris the Lady Joane Thymne of Cause Castle in Shropshire,” to whom he addresses a ponderous hyperbole on her gracious qualities beginning with the amiable wish that “Nestor’s years on earth, and Angels’ happiness in heaven” might be hers.

* * * * *

The musical attainments of “La Belle France” were full of interest during the same period. At the beginning of the fifteenth century the figure of the good King Réné of Anjou faces his kingdom, viol in hand and whistling the refrain of his latest composition. A kingly creature with noble gifts of mind and person which opened to the first inspiration of the Italian Renaissance and mingled its vigour with the culture of Provence. The influence of this minstrel Prince in the domains of Art was powerful at the time, yet it was soon obliterated by the coarse tastes of his conqueror, Louis XI. An instance of this monarch’s musical vagaries is instanced by his command that a concert of pigs should be provided for him. The master of the Royal Music, M. l’Abbé de Baigne, complied with the demand of his royal master by inventing an ingenious arrangement which was a mixture of pork and piano. He procured swine of various ages and sizes, placed them in a tent and erected a keyboard, the notes of which were each furnished with a spike which was to each pig like the business end of the nail to the man who inadvertently came into contact with it. When the good Abbé attacked the notes vigorously, each pig became acquainted with his own particular spike and burst forth into long and pronounced squeaks. Heretofore we have always looked upon those numerous nursery rhymes in which animals figure as instrumentalists as due to the inventive caprice of the writer. Confronted with Louis XI.’s practical application of such idiosyncrasies, the following couplet is but a representation of real life after all:--

“Come dance a jig
To my granny’s pig
With a rowdy, rowdy, dowdy;
Come dance a jig
To my Granny’s pig
And pussy cat shall crowdy.”[18]

We assume that the pig and the cat formed the instrumental part of the performance, while the guests footed it lightly. An instance of feline dexterity is afforded us in the following:--

“A cat came fiddling out of a barn
With a pair of bag-pipes under her arm;
She could sing nothing but fiddle cum fee,
The mouse has married the bumble-bee;
Pipe cat--dance mouse
We’ll have a wedding at our good house.”[19]

Louis XII.’s visits to Italy encouraged the further spread of those artistic tastes introduced by King Réné. He imported the Italian crafts and architecture into France, and his choir, which afterwards graced the court of Francis I., had not its equal in Europe. It was Louis XII.’s influence and taste that laid the foundation of a new era in French musical art, a foundation upon which Francis I. built a solid structure. This monarch’s tastes were of great assistance to art, for he keenly encouraged the importations of Italy’s treasures and gave appointments at his court to the Netherlands musicians. He sanctioned the establishment of Petrucci’s system of music printing by Robert Ballard--who for many years rejoiced in the privilege of being “seul imprimeur de la musique de la chambre, chapelle, et menu plaisirs du roi.” The King was himself a lute and guitar player of no mean order, and he could sing his own “chansons” to the accompaniment of these instruments, excellently. It was this monarch who founded the royal “musique de chambre” by establishing a separate band which should perform in his anteroom and on particular occasions. The services of these musicians were quite independent of those of the members of the “chapelle” band, and included some of the best artists of the day, among them Claude Gervaise and the famous lutanist Albert were especially noted. Gervaise held a similar post in Henry II.’s regime and figured also in Charles IX.’s musical establishment. In 1556 he published seven books of “Gaillards, Pavan’s,” and popular songs for four and five viols. The appearance of these compositions in France nearly half-a-century before Morley’s “Consort Lessons for six different Instruments,” in England, is in the nature of an anomaly, seeing that both Maugars and Rousseau state that in their day (seventeenth century) the viol was in its youth in France, whereas the English,--who had received that instrument straight from Italy--were the finest performers in the world.

Both Henry II., and his son, Charles IX., were loyal to the traditions of the musical tastes of their family. The first of these monarchs we know granted Duiffoproucart his “lettres de naturalisation,” and it is quite within the bounds of possibility that his gamba, now before us, and the Amati violoncello, which we are about to discuss, came in contact with one another at the French court. The Machiavelian-like manoeuvres of Marie de Medici at her son’s court did not squash Charles IX.’s ardent love of music and poetry, any more than Henry VIII.’s matrimonial imbroglios prevented him from attaining a degree of excellence on the flute. It is said that the French king frequently took part with the choir of his “Chapelle” in singing Mass in the manner of his father, and that he was greatly attached to his musicians. In spite of his affection for them, however, he advocated low living and high thinking for them. “Poets and musicians resemble horses,” said he, “they become soft and lose their vivacity if surrounded by abundance, let them be nourished but not fattened.”

