Is there any city in the world that can—metaphorically speaking—hold up its head beside this place of mystery—London in a fog? Paris, Berlin, Vienna, St Petersburg, New York—what can they do in the production of a bilious-green, murky-yellow species of hyperphysical abomination? Nothing! Yet we English are not in the least proud of our prerogative. Perhaps elation is impossible among such depressing surroundings, or, perhaps the true British spirit of being satisfied with everything that is British, because it is British, predominates too utterly to admit of any other emotion.

From whatever cause our inertia springs, the clue is too deeply locked away in every Cockney’s heart to be revealed. The effect, however, is plainly seen in the total lack of epic poetry, or chromatic musical depiction of the thing. Our literature does not teem with such lines as:

No! genius ignores the subject, and fills in the weary hours of darkness with sighs, and gasps, and chokes, like ordinary mortals.

What an outlook greets us this dull November day! Misty bricks and mortar emerge and disappear like swiftly buried cities. Hazy, indefinite, dubious figures loom upon us out of the darkness, like ancestral ghosts; dull thuds, faint cries, strange stampings and gratings are transmitted to our ears with telephonic minuteness; and all the while our throats are aching, our eyes are streaming, our noses are smarting, the motor bus is useless, and—we don’t know where we are.

Perhaps in all the gamut of human sensibility there can be no more creepy sensation than that of being lost in familiar surroundings. The ruler of Hades himself, or Jupiter with his thunderbolts, could not invent a more refined torture than that consummated in the paradox: “Here I am!—Where am I?” Yet, how ordinary has this impression become to the dweller in London.

“Here, boy! can you tell me where I am? I thought I was near the South Kensington Station, but—I begin to be horribly puzzled. That great thing opposite looks just like the Parthenon!”

“Parth yer on!” exclaims a little urchin, apparently emerging from nowhere, and brandishing a torch as big as himself—“Parth, did yer say? Yer on the parth roight enough! Want a loight, loidy?” he adds, reserving further information until he is sure of a customer.

“Yes, yes, to be sure! Don’t leave me whatever you do! Where am I?” distractedly. “What is that place opposite? I saw it a moment ago, but—it’s gone again!” A pause—similar to that which precedes each new slide at a magic-lantern show—follows this speech, then out of the darkness comes the excited exclamation: “There! there it is! Now, what is it?”

“That there?” hoarsely mutters our impish guide with a grin. “Why, that there’s the Kensin’ton Mooseum.”

“The Kensington Museum! Surely it can’t be! Why, it is the very place I have been looking for for hours past. Do you think you can get me across?”

“Git yer across!” with an accent of scorn, “o’ corse I can git yer across. You just keep close alonga me, loidy, and we’ll git over in two ticks.”

With torch held aloft and a hopeful heart he makes a start and—returns to the comparative safety of the pavement. Then he makes a second hoppy trial—with the same result. We begin to feel nervous, and search in our memory for some battle-cry or epic poem with which to fortify our courage, and drop upon Montrose’s lines:

“Now then, ’ere you are, look sharp!” shouts our familiar urchin, utterly ignoring our poetic mutterings. Straight away he plunges into the chaos like an arrow shot from a bow. We follow blindly, breathlessly, with the grace of a polar bear after a gadfly, and in an incredibly short space of time reach the safety of the Museum doorway.What a transformation scene greets our eyes when we enter! Here is a little Paradise indeed: food, warmth, light, and all the treasures of the Universe besides. Without—we know—are horrors worse than Bluebeard’s dungeons or the Underground Railway at Gower Street. But what matter to us now if the sky rains salt herrings and the streets be full of roaring bulls, for we are safe from the great Babel, although we can see its stir if we will.

Come! sober scholar, gay flaneur, or ignoramus (it is all the same), rest, and drink in the fascinations of these armies of priceless china, silver, glass, pictures, and furniture which shine, and glint, and sparkle, and peep, in tantalising invitation! Here are rare editions: historic relics: miniatures, lace, statuary—in short, a banquet to suit all tastes; and here, more particularly, in the least prominent position, is a unique collection of musical instruments, hiding their heads in remoteness. It is regrettable that many of these interesting relics of the past are placed in such dark corners that a good deal of nose-flattening and eye-straining is necessary to see them at all. Still, one is well rewarded for any slight personal inconvenience sustained in viewing them, for, apart from their special interest, do they not stand before us as the mute historians of the past?

Look at this old virginal, encased in what was once rich red velvet, but now faded and worn with the touch of many a vanished hand! Behold those keys, brown with age! Yet these were once white and responsive to the taper fingers of that most consummate diplomatist, Queen Bess. Surely it was just here, on this side, that my Lord of Leicester stood bending his proud head to eagerly plead an answer to his oft-repeated suit! Or perhaps it was impulsive Essex plucked and twitched the thing, while he sued for the pardon of an elderly, capricious coquette!

