w personal
legends of the most exciting character. It was said that he had killed
his wife in a fit of jealousy, and made fiddlestrings of her intestines;
and that the devil had composed a sonata for him in a dream, as he
formerly did for Tartini. When you looked at him, you thought all this,
and more, very likely to be true. His talent was almost supernatural,
while his 'get up,' and 'mise en scene,' were original and unearthly,
such as those who saw him will never forget, and those who did not can
with difficulty conceive. The individual and his performance were
equally unlike anything that had ever been exhibited before. No picture
or description can convey an adequate idea of his entrance and his exit.
To walk simply on and off the stage appears a commonplace operation
enough, but Paganini did this in a manner peculiar to himself, which
baffled all imitation. While I am writing of it, his first appearance in
Dublin, at the great Musical Festival of 1830, presents itself to 'my
mind's eye,' as an event of yesterday. When he placed himself in
position to commence, the crowded audience were hushed into a deathlike
silence. His black habiliments; his pale, attenuated visage, powerfully
expressive; his long, silky, raven tresses, and the flash of his dark
eye, as he shook them back over his shoulders; his thin, transparent
fingers, unusually long; the mode in which he grasped his bow, and the
tremendous length to which he drew it; and, climax of all, his sudden
manner of placing both bow and instrument under his arm, while he threw
his hands behind him, elevated his head, his features almost distorted
with a smile of ecstasy, and his very hair instinct with life, at the
conclusion of an unparalleled fantasia! And there he stood, immovable
and triumphant, while the theatre rang again with peals on peals of
applause, and shouts of the wildest enthusiasm! None who witnessed this
will ever forget it, nor are they likely again to see the same effect
produced by mere mortal agency.

"The _one_ string feat I always considered unworthy this great master of
his art. It has been done by fifty others, and is at best but an
imperfect exhibition on a perfect instrument; a mere piece of
charlatanerie, or theatrical 'gag,' to use a professional term,
sufficiently intelligible. There have been, and _are_, mighty musicians
on the violin. Spagnoletti, De Beriot, Ole Bull (who according to some
plays without any string at all), Sivori, Joa