It was during this monarch’s reign that the important event of the foundation of an “Academie de Musique” by a distinguished poet and musician--Antoine de Bäif[20]--took place. The premises of this establishment were situated in the poet’s own home in the Faubourg Saint Marcel. All the most eminent musicians of the day, both native and foreign, were received and handsomely entertained at this “Academie,” and each week a grand concert of vocal and instrumental music was given and regularly attended by Charles IX. Marguerite de Valois, the King’s sister, in imitation of De Bäif, also established an “Academie de Musique” at her Palace of Issy and herself presided at the concerts, which were held in the grounds of the _chateau_. At the base of a limpid fountain the Princess and her musicians assembled each week, and the poets of the day named the fountain “Castalinus” in memory of that which flowed at the feet of Parnassus, consecrated by the ancient Greeks to the Muses.

It is under the date 27th October 1572--but three days after the tragic St Bartholomew’s Eve--that the “Archives Curieuses de l’Histoire de France”[21] records a certain flautist, named Nicolas Delinet, receiving money wherewith to buy a “Cremona Violin”:--“A Nicolas Delinet joeur de Fluste et Violon dudict la somme de 50 livres tourn pour lui donner moyen d’achepter ung Violon de Cremonne pour le service dudict Sieur,” so runs the announcement. From this _purchase_ of a Cremona violin, it may be inferred that the exquisite Amati “set” to which this violoncello belonged had not yet arrived from Italy. Yet they were sent in the year 1572. The thought presents itself irresistibly that Pope Pius V. sent this handsome present to Charles IX. as a token of his approbation of the St Bartholomew Massacre. The completeness of the “set”: the novelty of shaping the bass instruments in the same form as the violin, and the appropriateness of such a gift to the music-loving Charles, all point to an intimate personal graciousness, which might well be taken for a secret approval of some deed or event.

MADE OF COPPER

“MIKE COUGLER, of Mush Island, Lexington County, owns a violoncello
made of copper which can be heard two miles away.”--_South Carolina
Gazette_, 1902.

NEW MUSIC

_This day are published_

SIX SOLOS for two violoncellos with a thorough bass for the
harpsichord.

Composed by Signor Pasqualiano.

Printed by J. Walsh in Catherine Street in the Strand.--_London
Evening Post_, 14th January 1748.

FIDDLE STRINGS

This day imported and sold wholesale or retale at Simpson’s Musick
Shop in Sweeting’s Alley, opposite the East door of the Royal
Exchange.

ROMAN RING FIRSTS, Seconds, and Thirds; blue Firsts, and white
Seconds and Thirds, in knots and all in great perfection. Merchants
and shopkeepers may be served with any quantity at the lowest
prices.--_General Advertiser_, 31st January 1750-51.

CHAT THE FOURTH

Andrea Amati--“The King” and its History--Gasparo da Salo--Woods
employed by Ancient _Luthiers_--Paolo Maggini and the
“Dumas” Bass--M. Savart’s Experiments--Freaks--Stradivarius
Violoncellos--Signor Piatti’s Violoncellos--The Bass of
Spain--Davidoff’s Violoncello--Herr Klengel’s Amati--A neat
Swindle--Stradivarius’ Contemporaries--Owners of Rugger
Violoncellos--George IV.’s pseudo Stradivarius--The earliest
Treatise on the Violoncello as a Solo Instrument--Mr Andrew
Forster’s Gamba--The Prince Consort’s “Ancient Instruments”
Concert--Development of the Technique, of Violoncello playing

The romances of real life are generally allowed to be far more amazing than anything fiction can create. Perhaps though, when all is said and done, the most sentimental or interesting happenings are not those which lie concealed in reality or myth, but in the unwritten something which clings about the antique treasures we prize--“Those certain things” which Oliver Wendell Holmes calls “good for nothing unless they have been kept for a long while.”

That old oak chair is more precious than a modern production, not because the wood is better or the make more solid, but for the misty reminiscences of lace and buskin, Cavalier and Puritan, in which it is steeped.

This exquisite brocade is valued not so much for its rich texture as for the memory of the shapely shoulders of a Du Barry, or a Castlemaine, which it once graced.

This china vase: this tapestry: this antique ring--we have but to look at them and they tell us many an unwritten story, impossible to repeat, and appealing to us alone. Of all the mute romancers carefully preserved from time’s destructive grasp, none can tell such tales as do the grand old fiddles. Those constant yielding companions of generations passed away have served as confessional boxes for so many centuries that each curve and bend teems with a secret. Take this masterpiece of Andrea Amati for instance (p. 114). Made in Cremona by a man of the mature age of fifty-two or thereabouts, the impulsive hazard of his youthful efforts had long since passed away: definite aim had developed his gifts, and ripe experience had given his hand an exquisite cunning. Little did he think as he sat in his sunny Cremona workshop, smoothing the back of this violoncello, bending the ribs, letting in the purfled edges, while he chatted now and again with a neighbour who dropped in, that he was building a monument to his own memory.

