I hope that modern Oxford has returned to pancakes on Shrove Tuesday.
There is a pleasant touch of mediævalness in the following:—
10th July1723.—“There are two fairs a year at Wantage, in Berks, the first on 7th July, being the translation of St Thomas à Becket, and the second on the 6th of October, being St Faith’s day. But this year, the 7th of July being a Sunday, the fair was kept last Monday, and ’twas a very great one; and yesterday it was held too, when there was a very great match of backsword or cudgell playingbetween the hill-country and the vale-country, Berkshire men being famous for this sport or excercise.”
The following account makes one inclined to sympathise with Hearne’s avoidance of travelling:—
21st Sept.1723.—“They wrote from Dover, Sept. 14, that the day before, col. Churchill, with two other gentlemen, arrived there from Calais, by whom they received the following account, viz., that on Thursday morning last, Mr Seebright and Mr Davis being in one chair, and Mr Mompesson and a servant in another chaise, with one servant on horseback, pursuing their way to Paris, were, about seven miles from Calais, attacked by six ruffians, who demanded the three hundred guineas which they said were in their pockets and portmanteaus. The gentlemen readily submitted, and surrendered the money; yet the villains, after a little consultation, resolved to murder them, and thereupon shot Mr Seebright thro’ the heart, and gave the word for killing the rest: then Mr Davis, who was in the chaise with him, shot at one of them, missed the fellow, but killed his horse; upon which he was immediately killed, being shot and stabb’d in several places. Mr Mompesson and the two servants were likewise soon dispatched in a very barbarous manner. During this bloudy scene, Mr John Locke coming down a hill within sight of them, in his return from Paris, the ruffians sent two of their party to meet and kill him; which they did before the poor gentleman was apprized of any danger; but his man, who was a Swiss, begging hard for his life, wasspared. This happening near a small village where they had taken their second post, a peasant came by in the interim, and was also murdered. They partly flead, and otherwise mangled, the horse that was killed, to prevent its being known; so that ’tis believed they did not live far from Calais. The unfortunate gentlemen afore mentioned, not being used to travel, had unwarily discovered at Calais what sums they had about them, by exchanging their guineas for Louis d’ors, which is supposed to have given occasion to this dismal tragedy.”
27th July1726.—“This is the day kept in honour of the Seven Sleepers, so called, because in the reign of Theodosius the second, about the year 449, when the resurrection (as we have it from Greg. Turon.) came to be doubted by many, seven persons, who had been buried alive in a cave at Ephesus by Decius the emperor, in the time of his persecution against the Christians, and had slept for about 200 years, awoke and testified the truth of this doctrine, to the great amazement of all.”
In the following passage Hearne shows (as in some other instances) a certain antagonism to Sir Isaac Newton. I hope, however, that he was impressed by what he quotes from theReading Post, viz. that “six noble peers supported the pall” at the funeral.
“Sir Isaac Newton had promised to be a benefactor to the Royal society, but failed. Some time before he died, a great quarrel happened between him and Dr Halley, so as they fell to bad language. This, ’tis thought, so much discomposed Sir Isaac as to hasten his end. Sir Isaac died in great pain,though he was not sick, which pain proceeded from some inward decay, as appeared from opening him. He is buried in Westminster Abbey. Sir Isaac was a man of no promising aspect. He was a short well-set man. He was full of thought, and spoke very little in company, so that his conversation was not agreeable. When he rode in his coach, one arm would be out of the coach on one side, and the other on the other.”
25th April1727.—“Mr West tells me, in a letter from London of the 22nd inst., that being lately in Cambridgeshire, he spent two days in that university, both which times he had the pleasure of seeing my friend Mr Baker, who was pleased to walk with him, and shew him his college, the library, etc. What hath been given to the library by Mr Baker himself, is no small addition to it; Mr Baker being turned out of his fellowship for his honesty and integrity (as I have also lost my places for the same reason, in not taking the wicked oaths), writes himself in all his bookssocius ejectus. His goodness and humanity are as charming, to those who have the happiness of his conversation, as his learning is profitable to his correspondents. The university library is not yet put into any order.”
25th June1728.—“The Cambridge men are much wanting to themselves, in not retrieving the remains of their worthies. Mr Baker is the only man I know of there, that hath of late acted in all respects worthily on that head, and for it he deserves a statue.”
3rd Aug.1728.—“Yesterday Mr Gilman of StPeter’s parish in the east, Oxford (a lusty, heartick,[46a]thick, and short man), told me, that he is in his 85th year of age, and that at the restoration of K. Charles II., being much afflicted with the king’s evil, he rode up to London behind his father, was touched on a Wednesday morning by the king, was in very good condition by that night, and by the Sunday night immediately following was perfectly recovered and hath so continued ever since. He hath constantly wore the piece of gold about his neck that he received of the king, and he had it on yesterday when I met him.”
I hope that Oxford, which had treated poor Hearne so ill, was impressed by the facts recorded on 10th June 1730:—
“On Thursday, June 4th, the earl of Oxford (Edw. Harley) was at my room at Edm. hall from ten o’clock in the morning till a little after twelve o’clock, together with Dr Conyers Middleton, of Trin. coll. Camb., and my lord’s nephew, the hon. Mr May of Christ Church, and Mr Murray of Christ Church.”
7th Aug.1732.—“My friend the honble. Benedict Leonard Calvert[46b]died on 1st June 1732 (old stile) of a consumption, in theCharles, Capt. Watts commander, and was buried in the sea. When he left England he seemed to think that he was becoming an exile, and that he should never see his native country more; and yet neither myself nor any else could disswade him from going. He was aswell beloved as an angel could be in his station; (he being governour of Maryland); for our plantations have a natural aversion to their governours, upon account of their too usual exactions, pillages, and plunderings; but Mr Calvert was free from all such, and therefore there was no need of constraint on that score: but then it was argument enough to be harrassed that he was their governour, and not only such, but brother to Ld. Baltimore, the lord proprietor of Maryland, a thing which himself declared to his friends, who were likewise too sensible of it. And the same may appear also from a speech or two of his on occasion of some distraction, which tho’ in print I never yet saw. I had a sincere respect for him, and he and I used to spend much time together in searching after curiosities, etc., so that he hath often said that ’twas the most pleasant part of his life, as other young gentlemen, likewise then in Oxford have also as often said, that the many agreeable hours we used to spend together on the same occasion were the most entertaining and most pleasant part of their lives. As Mr Calvert and the rest of those young gentlemen (several of which, as well as Mr Calvert, were of noble birth) used to walk and divert themselves with me in the country, much notice was taken thereof, and many envyed our happiness.”
