violin-playing cannot be over-estimated. Of all
the players to be mentioned in connexion with the
Violin, Spohr takes the highest rank as a
composer; in fact, he is the only great violinist
who succeeded in opera, in sacred, in symphonic,
in chamber, and in solo concert music: and this
without any peculiarity in invention or brightness
of fancy. Not a single theme by Spohr
has become popular. It may not be without
interest to speculate how far this may be
referable to the character and physical organisation
of one of the most respectable, most
self-engrossed, most stalwart, most diligent,
and least engaging men who has figured in the
annals of Music. He was a singular mixture of
intelligence and bigoted loyalty to himself, as
his Autobiography makes clear. He had
something like universality of endowments, for, as
a youth, he drew and painted portraits—his
own (which is significant), and those of the girls
who fell in love with him—and for a while
could hardly decide by which of the sister arts
he would make his fortune. Having decided,
however, for Music, Spohr carried through his
purposes in a truly characteristic manner. He
stalked along through his life to the end of it,
holding his head high, looking neither to the right
nor the left; and, though honest, as remarkable
for his self-esteem as for his probity. His
presence was as striking as Paganini's, though in a
style totally different. There was nothing of the
charlatan about Spohr. He was of commanding
stature, with features noble in form and serious
in expression, well befitting the musician, not a
bar of whose writings is chargeable with
vulgarity, but whose aspect promised a refinement
in the man which his social manners did not
always fulfil; for to be refined is to be considerate
of others, and this Spohr was not. Of all the
instrumental players I recollect, he was the most
stately to see, and one of the coldest to hear.
Of all the mannered composers who ever wrote,
(and Spohr was as mannered as the veriest
Italian—to name but one, Signor Rossini, whose
flimsy writings he so coolly analysed)—he was
the least mannered in his playing. Not a point
in it was overwrought, not a point was
underfinished. "Propriety and tact," as the late
George Robins said in one of his advertisements,
"presided;" and there was in it such
beauty as belongs to perfect order, perfect purity,
perfect symmetry, perfect command, over all
the legitimate resources of his craft. It was a
sincere, complete exhibition if there was ever
such a thing—but one which spoke to the head, not
to the heart; to the conscience, and not to the
affections. The "sacred fire" was not there.
I think that if Spohr had been a thin little man,
and without that Jupiter port of his, his playing
might have been less successful in Germany,
Italy, France, and England, than as in his
Autobiography he fondly tells us it was.

But make what we will of Spohr, of his
strange indifference, or else false appreciation of
other comrades' works—of his deficiency of
fundamental knowledge, proved by his taking
late in life to re-study counterpoint, when the
task in hand was an Oratorio, there is no doubt
that, as a German violinist and composer for the
violin, he must always hold a first place. As a
professor, he knew (not always a winning or
flexible man) how to quicken the intelligence,
and not so much to ensure the respect as to
gain the affection of his pupils. These could be
named by some two score, were a contemporary
catalogue the matter in hand; but two may be
mentioned—the Brothers Holmes—if only
because of the singular indifference of their and our
native country to their great accomplishments.
Rude as Spohr could be to his Cassel orchestra,
calling them "swine" when they displeased him,
his pupils, one and all, seem to have attached
themselves to him without stint; and many an
act of private forbearance and kindliness, on his
part, to those straitened in their means, is to be
set against the impression above recorded.

Then, as to written music for the violin, whereas
Paganini's efforts and effects have died out, to be
reproduced in a feeble and incomplete echo by
his kinsman, Signor Sivori, the violin Concertos
of Spohr will not soon be laid aside, owing to the
perfect knowledge of the instrument they
display, the sensible orchestral combinations they
conclude, and the individuality of their manner;
which, be it right or wrong, is Spohr's own,
and his alone. Further, his violin duets are
unsurpassed as combinations of melody, suave, if
not new, with harmony pleasing and luscious, if
something monotonous. The rage for Spohr's
music has subsided everywhere; but his
influence, and that of all he wrote for his special
instrument, has not subsided; nor, I fancy, may
altogether subside,

      Till Music shall untune the sky,

and the devices and desires of Herr Wagner
shall rule the world.

One of the most delicious artists who ever
took Violin in hand was De Beriot, some
shortcomings in depth of feeling granted. He may be
named as among the exceptions by which rules
are proved. That certain qualities are
"constant" (as the mathematicians say) in certain
countries, I have been long convinced. The
vivacious Irish, as a body of musicians, have a
propensity to dragging and drawling. The
English have small feeling for accent as
compared with the French. There has not been one
great French contralto singer. The Belgians in
music are heavy rather than elegant, and are apt
to substitute (as M. Vieuxtemps has shown us
on the violin) elaborate pomposity for real feeling
and grandeur. But De Beriot, the most
elegant of violinists, was a Belgian, born at
Louvain. If Paganini pairs off with Liszt, De
Beriot does among pianists with Thalberg, and
among singers with Madame Cinti-Damoreau.
The three may be cited as irreproachable.
Greater beauty of tone was never heard than
theirs. Greater grace and polish without
finicality than theirs cannot be attained. Had
more of emotion been added by nature, the
excellence might have been less equable. None
of the three can be called cold; none of the