plish his own toilet, where
to find his neckcloth, his boots, his coat. All were hid, and by
whom?--by Achillino. The urchin laughed when he saw his father pacing
with long strides through the apartment, his searching looks glancing
in all directions; and upon his asking him where he had put his things,
the little wag pretended astonishment, and held his tongue, shrugged up
his shoulders, shook his head, and signified by his gesture that he
knew nothing about them. After a long search, the boots were found;
they were hid under the trunk; the handkerchief lay in one of the
boots; the coat in the box; and the waistcoat in the drawer of the
table. Every time that Paganini had found one of his things, he drew
it out in triumph, took a great pinch of snuff, and went with new zeal
to search for the remaining articles, always followed by the little
fellow, who enjoyed it vastly when he saw his papa searching in places
where he knew nothing was hid. At last we went out, and Paganini shut
the door of the apartment, leaving behind him, lying about upon the
tables and in the cupboards, rings, watches, gold, and what I most
wondered at, his most precious violins. Any idea of the insecurity of
his property never entered his head; and, fortunately for him, in the
lodgings which he occupied the people were honest."

The famous violinist, like the rest of us, had his faults, but we can
easily find instances to prove the kindness of his heart.

One day, while walking in Vienna, Paganini came across a poor boy
playing upon a violin. He went up to him and learned that he
maintained his mother and a flock of little brothers and sisters by the
money which he picked up as an itinerant musician. Paganini turned out
his pockets, gave the boy all the coins he could find, and then, taking
the boy's violin, commenced playing. A crowd soon assembled, and, when
he had finished playing, Paganini went around with his hat, collected a
goodly sum, and then gave it to the boy, amid loud acclamations from
the bystanders.

In the autumn of 1832 Paganini was an invalid at Paris, and seldom saw
any one but Nicette, a merry country girl who waited upon him, and
often cheered him up in hours of sadness. One morning she appeared
with weeping eyes, and waited upon the musician without saying a word.

"What's the matter, child?" said the musician. "Has any misfortune
happened to you?"

"Alas! yes, sir."

"Speak! speak! What is it?"

She was