5th July1733.—“One Handel, a foreigner (who, they say, was born at Hanover), being desired to come to Oxford, to perform in musick this Act, in which he hath great skill, is come down, theVice-Chancellor (Dr Holmes) having requested him so to do, and, as an encouragement, to allow him the benefit of the Theater, both before the Act begins and after it. Accordingly he hath published papers for a performance to-day, at 5s. a ticket. This performance began a little after five o’clock in the evening. This is an inovation. The players might be as well permitted to come and act. The Vice-Chancellor is much blamed for it.”
16th Sept.1733.—“Mr Sacheverel, who died a few years since, of Denman’s Farm (in Berks) near Oxford, was looked upon as the best judge of bells in England. He used to say, that Horsepath bells near Oxford, tho’ but five in number, and very small, were the prettiest, tunablest bells in England, and that there was not a fault in one, except the 3d, and that so small a fault, as it was not to be discerned but by a very good judge.”
3rd Oct.1733.—“I hear of iron bedsteads in London. Dr Massey told me of them on Saturday, 29th Sept. 1733. He said they were used on account of the buggs, which have, since the great fire, been very troublesome in London.”
17th Jan.1733–34.—“Mr Baker of Cambridge (who is a very good, as well as a very learned man, and is my great friend, though I am unknown in person to him) tells me in his letter of the 16th of last December, that he hath always thought it a happiness to dye in time, and says of himself, that he is really affraid of living too long. He is above seventy, as he told me some time since.”
10th March1733–34.— . . . “On the 7th inst.Ld. Oxford sent me the chronicle ofJohn Bever. He lends it me at my request, and says he will lend me any book he hath, and wonders I will not go to London and see my friends; and see what MSS. and papers are there, and in other libraries, that are worth printing. I could give several reasons for my not going either to London or other places, which however I did not trouble his lordship with. Among others, ’tis probable I might receive a much better welcome than I deserve, or is suitable to one that so much desires and seeks a private humble life, without the least pomp or grandeur.”
2nd May1734.—“Yesterday an attempt was made upon New college bells of 6876 changes. They began a quarter before ten in the morning, and rang very well until four minutes after twelve, when Mr Brickland, a schoolmaster of St Michael’s parish, who rang the fifth bell, missed a stroke, it put a stop to the whole, so that they presently set them, and so sunk the peal, which is pity, for ’twas really very true ringing, excepting five faults, which I observ’d (for I heard all the time, tho’ ’twas very wet all the while) in that part of the Parks which is on the east side of Wadham college, where I was very private; one of which five faults was the treble, that was rung by Mr Richard Hearne, and the other four were faults committed by the aforesaid Mr Brickland, who ’twas feared by several beforehand would not fully perform his part. . . .”
2nd May1734. . . . “When I mention’d afterwards my observations to ye said Mr Smith, he told me, that tho’ he rung himself, yet he minded the faultsalso himself. Upon which I asked him how many there were? He said three before that which stopp’d them. I told him that there just five before that, at which he admired my niceness.”
14th Oct.1734. . . . “Dr Sherlock, now bp. of Salisbury, was likewise of that little house (Cath. Hall), and they look upon it as very much for the honour of that little house, that it has produced two of our principal prelates (Dr Sherlock and Hoadly, at Salisbury and Winchester). The last has usually (and regularly) gone to an Oxford man, as Ely to Cambridge.”
31st Dec.1734. . . . “But having been debarr’d the library, a great number of years, I am now a stranger there, and cannot in the least assist him, tho’ I once design’d to have been very nice in examining all those liturgical MSS., and to have given notes of their age, and particularly of Leopric’s Latin Missal, which I had a design of printing, being countenanc’d thereto by Dr Hickes, Mr Dodwell, etc.”
“To entertain the lag-end of my lifeWith quiet hours.”—Henry IV., Pt. I.
“To entertain the lag-end of my lifeWith quiet hours.”
—Henry IV., Pt. I.
I was born at Down on 16th August 1848: I was christened at Malvern—a fact in which I had a certain unaccountable pride. But now my only sensation is one of surprise at having been christened at all, and a wish that I had received some other name. I was never called Francis, and I disliked the usual abbreviation Frank, while Franky or Frankie seemed to me intolerable. I also considered it a hardship to have but one Christian name. Our parents began by giving two names to the elder children; but their inventive capacity gave way and the younger ones had each but one. It seemed, too, a singular fact that—as they afterwards confessed—they gave names which they did not especially like. Our godfathers and godmothers were usually uncles and aunts, but this tepid relationship was deprived of any conceivable interest by the fact that the uncles were usually represented by the parish clerk. This, of course, we only knew by rumour, but we realised that they gave no christening mugs—a line of conduct in which I now fully sympathise. Mybrother Leonard did indeed receive a silver spoon from Mr Leonard Horner, but I fancy that this came to him on false pretences.
I have no idea at what age we began to go to church, but I have a general impression of unwillingly attending divine service for many boyish years. We had a large pew, lined with green baize, close beneath the clergyman’s desk, and so near the clerk that we got the full flavour of his tremendous amens. I have a recollection of entertaining myself with the india-rubber threads out of my elastic-sided boots, and of gently tweaking them when stretched as miniature harp-strings. The only other diverting circumstance was the occurrence of book-fish (Lepisma?) in the prayer books or among the baize cushions. I have not seen one for fifty years, and I may be wrong in believing that they were like minute sardines running on invisible wheels. In looking back on the service in Down church, I am astonished at the undoubted fact that whereas the congregation in general turned towards the altar in saying the Creed, we faced the other way and sternly looked into the eyes of the other churchgoers. We certainly were not brought up in Low Church or anti-papistical views, and it remains a mystery why we continued to do anything so unnecessary and uncomfortable.
I have a general impression of coming out of church cold and hungry, and of seeing the labourers standing about the porch in tall hats and green or purple smock-frocks. But the chief object of interest was Sir John Lubbock (the father of the late LordAvebury), of whom, for no particular reason, we stood in awe. He made it up to us by coming to church in a splendid fluffy beaver hat. My recollection is that we often went only to the afternoon service, which we preferred for its brevity. I have a clear recollection of our delight when, on rainy Sundays, we escaped church altogether.
A feature that distinguished Sunday from the rest of the week was our singular custom of having family prayers on that day only. When we were growing up we mildly struck at the ceremony, and my mother accordingly dropped it on finding that the servants took no especial interest in it.
