At least one generous action must be placed on record. It was told by George Augustus Sala many years ago.[36] The mother of that voluminous writer was a vocalist, and made her _début_ at Covent Garden Theatre in 1827, as the Countess in Bishop's version (or perversion) of Mozart's "Marriage of Figaro." In 1828 she became a widow, and supported her family by teaching singing and giving annual concerts, chiefly at Brighton, where she lived. For one of her benefit concerts she engaged Paganini. The most distinguished artists of her day had gladly given their gratuitous assistance at similar functions, and Paganini accepted the small fee of twenty-five guineas. Sala was a very small boy at that time (born in 1828), and possibly drew upon his imagination when recounting the event so many years later. This is what he wrote:--"'Take your little boy with you, Madame Sala,' was the shrewd counsel of ----, a valued friend of my mother; 'take the boy with you when you pay Pag.; perhaps _that_ will soften him a little.' I was the smallest and chubbiest of the tribe; then, duly washed, combed and made spruce, my parent took me in her hand, and led me to the Old Ship, where Paganini was staying. We were ushered, not without fear and trembling on my part, into the presence of the mighty musician, who was at breakfast. Then my mother, alluding as far as she in delicacy could to her large family and small means, proceeded to count out--sovereign by sovereign, shilling by shilling--Paganini's fee of five and twenty guineas. I can see with the eye of memory the whole man before me now, his gaunt angular form, his black elf-like locks falling in weird confusion over his neck and shoulders, his cadaverous face and shaggy brows, his long bony hands with the veins standing out like cordage, his amazingly large feet, and especially his neck, disproportionately long, scraggy, and corrugated. I can see the glare--so it seemed to me--which, when he raised his bent brows, darted upon the pile of money, and the spasmodic avidity with which he extended his hand and swept the pile towards him.... 'A very nice little boy,' he was good enough to say, alluding to myself; 'but time is bad, and there is no monish in de vorld: no, never no monish at all.' My mother rose with a heavy heart to depart. 'Stop, little boy,' said the great violinist, and he beckoned to me with a skinny finger, which any of the witches in Macbeth would have been proud to own; 'stop, take this, it will buy you a cake.' He thrust a crumpled piece of paper into my hand, rose from his chair, and, without more ado 'bolted'--that is the only word suited to the action--into his bedroom. He had given me a bank note for fifty pounds! Superstitious people used to whisper that Paganini had sold himself to the enemy of mankind; spiteful people used to draw him as a greedy, flint-hearted miser.... I only know how he acted towards my mother." FOOTNOTES: [32] Life of Moscheles (English Edition), I., p. 252-7.