Sent with its fellows to the French court, this violoncello arrived, with the painted armorial bearings of Charles IX., exquisitely pure and fresh in colour, upon its back and sides. It was relegated to the King’s “Chapelle,” or private oratory, doubtless occupying a humble position in the band where the Duiffoproucart viol was prominent: feeling the touch of fresh fingers, as the old ones lost their skill: seeing the intrigues of the court life: hearing the cries of, “The King is dead! Long live the King!” observing each phase of human love and folly, and watching the vagaries of Princes for over two hundred years. Truly your tales would outrival Balzac himself could you speak, and your royal title--“the King”--is but a well-deserved panegyric.

At the time of the French Revolution, in 1790, this violoncello is said to have been still in use at the court of the unfortunate Louis XVI. On the 6th and 7th of October in that year the mob destroyed the whole magnificent “set”--consisting of twenty-four violins (twelve large, and twelve small), six tenors, and eight basses--to which it belonged. Two of the violins of this number were afterwards recovered by Viotti’s pupil, M. J. B. Cartier, and one of the small violins belonged to George Somes, Esq., in 1884. These fiddles, and this violoncello--“The King”--are apparently the only members of the “set” that survived the reckless vengeance of the mob. When one realises how easily such delicate constructions are ruined in sacrilegious hands, their preservation in the midst of the pandemonium, which reigned supreme at that time in Paris, is miraculous.

After the Revolution a glimpse of the whereabouts of “The King” is afforded us by a pencilled note written by the father of its present owner on the back of the frame, containing the interesting slip of paper which has accompanied this violoncello for at least a hundred years. On the paper itself the following inscription is written in French characters:--“Basse faitte par erndre ermati Luthiér â cremonne eu italie en 1572. envoyez par le pape 3: à Charles 9 roi de france pour sa chapelle.--avec ses amories et se devise, pietate justicia.” Turning this little framed document over, the three faintly pencilled words, “Duport had it,” seem to imply that “The King,” during the Napoleonic era, was the property of Berteau’s gifted pupil, Jean Pierre Duport, known generally as “Duport l’ainé.” If this was the case, then this violoncello went with him to the court of Frederick the Great at Berlin. It is more probable, however, that it fell into the hands of Jean Pierre’s brother, Jean Louis Duport--one of the finest violoncellists of his day--as he became a member of Napoleon’s band and professor at the Conservatoire of Music. Another pencilled note in the same hand, at the back of the frame, stating that “A Hollander brought it to Betts in 1812, and he sold it to H. W. Curtis”[22] (afterwards Sir William Curtis) still further points to Duport, the younger, as its owner, for Duport was in sore straits at one time. This accomplished artist, it may be remembered, also held an appointment at the court of Frederick the Great, but when the defeats of Auerstädt and Jena placed Prussia in the position of a suppliant at the feet of Napoleon, Duport returned to Paris utterly ruined. If the violoncello had belonged to his brother it is possible that Jean Pierre may have ceded it to the more accomplished Jean Louis, and the latter brought it to Paris in 1806, where his misfortunes induced him to part with it to a dealer. The next we hear of “The King” is on the death of Sir William Curtis, when it figures in the catalogue of his musical instruments--which were sold by auction on 3rd May 1829--as: “Lot 9, a violoncello by Andrea Amati Cremonencis Faciebat, 1572. A document was given to the proprietor when he purchased this instrument, stating that it was presented by Pope Pius V. to Charles IX., King of France, for his chapel. It has been richly decorated, the arms of France being on the back and the motto ‘Pietate et Justitia’ on the sides. The tone of this violoncello is of extraordinary power and richness.” The Rev. Canon A. H. Bridges, Rector of Beddington, either bought it at the above sale, or from Sir William Curtis’s survivors. On the death of Canon Bridges, in 1891, it became the property of his son, the present owner, John Henry Bridges, Esq., of Ewell Court, Surrey.

