The International Monthly, Volume 3, No. 1, April, 1851

The fire had, to all appearances, originated with this child's play of the old man, and the magistrate said with regret that he must inflict the legal penalty for his carelessness. "However, at all events 'tis well 'tis no worse," he added; "you are in truth the last of the fiddlers; in our dull, plodding times, you are a relic of the past—of a merry, careless age. 'Twould have been a grievous thing if you had come to such a miserable end."

"Look ye, your worship, I ought to have been a parson," said Hans; "and I should have preached to the folks after this fashion:—'Don't set too much store on life, and it can't hurt you; look on every thing as foolery, and then you'll be cleverer than all the rest. If the world was always merry—if folks did nothing but work and dance, there would be no need of schoolmasters—no need of learning to write and read—no parsons—and (by your worship's pardon) no magistrates. The whole world is a big fiddle—the strings are tuned—Fortune plays upon them; but some one is wanted to be constantly screwing up the strings; and this is a job for the parson and magistrate. There's nothing but turning and screwing, and turning and scraping, and the dance never begins.'"

The fiddler's tongue went running on in this way, until his worship at length took a friendly leave of him. We shall, however, remain, and tell the reader something of the history of this strange character.

It is now nearly thirty years since the old man first made his appearance in the village, just at the time when the new church was consecrated. When he first came among the villagers, he played for three days and three nights almost incessantly the maddest tunes. Superstitious folks muttered one to another that it must be Old Nick himself who could draw such spirit and life from the instrument, as never to let any one have rest or quiet any more than he seemed to require it himself. During the whole of this time he scarcely ate a morsel, and only drank—but in potent draughts—during the pauses. Often it seemed as if he did not stir a finger, but merely laid the fiddlestick on the strings, and magic sounds instantly came out of them, while the fiddle-bow hopped up and down of itself.

Hey-day! there was a merrymaking and piece of work in the large dancing-room of the "Sun." Once, during a pause, the hostess, a buxom portly widow, cried out, "Hold hard, fiddler; do stop—the cattle are all quarrelling with you, and will starve if you don't let the lads and girls go home and feed them. If you've no pity on us folks, do for goodness' sake stop your fiddling for the sake of the poor dumb creatures."

"Just so!" cried the fiddler; "here you can see how man is the noblest animal on the face of the earth; man alone can dance—ay, dance in couples. Hark ye, hostess, if you'll dance a turn with me, I'll stop my fiddlestick for a whole hour."

The musician jumped off the table. All the by-standers pressed the hostess, till at length she consented to dance. She clasped her partner tight round the waist, whilst he kept hold of his fiddle, drawing from it sounds never before heard; and in this comical manner, playing and dancing, they performed their evolutions in the circle of spectators; and at length, with a brilliant scrape of his bow, he concluded, embraced the hostess, and gave her a bouncing kiss, receiving in return a no less hearty box on the ear. Both were given and taken in fun and good temper.

From that time forward the fiddler was domiciled under the shade of the "Sun." There he nestled himself quietly, and whenever any merrymaking was going on in the country round-about, Hans was sure to be there with his fiddle; but he always returned home regularly; and there was not a village nor a house far and wide around, in which there was more dancing, than in the hostelry of the portly landlady of the "Sun."

The fiddler comported himself in the house as if he belonged to it; he served the guests (never taking any part in out-of-doors work), entertained the customers as they dropped in, played a hand at cards occasionally, and was never at a loss in praising a fresh tap. "We've just opened a new cask of wine—only taste, and say if there's not music in wine, and something divine!" Touching every thing that concerned the household, he invariably used the authoritative and familiar we:-"We have a cellar fit for a king;" "Our house lies in every one's way;" and so forth.

Hans and his little fiddle, as a matter of course, were at every village-gathering and festivity; and the people of the country round-about could never dissociate in their thoughts the "Sun" inn and Hans the fiddler. But possibly the hostess considered the matter in a different light. At the conclusion of the harvest merrymaking she took heart and said—"Hans, you must know I've a liking for you; you pay for what you eat; but wouldn't you like for once to try living under another roof? What say you?"