A little to the left of the historic virginal is the harp of the ill-fated Marie Antoinette, brave owner of that empty title, Reine de France. What has been the history of the graceful thing since that short space of calm when its tones resounded in the Queen’s Salon at the Tuileries? Was it also dragged after the poor lady by a cruel infuriated mob, like the harp of her friend, Mademoiselle de Lamballe? Who knows! The tumbrels seem to rumble by us as we gaze, and the sickening refrain:

rings in our ears.

Close beside this melancholy relic is the cheering cast of Brian Borroimbe’s harp, which was played on by that versatile King of Ireland during the eleventh century. A little farther—in an obscure corner—is the fiddle said to have belonged to James I. of England, and almost beneath it is a cast of the beautifully carved violin which is generally supposed to have been given to the Earl of Leicester by Queen Elizabeth. Facing this is Handel’s harpsichord, a plain, workmanlike little instrument of neutral tint, and, and—can it be? or—is it only the shadow of that pillar there that deceives us into imagining that we see a misty outlined figure near the keyboard?

At first it appears to take the form of a little child, stretching his small fingers with loving patience from note to note, while now and again he glances timorously round, as though fearful of detection.

Surely now it is Mr Handel himself: this man before us, in full bob-wig and handsome habiliments, can be no other than the successful favourite of the highest in the land. There he sits, with an expression of “Vat de tevil do I care!” on his face, hammering out “The Harmonious Blacksmith.” Not the man to trouble himself about women, or succumb to the tender passion, yet women were ever helpful and friendly to him. As he plays, a strange medley of figures gather round him: there is handsome Sir Robert l’Estrange, smarting under the indignity of being called “Cromwell’s fiddler”: Cuzzoni—at a distance—for she has not forgotten Handel’s threat to throw her out of the window at the last rehearsal. Also there is the poet Gay, and Lord Burlington: Her Grace of Chandos, with her shadow, Mr Pope: Hogarth, Smollett, and that rogue, Colley Cibber, bursting with some merry squib, which must be bottled up until the end of Mr Handel’s piece, for fear of rousing that gentleman’s fiery temper.

Then quite suddenly the crowd fades away, leaving the lonely figure at the harpsichord. The outline has grown very faint, yet one can discern that it is the master still; older, gentler, feebler, with eyes that gaze, but cannot see. Genius is still the dominating power, neither age nor infirmity can destroy it. The groping fingers continue to pour forth that exquisite flow of music, which is with us now and will remain always, for his name is

Turning away from the many interesting memories revived by the old harpsichord, we discover that we have turned our backs on a case of Asiatic instruments clustering round a double-bass of such ample proportions that it is impossible to ignore it.

“The Giant”—as the monster is aptly called—is massive in every way. It is tall—nearly ten feet—it is broad, stout, and, in addition to its bulky proportions, exercises a strange magnetic influence over the gazer. So forcible is its power, that one is compelled to stay and meditate beneath its shadow as though it were still part of the parent tree from which it was ruthlessly torn some hundred years ago. As we settle down to view this mighty example of the perfected form of the violin, stray facts concerning this instrument and others of its kind come to us in a hap-hazard fashion. Our memory is whipped into various whimsical recollections of big things and fat people. Irresistibly a reminiscence of the great Lablache is wafted to us. This gigantic singer was a humble double-bass in the orchestra of a theatre, in a small Italian town, before his glorious voice brought him renown. One evening, as he was preparing to finger his part in the orchestra, he heard that the principal bass singer was too indisposed to sing. Here was the chance of Lablache’s life, and—he took it. He filled the vacant bass singer’s part himself and gained such an instantaneous success that he forsook the double-bass for ever. Yet, although he discarded it, he could not quite get rid of its memory, for his very voice was reminiscent of its tones. No one noticed this resemblance more than Weber, who, hearing him a few months after his dÉbut, exclaimed involuntarily: “By heavens! he is a double-bass still!”