On Sundays we wore our best jackets, but I think that, when church was over, we put on our usual tunics or blouses of surprising home-made fit. But I clearly remember climbing (in my Sunday clothes) a holly-tree on a damp Christmas Day, and meeting my father as I descended green from head to foot. I remember the occurrence because my father was justly annoyed, and this impressed the fact on me, since anything approaching anger was with him almost unknown.
In our blouses we might with impunity cover ourselves with the thick red clay of our country-side, and this we could always do by playing in a certain pit where we built clay forts, etc. We used also to run down the steep ploughed fields, our feet (grown with adhering clay to huge balls) swinging like pendulums and scattering showers of mud on all sides. Then we would come cheerfully home, entering by the back door and taking off our bootsas we sat on the kitchen stairs in semi-darkness and surrounded by pleasant culinary smells.
In later years, when we used to take long winter tramps along our flinty winding lanes, this unbooting on the back stairs was a prelude to eating oranges in the dining-room, a feast that took the place of five o’clock tea—not then invented.
In the early days of which I was speaking, we had schoolroom tea with our governess, while our parents dined in peace at about 6.30. We came down after our tea, rushing along the dark passage and descending the stairs with that rhythmic series of bangs peculiar to children. I do not know that we were really frightened at passing certain dark doorways, but I certainly remember enjoying a sort of sham terror. One of these doors led into my mother’s room and also to a store-room; I cannot think that this had any “night fears” for us, because it smelt so strongly of such everyday earthly things as soap and tallow candles. Why it was placed next to the bedroom I do not know. I have no clear remembrance of what we did in the evenings, but I seem to see a round table and a moderator lamp, such as occurs in John Leech’s pictures inPunch. I have also a faint recollection of black-coated uncles sitting by the fire and not unnaturally objecting to our making short-cuts across their legs. It was no doubt a pity that we were not reproved for our want of consideration for the elderly, and that, generally speaking, our manners were neglected. One of our grown-up cousins was reported to have called our midday dinner “a violent luncheon,” and I do notdoubt that she was right. We were fortunate in having a set of simple, kindly, old-fashioned servants with whom we could be on friendly terms. Thus it happens that recollections cluster about the kitchen and pantry. I have a vague remembrance of a Welsh cook, Mrs Davis, who was very kind to us in spite of constant threats of “tying a dish-cloth to your tail,” which, so far as I know, remained a threat, and was indeed never understood by me. We certainly could generally extract gingerbread and other good things from Daydy, as we called Mrs Davis. The butler, Parslow, was a kind friend to us all our lives. I do not remember being checked by him except in being turned out of the dining-room when he wanted to lay the table for luncheon, or being stopped in some game which threatened the polish of the sideboard, of which he spoke as though it were his private property. He had what may be called a baronial nature: he idealised everything about our modest household, and would draw a glass of beer for the postman with the air of a seneschal bestowing a cup of malvoisie on a troubadour. He would not, I think, have disgraced Charles Lamb’s friend Captain Burney, who welcomed his guests in the grand manner to the simplest of feasts. It was good to see him on Christmas Day: with how great an air would he enter the breakfast-room and address us:—“Ladies and Gentlemen, I wish you a happy Christmas, etc. etc.” I am afraid he got but a sheepish response from us. Among the outdoor servants there were three whom I remember well. There was Brooks,the general outdoor man, who acted as gardener, cowman, etc. He had dark eyes and a melancholy, morose face. Of him I have told elsewhere[56a]the following anecdote:—
Brooks had been accused by the other gardener of using foul language, and was hailed before my father to be judged. I, as a little boy, standing in the hall, heard my father say, “You know you are a very bad-tempered man.” “Yes, sir” (in a tone of deep depression). “Then get out of the room—you ought to be ashamed of yourself.” At this point I rushed upstairs in vague alarm and heard no more.
Brooks lived in a cottage close to the cow-yard, with his wife, in whom I took an interest because her name was Keziah, and because she was the best smocker in the village. I have a vague recollection of a private in the Guards to whom I was introduced as a son of Brooks—a statement I regarded as surprising. Mrs Brooks was as melancholy as her husband, and I remember many years later, when the pair were pensioned off in the village, hearing Brooks say in her presence, “She ain’t no comfort to me, sir.” To this she made no retort, though atu quoquewould have been most just.
The under-gardener, Lettington (the man who objected to being sworn at), was a kindly person and a great friend of mine. It was he who taught me to make whistles[56b]in the spring and helped me with my tame rabbits. He also showed me how to make brick-traps for small birds, and a more elaborate trapmade of hazel twigs. In this last I remember catching a blackbird: I imagine that I must have been rather afraid of my captive, for the unfortunate bird escaped leaving its tail in my hands. I do not think I ever wanted to kill the few other birds caught in traps, but let them go free. I clearly remember looking with envy and admiration at Bewicke’s woodcuts of traps,e.g.that of the woodcock springe, and another of a sieve propped up over grain sprinkled as bait.
To return to Lettington. It was he who helped my father in his experiments on the crossing of plants: he lived to a great age, dying as a pensioner many years later. My father used to tell with amusement how Lettington never failed to remind him of a bad prophecy:—“Yes, sir, but you said so-and-so would happen.” The third outdoor man was Thomas Price, generally known as the Dormouse on account of his somnolent manner of working. We, as boys, believed him to be a deserter from the army on account of the military set of his shoulders, and because he had arrived in the village an unknown wanderer. He was a bachelor and spent more than was wise on beer. For the last few years of his life my mother made him save money by the simple process of retaining part of his wages in her own hands. In this way he unwillingly acquired some £20 or £30, but as he refused to leave it to those who took care of him in his last illness, it went to the Crown, to whom I hope it made up for the loss of T. Price’s very doubtful military services.
In later years it occurred to us that the methods of gardening at Down were antiquated, and we persuaded our parents to engage an active young Scotchman whom I will call X, and who was placed in command of Lettington and the Dormouse (the gloomy Brooks having been pensioned). The two old servants were dreadfully bustled by X, and I well remember their flushed faces after the first morning’s digging in the serious Scotch manner. After a time, finding that matters were very little looked after, X began some mysterious dealings in cows with a neighbouring farmer, and it was suddenly discovered that a cow had disappeared. I remember my shame at finding I did not know how many cows we ought to have, nor could I swear to their personal appearance. But by dint of cross-examination I was enabled to draw up a statement of how cow A had been sold, cow B bought, and cow C exchanged for cow D, etc. Finally the ingenious X was discharged, and the rejoicing Lettington and Dormouse reinstated. But before this fortunate conclusion, I had at my father’s bidding taken steps to obtain a summons against X. I remember thinking what a fool I should look when cross-examined before the magistrates. Another circumstance is impressed on my mind. The affair occurred in that remarkable October in which the trees were greatly injured by a snowstorm, and as I drove in a dog-cart through Holwood Park in search of the summons, I thought, as the trees cracked like pistols, that it was hardly worth while being crushed to death for the sakeof any number of cows. Finally X was not prosecuted, and departed in peace.