Some connoisseurs describe “The King” to be nothing but a curiosity at the present time. This is hardly correct, for, in spite of its having been very much knocked about in the past, it still retains a sweet quality of tone which makes it a delightful drawing-room instrument. Like Amati’s fiddles “The King” is of small dimensions; indeed violoncellos at this early date were nothing but extra large tenors, and it was not until makers turned their attention to evolving violoncellos out of the viola da gamba that the former began to take a prominent place in the ranks of stringed instruments. The transition itself from gamba to the early form of violoncello took place in the second half of the sixteenth century but--“Who effected the change?” Was it Duiffoproucart in Lyons, Andrea Amati in Cremona, or Gasparo da Salo, looking forth over the sunny plains of Lombardy? The correct reply is perhaps--“All!” Duiffoproucart reduced the size of the huge German geiges so as to furnish what Rousseau in his “Dictionnaire de Musique” defines as “_les instruments de remplissage_.” Previous to the dispersion of viols into various sizes, they were universally large both in Italy and later in France and England. “The first viols in use in France,” says Jean Rousseau--the eminent violist--in his “Traité de la Viole” (Paris, 1687), “had five strings, and were very large ... of such dimensions indeed, that the Père Mersenne says that a young _Page de Musique_ could be shut within to sing the treble part, while the bass was played upon the self-same instrument”--an arrangement which certainly could not contribute to the happiness of either the little page, or the bass-viol, and the diminishing process which necessarily did away with such a forlorn practice was certainly welcome to all the actors in the trio. Owing to the breaking up of the viols into various sizes, orchestras grew in proportion, so that we find in the _Etat de France_ for 1645, that the “Musique de la Chambre de Monsieur” (Louis XIV.’s brother) boasted “Nicolas Fleury” and “Pierre Montigny” as players of the Haute Contre,[23] “Pierre Noinne” and “N... le Vert” as players of the Taille Basses,[24] while “Francois Martin” and “Guillaume Mercer” disported themselves on the “Taille Haute.”[25] In the beginning of the following century, further names of _instruments de remplissage_, appear in the Paris Opera orchestra: for instance “2 quintes”[26] “2 tailles,”[27] and “3 haute contres.”

This was the result of Duiffoproucart’s creation of the small viola da gamba, a size which broke into many degrees and kinds. Then Andrea Amati made a further step in the right direction by making small-sized bass instruments in the same form as the violin, which had at that time assumed the shape now so familiar. The moot question--“Was it Andrea Amati in Cremona, or Gasparo da Salo in Brescia who first made violoncellos in the form of the violin?”--is of course unanswerable at this space of time. Da Salo was a man of progress, ready to fight for his opinions. He made some fine double-basses and grand tenors which are sought after to this day, and Herr August Reichers, the Berlin violin-maker, possessed a small-sized violoncello by this maker in 1884. If this instrument was not a cut-down bass-viol, or an exceptionally large tenor, it is apparently a solitary example of a violoncello by Da Salo, but even though its existence be allowed, the numerous violoncellos made by Andrea Amati must necessarily admit him to be--if not the inventor--at least the earliest known _luthier_ to make violoncellos.

Although Da Salo may be looked upon as no enthusiast where violoncellos were concerned, he was not neglectful in the matter of other bass instruments. Signor Dragonetti possessed no fewer than three fine basses by the Brescian maker, of various sizes, and Mr Hart, in 1875, owned a small double-bass of Da Salo’s which had been brought from Italy by Tarisio, and was looked upon as the _ne plus ultra_ of its kind. A Da Salo viola da gamba, catalogued as of the year 1570, was to be seen among the sumptuous display of musical instruments shown at the Special Loan Exhibition held at Fishmongers’ Hall in the summer of 1904.

But, fortunately, we need not rely entirely upon catalogues, description, and speculation for an idea of Da Salo’s skill as a gamba-maker, for, here beside us, in their neat glass house, two examples of the fine old Brescian repose in calm tranquillity, like veterans silently ruminating over many campaigns. They both face us with the quaint C-shaped sound-holes, so dear to the hearts of the old viol-makers, and both display upper tables of remarkably well-chosen even-grained pine wood. One of them is strung with seven strings, but the seventh is a later invention, for the earliest viols had five strings, then six, and it was not until the last part of the seventeenth century that Sainte Colombe (some say Marais) added another to the six. A true unaltered seven-stringed viol is hardly ever to be met with now. A solitary and excellent example, however, was lent by M. Galley to the Special Loan Exhibition at South Kensington in 1872. This was a remarkably handsome gamba and had remained untouched, with the exception of an attempt to attach sympathetic strings. A further adjunct to be found in this Da Salo gamba before us is the scroll, which curves round in a unique manner like a wisp of twisted ribbon: this never felt the touch of Da Salo’s hand. It may be the work of Barak Norman, for a similar, indeed identical, scroll crowns his gamba now in the Donaldson Museum, but certainly it is not Da Salo’s work. In his day sculptured human and animal heads were _de rigueur_, and, like his contemporaries, he carved these himself, or employed special artists to do so. In Germany the followers of Jacobus Stainer of Absam--whose favourite ornament was a lion’s head--freely adopted this practice, but the custom died out first in Italy, where viol-makers discovered that such a system was far from remunerative.

Close to this gamba of Da Salo’s with the spurious scroll, his second example exhibits his skill as a wood-carver, in the exquisitely chiselled head of an old woman, which surmounts the neck. The varnish is slightly darker on this gamba than on the one beside it. Age is no doubt responsible for this and not the maker himself, as it is also for the black Da Salo fiddles of which some connoisseurs speak with a degree of scorn. It may be noticed that there is but one line of purfling round this gamba. This was such an ordinary custom with Da Salo that comment is unnecessary. It is clumsily let in, lacking the grace and finish expended upon this difficult art by Cremona makers. The Amatis above all others excelled in the neatness of their purfling, and the customary three lines is always to be met with in their fiddles as well as in those of Stradivarius. The latter, however, on one solitary occasion reverted to one line of purfling in the violoncello upon which Bernard Romberg played for many years. This instrument is unique in many ways, for the gifted Cremonese maker made the back and sides of plane wood and poplar, material which he employed occasionally in the early part of his career, but which he had discarded at the date (1711) he made the violoncello.

