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cious, refusing himself even the simplest indulgences, and clothing his person meanly, while the large sums which he gained by his professional labours were remitted to Genoa, or transmuted into securities, which he is said to have always carried about his person.

Charles James Fox-to take a parallel from a genius of the highest order-fell into the same absurd habit of utterly neglecting his person, and after having figured amongst the leaders of taste and elegance during the period of Lord North's ascendancy, came down to Parliament, in the very meridian of his genius, with his small-clothes hanging down loosely from his waist, clad in a rusty old coat, with an India handkerchief rolled in a bundle about his neck, and a broken hat in his hand. But it was neither an avaricious nor a cynical feeling that led him thus from the extreme of fashionable dissipation to its very opposite. Disdaining all the appliances of life, young Fox had staked, at a game of cards, the great estates which had been left him by his able father, Lord Holland. The youthful Paganini had also squandered at the gaming-table the heaps of gold which his wonderful triumphs procured him, and in the hey-day of his career, money was to him a matter of total indifference. He was reckless of all but glory. Here again there was a considerable resemblance between him and Fox, for neither of them toiled harder than during the nights and mornings of these periods of excessive dissipation.

From this extreme point the one returned to an orderly and respectable mode of living, the other arrived at the stage of excessive parsimony. This radical change in his mode of living permitted Paganini to accumulate rapidly a large fortune. Still, be it observed, that he never looked to money but as a resource, for he had no faith whatever in the value and durability of "the bubble, reputation." He reserved to himself, and enjoyed in reality, a merely nominal wealth. To have large possessions, to be the maestro primo in his art, aggrandize his fortune,—this was

his aim. The life which he led was close and rigid; he had neither decent furniture, nor wardrobe, nor linen, nor a servant near his person, while his "intendants" inhabited with his full consent the splendid palaces of which he was the proprietor, and uniformly found him a generous master. There are facts in abundance to establish this halfmaniacal generosity. Some years since, one of his old friends having met Paganini after a long series of misfortunes, told him his history, and moved him to compassion. What did Paganini do, when he found that a small sum of money would make his friend perfectly happy? He sent him an order on his banker at Rome for 50,000 francs (2,000l. sterling), while he refused to himself personally a decent coat and a new pair of boots! The agent to whom he had confided the disposition of the immense sums which he had transmitted to Italy during so many years, having informed Paganini, on his return, of the investments which he had made, the maestro declared himself enchanted by the successful mode in which he had fulfilled the duties of his agency, and made him a present of 200,000 francs (8,000l. sterling) as a bridal portion for his daughter, secured to her on the credit of one of the first bankers in the world. All Europe is acquainted with the princely gift with which he testified his esteem for the young composer, Berlioz, after hearing his celebrated sinfonia performed for the first time at Paris.

Very characteristic of Paganini was his quarrel with Jules Janin, the celebrated feuilletoniste of the Journal des Debats. Janin's criticisms displeased Paganini, and a war ensued between them, with which all Paris was occupied at the time, and no little amused. The quarrel was subsequently made up, Janin acknowledging that his observations had been too severe.

We do not desire to dwell on Paganini's eccentricities; but here is one, which, as it was amiable in its nature, and a deviation from his usual character during the latter portion of his life, deserves to be recorded. A friend of his early youth, whom he

had lost sight of for very many years, presented himself at the maestro's residence, and gave his name. The door was opened, and Paganini received him with all the kindness of ancient days, and treated him as if they had never been separated; much better, indeed, than if he had been a personage of the highest distinction. Paganini disliked to talk about music; nevertheless, upon this occasion, as his friend always led back the conversation to that subject, Paganini spoke with him about it for a long time with a good grace, and presented to his eyes in all their brilliancy his very finest perceptions. It was difficult, indeed, to make him stoop to condescensions like these.

When he came first to London, the Duke of Wellington, the Earl of Mulgrave (now Lord Normanby), and other noblemen, with a view to show their admiration of his unrivalled talent, invited him to dinner. But Paganini refused their invitations, making use of these singular words: "I have my own table. If they want to hear me, let them come to my concert." His career, during this brilliant epoch, offers numerous examples of this exaggerated independence. Abundant anecdotes were put into circulation upon this subject; but, in such cases, it is a matter of no small difficulty to distinguish the genuine from the factitious.

In 1832, a desire was expressed at the Court of the Tuileries to hear Paganini at a private concert, and a proposition to that effect was made to Paganini, which he accepted. The evening before the day fixed for the concert, he visited the concert-room to inspect the arrangements. He

asked the chamberlain to cause a piece of tapestry to be removed, which would mar the effect of his execution. The courtly officer had no sooner said that "there was a difficulty," than Paganini left the room without saying a word, having decided upon not making his appearance the following day. When the concert hour arrived, the illustrious persons invited found that their attendance was useless. Neither did the artist make his appearance, nor

could any intelligence be had as to his "whereabouts." When the royal messenger presented himself at his door, he was informed that Paganini had gone to bed at night-fall, and was then fast asleep!

