Paganini was always on the move, and travelling in his day was not the rapid, comfortable, even luxurious process it is now. In the post-chaise Paganini stowed his luggage, which was of the simplest--and shabbiest--description. A dilapidated box held his beloved violin, his linen, cash and jewellery; a carpet-bag and a hat-box completed his outfit. He was philosophically indifferent to comfort, but in his later years he always had the windows of his carriage closed. When he arrived at his quarters, the windows of his room were thrown open, and he indulged in a sun-bath--again anticipating modern medical advice. Paganini, when travelling, was fond of taking a stroll when the horses were changed. It was a relief to stretch his legs after the close confinement of the post-chaise, but sometimes his rambles were so prolonged that there was weary waiting for him when all was ready to resume the journey, and drivers became exasperated. Paganini was made to suffer on one occasion. That was when travelling from London to Birmingham. He had already tried the patience of his coachman by causing loss of time, and the man declared he would drive on without him, rather than wait again. At the next stopping place Paganini walked off as usual, leaving Harris asleep in the vehicle. The horses being changed, the driver started, leaving Paganini behind. This caused some trouble, for a post-chaise had to be sent from the next station in search of the derelict, and Paganini in his rage refused to pay the extra expense. He was summoned before the Birmingham magistrates, and the case going against him he was compelled to discharge the debt. Poor Paganini, he always suffered when he came into contact with the law. [Illustration: PLATE 15. (_See Appendix._)] [Illustration: PLATE 16. (_See Appendix._)] [Illustration: PLATE 17. (_See Appendix._)] In his personal habits Paganini was simplicity itself. Frugal to a degree in his repasts, a cup of chocolate sufficed for a meal when starting early on a journey, and often he would fast until evening. When in a happy mood after a concert, he would join the table d'hôte and do as others did, but the slightest indulgence was punished the next day. He preferred solitude, but when he mixed with others he would join freely in the conversation; if music were touched upon he became silent, or left the room. So long as he could find accommodation that was quiet, he cared little for its quality. Scenery had no charms for him, and all climates but his own were equally indifferent to him. His accounts were kept in a little red pocket-book (found under his pillow after his death), in a kind of arithmetical shorthand only decipherable by himself. He never had been taught the science of numbers, or he might have been made a first-rate mathematician.