As for the biography of the big bass before us, it is short but honourable. Made in Italy—that happy land of lutherie—it was once the property of Domenico Dragonetti, who came to England in 1794 and gathered victorious laurels in this country until the day of his death. Amusing anecdotes are said to have flowed incessantly from the lips of this whimsical artist, yet nothing he said surpassed his ridiculous habit of making up a “no-language” out of several tongues. Although Dragonetti resided in London for upwards of forty years, yet until his dying day he could not converse for ten minutes without running into several different languages, and when he exchanged opinions with his bosom friend, Lindley, who stuttered frantically, the effect defied both description and imitation. There is a story on record that Dragonetti and Lindley were one day lounging down Wardour Street, which was then—as it is now—the haunt of the connoisseur, when they came upon a shop where, among other attractions, a parrot was put out for sale. The friends contemplated the bird for some time without speaking, until they attracted the attention of the shopman, who at once came out to them. Lindley began stumbling out endless questions to him, for the bird had taken his fancy, and Dragonetti poked in a query now and again in his own curious jargon. How old was the bird? What did it like to eat? Where did it come from? Was it a clever bird? Was it tame? and so on, ending, with a tremendous effort on Lindley’s part: “Ca-ca-can-can he-he-e et-t-t-talk?” The salesman, impatient of having been kept so long to no purpose, felt he would lose nothing by a little outburst of temper, so he turned upon his heel with the sarcastic reply: “Talk! I should think so, and a jolly sight better than either of you, or I’d wring his blooming neck.”

Dragonetti had no rival in his day, though Bottesini, about half-a-century later, could accomplish all that Dragonetti did. Indeed he did more, for he proved what wonderful effects could be produced by utilising the double-bass as a solo instrument, whereas Dragonetti was more particularly an orchestral genius. It is said that in private, however, he frequently amused his friends with wonderful flights on one string, or jocularly played a second violin part in a Quartet on his bulky instrument. Like Paganini his disproportionately long knobby fingers gave him a wonderful command and grip of the fingerboard, and he produced a tone like the great rolling pedal notes of an organ. So vast and penetrating was its quality, and so spirited his leadership of the double-basses, that his absence invariably called forth a comment from the audience on the weakness of the bass at such-and-such a concert.

Like Paganini, and many other famous artists, Dragonetti also possessed a cherished instrument, from which death alone parted him. The tone of this beautiful Gasparo da Salo is recorded to have been immense, and many were the occasions when its sonorous voice was the means of providing Dragonetti with the material for perpetrating one of his practical jokes. On the very day that the good monks of the monastery of St Pietro, near Venice, presented him with the double-bass, his high spirits led him into all kinds of pranks. Mad with delight at the possession of such a treasure, he carried it home and seated himself in the hall, with the bass planted before him. In response to a few strokes of his bow the bulky instrument emitted such thunderous rolling sounds that all the china and glass, even the pots and pans, began to rattle. Up from the kitchen department came the frightened inmates, hardly knowing what to expect, and they found nothing but—a slim lad, playing a big fiddle.

Returning to the double-bass before us, we must admit that the numerous large basses made in Italy and England, as well as during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, was surprising. The conventional mind of the English can rarely create anything for itself in art, but must for ever imitate. Thus when they discovered that the Italian players who came to England used much larger double-basses than they were accustomed to, the order went forth at once: “Make ours large too!” The arrival of Gariboldie in London, in the reign of King George III., was the signal for much agitation amongst the King’s musicians, for it was understood that he was accompanied by an unusually large double-bass. Mr Nilbone, the principal bass, was in particular most anxious, and wrote the following letter to the eminent maker, William Forster, upon the matter[1]:—

Windsor, July 4th, 87 [1787].

Sir,—By his Majesty’s order you are to form a plan for a new double-bass; it is to be at least four inches wider, if not more, than that which you made and the depth according. You are to make it as well as possible—so as not to let any exceed it in England—as Gariboldie has sent to Italy for an uncommon large one both in goodness and size by the performance at the Abbey next year....[2]

For what exact purpose these monster instruments were used it is difficult to surmise, unless for the amusement of some “Giants of mighty bone and bold enterprise.” Perhaps some descendant of Anak, Og, or Goliath was the first owner of this monster; some colossal virtuoso who made his fellow-artists tremble—like jelly in a bowl—when he arbitrarily forbade them to take their encores. Certainly the advertisement columns of The Daily Advertiser some two hundred years ago contain so many announcements of giants, that one might easily be led to suppose that they were a drug in the market at that time.

An account of a bass which must have been quite as massive—possibly larger—as the one before us is given in his “Memoirs” by the Baron de Pollnitz, an Austrian nobleman, who visited many courts during the latter part of the eighteenth century. He received a particularly gratifying reception at the court of Duke Maurice of Saxony, whom he discovered to be an enthusiastic collector of musical instruments, and more especially of bass-viols. In the following passage the Baron describes his visit to the Museum where they were stored:—“The Prince conducted me into a hall which was hung with bass-viols from the bottom to the top, in the same manner as an arsenal is with helmets and breastplates. In the middle of the hall was a viol which was distinguished from all the rest. It reached up to the very ceiling, and there was a ladder set, which such as had the curiosity to take particular view were obliged to ascend, for surely it was the most stately instrument of the kind that was ever made. The Duke made me take particular notice of it, and was pleased with the admiration I expressed of it.”