To return to my childhood: I came between George and Leonard, and was a companion to both of them, but I do not think we made a trio as Leonard and Horace and I did more or less. I have a clear recollection of Leonard in a red fez, and bare legs covered with scratches, but I cannot distinctly call up images of the others. I seem to remember a great deal of purposeless wandering with my younger brothers; but with George, playing was an organised affair in which I was an obedient subordinate, as I have described inRustic Sounds. Our chief game was playing at soldiers; we had toy guns to which home-made wooden bayonets were fixed, knapsacks, and I think shakos—whether we had any uniform coats I cannot remember. In the cloakroom under the stairs our names and heights were recorded, and George conscientiously constructed a short foot-rule so that our height should come to something like six feet. I had to keep sentry at the far end of the kitchen garden until released by a bugle-call. George being a sergeant was exempt from sentry work, and was merely responsible for the bugle-blowing. Indoors there was much playing with tin soldiers. I remember a regiment of dragoons whose coats my mother had laboriously reddened with sealing-wax to convert them into British soldiers. The troopers were in a ferocious charging attitude with swords raised, but the blades were mostly broken, and I innocently believed that they were all raising crusts of breadto their mouths. Another indoors game was the hurling of darts at one another in the long passage upstairs; we had wooden shields on which the javelins used to strike briskly enough, since they were weighted with lead. On these occasions we were knights or men-at-arms, but out of doors we were savages. George could hurl hazel-spears, using the Australian throwing-stick, an art I never acquired, but I was fond of slinging stones. To make a sling a bit of leather was necessary, and this meant a visit to the village cobbler, Parker by name, who was a short, sallow man with the bristling chin which, according to Dickens,[60]is the universal attribute of cobblers. I remember the pleasure of sending, with my sling, a pebble crashing into the big ash-tree in the field from what seemed to me a great distance.
Another pursuit was walking on stilts, of which we had two kinds; on the smaller ones even girls had been known to walk, but of the larger (which I remember as of imposing height) only the male sex was capable. The garden at Down was originally a bare and windy wilderness, but our parents constructed mounds of raw red clay on which laurel and box finally grew and made shelter. One of these mounds, covered with dwarf box-trees, was known to us as the Pyrenees, and our pleasure was to traverse the passes on stilts. There was a slight sense of danger and a certain romance in climbing the heights from the lawn and descending in what was legally a part of the orchard, wherethe last of the limes grew and a particular crab-tree of which I was fond.
Then there were two swings, one of the orthodox kind between those twin yew-trees that gave a special character to the lawn, and one consisting of a long rope fixed high up on the tall Scotch fir that grew on the mound. The rope of the latter had a short cross-bar at its lower end which served as a seat or a handle. There were various tricks, some of which were almost sure to bump the head of a strange child against the tree trunk, to our private satisfaction.
A similar rope hanging from the ceiling of the long passage at the top of the house supplied a more complicated set of tricks, which all had special names. Of these, I remember thatspanglemeant a method of sitting on one side of the cross-bar at the end of the rope. The stairs leading to the second floor jutted out into the passage; we used to stand with one foot on each banister-supporting post and make it a starting-point for a swing on the rope, also a landing-place, and if we succeeded in getting back into position with a foot on each banister-post we were pleased with ourselves, especially if it was done at night without a light. The rope, working on the hooks fixed into the ceiling, made a grinding or squeaking noise which must have been annoying to guests, especially when mixed with much crashing and banging and shouting.
In later years we played stump cricket and lawn tennis, but in the early days of which I am thinking the only game I clearly remember was the practiceof the village cricketers in our field. It seems improbable, yet I am decidedly of opinion that the pitch was the footpath, the unmown condition of the grass making bowling elsewhere an impossibility; on the other hand it made fielding an easy affair. I remember clearly the runs being recorded by notches cut on a stick, a method of scoring which has its place in literature in the match between All Muggleton and Dingley Dell.[62]
It is curious to remember how solitary our life was. We had literally no boy-friends in the whole neighbourhood; there were plenty of boys within reach but we never amalgamated with them, and were, I imagine, despised by them as outside the pale of Eton-dom. No opportunity was made for us to learn to shoot; I used to wander with a gun and shoot an occasional hare and various blackbirds, but I never had even the meanest skill, and after suffering miseries of shame at one or two shooting-parties I am glad to think I gave it up.
Fishing there was none in our dry country, and it was only very much later, on the beautiful Dovey in North Wales, that I learned something of the art.
Riding we did learn in a casual, haphazard way, and some of us hunted a little with a mild pack (the Old Surrey) in our bad hunting country—but all this was much later and hardly concerns my present subject.
The best practice I had as a boy was ridingtwice or thrice a week (from perhaps my tenth to my twelfth year) to Mr Reed, Rector of Hayes, to be taught Latin and a little arithmetic. Our ponies were shaggy, obstinate little beasts, who had the strongest possible dislike of their duties. I remember well how my pony turned round and round, and at last consented to proceed till a new excuse occurred for a bolt towards home. It was a secret delight to me when one of my brothers was beaten in the pony-fight and was brought ignominiously home.
Mr Reed was the kindest of teachers, and after a short spell of Latin he used to give me a slice of cake and allow me to look at the wonderful pictures in an old Dutch Bible. Even under the mild discipline of this kindest of men I used to dissolve in tears over my work.
When I was twelve years old,i.e.in the summer of 1860, I went to the Grammar School at Clapham kept by Rev. Charles Pritchard. I was two years under Pritchard, and when he left[63]I remained under his successor, Rev. Alfred Wrigley, until I went up to Trinity College, Cambridge, 1866. Wrigley had none of the force of Pritchard, nor had he, I fancy, his predecessor’s gift of teaching. Mathematics formed a great part of our curriculum, and for these I had no turn. I am, however, grateful to Wrigley for having made me work out a great many logarithmic calculations which had to be shown up (as he expressed it) in a “neat, tabularform.” As I have said in my article on my brother George inRustic Sounds, my “recollections of George at Clapham are coloured by an abiding gratitude for his kindly protection of me as a shrinking and very unhappy ‘new boy’ in 1860.”
