nce was forbidden 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 hun