He was very fond of his little son Achille.  A French gentleman tells us that he called once to take Paganini to dine with him.  He found the artist’s room in great disorder.  A violin on the table with manuscript music, another upon a chair, a snuff-box on the bed along with his child’s toys, music, money, letters, articles of dress—­all pele-mele; nor were the tables and chairs in their proper places.  Everything was in the most conspicuous confusion.  The child was out of temper; something had vexed him; he had been told to wash his hands; and, while the little one gave vent to the most violent bursts of temper, the father stood as calm and quiet as the most accomplished of nurses.  He merely turned quietly to his visitor, and said, in melancholy accents:  “The poor child is cross; I do not know what to do to amuse him; I have played with him ever since morning, and I can not stand it any longer.”

“It was rather amusing,” says the same writer, “to see Paganini in his slippers doing battle with his child, who came about up to his knees.  The little one advanced boldly with his wooden sword, while the father retired, crying out, ‘Enough, enough!  I am already wounded.’  But it was not enough; the young Achilles was never satisfied until his father, completely vanquished, fell heavily on the bed.”

In the early part of the present century the facilities for travel were far less convenient than at the present time, and it was always an arduous undertaking to one in Paganini’s frail condition of health.  He was, however, generally cheerful while jolting along in the post-chaise, and chatted incessantly as long as his voice held out.  Harris tells us that the artist was in the habit of getting out when the horses were changed, to stretch his long limbs after the confinement of the carriage.  Often he extended his promenades when he became interested in the town through which he was passing, and would not return till long after the fresh horses had been harnessed, thereby causing much annoyance to the driver.  On one occasion Jehu swore, if it occurred again, he would drive on, and leave his passenger behind, to get along as best he could.  The secretary, Harris, was enjoying a nap, and the driver was true to his resolution at the next stopping-place, leaving Paganini behind.  This made much trouble, and a special coach had to be sent for the enraged artist, who was found sputtering oaths in half a dozen languages.  Paganini refused to pay for the carriage, and it was only by force of law that he reluctantly settled the bill.

His baggage was always of the plainest description; in fact, ludicrously simple.  A shabby box contained his precious Guarnerius fiddle, and served also as a portmanteau wherein to pack his jewelry, his linen, and sundry trifles.  In addition to this he carried a small traveling-bag and a hat-box.  Mr. Harris tolls us that Paganini was in eating and drinking exceedingly frugal.  Table indulgence was forbidden