Here is another incident of nearly a similar character:-Eight years since, Paganini went to Turin, and excited a perfect musical fever both at the court and throughout the city. The King himself applauded loudly, and clapped his hands with as much energy as the meanest of his subjects. One evening that he felt deeply touched by these high marks of the royal favour, Paganini offered to execute forthwith, if it were agreeable to his Majesty, a new composition which he had just concluded. The King accepted the proposal, and Paganini executed with rare felicity a concerto full of original beauties, which he had finished the same day. Like that master of modern song, Beranger (a far more original genius than Moore), Paganini disliked to play any composition of his own, which had been before published. In the same manner Beranger never sings in a public company any of his songs of which the world is already in possession. The King was the most fanatico of all present in his admiration of Paganini's genius, and in the applause with which he hailed it; and Paganini bowed his deep satisfaction. On the following day, the chamberlain, executing the orders of his Majesty of Sardinia, who was perfectly charmed with the previous night's performance, caused placards to be put up about the city, announcing that Paganini would execute the same piece at the theatre again that evening. Paganini thereupon said that he could not play upon that day. But no one paid any attention to this observation. "He will play," said the chamberlain. Paganini did not play. On the following day he was seized by this little sovereign's gendarmes, and led on foot to the frontiers of Italy, where he was discharged with a command not to return. There was, after all, no little dignity in Paganini's refusal. The rigorous injunctions of a despot may be rightly

resisted by a genius of Paganini's high order. We are all subject to lassitude; and the greatest artist requires continued practice in private to sustain the brilliancy of his public appearances.

Paganini was latterly almost settled in Paris. In the brilliant literary and artistical circles of that capital he enjoyed the highest degree of consideration, notwithstanding his Timon sort of life. His parsimoniousness, however, detracted in no small degree from his reputation. Like Rossini, he became of a speculative turn, and the Casino, to which we have already alluded as bearing his name, was a club, with a concert room annexed, which was got up principally upon Paganini's capital, as a money-making speculation. It was no sooner completed, than his health, which had been for a long time in a most precarious state, compelled him to remove to a southern climate, and he fixed upon Nice, with its glowing sky, and the expansive waters of the Mediterranean stretched out before it in all their cerulean beauty. Here he languished from day to day after his arrival, reduced to a mere skeleton, but still retaining the great powers of his mind unimpaired; he breathed his last as gently as an infant, in the arms of a very few intimate friends.

Thus passed away a potent though fantastic spirit-a man of brilliant genius-who was not merely a mighty musician, but had wonderful grasp of mind; for all subjects of art, and literature, and science, marred, however, by much disagreeable eccentricity. He is generally acknowledged, by the ablest judges, to have been the greatest violinist whom the world ever saw; great in conception, great in execution, and still more great in that surest test of genius-invention. This alone is sufficient to prove that his must have been of the highest order of minds. That such minds are nearly allied to madness, and that

"Thin partitions do their bounds divide," Paganini's life and character afford another proof; for upon no other supposition but that of mania can we rationally account for the bizarres alternations which characterized almost his entire career; from the most extravagant and nearly preternatural mirth to the most moody and misanthropical spirit, from joyousness to a rigid asceticism, and from hard-hearted penury to a lavish and almost incredible extravagance of pecuniary liberality. He died in his fifty-sixth year. With his personal appearance the whole world is too familiar to need any description here.

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THE DEATH-HOLE OF THE DAUGHTHENS.
BY LARRY O'GAFF.

CHAPTER VII.-(Conclusion.)
So far Regan's scheme seemed to
prosper. Everything was in train,
and the wheels went smoothly round,
but still the never-wearying eyes of
Murphy and Larkin were upon him,
with what effect will shortly be dis-
closed.

They had watched him during the period of his confinement, and the appeal of poor Margaret to his feelings had been closely narrated by them to that unfortunate young woman's father shortly afterwards, until the old man's spirit writhed within him, and his heart thirsted for a deep and bloody revenge. Regan's subsequent flight from the city was not unobserved by them, and fearful that it was an attempt to escape, and that thus they would be cheated of their victim, they despatched a member of their body, in whom they could place reliance, to track him to the place of his destination, while they hastened to the house of meeting in Thomas'sstreet, in order to lay the document, which might emphatically be termed his "death-warrant," before the convention. But by some accident, the members of that body had been obliged to delay their sitting for a day longer. In the meantime, their scout had returned and brought them intelligence of the success of his efforts in tracking Regan.

