Th' exceeding mystery of the loveliness
Sadden'd delight, and with his mournful look,
Dreary and gaunt, hanging his pallid face
'Twixt his dark flowing locks, he almost seem'd
Too feeble, or to melancholy eyes
One that has parted with his soul for pride,
And in the sable secret lived forlorn.'

"To show the depth and identicalness of the impression which he made
upon everybody, foreign or native, an Italian, who stood near me, said
to himself, after a sigh, O Dio!' and this had not been said long when
another person in the same manner exclaimed, 'O Christ!' Musicians
pressed forward from behind the scenes to get as close to him as
possible, and they could not sleep at night for thinking of him."

Another writer shows us Paganini in his lodgings.

"Everything was lying in its usual disorder; here one violin, there
another, one snuff-box on the bed, another under one of the boy's
playthings. Music, money, caps, letters, watches, and boots were
scattered about in the utmost confusion. The chairs, tables, and even
the bed had all been removed from their proper places. In the midst of
the chaos sat Paganini, his black silk nightcap covering his still
blacker hair, a yellow handkerchief carelessly tied around his neck,
and a chocolate-coloured jacket hanging loose upon his shoulders. On
his knees he held Achillino, his little son of four years of age, at
that time in very bad humour because he had to allow his hands to be
washed. His affectionate forbearance is truly wonderful. Let the boy
be ever so troublesome, he never gets angry, but merely turns around
and observes to those present, 'The poor child is wearied; I do not
know what I shall do, I am already quite worn out with playing with
him. I have been fighting with him all the morning; I have carried him
about; made him chocolate; I do not know what more to do!'

"It was enough to make one die of laughing to see Paganini in his
slippers fighting with his little son, who reached to about his knee.
Sometimes the little Achillino would get into a rage; draw his sabre
upon his father, who would retreat into the corner of the room and call
out, 'Enough, enough! I am wounded already;' but the little fellow
would never leave off until he had laid his gigantic adversary
tottering and prostrate on the bed. Paganini had now finished the
dressing of his Achillino, but was himself still in _dishabille_. And
now arose the great difficulty, how to accom