Speaking of wood, by-the-by, the proper selection of timber was held to be a matter of great importance by the ancient _luthier_. M. Fetis, in his “Antonio Stradivarius,” has given some interesting information regarding the source from whence the old viol-makers obtained their wood. He says that maple was sent from Croatea, Turkey and Dalmatia to Venice in the shape of galley oars, and that the Turks, ever seeking to outrival the Venetians, and consequently frequently at war with them, took care to choose wood with the handsomest wave, knowing well that it would break the more easily. It was from among this selection that the viol-maker had to gather his timber. In his own country there was certainly little difficulty in obtaining wood, but, where would he get such maple as came to him from Dalmatia? Secretly he welcomed this

“... thing devised by the enemy”

and turned it to good account. The illustrious Da Salo was very partial to pear wood as well as sycamore, which he cut slab-ways from the tree, as did most of his contemporaries. Stradivarius preferred maple to any other wood, but he went with the times and also employed the woods favoured by his brethren, such as poplar, lime, and even grained pine. A species of red pine, common to the Tyrol, and known to the Italian makers by the name of “Azarole,” was more in favour with the Cremona _luthier_ than Swiss pine. Only the south side, the side exposed to the drying rays of the sun, was used. Indeed, this precaution is one which has been observed by makers for over three hundred years, knowing well that it is one of the first aids towards solving the problem: _Given_: A log of wood. _Make_: A fiddle. The timber must be blameless, free from knots or blemish, and--above all--free from worm, a fate which has destroyed whole forests of pine if the trees are cut at the wrong season of the year. Also the tree must have arrived at a maturity of ten years, and the question of sap flowing through the outer part of the tree must be duly considered. Speaking on this subject, Mr Davidson[28] remarks that, owing to the sap passing through this part of the tree, the wood abounds in saccharine matter and is quickly susceptible to decay. In trees which have arrived at maturity, there is no distinction between the sap and heart wood, the wood being of the same texture throughout and almost uniform. The proper time for cutting trees is when the sap ceases to flow, and experience has determined the month of December to be the best time for this purpose, as the wood which has been cut during this month has been found to have always been of superior quality to any cut during the other months. Monsieur l’Abbé Sibre, author of “La Chelonome ou le parfait Luthérie,” which was published at the beginning of the nineteenth century, voices the merits of wood cut in December and January long before Mr Davidson, and adds the admonition that the wood must be cut from between the bark and heart of the tree. The wood being cut as required from the healthy pine or maple, it is sawn into planks, and,--though the fiddle-maker’s hands are madly twitching to commence operations on it,--subjected to a drying process to be effected by sun and air for at least six years. If at the end of that period of time the _luthier_ is still enamoured of his timber, then he may clamp it and cut it and scrape it into the violin or violoncello of his fancy. Monsieur Simoutre, the French violin-maker and author of some patent improvements which, in common with all innovations connected with bow instruments, have had no lasting effect, contends that the best pine wood comes from Silesia, from La Valteline, Les Grisons, Le Simmenthal in the Bernese Alps, from certain sheltered parts of the valley of the Lac de Joux, in the Canton de Vaud, Switzerland, and from the southern slopes of the Jura Bernois. Modern violin-makers generally employ maple cut from trees growing on the southern slopes of the Carpathians and also in some parts of the Eastern Alps, but where this is not procurable, it has been found that it is not absolutely necessary to range the Alps or the Carpathians in search of suitable wood, for many a fine violin and violoncello have been made from the wainscot or beam of an old-time cottage or mansion. J. B. Vuillaume used to roam over Italy and Switzerland frequently for the sole purpose of picking up choice bits of pine which had probably formed part of a beam or support in some residence for hundreds of years. Out of these purchases he undoubtedly made some of his finest instruments. His example has recommended itself to many other makers, and only the other day we heard of a contemporary English maker whose best violins and violoncellos have been formed from an old beam obtained from a house near Eltham. Such practices as these certainly place _lutherie_ within the range of everyone so inclined, for, who is there in these days that does not possess a likely piece of old furniture? some familiar escritoire, or table, or panel, out of which a possible rival to Cremona’s _chefs-d’oeuvre_ may be conjured by the aid of gouge, chisel, bending iron, and glue pot. In spite of the time-saving effects which the appropriation of the family heirlooms for this purpose would effect, how much more appealing and poetic were the methods of the ancient _luthier_, who went straight to the forest for his wood. Can one picture Stradivarius storing up old beams, and tables, on the roof of his house in Cremona? Can we imagine Guarnerius roaming about the country seeking likely bits of wood in cottages, or the Amatis, or Da Salo, the maker of these gambas, resorting to such a commonplace expedient. No! a thousand times. They went straight to the forest for their timber, wandered through the misty depths of clustered pines, pondering in the deep silence upon many a knotty point of their craft. Or they stood at times on the rocky borders of the wood, where the trees looked down upon the valley from whence the sound of the rushing brook could be faintly heard. From a point of vantage they watched the trees being felled: hearkened to the tone they emitted as their torn limbs bounded from rock to rock: counted the number of circles to ascertain the age of a likely tree: examined the colour with care to judge of its health. If they were satisfied with these various preliminary tests, they bought what they required, stored the planks on the sheltered side of their workshop or on the roof of the same, and watched the hot Italian sun do its work of drying. Not only did the most eminent makers of the past carefully store their own wood, but if they became possessed of a particularly handsome piece they did not scruple to patch and piece it together, so that no scrap of the treasure should be wasted.