Hans protested that he was well enough off in his present quarters, and that he felt no disposition to neglect the old proverb of "Let well alone." The landlady was silent.

Weeks went over, and at length she began again—"Hans, you wouldn't do any thing to injure me?"

"Not for the world!"

"Look ye—'tis only on account of the folks hereabouts. I would not bother you, but you know there's a talk–You can come back again after a month or two, and you'll be sure to find my door open to you."

"Nay, nay, I'll not go away, and then I shall not want to come back."

"No joking, Hans—I'm in earnest—you must go."

"Well, there's one way to force me: go up into my room, pack my things into a bundle, and throw them into the road; otherwise I promise you I'll not budge from the spot."

"You're a downright good-for-nothing fellow, and that's the truth; but what am I to do with you?"

"Marry me!"

The answer to this was another box on the ear; but this time it was administered much more gently than at the dance. As soon as the landlady's back was turned, Hans took his fiddle and struck up a lively tune.

From time to time the hostess of the "Sun" recurred to the subject of Hans's removal, urging him to go; but his answer was always ready—always the same—"Marry me!"

One day in conversation she told him that the police would be sure soon to interfere and forbid his remaining longer, as he had no proper certificate; and so forth. Hans answered not a word, but cocking his hat knowingly on the left side, he whistled a merry tune, and set out for the castle of the count, distant a few miles. The village at that time belonged to the Count von S–.

That evening, as the landlady was standing by the kitchen fire, her cheeks glowing with the reflection from the hearth, Hans entered, and without moving a muscle of his face, handed to her a paper, and said, "Look ye, there's our marriage-license; the count dispenses with publishing the bans. This is Friday—Sunday is our wedding-day!'

"What do you say, you saucy fellow? I hope"–

"Hollo, Mr. Schoolmaster!" interrupted Hans, as he saw that worthy functionary passing the window just at that instant "Do step in here, and read this paper."

Hans held the landlady tight by the arm, while the schoolmaster read the document, and at the conclusion tendered his congratulations and good wishes.

"Well, well—with all my heart!" said the landlady at length. "Since 'tis to be so, to tell the truth I've long had a liking for you, Hans; but 'twas only on account of the prate and gossip"–

"Sunday morning then?"

"Ay, ay—you rogue."

A merry scene was that, when on the following Sunday morning Hans the Fiddler—or, to give him his proper style, Johann Grubenmüller—paraded to church by the side of his betrothed, fiddling the wedding-march, partly for his self-gratification, partly to give the ceremony a certain solemn hilarity. For a short space he deposited his instrument on the baptismal font; but the ceremony being ended, he shouldered it again, struck up an unusually brisk tune, and played so marvellously, that the folks were fairly dying with laughter.

Ever since that time Hans resided in the village, and that is as much as to say that mirth and jollity abode there. For some years past, however, Hans was often subject to fits of dejection, for the authorities had decreed that there should be no more dancing without the special permission of the magistrate. Trumpets and other wind-instruments supplanted the fiddle, and our friend Hans could no longer play his merry jigs, except to the children under the old oak-tree, until his reverence, in the exercise of his clerical powers, forbade even this amusement, as prejudicial to sound school discipline.

Hans lost his wife just three years ago, with whom he had lived in uninterrupted harmony. Brightly and joyously as he had looked on life at the outset of his career, its close seemed often clouded, sad, and burthensome, more than he was himself aware. "A man ought not to grow so old!" he often repeated—an expression which escaped from a long train of thought that was passing unconsciously in the old man's mind, in which he acknowledged to himself that young limbs and the vigor of youth properly belonged to the careless life of a wandering musician. "The hay does not grow as sweet as it did thirty years ago!" he stoutly maintained.

The new village magistrate, who had a peculiarly kind feeling towards old Hans, set about devising means of securing him from want for the rest of his days. The sum (no inconsiderable one) for which the house was insured in the fire-office was by law not payable in full until another house should be built in its place. It happened that the parish had for a long time been looking out for a spot on which to erect a new schoolhouse in the village, and at the suggestion of the worthy magistrate the authorities now bought from Hans the ground on which his cottage had stood, with all that remained upon it. But the old man did not wish to be paid any sum down, and an annuity was settled on him instead, amply sufficient to provide for all his wants. This plan quite took his fancy; he chuckled at the thought (as he expressed it) that he was eating himself up, and draining the glass to the last drop.

