The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth With Sixteen Illustrations. By Philip Gilbert Hamerton |
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MY OWN VIOLIN. |
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 | The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth |  |
236
MY OWN VIOLIN.
I wish that all that eloquence
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.
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 hands have grasped thee thus!
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.
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.
237
Why didst thou leave thy happy friends
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.
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.
With what disgust thy conscience true
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!
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.
I think I see a connoisseur,
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.
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.
238
Old friend! canst thou remember still
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?
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?
The frequent errors—hot disputes—
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!
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!
Obscure as are the sixty years
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.
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.
239
Thou hadst some odd companions then:—
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.
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.
There didst thou lie, and every day
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.
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 useless and unmeaning form,
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.
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.
240
There came a student, music-mad,
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.
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.
He was not like a full balloon
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.
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.
But, with the fiddle in his hand,
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.
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.
241
To Christchurch went the happy pair,
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.
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.
I saw them after forty years;
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.
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.
So I secured it. Happy chance!
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.
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.
242
Yes, I have seen them on the floor,
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.
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.
But thou, dear instrument, art mine;
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.
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.
Rest there in comfort. Whilst I live,
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.
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.
243
Rest there in comfort. Leave thy bed
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.
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 swift and stirring overture,
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.
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.
Sing sweetly when the softer notes,
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.
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.
244
Reply to her with notes of love,
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.
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.
I wish that all that eloquence
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.
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 | |