From school I went to Trinity College, Cambridge. I lodged first with a tailor called Daniells in Bridge Street, nearly opposite to the new chapel of St John’s—the slow rise of which I used to watch from my windows. Afterwards I moved into rooms on the ground floor to the left of the New Court Gate that leads out into the Backs. Why the architect made the sitting-rooms look into the Court and all its mean stucco decorations I cannot imagine. My bedroom looked out on the Backs and its avenue of lime-trees, where the nightingales sang through the happy May nights.
I hardly made any permanent friends till my second year, when I had the good fortune to become intimate with Edmund Gurney and Charles Crawley, both of whom died early. Crawley was drowned in a boating accident in which he tried in vain to save the women of the party. Edward Stirling, an Australian, has only recently (1919) died. I am glad to think that my undergraduate friends (except those removed by death) are still my friends.
Among the Dons who were friendly to students of natural science the first place must be given to Alfred Newton, the Professor of Zoology, who most kindly invited us to come to his rooms in Magdalene any and every Sunday evening. There we smoked our pipes and enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. Wehad the advantage of meeting older members of the University. It was in this way I became acquainted with G. R. Crotch, of St John’s, who was an assistant in the University Library. He was a strikingly handsome man with a long silky beard and wonderful eyes. His passion was Entomology, and he had a great knowledge of the Coleoptera, and used sometimes to take me out beetle-catching, but I never became a collector. He was eccentric in his habits; for instance, he dressed entirely in black flannel—shirt, coat, and trousers—which were made for him by Brown, the tailor, who was a brother entomologist. He finally gave up his librarianship and went off beetle-catching to the United States, where he died in what would have been miserable conditions but for the tender care bestowed on him by a complete stranger, whose name I have unfortunately forgotten. There, too, I occasionally saw Clifford, the well-known mathematician, who died early—also Kingsley on at least one occasion. I remember him, too, at the New Museums (where I was dissecting some beast or other) reproving me for my white shirt, and telling me that flannel was far more suitable for dissections. John Willis Clark (who afterwards became Registrary of the University) was then Curator of the New Museums, and encouraged me to work in his department, and I well remember my pride when my preparation of a hedgehog’s inside was added to the Museum. J. W. Clark was the kindest of men, and I, like many another undergraduate, used to dine with him and his mother at ScropeHouse. There some of us were introduced for the first time to good claret. I remember Mrs Clark (rather a masterful old lady) saying, “Drink your wine like a good boy and don’t talk nonsense,” as though these precepts contained the whole duty of undergraduate man. J. W. Clark was the patron and director of the undergraduates’ Amateur Dramatic Society (the A. D. C.), and occasionally took a part himself. I have a clear recollection of hearing him (attired in red tights) exclaim in his peculiar pronunciation, in which the letterslandrwere indistinguishable, “I am the srave of the ramp.”
I had left to the last the man whose kindness towards me as an undergraduate I valued most highly, and whose friendship it is still my good fortune to possess—I mean Henry Jackson, now Professor of Greek, but at that time a Trinity lecturer. I have an image of him walking up and down his room in Neville’s Court with a pipe in his mouth (which burned more fiercely than did the pipes of other men), and talking with a humour and enthusiasm which were a perpetual delight. A literary venture,The Tatler in Cambridge, originated among undergraduates under the editorship of the present Canon Mason. To this I contributed a paperOn the Melancholy of Bachelors, which was accepted, chiefly, I think, through the kindness of E. Gurney. I shall never forget my delight when, on the day of its publication, Henry Jackson came round to my rooms to tell me that he liked it.
I must now return to my more seriousemployments. It was at the suggestion of E. C. Stirling that I became a medical student and began to work for the Natural Sciences Tripos. In order to get more time for the last-named examination I kept my small stock of mathematics simmering as it were, and managed (without giving much time to the subject) to get a mathematical degree as fifth among the Junior Optimes in 1870. I had the pleasure of being coached for this examination by James Stuart—the only man, I imagine, who ever made mathematics entertaining and even amusing to an unmathematical pupil.
I then had a clear year in which I could devote myself to Natural Science. I did not succeed in finding a coach who was of any use to me. But in Comparative Anatomy I did a fair amount of undirected work: in this way I dissected a good many creatures such as slugs and snails and freshwater mussels, dragonflies, etc. I have a dim recollection of catching the mussels in the Cam with Gordon Wigan, the son of the celebrated actor—and indeed that kindly personage joined us in one of our boating expeditions.
On leaving Cambridge I went to St George’s Hospital with the intention of becoming a practising physician. But happily for me the Fates willed otherwise. The late Dr Cavafy of St George’s Hospital urged me to learn something of Histology, and sent me to Dr Klein, whose pupil I had the good fortune to become at the Brown Institute. I have elsewhere[67]said something of my debt of gratitude toDr Klein. Under his guidance I produced a paper which served as a thesis for my M.B. degree. I had another interesting experience during my time at St George’s. I used to go to the Zoological Society’s dissecting-room, where the late Dr Garrod (the Prosector) allowed me to investigate some of the daily quota of dead animals. But it was not of any real educational value, I fancy. Still it may have helped the impetus of Klein’s teaching to suggest that medicine[68a]should be given up and that I should become the assistant to my father.
The old nursery at Down had been turned into a laboratory, and when (on the death of my wife) I came to live in the house of my parents, they converted the billiard-room into a sitting-room for me.
During the following years I went to work under Sachs at Würzburg and afterwards under De Bary at Strassburg. Sachs was most kind and helpful, and under his direction I contributed a small paper to hisArbeiten. I made some good friends at Würzburg—Stahl, who is now Professor of Botany at Jena; Kunkel, the Pharmacologist, who died young; the Finlander Elfving, who is now Professor of Botany at Helsingfors; and Goebel, now the well-known Professor of Botany at Munich. He and I walked side by side to receive our degrees at the 1909 meeting in Cambridge.[68b]I had the greatpleasure of seeing Elfving on the same occasion, and we have never ceased to correspond, though at irregular intervals. I had once the satisfaction of receiving Stahl as my guest at Cambridge. He is still Professor of Botany at Jena, and in spite of rather weak health has published a mass of good work.
I am sorry to think that my relationship with Sachs came to an unhappy ending. I published what seemed to me a harmless paper, in which I criticised some of his researches. I wrote to him on the subject but received no answer. Partly on account of his silence and partly to pay a visit to a friend, I travelled to Würzburg. I found Sachs in the Botanic Garden; he seemed to wish to avoid me, but I went up to him and asked him why he was angry with me. He replied: “The reason is very simple; you know nothing of Botany and you dare to criticise a man like me.” I had no opportunity of replying, for at that moment one of his co-professors addressed him, asking if he could spare a moment. “Very willingly, Herr Professor,” said Sachs, and walked off without a word to me. And that was the last I saw of the great botanist. I was undoubtedly stupid, but I do not think he showed to advantage in the affair.