In an interview with one of the Duke’s gentlemen-in-waiting which followed the reception at the palace, the Machiavelian-like use to which this double-bass had been put is revealed with startling clearness: “As for my august master,” remarks the garrulous courtier, “his fancy runs only on bass-viols, and whoever solicits him for employment or any other favour cannot do better than accommodate his arsenal with one of these instruments. That large one which you saw in the room where all the viols are kept was presented to him by one who wished to be a Privy Councillor. His petition was granted, and had he asked for anything else he might have had it.”

Another huge double-bass is described by Mr William Gardiner, of Leicester, in his delightfully chatty book, “Music and Friends.” He recounts coming across the monster in his native town in 1786, and says: “It was of such a height that Mr Martin [the maker] was obliged to cut a hole in the ceiling to let the head through; so that it was tuned by going into the room above.”

If either of these instruments had by chance found its way to the East, what a sensation it would have created! The Oriental in all generations has cherished a fine reverence for bulk, apparently measuring the intellect by the dimensions of the body, and this is no doubt his reason for constructing his gods in such awe-inspiring proportions. Not only does he make them large, but he also carefully preserves the traditional history of his country with which they are intertwined, and it is interesting to observe what a goodly part music plays in these annals. For instance, to the assumed founder of the Chinese Empire, B.C. 3000, the God Fohi, called “The Son of Heaven,” is assigned the invention of several stringed instruments, while their musical scale—distributed in the manner of the black notes on the piano—was derived from a miraculous bird rejoicing in the name of Foung-hoang.The Brahmin traditions of the Hindus inform us that the God Nareda invented one of their most popular instruments now in use—the vina—while speech and musical sounds were the creation of Brahma’s amiable and intellectual consort, Saraswati. Turning to the legendary history of Ceylon, we again find allusion to musical invention. The most ancient myth of this island concerns the doings of Rama—a physical incarnation of the God Vichnou—and Ravenan, the giant king who is credited with the difficult achievement of inventing the first stringed instrument played with a bow, five thousand years ago. This Ravenan, besides being of great strength and rejoicing in several heads, considered himself such a sweet and virtuous soul, that he established himself as a divinity, and invited his subjects—like a hot-pie man—to “gather round.” The request—if an arbitrary command can so be called—met with a speedy response. They not only “gathered round,” but they worshipped, and the foolish giant became exceedingly puffed up. Indeed, so great was his exaltation when he saw the growth of his proselytes, that he at length conceived the plan of making conquests farther afield. But—to borrow from Mr Bernard Shaw—“You never can tell.” You start scaling the Alps with a high heart, and a conviction that you will reach the top, when a nasty avalanche descends upon you and you are extinguished as easily as a farthing dip.

This was the case with the many-headed Ravenan. Whether the strain of thinking with seven heads at a time destroyed his judgment, or whether he did not think at all but allowed his conceit to get the better of him, we do not know, at any rate the avalanche was at hand in the form of his enemy, Rama. The moment that God heard of Ravenan’s intentions, he cried aloud with Jovelike fury: “By Brahma, it shall not be!” and there and then bore down upon Ravenan with his army. A great battle ensued, but alas! to no purpose as far as Rama was concerned. He was not only routed by the Cingalese soldiers, but his consort, Sides, was carried away to the enemy’s camp. Other encounters followed the first, but still Ravenan’s army conquered. Probably they might have gained the final victory had not Rama assumed a Siegfried characteristic. He appealed to Brahma and obtained from him a magic spear, with which he ended Ravenan’s despotic reign.

Of course in these so-called enlightened days, the Oriental tradition of the ravanastron (Ravenan’s invention was named after him) is laughed down. But after all one must own the truth of the saying: “There is no smoke without a fire,” and also allow that even the most poetic fancy must have some species of realism to give it birth. Possibly this instrument attributed to Ravenan was but the “rushy Zampogna” alluded to by Sir Roger North[3] as employed “to stir up the vulgar to dance.” Call it by what name you will, specify the fingers that made it to be dusky or white, there is no doubt that our grave and learned historians of the subject give evidence of the existence of a stringed instrument played with a bow in India at a very early date. The first duty of all historians—as we know—is to be truthful, therefore, when they reiterate the statement that the fiddle-bow is mentioned in Sanskrit characters which cannot be less than two thousand years old, we must believe implicitly. And then again, we are told that the description of India’s musical instruments found in Sanskrit treatises, reveal that the forms of the instruments there mentioned, have scarcely altered during the last thousand years. Here is another point in favour of the ravanastron’s Indian origin. Finally, Monsieur Pierre Sonnerait—the oft quoted—in his “Voyages aux Indes oriental” (Paris, 1782), records that this identical instrument was then in use among a religious sect called the Ponderons.

