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242 condition, took out the completed fiddles and hawked them about, selling them for whatever offered, and buying with the proceeds necessities and comforts for the prisoner, who, it should be added, was a married man. (It is best to omit this latter fact in telling the story. It sounds better.)

Unfortunately for the story, the archives of Cremona make no record of a prisoner named Guarnerius, and for an idle man he turned out a remarkable number of valuable violins. This tale has obtained so much credence that the rougher of the "del Jesu" fiddles are called "Prison Josephs."

It must have been a peculiar combination of circumstances that led him to send out inferior violins at this time of life, but the above story is admirably concocted to fill the niche. Another peculiar thing is, that after this poor work he made at least one violin the excellence of which has hardly been equaled. This is the one played so long and loved so dearly by Paganini, and at his death bequeathed to his native city, Genoa, where it still lies in its glass case. This noble instrument was made in 1743, and its maker died two years afterward.



One of the fortunate accidents of musical history was that which occurred to Robert Schumann in his early days. Schumann had a great ambition to become a fine pianist, and had already made great strides in that direction, when his eagerness to hastily acquire a command of his instrument led him to make an unfortunate experiment. He found, as every one else finds, that a pianist is greatly hampered by the third fingers being bound down by extra tendons. This makes these fingers unwieldy and very slow of training. So Schumann, in order to more quickly acquire the necessary digital dexterity, rigged up a contrivance which should hold the unruly member quiet while he played with the other fingers. This