I continued to work with my father at Down, and in spite of the advantages I gained by seeing and sharing in the work of German laboratories, I now regret that so many months were spent away from him.
Mr Galpin has written an admirable book on old musical instruments. His knowledge, which is first hand, is the harvest of many years’ research; and, like the best type of learned authors, he has the power of sharing his knowledge with the ignorant.
His book begins with a study of stringed instruments, which occupies about half the book, the remainder being given up to the wind band.
My own experience of instruments of music is confined to the latter division. I remember as a small boy at school struggling with an elementary flute: or was it a penny whistle? I believe it was a flute, for I have a dim recollection of pouring water into it before it would sound. I tried to teach the instrument—whatever it was—to a friend, and wrote down the fingerings by a series of black and white dots, in the manner quoted from Thomas Greeting’sPleasant Companion, 1675, by Mr Galpin (p. 146). Then when I was about fifteen or sixteen years old I began under that admirable teacher, the late R. S. Rockstro, to work regularly at the flute. As a Cambridge undergraduate I remember playing flutesolos at the University Musical Society’s concerts. And I can still recall the pleasant sound of the applause which on one occasion called for a repetition of my performance. Since those days I took up the bassoon under the guidance of another admirable teacher, Mr E. F. James. But nowadays my chief interest is the recorder, which is best known to the unmusical world from the well-known passage inHamlet. Of this instrument I shall have something to say in the sequel. I give these personal details to show how small a right I have to do more than give an abstract of Mr Galpin’s admirable book.
The first instrument dealt with is the harp, the essential feature of which is that each string gives but one sound.[72]It is not clear to me why the psaltery and dulcimer are separated from the harp, since they also have unstopped strings and therefore unalterable notes. Whereas the interpolated chapter ii. is concerned with instruments—the gittern and citole—whose tones are alterable in pitch by “stopping,”i.e., altering the length of the vibrating part of the string. I can only suppose that the author considers that the fact of the gittern and citole being sounded by plucking the strings, brings these instruments into alliance with the harp. I confess that I should like to have seen Class I. (strings unalterable in tone) including the harp, the rote, the psaltery, dulcimer (Plate I.), the æolian-harp, and the piano. Then would come a class of instruments some at least of whose stringsproduce a variety of tones by stopping,i.e., shortening the vibrating region of the string, and this would include gittern and citole, lute, etc. But doubtless the author has good reason for his arrangement, and I have not knowledge enough to be his critic.
Plate I. Psaltery and Dulcimer
At p. 4 (Galpin) is represented the simple Irish harp or lyre which was known as the cruit or crot; it is essentially a harp, although it seems, in its infancy at any rate, to have had but five or six strings. The name cruit or crot afterwards developed into rotte, and under this name is described a remarkable instrument apparently dating from the fifth to the eighth centuries, which is figured at p. 34 (Galpin). It was found in the Black Forest in the grave of a warrior, together with his sword and bow, and seems to have been clasped in his arms, as though he had especially valued it. The true harp, which in its simplest form (Galpin, p. 8) chiefly differs from the rote in shape,[73a]is characterised by the picturesque triangular outline that is so familiar. It was of Teutonic origin, and Mr Galpin tells an admirable story of a Saxon who disguised himself as a Briton, by playing the rote instead of the harp, which would have revealed his nationality. In spite of its Saxon parentage the Irish adopted the harp, and a beautiful instrument of the early thirteenth century is preserved at Trinity College, Dublin (Galpin, p. 12). The Irish forharpisClairsech,[73b]a wordthat reminds me of an Irish friend who used to quote—
“Old Tracy and old DarcyPlaying all weathers on the Clarsy.”
“Old Tracy and old DarcyPlaying all weathers on the Clarsy.”
Mr Galpin tells a pleasant story of St Ealdhelm, who was Bishop of Sherborne in the year 705. When he was about to preach he found the church empty; he therefore took his harp, and “standing on a bridge hard by, soon attracted a considerable crowd by his playing. Then he delivered his sermon.”
Chapter ii, p. 20, is devoted to the gittern and citole. In the first-named instrument we have the ancestor of the guitar, which it resembled in its flat back, and in the curving inwards of the vertical sides.[74a]It has generally been believed that the “waist” thus produced was an adaptation to the use of the bow, but, as the author points out, this form occurs long before the existence of bowed instruments.[74b]At p. 22 (Galpin) is given an early fourteenth century illustration of a gittern-player, holding in his right hand the plectrum with which he sounds the strings. The most curious point, however, is the depth of the neck of the instrument, which is pierced by a large hole to admit the left thumb; without this curious device it would apparently be impossible to stop the strings. On the same plate is given an illustration of the precious gittern at Warwick Castle, believed to date from about 1330,in which the thumb-hole is more clearly shown. The guitar, which may be considered a descendant of the gittern, is said to have completely eclipsed its ancestor in the seventeenth century. And at the present time it, together with the mandoline and the banjo, are the only representatives of the type in every-day use.
Mr Galpin places the citole in the same class as the gittern. He says that this instrument has been much misunderstood, and since I do not desire to add my quota to the injustice under which this unfortunate instrument suffers, I shall pass on to the mandore and lute. The essential characteristic of these instruments is that their bodies, instead of having the flat back of the guitar, are rounded. Though the body is now built of strips of wood or ivory, its form is “reminiscent of the time when the body or resonator consisted of a simple gourd or half-gourd covered with skin.” In this they resemble the instruments of Oriental races, and the author traces the form of the rebec and mandoline as well as that of the mandore and lute to Persian, Arabic, and Moorish influence in the Middle Ages.
The European lute had at first only four strings, but in the “elaborate instruments of the seventeenth century there were twenty-six or thirty strings to be carefully tuned and regulated.” No wonder that a lutenist should have been said to spend three-quarters of his existence in tuning his instrument. The mandore was a small form of lute, and is chiefly of interest because in a yet smaller form it stillsurvives as the mandoline, which, however, usually has both wire and covered strings, and is played with a plectrum. To return to the lute, its most obvious characteristic is that the head (in which are the pegs for tuning the strings) is bent at right-angles to the general plane of the instrument. It is not clear what is the meaning of this curious crook in the instrument, but it is some comfort to the ignorant since it enables us to recognise a lute when we see one. Henry VIII. and his daughters Mary and Elizabeth are said to have been good lutenists. The smaller gut strings, called by the pleasant name ofminnikins, were easily broken, and a gift of lute-strings was considered a present fit for a queen, and one which the great Elizabeth did not disdain.