A description of an instrument bearing a great similarity to the ravanastron, which is depicted on a tall, handled cup belonging to the collection of Greek and Etruscan vases made by Lucien Napoleon, Prince of Caneno, is to be found in Mr J. M. Fleming’s “Violins Old and New” (London, 1883). His authority is a reproduction of the instrument, which he states to have found in an illustrated catalogue of the Prince’s valuable collection, published by subscription at Milan, in 1836. The scene in which the instrument figures is printed in red on a black ground, and reveals a man reading to a couple of youths who lean upon knotted sticks, while they listen with great earnestness to the narrative. On each side of the principal figure is an object which is technically termed, by authorities in these matters, “thecÆ”—indicating the profession of the reader. It is the form of one of these “thecÆ” that closely resembles the ravanastron, and, in addition, has a bow placed across the strings startlingly modern in appearance.

Looked at from a conjectural point of view, one might hazard that this picture perhaps furthers the cause of the Indian ravanastron’s antiquity, when we bear in mind that the music of the Sanskrit period closely resembles that of the Ancient Greeks. The Greeks in their turn—it may be remembered—borrowed their music from Egypt: the Arabs from Persia: the Chinese from India: Japan from China: and so on in a merry-go-round of reiteration. This borrowing system has originated numberless theories of derivation, but one cannot get away from the fact that Egypt was the mother country of musical instruments with stretched strings and possibly (?) of the bow also. The resemblance between the ancient Egyptian guitar (Fig. 2) and the ravanastron (Fig. 1) has easily led to the supposition that those most accomplished instrumentalists of ancient times must have discovered the art of producing sound by friction, although they have left no proof of any such invention. But—we live in an age of discovery—the most effete origin of the bow may yet be unearthed, for the world’s dust heaps are far from being completely ransacked. Only the other day a contemporary newspaper announced that “Dr von Lecoque, a scientific emissary of the Persian Government, has arrived safely at Srinagar [Kashmir], after a journey through remote parts of Asia. He has brought with him a quantity of highly interesting paintings upon stucco, the background in many cases being of gold-leaf, as in Italian work, and a number of manuscripts in ten different languages and one wholly unknown tongue. Dr von Lecoque’s discoveries probably constitute the greatest archÆological find since the days of Layard and Rawlinson.”

Pending the appearance of further revelations concerning the origin of stringed instruments played with a bow, there is no harm in quoting the following Oriental tale which to some extent tends to strengthen the invention of the bow and gut strings in India. The story is to be found in a Persian work entitled the “Tute Nama”[4] (“Tales of a Parrot, or Parrot Book,”) written by a Persian author named Nakhshabi, A.D. 1329, who adapted the romance—be it noted—from a Sanskrit work, now extant. The frame or leading narrative of the book deals with a merchant who had a beautiful wife, but, desiring to increase his wealth by establishing trade with other countries, he resolved to travel. His wife, with sweet and womanly affection, clings to him, and endeavours to dissuade him from his purpose. But for reply, he expatiates to her upon the evils of poverty and the advantages of wealth in a manner that would delight the heart of “Major Barbara’s” cynical father “Andrew Undershaft.” “A man without riches,” says he, “is fatherless, and a home without money is destitute.” Again: “He that is in want of cash is a nonentity, and wanders in the land unknown.” Other similar aphorisms greet his gentle wife’s persuasions, and at length the matter ends in his departure. Before leaving, however, he goes to the bazaar and purchases, at a great cost, a wonderful parrot that can discourse eloquently, and a species of nightingale called a “sharak,” which can imitate the human voice in a surprising manner. These he presents to his spouse as a parting gift, charging her that she shall consult the birds and gain their joint consent before transacting any matter of importance.

Time passes; the merchant’s wife has bemoaned her lord’s absence and conversed with the birds, until, one day, a handsome foreign Prince goes by the beautiful lady’s residence, and chances to meet the glance of her languishing eyes. In true Persian fashion, they instantly fall in love with one another, and the usual female Mercury of such romances is employed to arrange a lover’s meeting. Before keeping her appointment with the Prince, however, the merchant’s wife seeks the counsel of her two birds, as in duty bound. The “sharak” forbids her to see the Prince at the first suggestion, and is rewarded for her vigilance by getting her neck wrung. The parrot is next questioned, but seeing the fate of his companion he prudently temporises, and commences to tell a tale of such flattering interest that his mistress forgets to be angry, and listens, eager and absorbed.