On the evening of the day to which the meeting of the convention had been adjourned, as General Stradford and Lieutenant Douglas were sitting at their wine after dinner, indulging in the formation of various plans for the recovery of the lost Fanny, they were startled by the sudden entrance into the room of Regan, the man of all others in the world whom they at that moment most abhorred and detested. His face was haggard and ghastly, like that of one struggling with a load of secret grief and sin; his attire torn, dirty, and with the soil of long travel upon it; and his address unceremonious and startling.

At his entrance, both gentlemen instinctively rose from their seats,

and all three for a moment stood facing each other in a silence, which was only broken by Regan exclaiming, "You would ask what brings me here-how I came? You would question me

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'Audacious scoundrel!" cried Sir William, "how do you dare

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Nay, nay, General, enough of this-I have no time to enter into a conversation of that character-my business is with you and you alone. I am now upon no silly errand. Life or death to one of us is in the minutes that pass-I must speak with you alone."

"I can hold no parley with you."

Remember the traitor's tower, Sir William, and do not deny me. It is on the subject of that night I am here to speak."

"You have thought better on my offer, then?".

"I have thought on it, and if I listen to it, it is out of no love to you: my enemies thicken around me, and—but, sir, do you accede to my request? my time is brief, and I stand here at my hazard."

"I have nothing to conceal from Lieutenant Douglas," replied the General.

"Be it so, sir: the tale is yours, not mine. You have lost your daughter."

"Through your agency, villain." "Indulge your humour, Sir William. Through my agency, as you say, you lost her; she is now in my power-"

“You have not dared," interrupted Douglas, his eyes flashing and his brow darkening as he spoke-"You have not dared-."

"I have dared what I please, young gentleman. But calm your haughty mood, Miss Kingsland is in safe keeping with her mother."

"Thank heaven!" exclaimed the two gentlemen, with hearts greatly relieved.

"You offered me, General, a large sum once, for their restoration to you, besides other matters of which at the time I stood in no need."

"I did. I recollect it, alas! too well."

"That offer circumstances now dispose me to accept. Do you agree to it?"

"I do: but what security shall I have that you intend to act uprightly with me?"

"My own safety at present depends upon my doing so. My old associates are already on my track, and the only means left me of saving my life, is by using the money I receive as the price of my secret from you, to purchase a home in a foreign land. Withhold the reward until the object of it is in your possession." "Alas, alas! unfortunate and misguided man," remarked the General, who thought he perceived a slight tremor in the voice of Regan as he concluded the last sentence, "to what a miserable end have your follies and your vices brought you."

"That is my business, Sir, not yours," replied the other with a haughtiness of voice and manner, that ill accorded with his mean and soiled appearance.

"I would fain assist you in this strait, and such is my motive in speaking," said the General, with an air of kindness, in no way moved by the coarse and severe rebuke he had met with. "You spoke once of a connexion between us, which, though through your own conduct you have forfeited all claim to have remembered, yet I would not willingly forget."

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Yes, I too will bear the recollection of it to the grave with me," said Regan, with a grim smile, as he pointed to his arm. "But, Sir," he continued, his features lightened up with a slight, though painfully melancholy smile, "you may mean well. For human nature's sake, I am willing to believe so. However, you can do nothing for me, that money cannot do, so that for your good intentions I thank you.'

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exclaimed the General," what brought them there?"

"I did, Sir William, in order to have them more out of your way in case you had instituted a rigorous search through the city," coolly replied Regan, "and it is there you must seek them."

Douglas was about to speak, but he was interrupted by the other continuing. "The journey may be unpleasant, but it is necessary. I will call an hour after midnight, when I will expect to find you ready to accompany me. Farewell for the present;" and without further explanation, or waiting for any reply, he strode hastily from the apartment, leaving the two gentlemen in a state of extreme astonishment, yet absolute happiness when compared to the feeling under which they were labouring previously to his visit.

"He may be sincere," remarked the General, after a pause of short duration" he may mean to deal honestly by us, but I will take care to make security doubly sure,' by requesting Colonel Forsythe to send a company of troops out in the direction of our journey."

The old man rang for writing materials, and having dispatched a letter to that effect, patiently awaited the appointed hour; while, as the city clocks were chiming, Regan punctually made his appearance.

The salutation between the parties was brief; and, after a few words hastily spoken on either side, the General and Douglas mounted their horses, whilst their companion walked at a smart pace abreast of them.

The narrow streets of the dusky metropolis were soon passed, and the travellers emerged into the open country, a keen frost which had fallen during the early part of the night, rendering the air purer and more invigorating than usual. Their way lay southward and easterly, and after a few miles riding, during which the road had been continually ascending, the face of the country began to exhibit a perceptible change. Instead of the deep level soil and smooth streams of the low country, long reaches of uncultivated moors, only broken by patches of furze and

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