The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth With Sixteen Illustrations. By Philip Gilbert Hamerton |
The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth | ||
MY OWN VIOLIN.
Of accent, and that strength of tone
Which shadows little moods of mine,
Might tell some story of thine own;
For in this twilight summer eve
I'd hear with patience, once again,
The history of the hundred years
Of thy companionship with men.
How many chins have rested there!
Perhaps some bearded Tyrolese
First wore thy varnished surface bare,
When round him village dancers flew,
And blessed the vigour of his bow:
That secret kept the whispered things
Which only lovers ought to know.
To seek a home across the seas?
Why come to London in thy youth,
And leave that simple Tyrolese?
Perhaps thy master in distress
Surrendered thee to pay his rent,
And often in his silent house
Did afterwards thy loss lament.
Recoiled beneath the dealer's touch,
Who pasted in thy truthful breast
A label—he'd a hundred such:
A dirty label, with a date
Accounting falsely of thy birth,
He gave thee, and then sent thee forth
A guiltless liar on the earth!
It was customary with certain dishonest dealers of the last century to paste a printed label on the inside of the back under the bass f hole. That in my own instrument is as follows: “Jacobus Steiner, in Absam, prope Ænipontium, 1683.” In the true Steiners, the label, when it occurs, is written, not printed; a peculiarity which the manufacturers of the counterfeit article have been simple enough to overlook.
With powdered wig and eager eyes,
Read through the hole that dingy scrap
Of Latin—clutch thee as a prize;
And take thee home, afraid to tell
His wife the foolish price he gave,
And call thee first a borrowed thing,
And introduce thee with a stave.
The amateurs that used to meet
To spend the evening once a-week
At his quartetts in Percy Street?
The notes thy happy master skipped,
Yet never rested long enough—
The discords—undetected still—
The little intervals for snuff?
When all know “there is something wrong,”
But none with certainty can tell
To whom the missing bars belong:
“Repeat the passage!”—thus at last
Are such contentions settled best;
Then woe be to the careless wight,
Who, being warned, forgets to rest!
That make the season of thy youth,
The haze of distance disappears,
And fiction hardens into truth.
I know the creditable place
Wherein, some fifty years ago,
My fiddle lodged—'tis no disgrace,
It matters not—the world may know.
A brace of pistols primed with rust;
A trumpet, blown the Lord knows when,
Whose tarnished mouth was full of dust;
Some pinchbeck seals, and watches too,
That slept in ignorance of time;
Old clothes that looked as good as new;
And flutes and fiddles in their prime.
Thy soul went further out of tune;
A straggling sunbeam tried to play
With thy loose strings, perhaps, at noon.
And some looked in upon thy rest,
Of those who long but cannot buy,
To whom the resin on thy breast
Was fallen rain of melody.
I may observe, that amongst the innumerable quackeries which have possessed the fiddling world, one of the most prevalent has been the belief that the belly of the instrument was benefited by a thick deposit of powdered resin and dust. Since there have been minds original enough to advocate a similar layer of filth on the surface of our own bodies, there is, perhaps, nothing surprising in the wide popularity of this delusion.
A silent chamber of decay,
A coffin bored by many a worm,
Wherein the corse of music lay;
Thy brown complexion must have grown
Familiar to the passers-by,
Like faces we have always known,
And nodded to, we know not why.
Who was not famed for avarice,
Yet, sorely tempted in his heart,
Demurred a little at the price.
His offer was refused with scorn;
It wounded what a villain calls
His “self-respect,”—the student hied
Abruptly from the golden balls.
Which gases for an hour inflate,
Or stones that tumble from the moon,
And yet to earth must gravitate.
Like any comet in its course,
He held his own erratic way;
The golden planets had not force
To draw him back again to pay.
The man ran after, all unmasked;
“'Twas his mistake; the price was marked
At”—just a third of what he asked.
The fiddle, like a chapeau bras,
Is carried caseless through the streets;
Its owner cannot choose but see
A smile on every face he meets.
But his devotion time will prove;
The honeymoon of practice passed,
And she had rivals in his love:
For he, like Solomon, whose verse
The error of his life repents,
Kept—to divide his precious time—
A harem of sweet instruments.
He had a living in the north.
I read with him. His violin
Was in disgrace—“What is it worth?”
I loved the fiddle more than Greek,
And told him fairly what I thought:
“Exactly what I gave,” he said;
And once again 'twas sold and bought.
Another week it might have been
Dissected to improve the tone,
And washed—but not in Hippocrene.
Old friend! I much admire your skill,
Although it is a dangerous art,
And deadly to your patients—so
Forgive me if I take their part.
Back, neck, and sides—a sickening sight,
Like limbs about a surgeon's tent
After a battle. Some in white,
Screwed up with little wooden cramps
To fasten the rebellious blocks,
And others bound with cruel boards,
Like drunken wretches in the stocks.
So slumber in thy padded case
Secure from all empiric hands,
And safe from dealers and disgrace:
From broker's shop and tavern brawl,
And resined bows that rudely scrape,
And learned hands that inly itch
To screw thy features out of shape.
Discourse, at even, music sweet;
Through thee my soul has interviews
With spirits that I love to meet
In airy palaces of sound
Which they have built and left behind,
And which they haunt, and where I dwell
In high companionship of mind.
At times for my familiar grasp;
I bend mine ear towards thy strings,
Thy slender neck my fingers clasp.
We are old friends of many years,
We know each other's humours well;
I blamed thee not when strings were false,
Nor when the loosened soundpost fell.
In chorus with great companies
Of voices, trumpets, violins,
Surviving when their thunder dies;
In private chambers, where we took
A part in some divine quartett,
We have been, and we hope to be
In many such together yet.
By gentle fingers touched, sustain
The harmonies thou canst not build,
The chords thou wouldst attempt in vain.
Be grateful when her music hides
The simple poverty of thine;
But, rich in feeling, in return
Give life and vigour more divine.
When she speaks softly from the heart;
And whisper sweetly all I feel,
And act for me a lover's part.
Be playful with her playfulness,
And sadden into minor keys
When she is sad; at other times
Let all thine effort be to please.
Of accent, and that strength of tone,
Which shadows little moods of mine,
Might tell some story of thine own;
For in this twilight summer eve,
I'd hear with patience once again
The history of the hundred years
Of thy companionship with men.
The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth | ||