him by the condition of his health, as any deviation from the strictest diet resulted in great suffering.  He was a thorough Italian in all his habits and ideas.  Among other traits was a great disdain for the lower classes, though he was by no means subservient to people of rank and wealth.  It was his habit, when an inferior addressed him, to inquire of his companion, “What does this animal want with me?” If he was pleased with his coachman, he would say, “That animal drives well.”  This seemed not so much the vulgar arrogance of a small nature, elevated above the class in life from which it sprang, as that pride of great gifts which made the freemasonry of genius the measure by which he judged all others, noble and simple.  Like all men of highly nervous constitution, he was keenly susceptible to both enjoyment and suffering.  He was so sensitive to atmospheric changes that his irritability was excessive during a thunderstorm.  He would then remain silent for hours together, while his eyes rolled and his limbs twitched convulsively.  Such fragile, nervous, highly sensitive organizations are not unfrequently characteristic of men of great genius, and in the great Italian violinist it was developed in an abnormal degree.

The circumstances accompanying the last scenes of Paganini’s life are very interesting.  He had been intimate with most of the great people of Europe, among them Lord Byron, Sir Clifford Constable, Lord Holland, Rossini, Ugo Fascolo, Monti, Prince Jerome, the Princess Eliza, and most of the great painters, poets, and musicians of his age.  For Lord Byron he had a most ardent and exaggerated admiration.  Paganini had stopped at Nice on his way from Paris, detained by extreme debility, for his last hours were drawing near.  Under the blue sky and balmy air of this Mediterranean paradise the great musician somewhat recovered his strength at first.  One night he sat by his bedroom window, surrounded by a circle of intimate friends, watching the glories of the Italian sunset that emblazoned earth, air, and sky, with the richest dyes of nature’s palette.  A soft breeze swept into the room, heavy with the perfumes of flowers, and the twittering of the birds in the green foliage mingled with the hum of talk from the throngs of gay promenaders sauntering on the beach.  For a while Paganini sat silently absorbed in watching the joyous scene, when suddenly his eyes turned on the picture of Lord Byron that hung on the wall.  A flash of enthusiasm lightened his face, as if a great thought were struggling to the surface, and he seized his violin to improvise.  The listeners declared that this “swan song” was the most remarkable production of his life.  He illustrated the stormy and romantic career of the English poet in music.  The accents of doubt, irony, and despair mingled with the cry of liberty and the tumult of triumph.  Paganini had scarcely finished this wonderful musical picture when the bow fell from the icy fingers that refused any longer to perform their function, and the player sank into a dead swoon.