Night after night, the parrot—in the manner of Sharazad, who narrated stories for “A Thousand and One Nights”—eloquently romances, thus cutely preventing the lady’s contemplated intrigue, until the merchant’s return makes it impossible. On the fourteenth night the clever bird entertains his mistress with the following ingenious theory of the invention of musical instruments:—

“Some attribute ... the discovery to the sounds made by a large stone against the frame of an oil-press, and others to meat when roasting, but the sages of Hind [India] are of opinion that it originated in the following accident. As a learned Brahmin was travelling to the court of an illustrious raja, he rested about the middle of the day under the shade of a mulberry-tree, on the top of which he beheld a mischievous monkey climbing from bough to bough, till by a sudden slip he fell upon a sharp-pointed shoot which instantly ripped up his belly, and left his entrails suspended on the tree, while the unlucky animal fell breathless upon the dust of death. Some time after this, as the Brahmin was returning, he accidentally sat down in the same place and, recollecting the circumstance, looked up and saw that the entrails were dried and yielded a harmonious sound every time the wind gently impelled them against the branches. Charmed at the singularity of the adventure, he took them down and, after binding them to the two ends of his walking-stick, touched them with a small twig by which he discovered that the sound was much improved. When he got home he fastened the staff to another piece of wood, which was hollow, and by the addition of a bow which was strung with part of his own beard he converted it into a complete instrument.[5] In succeeding ages the science received considerable improvements. After the addition of a bridge purer notes were extracted; and the different students, pursuing the bent of their inclinations, constructed instruments of various forms according to their individual fancies; and to this whimsical accident we are indebted for the tuneful ney, and the heart-exhilarating rabÁb, and in short all the other instruments of wind and string.”

If we would see this rabab mentioned by our Persian author, we have but to look on the right-hand side of the big bass before us, and there behold the identical thing suspended from a hook, like a misfit in a tailor’s shop. But before we begin discoursing upon its history it would be as well to glance at the Chinese fiddle, called the Ur-heen, hanging to the left of the bass. In shape it is almost the counterpart of the ravanastron; the same broomstick neck and fingerboard combined, the same round minute body. Here, however, the resemblance ends, for the body of the Chinese instrument is made of half a cocoanut shell (curiously enough the monkeys’ favourite repast), covered with gazelle skin, while the body of the ravanastron—as though desiring to accentuate its relationship to the violin family—is constructed of a cylinder of sycamore wood hollowed out. It may be remembered that M. Fetis, in his “Notice of A Stradivari,” makes a very decisive remark about the ravanastron: “If we would trace a bow instrument to its source,” says he, “we must assume the most simple form in which it could appear, and such as required no assistance from an art brought to perfection, and such a form we shall find in the ravanastron.”

Accepting this theory then as our basis, we must behold in this insignificant-looking construction (Fig. 1), devoid of classic line or Stradivarius curve, the progenitor of the violin family—or, shall we say: “The Violoncello family”? There is certainly some foundation for giving the deeper instrument precedence; first: the earliest pitch was low, and, second: if this is doubted, evidence comes to hand in the primitive stringed instruments played with a bow being too insecurely constructed to have borne the pressure of a tight—and consequently high-pitched—string. Another significant testimony is also to be found in the tuning of India’s fiddle, the sarange. Its highest string does not exceed middle C, and, besides this, it is held vertically, like the violoncello.

But we have hung over this thrice-told tale of India’s supposed contribution to the history of the violoncello overlong, we must turn our attention to the waiting rabab (Fig. 3). Comparing this with the ravanastron, a glance is sufficient to realise the development made in the right direction. Here the length of neck is curtailed, and more attention given to the sound arrangement. The outline of the body partakes no more of the American “meat-can” type, and there is an attempt at assuming those drawn-out corners and exquisite curves which, under the masterly touch of Amati and Stradivarius, finally developed into unassailable perfection. According to the Persian parrot’s story, we might be led to suppose that this was also a Hindu invention, but it is probably more correct to conclude it to be the Arab development of the ravanastron, for truly:

“... all Arabia breathes from yonder box.”