Gasparo da Salo, as we have already said, was an adept in the choice of wood, and he was fortunate in lighting upon some particularly even-grained pine. In these days his work is looked upon as rough, or, to put it more gently, primitive. The recent researches of Il Cavalieri Livi--the keeper of the Brescian state archives--have, however, proved that this was far from the case in his lifetime. Until the results of the Cavalieri’s investigations were published in the _Nuova Antalogia_ on the 16th August 1891, nothing definite concerning this maker’s life was known. Thanks to the Brescian income-tax returns and other authentic documentary evidence it is now proved that Da Salo’s real name was not Salo at all but Gasparo di Bertolotti, that he rejoiced in a grandfather named Santino di Bertolotti who was a lute-maker at Polpenazze, that his father was one Francesco Bertolotti, a painter familiarly called “Violino” by his friends, and that his son, Gasparo, the future violin-maker, was born at Salo, a small town on Lake Garda, not many miles distant from Brescia. Unfortunately the date of Da Salo’s birth still remains unknown, owing to the loss of the pages from the parish register where it should appear, but the income-tax returns for 1568 state him to be twenty-six years of age at that date, and those for 1588, forty-five, thus locating his birth approximately in the year 1542. It is presumed that he learnt his art from his grandfather first, and later from a Brescian viol-maker of the name of Gerolamo Virchi, who stood sponsor to Gasparo’s son, Francesco. The earliest efforts of the great Brescian master apparently did not find favour with his fellow-countrymen, and, this being so, he became discouraged and contemplated trying his fortunes in France. A certain Father Gabriel saw the gifted man’s dispirited efforts, and also observed his intentions. He was reluctant to see one of his flock go forth to a foreign country, and to prevent such a calamity came forward with a loan of £60. Curiously enough this small sum changed the bent of Da Salo’s life. He remained, and encouraged by the faith of the good priest set to work with such definite aim and earnestness, that as a result he soon established himself in a house with a shop in the _Contrada del Palazzo vecchio_. This event occurred in the year 1568. He paid £20 rent per annum for this establishment, valued his stock of musical instruments at about £60, and styled himself _Magistro di Violini_. In 1579 he exhibited the added title of _Magistro di Cittaris_, and in 1583 called himself _Artefice d’instrumenti musica_. Twenty years after his first establishment in the _Contrada del Palazzo vecchio_, he changed his residence to the _Contrada Cocere_, where he claimed to be the owner of violins finished and unfinished valuing quite £200, and where he had acquired the ostentatious title of _Magister instrumentorum musicorum_. The year 1599 found him purchasing another house in Brescia, situated in the _Contrada di St Pietro di Martero_, and between 1581 and 1607 he owned land adjoining Calvagese, near Salo. It was at Calvagese that Da Salo’s son, Francesco, found his bride, the Signora Fior. He also followed the captivating profession of his father, until the latter’s death on the 14th April 1609, when he apparently lost heart, for from that time he ceased to be a _luthier_. Probably he sold the excellent business to Da Salo’s gifted pupil, Gio. Paolo Maggini, who had worked as an apprentice in the Brescian master’s workshop for quite eight years, and was then a bachelor of thirty or thereabouts. In any case, whether he became possessed of the business or not, the esteem which had previously been bestowed upon his instructor fell to his share. On the whole he deserved all the support he gained for he not only equalled Da Salo as a maker but surpassed him in everything save the ugly stiff sound holes which, for some unaccountable reason, he retained.