There was also an archlute, which in its largest form—six feet in height—was known as the chitarrone. It had not the rectangular bend in the neck of the ordinary lute; it was also characterised by having four or five free or unstopped strings. A fine reproduction of Lady Mary Sidney and her archlute faces the title-page of the book.
Mr Galpin (p. 46) quotes from Thomas Mace’sMusick’s Monument, 1676, the proper method of “fretting” a lute or similar instrument. The frets, or horizontal strings or wires which make cross ridges on the neck of lutes, viols, etc., I had ignorantly imagined to be guides to the beginner as to where to stop the string; but it appears (Galpin, p. 46) that they “add to its tone and resonance by keeping the string from touching thefinger-board too closely.” The word “fret” is said to be derived from the old Frenchferretté,i.e., banded with iron.[77a]
PLATE II. Various stringed instruments
In Mace’s[77b]book above referred to he discourses with a child-like enthusiasm on his favourite instrument. He does not follow the elder lutenists, whom he describes as “extreme shie in revealing theOccultandHidden Secretsof the Lute.” He gives the following examples of “False and Ignorant Out-cries against the Lute”:—
(1) “That it is theHardest Instrumentin theWorld.
(2) “That it will take up the Time of anApprenticeshipto playwelluponIt.
(3) “That it makesYoung Peoplegrowawry.
(4) “That it is a veryChargeable Instrumentto keep; so that one had as good keep aHorseas aLuteforCost.
(5) “That it is aWoman’s Instrument.
(6) “And lastly (which is the mostChildishof all the rest), It is out ofFashion.”
The following extracts from Mace will give some idea of his style and of his method of treating the subject:—
“First,know that an Old Lute is better than a New one:Then,The Venice Lutesare commonlyGood. There are diversities ofMens NamesinLutes; but theChief Namewe most esteem, isLaux Maler, ever written withText Letters:Twoof whichLutesI have seen (Pittifull Old,Batter’d,Crack’d Things) valued at 100 l.a piece(p. 48).
“When you perceive anyPegto be troubled with theslippery Disease, assure yourself he will never grow better ofHimself, without some ofYour Care; therefore takeHimout, andexaminetheCause(p. 51).
“And that you may know how toshelter your Lute, in the worst ofIll weathers(which ismoist) you shall do well . . . to putIt into a Bed,that is constantly used,between the Rug and the Blanket; butneverbetween thesheets, because they may bemoistwithSweat(p. 62).
“Strings are of three sorts,Minikins,Venice-Catlins,and Lyons(forBasses).
“I us’d to compare . . .Tossing-Finger’d PlayerstoBlind-Horses, which alwayslift up their Feet,higher than need is; and so by that means,can never Run Fast, or with aSmooth Swiftness” (p. 85).
He says, “You must beVery Careful(now, in your first beginning) to get aGood Habit; so that youstop close to your Fretts,and never upon any Frett;and ever,with the very End of your Finger; except when aCross,or Full Stopis to be performed” (p. 99).
Plate III. The Crwth
Mr Galpin (p. 75) gives a figure of a man playing a Crowd with a bow, instead of plucking the strings with the fingers as shown in sculptured Irish Crosses. What makes the figure so especially interesting, is that there is clearly no means ofstoppingthe strings,i.e., of altering the length of the vibrating region, and therefore altering the pitch. No one, I fancy, would have guessed that the bow was of more ancient lineage than the fiddle. The finger-board, which transforms the instrument into an undeniable relative of the violin, is known to have existed in the thirteenth century. It is a striking fact that what is practically a cruit or rotte survived in use until the nineteenth century in this country, in the form of the Welshcrwthor crowd shown on Plate III. There is a specimen dated 1742 in the Victoria and Albert Museum. The crwth here figured was made last century by Owain Tyddwr of Dolgelly, an old man who remembered the instrument as it was in his younger days, and took great pleasure in its reconstruction.
The crwth is followed by the rebec, which most of us know better from Milton’s lines—
“When the merry bells ring roundAnd the jocund rebecks sound”—
“When the merry bells ring roundAnd the jocund rebecks sound”—
than in any more practical manner. It had a certain resemblance to the lute in its pear-shaped outline and its convex or rounded sound-box, but differs from that instrument in being played with a bow.Mr Galpin quotes very appropriately the name of one of the country actors inA Midsummer Night’s Dream—Hugh Rebeck—as suggesting that an everyday audience was familiar with it.
Viols.—The only surviving instrument of this class is the double bass, which is “still frequently made with the flat back and sloping shoulders of its departed predecessors.” The bass viol was also known as the Viola da Gamba, and this was Sir Andrew Aguecheek’s instrument, who was said to play on the “Viol de Gamboys.” These instruments—bass and treble—had six strings, and were provided with frets like the guitar. Their tone is described as “soft and slightly reedy or nasal, but very penetrating.” It seems that the smaller viols disappeared in England towards the end of the seventeenth century, but the type of viol corresponding to the violoncello “held its own for nearly another hundred years,” when it at last yielded to the more modern instrument.
Under the heading “Concerning theViolandMusickin general,” Mace writes (p. 231):—
“It may be thought, I am so great aLover of It[the Lute], that I makeLight Esteemof any otherInstrument, besides; whichTrulyI do not; butLove the Violin avery High Degree; yea, close unto the Lute. . . .
“I cannot understand, howArts and Sciencesshould be subject unto any suchPhantastical,Giddy, orInconsiderate Toyish Conceits, as ever to be said to bein Fashion,or out of Fashion.
PLATE IV. The Tromba Marina
“I remember there was aFashion, not manyYears since, forWomen in their Apparelto be soPent up by the Straitness,and Stiffnessof theirGown-Shoulder-Sleeves, thatTheycould not so much asScratch their Headsfor theNecessary Remove of a Biting Louse; norElevate their Arms scarcely to feed themselves Handsomely; norCarve a Dish of Meat at a Table, but theirwholeBody must needsBend towards the Dish.”
And here we must leave Thomas Mace (who with all his oddities is a lovable and genuine writer) and pass on to the “scoulding” violin—to use his own phrase—an instrument he considered as only suitable for “any extraordinary Jolly or Jocund Consort-Occasion.”
The violin, which finally ousted the treble viol, seems indeed to have had a humble beginning in fairs and country revels: but six violins were included in Henry VIII.’s band, where they were played by Italian musicians. Violins did not rapidly make their way to popularity, and Playford (1660) describes these instruments—rather condescendingly—as “a cheerful and spritely instrument much practised of late.” He speaks, too, of a bass violin,i.e.the violoncello.
