Next in importance to the Italian School of Violinists, that of France now offers its claims to our notice. If the palm, indeed, were to be awarded according to the comparative merits of the _living_ (or recently living) Masters of each School, it must be given in favour of France; for, though we might admit the Italian Paganini to have been “facile princeps,” the greatest of _all_ performers—and though we might overlook the consideration of his belonging, in fact, to no class or acknowledged system whatever—he is, still, but _one_ man of might,—a Goliah, without an army to back him, since his qualified countrymen, in modern days, are few—whereas the French have a redoubtable band of champions, present or recent, whose united force is able to defy living competition. It is in the aggregate of the _past_ with the present, however, that the Italians are found to predominate. The probable originators of the art of violin-playing (in so far, at all events, as it was worthy to be called such), _they_ have been likewise its steady and decisive improvers in every department, from the days of Corelli to those of Viotti, a space of about a century;—while the excellence of the French is of more modern growth, and, it should be remarked, of more limited character. Brilliancy of style, neatness and finish of execution, are _their_ distinguishing traits. They are a gay and a polished nation—they are gay and polished fiddlers. They animate you in the _vivace_, they dazzle you in the _allegro brillante_—but they commonly fail to reach your heart through the _adagio appassionato_. Their violinists have all the skill that is independent of deep feeling. In _expression_, they fall short of what is required: they catch its lesser graces, but they seem rarely to attain its higher powers. The violin, considered more particularly as the _fiddle_, is an instrument too congenial to the temperament of the French, to have escaped their especial notice and close cultivation. To all that is mercurial in their tendencies, as well as to much that is artificial in their habits, it lends itself with the utmost readiness: it is the best instrument to dance to; it is the best instrument to protect from _ennui_ your sitters at a theatre: it sharpens the pungency of an _air de vaudeville_; it sets off the ceremonial of a ballet. In this sense, the French have “marked it for their own,” and achieved wonders with it. Out of this sphere—this lower empire—their power has been less considerable. It must be confessed, however, that this limitation applies with greater force and distinctness to the time _preceding_ their great Revolution, than to later days. That mighty event, which stirred up the depths of the national mind, and opened the channels of thought in every direction, could not but exert some degree of influence, even on those arts that have least connection with the ordinary business of men. The French taste in music—formalistic,