“The instrument on which he played
     Was in Cremona’s workshops made,
     By a great master of the past,
     Ere yet was lost the art divine;
     Fashioned of maple and of pine,
     That in Tyrolean forests vast
     Had rooked and wrestled with the blast.

     “Exquisite was it in design,
     A marvel of the lutist’s art,
     Perfect in each minutest part;
     And in its hollow chamber thus
     The maker from whose hand it came
     Had written his unrivaled name,
     ‘Antonius Stradivarius.’”

The great artist whose work is thus made the subject of Longfellow’s verse was born at Cremona in 1644.  His renown is beyond that of all others, and his praise has been sounded by poet, artist, and musician.  He has received the homage of two centuries, and his name is as little likely to be dethroned from its special place as that of Shakespeare or Homer.  Though many interesting particulars are known concerning his life, all attempt has failed to obtain any connected record of the principal events of his career.  Perhaps there is no need, for there is ample reason to believe that Antonius Stradiuarius lived a quiet, uncheckered, monotonous existence, absorbed in his labor of making violins, and caring for nothing in the outside world which did 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.”