The adventures of this indefatigable mechanician, in quest of _wood_ for his purpose,—wood of sufficient age and capable of giving out the proper _pitch_ of sound—might fill a chapter. He ransacked Switzerland, entering into the meanest of her hovels, and buying-up the furniture or the wood-work of the _châlets_, wherever he could detect in it the right resonance, “les conditions d’une bonne sonorité.” He one day went so far as to persuade the curate of a small parish to let him take away the cieling of his sitting-room, and replace it by another. Making his way back to Paris with his “strange-achievéd heap”—his wooden wealth—he forthwith betook himself to the completion of certain machinery, by means of which, as it is asserted, he is enabled to form and hollow out, at will, a “belly” of Straduarius, of Guarnerius, of Amati, or of Magini—with a nicety which the hand, at its very best, can never accomplish. Resolved to omit nothing, he studied finally the varieties of _varnish_, till he hit upon the exact reflex of that clear, bright, most self-commendatory super-fusion, which we observe as the crowning grace of the fine old instruments. Of the marvellous accuracy, as a copyist of the old models, that was attained years since by Vuillaume, there is amusing proof, in a story related by M. Fétis, on the authority of the great Violinist himself, who figures in it:— “On his return-journey from a visit to England, Paganini, with dismay, observed the case containing his admirable _Guarnerius_ to fall from the roof of the diligence. The instrument had sustained manifest injury;—but Vuillaume was in Paris; and Paganini, fixing on _him_ all his hopes, entrusted his violin to him, on descending from the vehicle. The repairs were made with all the care demanded by the beauty of the instrument, and the immense talent of its owner. Every minutest trace of the accident was obliterated—and that which had been the confidant of Paganini’s inspirations was restored to its full charm and power. Whilst yet the depositary of so excellent an instrument, Monsieur Vuillaume was tempted by opportunity to make a copy of it—_such_ a copy as nobody might distinguish from the original. On the day appointed for putting the renowned performer again in possession of his instrument, Vuillaume went to him, and, placing two violins on the table, thus addressed him: “I have so completely succeeded in obliterating every vestige of the accident sustained by your fiddle, as to be quite unable to distinguish it from the _other_ Guarnerius, now beside it, which has been entrusted to me, and which bears a striking resemblance to it. _You_, who are well acquainted with your own instrument, will relieve me from this embarrassment.” At these words, Paganini changed countenance—stood up in haste—seized a fiddle with each hand—scrutinized and compared them both—and was struck dumb by their perfect similitude. _One_ hope