Yes! Not only does it breathe, but also whispers of that stalwart race of warriors, awakened from the lethargy of years and thrilling to Mohammed’s sublime cry: “There is one God alone!” speaks of the majestic growth of civilisation and chivalry among them, which emanated from the Prophet’s teaching: tells of the conquest of Persia in the seventh century, from whence they gathered wealth and culture, and of the subsequent subjugation of the whole of Egypt, Assyria, and India under one vast Empire. In this manner did the more advanced knowledge of the vanquished become disseminated among the conquerors and—keeping pace with the newly kindled spirit of progress—receive impetus at their hands. The Persian system of music was taken by the Arabs en bloc; likewise their musical instruments, and those of India and Egypt, consequently they became possessed of a a numerous and varied assortment. Of their prime favourite el oud (lute), alone, they are said to have counted thirty varieties, and of stringed instruments played with a bow they had fourteen different types. At the present day, only two out of this array exist from which to draw conclusions: the Persian kemangeh À gouze (ancient place of the bow[6]), and the Arabian rabab, which was possibly derived from the Indian ravanastron through the kemangeh.

In the eighth century, the Arabs enlarged their dominions still further by the addition of Spain, and it was there more particularly, amid the bewildering wealth, the luxurious self-indulgence and unrivalled magnificence, that music—“the language of love”—became indispensable. Mahommed might frown upon the art: might decry it as a device of the devil; might thunder that it caused “hypocrisy to grow in the heart like as water promoteth the growth of corn,” but to no avail, the placid Moslem found some means of reconciling his love of sweet sounds to the teachings of his religion. In Cordova, which was then the capital of Spain, “from every balcony in the evening time sounded the tinkling of lutes, and the melody of voices, so that the city seemed wreathed in musical airs after the bazaars were closed and the evening recreation had begun. The Caliph, secluded from public curiosity in his voluptuous retreat of Zehra, passed his hours of recreation amid scenes that may well recall the description of fable. The ‘pavilion of his pleasures’ was constructed of gold and polished steel, the walls of which were encrusted with precious stones. In the midst of the splendour produced by lights reflected from a hundred crystal lustres, a sheaf of living quicksilver jetted up in a basin of alabaster and made a brightness too dazzling for the eye to look upon. Amid the decorations of rare and stupendous luxury was a musical tree—a similar construction is said to have existed at Constantinople and one at Bagdad—the branches of which were made of gold and silver. On eighteen large branches and a number of twigs beneath them sat a multitude of birds shaped out of the same precious metals. By an ingenious mechanism inside the golden tree the birds were made to sing in a most melodious chorus, to the delight and amazement of the listeners.”[7]

In Bagdad, Cairo, and Damascus there was the same lavish grandeur, the same magnificence, and, amid the culture and poetic romanticism, which was the wonder of all Europe, the prime instigator to the development of music and musical instruments—the minstrel—sprang into life. Not only were bands of minstrels kept at the palaces of the caliphs, princes, and viziers, but companies of wandering minstrels roamed the country from city to city and house to house, everywhere receiving welcome and creating a fine taste and criticism among the people. No man was accounted a good minstrel unless—besides being able to play sweet melodies, and jingle bright tunes—he could utter clever things with point and clearness of diction: repeat endless poetry, both grave and gay: have a fluent command of speech, and, when singing, enunciate with perfect purity. All these attributes they attempted to display and cultivate in their playing of the dulcimer; their singing to the accompaniment of the lute; their story telling, and their chanting to the rabab on the eternal theme—love.

Alas! princely race of poets and musicians, your greatness has vanished like a cloud of dust. Vanquished and overcome in your turn, your grandeur, your literature, your science is a thing of the past, and your dignified minstrel is to-day but a beggarly sha’er (poet) who frequents Egyptian cafÉs, and, for a paltry remuneration, chants to the accompaniment of the rabab. Go to that most cosmopolitan spot on earth, Cairo, where Greek, Turk, Egyptian, Persian, and Arabian rub shoulders, and present an incessant kaleidoscopic vision of brilliant colours, and there you will meet this minstrel, remnant of “Arabian Nights’” wonders. Down the street he comes, stops at a cafÉ, seats himself on the mus’tub’ah, or raised seat, which is built against the front of the coffee-shop—rabab in hand, while another performer on the rabab seats himself beside him to play certain parts of the accompaniment. The auditors occupy the rest of the sha’er’s platform,[8] or “arrange themselves on the mus’tub’ahs of the houses on the opposite side of the narrow street, and the rest sit on stools or benches made of palm-sticks; most of them with pipe in hand; some sipping their coffee, and all highly amused, not only with the story, but with the lively and dramatic manner of the narrator.” After invocating the Prophet’s blessing the sha’er, who both recites and chants par coeur, plays a few introductory notes on the rabab and then begins to relate the popular and ancient story of the adventures of Ab’oo’ Zey’dee, which is full of dramatic possibilities for one gifted with histrionic talent. The first part of the tale deals with the childhood of the hero who—owing to his mother praying before his birth that he might be brave like a blackbird whom she saw attack and vanquish a numerous flock of birds—was born as black as night. On account of his sombre hue the helpless infant is cast upon the world in his mother’s arms by his father, who is the chief of the great tribe of Ben’ee Hila’l. One of the many situations in which the tale abounds is the manner in which the mother keeps the knowledge of his father’s name from her son, and incites him to war against his own tribe. However, everything ends well: the dusky hero is restored to his own, and the humble sha’er, having come to the end of his narration, again asks the Prophet’s blessing. The proprietor of the cafÉ gives him a small recompense for attracting customers, and he departs on his way, taking with him the feeble glimmer of wonders faded and gone.