Hans, moreover, was now permitted again to play to the children under the village oak on a summer evening. Thus he lived quite a new life; and his former spirit seemed in some measure to return. In the summer, when the building of the new schoolhouse was commenced, old Hans was riveted to the spot as if by magic; there he sat upon the timbers, or on a pile of stones, watching the digging and hammering with fixed attention. Early in the morning, when the builders went to their work they always found Hans already on the spot. At breakfast and noon, when the men stopped work to take their meals, which were brought them by their wives and children, old Hans found himself seated in the midst of the circle, and played to them as they ate and talked. Many of the villagers came and joined the party; and the whole was one continued scene of merriment. Hans often said that he never before knew his own importance, for he seemed to be wanted everywhere—whether folks danced or rested, his fiddle had its part to play: and music could turn the thinnest potato-broth into a savory feast.

But an unforeseen misfortune awaited our friend Hans, of which the worthy magistrate, notwithstanding his kindness to the old man, was unintentionally the cause. His worship came one day, accompanied by a young man, who had all the look of a genius: the latter stood for some minutes, with his arms folded, gazing at Hans, who was busy fiddling to the workpeople at their dinner.

"There stands the last of the fiddlers, of whom I told you," said the magistrate; "I want you to paint him—he is the only relic of old times whom we have left."

The artist complied. At first old Hans resisted the operation stoutly, but he was at length won over by the persuasion of his worship, and allowed the artist to take his likeness. With trembling impatience he sat before the easel, wanting every instant to jump up and see what the man was about. But this the artist would not allow, and promised to show him the picture when it was finished. Day after day old Hans had to sit to the artist, in this state of wonder and suspense, and when at noon he played to the workmen at their meals, his tunes were slow and heavy, and had lost all their former vivacity and spirit.

At length the picture was finished, and Hans was allowed to see himself on canvas. At the first glance he started back in affright, crying out like one mad, "Donner and Blitz!—the rascal has stolen me!"

From that day forward, when the artist had gone away, and taken the picture with him, old Hans was quite changed: he went about the village, talking to himself, and was often heard to mutter, "Nailed up to the wall—stolen! Hans has his eyes open day and night, looking down from the wall—never sleeps, nor eats, nor drinks. Stolen!—the thief!" Seldom could a sensible word be drawn from him; but he played the wildest tunes on his fiddle, and every now and then would stop and laugh, exclaiming, as if gazing at something, "Ha, ha! you old fellow there, nailed up to the wall, with your fiddle; you can't play—you are the wrong one—here he sits!"

On one occasion the spirit of the old man burst out again: it was the day when the gayly-decked fir bush was stuck upon the finished gable of the new schoolhouse.18 The carpenters and masons came, dressed in their Sunday clothes, preceded by a band of music, to fetch "the master." The old fiddler, Hans, was the whole day long in high spirits—brisk and gay as in his best years. He sang, drank, and played till late into the night, and in the morning he was found, with his fiddle-bow in his hand, dead in his bed....

Many of the villagers fancy, in the stillness of the night, when the clock strikes twelve, that they hear a sound in the schoolhouse, like the sweetest tones of a fiddle. Some say that it is old Hans's instrument, which he bequeathed to the schoolhouse, and which plays by itself. Others declare that the tones which Hans played into the wood and stones, when the house was building, come out of them again in the night. Be this as it may, the children are taught all the new rational methods of instruction, in a building which is still haunted by the ghost of the last fiddler.

George III. gave Lord Eldon a seal, containing a figure of Religion looking up to Heaven, and of Justice with no bandage over her eyes, his Majesty remarking at the same time, that Justice should be bold enough to look the world in the face. The motto of the seal was His dirige te. Quere. Would not this be a more appropriate inscription for the spout of a tea-pot than for the seal of a Lord Chancellor.

