But the demon of unrest would not permit Paganini to remain very long in one place.  In 1808 he began his wandering career of concert-giving afresh, performing throughout northern Italy, and amassing considerable money, for his fame had now become so widespread that engagements poured on him thick and fast.  The lessons of his inconsiderate past had already made a deep impression on his mind, and Paganini became very economical, a tendency which afterward developed into an almost miserly passion for money-getting and -saving, though, through his whole life, he performed many acts of magnificent generosity.  He had numerous curious adventures, some of which are worth recording.  At a concert in Leghorn he came on the stage, limping, from the effects of a nail which had run into his foot.  This made a great laugh.  Just as he began to play, the candles fell out of his music desk, and again there was an uproar.  Suddenly the first string broke, and there was more hilarity; but, says Paganini, naively, “I played the piece on three strings, and the sneers quickly changed into boisterous applause.”  At Ferrara he narrowly escaped an enraged audience with his life.  It had been arranged that a certain Signora Marcolini should take part in his concert, but illness prevented her singing, and at the last moment Paganini secured the services of Signora Pallerini, who, though a danseuse, possessed an agreeable voice.  The lady was very nervous and diffident, but sang exceedingly well, though there were a few in the audience who were inconsiderate enough to hiss.  Paganini was furious at this insult, and vowed to be avenged.  At the end of the concert he proposed to amuse the audience by imitating the noises of various animals on his violin.  After he had reproduced the mewing of a cat, the barking of a dog, the crowing of a cock, etc., he advanced to the footlights and called out, “Questo e per quelli che han fischiato” ("This is for those who hissed"), and imitated in an unmistakable way the braying of the jackass.  At this the pit rose to a man, and charged through the orchestra, climbed the stage, and would have killed Paganini, had he not fled incontinently, “standing not on the order of his going, but going at once.”  The explanation of this sensitiveness of the audience is found in the fact that the people of Ferrara had a general reputation for stupidity, and the appearance of a Ferrarese outside of the town walls was the signal for a significant hee-haw.  Paganini never gave any more concerts in that town.

As he approached his thirtieth year his delicate and highly strung organization, already undermined by the excesses of his early youth, began to give way.  He was frequently troubled with internal inflammation, and he was obliged to regulate his habits in the strictest fashion as to diet and hours of sleep.  Even while comparatively well, his health always continued to be very frail.