Besides the one-stringed rabab used by the sha’er, there is also an identical two-stringed instrument called rabel ab monghun’ee, or singer’s viol, reserved entirely for the accompaniment of vocal performances. Both are constructed of wood, and the resonant body is made by stretching skin over the four-cornered body frame. Some of the sounding boxes have no back, while others have another piece of skin to form that part.

The charms of the rabab have so completely usurped our attention that we have neglected to speak more fully of that undoubtedly ancient instrument, the Persian kemangeh À gouze (Fig. 4). As there is perhaps no more delightful or authentic description of this instrument than that given by Sir William Ouseley, we will quote the whole extract from his: “Travels in the East, particularly in Persia,” just as it stands:

“My desire of hearing what the Persians considered as their best musick, could only be gratified it is said in the chief cities. Meanwhile a kind of violin called kemÁncheh (or, as pronounced in the south of Persia, Kamoncheh) and found in almost every town, afforded me frequent entertainment. That which I saw first was in the hands of Mohammed Caraba’ghi, a poor fellow who sometimes visited our camps. His kemÁncheh was of tut or mulberry-tree wood; the body (about eight inches in diameter) globular except at the mouth, over which was stretched, and fixed by glue, a covering of parchment; it had three strings (of twisted sheep’s-gut) and a bridge placed obliquely. A straight piece of iron strengthened the whole instrument from the knob below, through the handle or fingerboard to the hollow which received the pegs. It was carried hanging from the shoulder by a leather strap; in length it was nearly three feet from the wooden ball at the top to the iron knob or button which rested upon the ground. The bow was a mere switch, about two feet and a half long, to which was fastened at one end some black horse-hair. At the other end this hair was connected by a brass ring with a piece of leather seven or eight inches long. The ring was managed with the second and third fingers of the performer’s hand and by its means he contracted or relaxed the bow, which was occasionally rubbed on a bit of wax or rosin stuck above the pegs....

“The performer generally combined his voice with the tones of his instrument. At the house of a person in Bushehr, I one day heard another minstrel sing to his kemÁncheh a melancholy ditty, concerning the ill-fated Zend dynasty which became extinct on the murder of Luft Ali Kha’n in 1794, when the present King’s uncle, of the Kajar tribe, assumed imperial authority. The Zend princes were much beloved.... The elegy on their misfortunes abounded with pathetic passages, and the tune corresponding drew tears from some who listened.” Later the author informs us that the kemÁncheh is made of various materials: “I have seen one of which the body was merely a hollow gourd; and another of which every part was richly inlaid and ornamented. Some,” says Abd-ul-cadir, “form the body of this instrument from the shell of a cocoanut, fixing on it hair strings; but many are made from wood over which they fasten silken strings.”[9]

But! ... but! ... but, surely it is lunch-time! The sight of the big double-bass and its Asiatic satellites is becoming very irksome, and—the American’s “silent sorrow” is overcoming us. In plain words: “We are hungry!”

Was it not Schopenhauer who said to a German officer, who watched the philosopher’s mighty appetite with astonishment: “I eat much, sir, because I have a great mind,” adding that thought required vigorous nourishment? Of course! Then let us enter the spacious restaurant, guarded by two of Flaxman’s chefs-d’oeuvre; seize a white-robed table; beckon to a black-robed waiter; and take the food of thought, À la Schopenhauer.

A Bass-Viol of 1584

“While cleaning the attic of the house of Dr John I. Orton yesterday, workmen found an old church bass-viol. Inside the viol is engraved the name of the maker and the date, ‘G. Billini-Onna, 1584.’ Experts place its value at at least $1000. The viol has been in the possession of the Orton family for three generations but for a number of years has been missing.”—Newhaven Register, 1902.

Extracts from Anthony Wood’s Diary

“The 25th December 1656, Th. I paid young Mr Bishop 3s. for mending my base violl.

“February 18th, 1658, to Bishop for mending my viol 1s., to Rich for my shoes and spent 1s.

“25th, for violl strings, 7d.; the same, for my musick meeting, 9d.”

Epitaph said to be on Johan Jenkins’ Gravestone