In the history of the violoncello, it is a puzzling and curious circumstance, that no viola da gamba by Maggini is extant.[29] His violins, violas, violoncellos and double-basses have resisted the onslaught of over three hundred adventurous years, and, this being so, one cannot help wondering why his gambas have not also withstood time’s ravages. The obvious reply seems to be that, “He made none!” However, whether he did or did not, his attitude certainly had no effect on the position occupied by the violoncello at that time. The general feeling about the instrument was akin to the sentiments expressed by the Comte de Rabutin in his “Epistles”:

“Je ne vous aime pas, Hylas;
Je n’en saurois dire la cause,
Je sais seulement un chose;
C’est que je ne vous aime pas.”

Not being liked, and yet appearing among them, musicians were confronted with a difficulty which they solved by placing this “white elephant” in the obscure position of playing the fundamental bass in the music of the Church.

As regards the lack of Maggini violas da gamba, circumstantial evidence may be right after all. The man was a genius, and, true to his instincts, sought after new methods rather than personal gain. He threw aside the useless and picked out the good, and, this being so, it is not surprising that he should prefer to turn his attention to the budding violoncello, rather than the pristine viola da gamba.

In the delightful monograph of this maker’s life--already mentioned--among the excellent summary of the instruments made by him, there is an interesting description of a quartet of instruments generally known as the “Dumas Set,” from its having once belonged to a family of that name. In an ancient château near Lyons the members of the Dumas household passed through the terrors of the first Revolution and saw the establishment of the Empire. They were enthusiastic musical amateurs--friends of Beethoven--and inspired by a genuine love of chamber music they collected together four magnificent examples of Maggini’s skill. Of the four instruments--_i.e._ violin, viola, violoncello and double-bass--which comprise the “set,” the violin and viola are of the most characteristic and perfect type, although the violoncello is also excellent. According to Lady Huggins’s description of the last, “it has two lines of purfling, but no ornamental device. The bottom circle of the sound-holes is smaller than the top. There is the same under-bevelling of the inside edge of the sound-holes, as in Maggini’s other instruments, the same arching of the model. The wood of the back and the sides is cut on the slab” (parallel with the growth of the tree--a favourite practice with the ancient viol-makers). “The back is joined, also the belly, the latter having the wood the ordinary way of the grain, the coarse grain being outside.” As we look at the instrument, the thought involuntarily rises in us--“to Maggini we owe our modern violoncello.” What a curious mixture of the “old” and the “new” is to be found in this instrument. The back cut on the “slab”--in accordance with the long-standing custom--and the belly cut in the improved manner. Maggini, although a great innovator, and the first to cut the wood in the new way--_i.e._ wedge-ways from the tree--was evidently in a state of uncertainty when he made this violoncello. To balance matters he mingled the divers ways, yet, in spite of his hesitation, he came nearer to gauging the most equitable proportions for the violoncello than any other maker of his time. It would be of great interest if it were possible to discover by what means Maggini and his predecessors arrived at their conclusions. Whether it was in the manner of old Mrs Tibbins, who made a fiddle by means of a blunt knife, a piece of glass, and a bent file, or, on the principles of Monsieur Felix Savart. If the ancient _luthier_ planned his work on the latter’s scientific basis, then he was accurate in every detail, for no more satisfactory experiments on the construction of bow instruments have been attempted. The idea of these experiments was suggested by a guitar-shaped violin made by Stradivarius and owned by the elder Chanot. Imagining that so eminent a maker would not have constructed such a violin without good reason, Monsieur Savart--a doctor of medicine--threw up his profession for that of science and interested himself in organising a series of tests in the first half of the nineteenth century. As a result of his labours _luthiers_ were at last confronted with the astounding assertion that an arched surface vibrates less readily than a plane one: that there are points where the vibrations are greatly reduced, and that the aggregate vibration is least at the sound holes and at the corner blocks of a violin or violoncello.

Starting from this groundwork, M. Savart constructed a violin entirely made of flat surfaces and straight lines with narrow rectilinear slits for sound holes (so as to cut as few of the fibres of the wood as possible) and no tailpiece, the drag of the latter on the tender part of the belly being considered detrimental to the instrument. The most astonishing part of this fiddle was that it passed the test of comparison with a Stradivarius victoriously. The members of the Académie des Sciences formed a council and, assisted by such eminent musicians as M. Berton, Catel le Sueure, and Cherubini, sat in solemn judgment. The merits of the instrument were considered by them at several meetings, and the gifted violinist, M. Lefebvre, was requested to play alternately upon a _chef-d’oeuvre_ of Cremona and the Savart “box-fiddle,” in an adjoining room. The decision arrived at by these gentlemen was that the square fiddle was every bit as good in tone--if not better--as the Cremona violin. Of course this was most flattering to the inventor, yet it is a question whether such excellent results would have taken place had the Savart fiddle been in less skilful hands. The great violinist Remenyi maintained that he could produce just as good a tone out of an eight-shilling fiddle as out of a 1000-guinea one. Monsieur Lefebvre’s handling of the “box-fiddle” was doubtless superior to the fiddle itself and,--as Voltaire said of Duport’s violoncello playing,--he made the council of impulsive Frenchmen believe in miracles “by making a nightingale out of an ox.”

