id not touch
his all-beloved art. Without haste and without rest, he labored for
the perfection of the violin. To him the world was a mere workshop. The
fierce Italian sun beat down and made Cremona like an oven, but it was
good to dry the wood for violins. On the slopes of the hills grew grand
forests of maple, pine, and willow, but he cared nothing for forest
or hillside except as they grew good wood for violins. The vineyards
yielded rich wine, but, after all, the main use of the grape was that it
furnished the spirit wherewith to compound varnish. The sheep, ox, and
horse were good for food, but still more important because from them
came the hair of the bow, the violin strings, and the glue which held
the pieces together. It was through this single-eyed devotion to
his life-work that one great maker was enabled to gather up all the
perfections of his predecessors, and stand out for all time as the
flower of the Cremonese school and the master of the world. George
Eliot, in her poem, "The Stradivari," probably pictures his life
accurately:

"That plain white-aproned man, who stood at work,
Patient and accurate full fourscore years,
Cherished his sight and touch by temperance;
And since keen sense is love of perfectness,
Made perfect violins, the needed paths
For inspiration and high mastery."

M. Fetis, in his notice of the greatest of violin-makers, summarizes his
life very briefly. He tells us the life of Antonius Stradiuarius was
as tranquil as his calling was peaceful. The year 1702 alone must have
caused him some disquiet, when during the war the city of Cremona was
taken by Marshal Villeroy, on the Imperialist side, retaken by Prince
Eugene, and finally taken a third time by the French. That must have
been a parlous time for the master of that wonderful workshop whence
proceeded the world's masterpieces, though we may almost fancy the
absorbed master, like Archimedes when the Romans took Syracuse, so
intent on his labor that he hardly heard the din and roar of battle,
till some rude soldier disturbed the serene atmosphere of the room
littered with shavings and strewn with the tools of a peaceful craft.

Polledro, not many years ago first violin at the Chapel Royal of Turin,
who died at a very advanced age, declared that his master had known
Stradiuarius, and that he was fond of talking about him. He was, he
said, tall and thin, with a bald head fringed with silvery hair, c