From Dickens' Household Words.

A BIOGRAPHY OF A BAD SHILLING

I believe I may state with confidence that my parents were respectable, notwithstanding that one belonged to the law—being the zinc door-plate of a solicitor. The other was a pewter flagon residing at a very excellent hotel, and moving in distinguished society; for it assisted almost daily at convivial parties in the Temple. It fell a victim at last to a person belonging to the lower orders, who seized it, one fine morning, while hanging upon some railings to dry, and conveyed it to a Jew, who—I blush to record the insult offered to a respected member of my family—melted it down. My first mentioned parent—the zinc plate—was not enabled to move much in society, owing to its very close connection with the street door. It occupied, however, a very conspicuous position in a leading thoroughfare, and was the means of diffusing more useful instruction, perhaps, than many a quarto, for it informed the running as well as the reading public, that Messrs. Snapples and Son resided within, and that their office hours were from ten till four. In order to become my progenitor it fell a victim to dishonest practices. A "fast" man unscrewed it one night, and bore it off in triumph to his chambers. Here it was included by "the boy" among his numerous "perquisites," and, by an easy transition, soon found its way to the Hebrew gentleman above mentioned.

The first meeting between my parents took place in the melting-pot of this ingenious person, and the result of their subsequent union was mutually advantageous. The one gained by the alliance that strength and solidity which is not possessed by even the purest pewter; while to the solid qualities of the other were added a whiteness and brilliancy that unadulterated zinc could never display.

From the Jew, my parents were transferred—mysteriously and by night—to an obscure individual in an obscure quarter of the metropolis, when, in secrecy and silence, I was cast, to use an appropriate metaphor, upon the world.

How shall I describe my first impression of existence? how portray my agony when I became aware what I was—when I understood my mission upon earth? The reader, who has possibly never felt himself to be what Mr. Carlyle calls a "sham," or a "solemnly constituted imposter," can have no notion of my sufferings!

These, however, were endured only in my early and unsophisticated youth. Since then, habitual intercourse with the best society has relieved me from the embarrassing appendage of a conscience. My long career upon town—in the course of which I have been bitten, and rung, and subjected to the most humiliating tests—has blunted my sensibilities, while it has taken off the sharpness of my edges; and, like the counterfeits of humanity, whose lead may be seen emulating silver at every turn, my only desire is—not to be worthy of passing, but simply—to pass.

My impression of the world, on first becoming conscious of existence, was, that it was about fifteen feet in length, very dirty, and had a damp, unwholesome smell; my notions of mankind were, that it shaved only once a fortnight; that it had coarse, misshapen features; a hideous leer; that it abjured soap, as a habit; and lived habitually in its shirt-sleeves. Such, indeed, was the aspect of the apartment in which I first saw the light, and such the appearance of the professional gentleman who ushered me into existence.

I may add that the room was fortified, as if to sustain a siege. Not only was the door itself lined with iron, but it was strengthened by ponderous wooden beams, placed upright, and across, and in every possible direction. This formidable exhibition of precautions against danger was quite alarming.

I had not been long brought into this "narrow world" before a low and peculiar tap, from the outside of the door, met my ear. My master paused, as if alarmed, and seemed on the point of sweeping me and several of my companions (who had been by this time mysteriously ushered into existence) into some place of safety. Reassured, however, by a second tapping, of more marked peculiarity, he commenced the elaborate process of unfastening the door. This having been accomplished, and the entrance left to the guardianship only of a massive chain, a mysterious watchword was exchanged with some person outside who was presently admitted.

"Hollo! there's two on you?" cried my master, as a hard, elderly animal entered, followed somewhat timidly by a younger one of mild and modest aspect.