A few years previous to Monsieur Savart’s researches M. Chanot--a naval officer, and a member of the distinguished family of violin-makers of that name, being compelled to leave the navy on account of his staunch Royalist predilections--had turned his attention to constructing guitar-shaped fiddles and violoncellos. These were also subjected to similar tests by the members of the Académie des Sciences and--as in the case of the Savart fiddle--pronounced to be superior to the instruments of Cremona. There were independent experts, however, who considered them faulty in tone and only to be regarded as curiosities. In the midst of diverse criticisms, these instruments found a market for a few years, the violins and violas fetching 300 francs, while 500 francs was the price demanded for the violoncellos. Those who desire to pursue the subject of vagaries, will find much to interest them in Mr Davidson’s “The Violin,” and Mr Heron Allen’s “Violin-making as it was and is”; sufficient for present purposes is it to know that such grotesqueness as eighteen stringed violins played with a bow and producing the combined effect of the violin, viola, violoncello and double-bass: the combination violin and violoncello with piano which can be played by one person: the melephone, which was nothing more than a concertina enclosed in a species of violoncello, and other such fallacies, have been relegated to the land of oblivion. Certain it is that the ancient viol-maker never dreamed of such horrors. Once in a way he attempted such a mild invention as a detachable neck, which could be unscrewed and placed inside the instrument through a door in the ribs, like the viola da gamba in the Donaldson Museum, but otherwise his methods, like his varnish, were so simple that he made no fuss about them. He saw no necessity for rushing into print, or taking out patents, or wrangling, or arguing. The traditions of his graceful craft were transmitted by word of mouth and practical demonstration to his pupils, and the pupils, living in an atmosphere of _lutherie_, sucked in the unwritten lore as naturally as the earth absorbs rain. What need to cry out the sky is blue, when all the world can see it!

It was among such surroundings that the mighty Stradivarius learnt his art in the workshops of Nicolo Amati, grandson of Andrea Amati, who made “The King.” The _atelier_ of this maker was a very nest of talent in the middle of the seventeenth century, for Nicolo Amati’s renown attracted all the most enthusiastic young aspirants of the art. It is easy to imagine the grand spirit of emulation, and even rivalry, which must have existed within the four walls of Amati’s premises in Cremona. An unrivalled master of his art at the time, bestowing care and thought on every part of his work, there is no doubt that he did much towards advancing the construction of the violoncello in the matter of experimenting with thicknesses, but he did not alter the dimensions of the violoncello which was at that time about 31 inches in length, if not longer. The majority of Amati violoncellos have been cut down, so that it is difficult to judge of their original size, but it is probable that they originally measured over 31 inches in length. The paramount influence of the Church in musical matters was responsible for the large dimensions of the violoncello at that date; it was looked upon as useful to reinforce the double-bass, or “bass-violin” as it was then called, for the big viols had already gone out of use in Italy in the middle of the seventeenth century. In “The Familiar Letters of Abraham Hill” (London 1767), his brother, Thomas, writing to him from Lucca, 1st October 1657, speaking of the instrumental music he had heard there, says that it “is much better than I expected. The organ and violin they are masters of, but the bass-viol they have not at all in use, and, to supply its place, they have the bass-violin.” According to Maugars in his “Reponse fait à un curieux ...” (1639) the viol was going out of use in Italy, quite twenty years before the above date. “Regarding the viol,” he remarks, “there is no one in Italy now who excels on that instrument, and even in Rome it is still little cultivated: I am very astonished at this, seeing that they had formerly one Horatio de Parme, who was a marvellous player.” The writer of these lines was himself a magnificent performer on the viola da gamba. He visited Rome, where he found the gamba, the theorbo, and harpsichord the most fashionable instruments, and, in spite of the numerous violins and violoncellos being made by Nicolas Amati in his busy workshops in Cremona, these latter were considered to be what Lord Chesterfield would have called “ungentlemanly instruments.” If by chance any enthusiastic amateur was rash enough to adopt the violin, he was careful to hide the fact from his friends for fear of being thought disreputable. This antipathy to the fiddle was just as keenly felt in England, when the encroachment of the new-fangled four-stringed instruments began to endanger the position of the viol. Anthony Wood, writing in 1653 at Oxford, says in reference to this: “Before the Restoration, gentlemen played three, four and five parts with viols. They esteemed a violin to be an instrument only belonging to a common fiddler, and could not endure that it should come among them for fear of making their meetings vain.” This prejudice against the violin is even felt to-day by many people. We ourselves remember an old lady’s astonishment when we confided to her that we could play the violin: “Why!” she exclaimed, “I thought such instruments were only played outside public-houses.”