On the night of the failure of “Benvenuto Cellini,” a strange-looking man with disheveled black hair and eyes of piercing brilliancy had forced his way around into the green-room, and, seeking out Berlioz, had fallen on his knees before him and kissed his hand passionately.  Then he threw his arms around him and hailed the astonished composer as the master-spirit of the age in terms of glowing eulogium.  The next morning, while Berlioz was in bed, there was a tap at the door, and Paganini’s son, Achille, entered with a note, saying his father was sick, or he would have come to pay his respects in person.  On opening the note Berlioz found a most complimentary letter, and a more substantial evidence of admiration, a check on Baron Rothschild for twenty thousand francs!  Paganini also gave Berlioz a commission to write a concerto for his Stradivarius viola, which resulted in a grand symphony, “Harold en Italie,” founded on Byron’s “Childe Harold,” but still more an inspiration of his own Italian adventures, which had had a strong flavor of personal if they lacked artistic interest.

The generous gift of Paganini raised Berlioz from the slough of necessity so far that he could give his whole time to music.  Instantly he set about his “Romeo and Juliet” symphony, which will always remain one of his masterpieces—­a beautifully chiseled work, from the hands of one inspired by gratitude, unfettered imagination, and the sense of blessed repose.  Our composer’s first musical journey was an extensive tour in Germany in 1841, of which he gives charming memorials in his letters to Liszt, Heine, Ernst, and others.  His reception was as generous and sympathetic as it had been cold and scornful in France.  Everywhere he was honored and praised as one of the great men of the age.  Mendelssohn exchanged batons with him at Leipsic, notwithstanding the former only half understood this stalwart Berserker of music.  Spohr called him one of the greatest artists living, though his own direct antithesis, and Schumann wrote glowingly in the “Neue Zeitschrift”:  “For myself, Berlioz is as clear as the blue sky above.  I really think there is a new time in music coming.”  Berlioz wrote joyfully to Heine:  “I came to Germany as the men of ancient Greece went to the oracle at Delphi, and the response has been in the highest degree encouraging.”  But his Germanic laurels did him no good in France.  The Parisians would have none of him except as a writer of feuilletons, who pleased them by the vigor with which he handled the knout, and tickled the levity of the million, who laughed while they saw the half-dozen or more victims flayed by merciless satire.  Berlioz wept tears of blood because he had to do such executioner’s work, but did it none the less vigorously for all that.