The chapter ends with a description of the tromba marina, which is not marine trumpet, but a curious elongated box-like instrument with a single string, which is sounded with a bow and wakens the harmony of the sympathetic strings within the body of the instrument. Mr Galpin’s instrument was discovered in an old farmhouse in Cheshire (Plate IV.).
Chapter vi. is chiefly devoted to the organistrum orhurdy-gurdy (Plate V.). This is a stringed instrument which differs from the rest of its class by being sounded neither with fingers like the lute nor with a bow like the viol, but by means of a rotating wooden wheel. The melody string (or strings) is not stopped directly by the finger as in the violin, but by a series of keys manipulated by the performer, who need not necessarily possess a musical ear since the stopping is arranged for him. The Swedish nyckel-harpa—which I remember to have heard in Stockholm—is the only other instrument in which the strings are stopped by mechanical means. This instrument differs from the organistrum in the fact that it is sounded by the ordinary fiddle-bow, and not by means of a wheel. The organistrum is remarkable for having been “in constant and popular use” from the tenth century up to the present day.
The clavichord, the earliest progenitor of the piano, originated in an instrument in which thetangentwhich struck a given string also acted as a bridge to mark off the length of the vibrating portion and therefore to determine the note produced. It is remarkable that (p. 115) this type of instrument remained in use until the time of Sebastian Bach, when the principle of “one tangent one string” replaced the more ancient system.
Of the clavichord Mr Dolmetsch (p. 433) writes that its tone is comparable, as regards colour and power, “rather to the humming of bees than to the most delicate among instruments. But it possessesa soul . . . for under the fingers of some gifted player it reflects every shade of” his “feelings like a faithful mirror. Its tone is alive, its notes can be swelled or made to quiver just like a voice swayed by emotion. It can even command those slight variations in pitch which in all sensitive instruments are so helpful to expression.”
PLATE V. I. Viola d’Amore. 2. Cither Viol. 3. Hurdy-gurdy or Organistrum
The best known among the group of instruments to which the clavichord belongs are the spinet and the harpsichord. I think that Browning’s musician who “played toccatas stately at the clavichord” must have performed on one of the last-named instruments. In the spinet and the harpsichord the strings are plucked, and therefore sounded, by small points made of leather or of quill which are under the control of the keyboard.
Mr Galpin (who is always interesting on evolution) points out that the progenitor of the spinet is the plucked psaltery, whereas the piano forte (the earliest form of which appeared about 1709) is a descendant of the dulcimer in which the strings were struck.
One of the most ancient of wind instruments is the panpipe, which used to be familiar in the Punch and Judy show of our childhood, when it was accompanied by another ancient instrument—the drum. The panpipe consists of a row of reeds of graduated lengths which are closed at the lower end and into which the performer blows, much as we used, as children, to blow into a key and produce a shrillwhistle. It is illustrated in an Anglo-Saxon Psalter of the early eleventh century, which is preserved in the Cambridge University Library. The whistle which we have all made in our childhood by removing a tube of bark from a branch in which the sap is rising, is an advance on the panpipes, since it includes a method of producing a thin stream of air which impinges on a sharp edge, whereas in the panpipes we depend on our lips for the stream of air. These whistles are closed at the lower end, and yield but a single note. But in the tin penny whistle the tube is pierced by six holes for the fingers, and on this instrument one may hear the itinerant artist perform wonders. An instrument of this type, known as the recorder, played a great part in the early orchestra. It differs from the penny whistle in being made of wood, and in having eight instead of six finger-holes; the additional ones being for the left thumb and the little-finger of the right hand. The recorder seems to have been especially popular in England, indeed it was sometimes known as thefistula anglica,i.e.the English pipe. The instrument was made in different sizes; and I shall not easily forget the astonishing beauty of a quartette of recorders played by Mr Galpin and his family. In Plate VI. are shown the great bass recorders, in regard to which the author is careful to point out that the bassoon-like form shown in No. 1 and No. 5 does not alter the pitch of the instrument, which depends on the length of the tube measured from the fipple.
Plate VI. Recorders
Mr Dolmetsch, in his bookThe Interpretation of the Music of the XVIlth and XVIIIth Centuries, p. 457, writes:—
“At the first sound the recorder ingratiates itself into the hearer’s affection. It is sweet, full, profound, yet clear, with just a touch of reediness, lest it should cloy.”
“The intonation . . . right through the chromatic compass of two octaves and one note is perfect, if you know how to manage the instrument; but its fingering is complicated, and requires study.”
The flageolet is the nearest living relative of the recorder. What is known as the French flageolet is especially reminiscent of the ancient instrument in having a thumb-hole, or rather two such holes. It has the pleasant archaic feature of its lowest note being produced by thrusting the little finger of the right hand into the open end of the tube. The most curious development of the flageolet is found in the double or triple pipes which were made in the closing years of the eighteenth century. I remember Mr Galpin demonstrating the truth of his assertion that duets and trios can be played on one of these curious instruments.
A much simpler instrument known as the tabor pipe[85]was in general use in the twelfth century. Its essential feature is that it has but three holes, so that it can be played with one hand, thus leaving the other hand free to accompany the melody on the tabor or small drum hung round the neck of the performer or from his wrist. Its working compassis an octave and three notes, though two shrieking higher notes can be produced. The French form of three-holed pipe is known as the galoubet. There was also a bass galoubet, which is known from the figures in Praetorius (1618), and from one solitary instrument which has escaped destruction. Mr Galpin has a copy of it in his great collection, and I have had the pleasure of playing on it. The instruments of the genus recorder have been finally beaten in the struggle for life by the flageolet, and perhaps especially by the true flute, which Mr Galpin, for the sake of clearness, distinguishes as the cross flute. It seems to be a mistake to consider the flute as a modern instrument, as it was popular about the year 1500, and is shown in an illuminated MS. of 1344 preserved at Oxford.
The flute as used about 1600 had but six holes, but the D# key for the little finger of the right hand came into use about the end of the seventeenth century, and about 1800 several keys had been added to enable the performer to play with less cross-fingering.
Dolmetsch,op. cit., p. 458, claims that although the one-keyed flute of the eighteenth century has a weak tone, it is more beautiful than the modern flute.
He adds that a flautist has recently studied this instrument, guided by Hotteterre le Romain’s book (1707), and can play more perfectly in tune than “he ever did before upon a highly improved and most expensive modern instrument.”
The concert-flute of the present day is an elaborateinstrument covered with keys, and it has, I believe, been suggested that its tone is injured by this elaboration. Bass flutes have been made, one 3 ft. 7 ins. in length is mentioned, whose lowest note was an octave below middle C.