“The portraits which accompanied your letter have given me great pleasure. I had seen in the papers all the accounts you give me of yourself. You may imagine, as your mother, what an infinite source of joy it was to me. Dear son, I entreat you to continue to inform me of all that concerns you, for with this assurance I shall feel that it will prolong my days, and be convinced that I shall still have the happiness of embracing you. “We are all well. In the name of all your relations, I thank you for the sums of money you have sent. Omit nothing that will render your name immortal. Eschew the vices of great cities, remembering that you have a mother who loves you affectionately, and whose fondest aspirations are your health and happiness. She will never cease her supplications to the All-powerful for your preservation. “Embrace your amiable companion for me, and kiss little Achille. Love me as I love you. “Your ever affectionate mother, “TERESA PAGANINI.” This letter was not necessary to prove to reasoning mortals that the great artist was not a son of Satan. But the ignorant mass listens not to reason, nor are its superstitious beliefs easily removed. Opinion in France did justice to these follies, but they seemed to revive afterwards, and acquired renewed strength after the decease of him who had been so calumniated during his life. Nothing could be more variable than the moral dispositions of Paganini; at one time melancholy and taciturn, passing several hours seated, without uttering a word; at another, he would give himself entirely up to unrestrained gaiety, without any apparent motive for either the one or the other. He seldom spoke much; but while travelling, the movement of the carriage rendered him loquacious. Mr. George Harrys, who lived for some time on terms of intimacy with him, and who has published some curious details on his private life,[O] states that his bad health rendered his speaking aloud extremely painful, but when the noise of the wheels rattling over the stones was almost deafening, he spoke loudly and rapidly. It was not, as with most persons, the beauty of the country through which he passed that made him communicative, for he paid no attention to the lovely landscapes which met his eye in every direction; rapid transit seemed to be his only aim; but there was something in the rolling of the coach which made conversation a necessity. His constant suffering did not permit him to enjoy a beautiful country, where others dwelt who were blessed with health. Besides, he was always cold, and even at a summer heat of twenty-two degrees he wrapped his large cloak around him, and ensconced himself in a corner of a carriage, with the windows hermetically closed. By a singular contradiction, he invariably kept all the windows of his apartments wide open, to take, as he called it, an air bath. He cursed the climate of Germany, of France, and above all of England, saying