"A green 'un as I have took under my arm," said Mr. Blinks (which I presently understood to be the name of the elder one), "and werry deserving he promises to be. He's just come out of the stone-pitcher, without having done nothing to entitle him to have gone in. This was it: a fellow out at Highbury Barn collared him, for lifting snow from some railings, where it was a hanging to dry. Young Innocence had never dreamt of any thing of the kind—bein' a walking on his way to the work'us—but beaks being proverbially otherwise than fly, he got six weeks on it. In the 'Ouse o' Correction, however, he met some knowing blades, who put him up to the time of day, and he'll soon be as wide-awake as any on 'em. This morning he brought me a pocket-book, and in it eigh—ty pound flimsies. As he is a young hand, I encouraged him by giving him three pun' ten for the lot—it's runnin' a risk, but I done it. As it is, I shall have to send 'em all over to 'Amburg. Howsomever, he's got to take one pund in home made: bein' out of it myself, I have brought him to you."

"You're here at the nick o' time," said my master, "I've just finished a new batch—"

And he pointed to the glittering heap in which I felt myself—with the diffidence of youth—to be unpleasantly conspicuous.

"I've been explaining to young Youthful that it's the reg'lar thing, when he sells his swag to gents in my way of business, to take part of it in this here coin." Here he took me up from the heap, and as he did so I felt as if I were growing black between his fingers, and having my prospects in life very much damaged.

"And is all this bad money?" said the youth, curiously gazing, as I thought, at me alone, and not taking the slightest notice of the rest of my companions.

"Hush, hush, young Youthful," said Mr. Blinks, "no offence to the home coinage. In all human affairs, every thing is as good as it looks."

"I could not tell them from the good—from those made by government, I should say"—hastily added the boy.

I felt myself leaping up with vanity, and chinking against my companions at these words. It was plain I was fast losing the innocence of youth. In justice to myself, however, I am bound to say that I have, in the course of my subsequent experience, seen many of the lords and masters of the creation behave much more absurdly under the influence of flattery.

"Well, we must put you up to the means of finding out the real turtle from the mock," said my master. "It's difficult to tell by the ring. Silver, if it's at all cracked—as lots of money is—don't ring no better than pewter; besides, people can't try every blessed bit o' tin they get in that way; some folks is offended if they do, and some ain't got no counter. As for the color, I defy any body to tell the difference. And as for the figgers on the side, wot's your dodge? Why, wen a piece o' money's give to you, look to the hedges, and feel 'em too with your finger. When they ain't quite perfect, ten to one but they're bad 'uns. You see, the way it's done is this—I suppose I may put the young 'un up to a thing or two more?" added Mr. Blinks, pausing.

My master, who had during the above conversation lighted a short pipe, and devoted himself with considerable assiduity to a pewter pot—which he looked at with a technical eye, as if mentally casting it into crown pieces,—now nodded assent. He was not of an imaginative or philosophic turn, like Mr. Blinks. He saw none of the sentiment of his business, but pursued it on a system of matter of fact, because he profited by it. This difference between the producer and the middle-man may be continually observed elsewhere.

"You see," continued Mr. Blinks, "that these here 'bobs'"—by which he meant shillings—"is composed of a mixter of two metals—pewter and zinc. In coorse these is first prigged raw, and sold to gents in my line of bis'ness, who either manufacters them themselves, or sells 'em to gents as does. Now, if the manufacturer is only in a small way of bis'ness, and is of a mean natur, he merely casts his money in plaster of Paris moulds. But for nobby gents like our friend here (my master here nodded approvingly over his pipe), this sort of thing won't pay—too much trouble and not enough profit. All the top-sawyers in the manufactur is scientific men. By means of what they calls a galwanic battery a cast is made of that partiklar coin selected for himitation. From this here cast, which you see, that there die is made, and from that there die impressions is struck off on plates of the metal prepared for the purpose. Now, unfortunately, we ain't got the whole of the masheenery of the Government institootion yet at our disposal, though it's our intention for to bribe the Master of the Mint (in imitation coin) some of these days to put us up to it all—so you see we're obliged to stamp the two sides of this here shilling, for instance (taking me up again as he spoke), upon different plates of metal, jining of 'em together afterwards. Then comes the milling round the hedges. This we do with a file; and it is the himperfection of that 'ere as is continually a preying upon our minds. Any one who's up to the bis'ness can tell whether the article's geniwine or not, by a looking at the hedge; for it can't be expected that a file will cut as reg'lar as a masheen. This is reely the great drawback upon our purfession."