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And now standing before this statue, and as in the living presence of the man it represents, cordially endorsing, as I do, the principles of the political school in which he was trained and in defence of which he died, and unable yet even to think of our dead Confederacy without memories unutterably tender, I speak not for myself, but for the South, when I say it is our interest, our duty and determination, to maintain the Union, and to make every possible contribution to its prosperity and glory, if all the States which compose it will unite in making it such a Union as our fathers framed, and in enthroning above it, not a Cæsar, but the Constitution in its old supremacy.

If ever these States are welded together in one great fraternal, enduring Union, with one heart pulsating through the entire frame as the tides throb through the bosom of the sea, it will be when they all stand on the same level, with such a jealous regard for each other's rights that when the interests or honor of one is assailed, all the rest feeling the wound, even as the body feels the pain inflicted on one of its members, will kindle with just resentment at the outrage, because an injury done to a part is not only a wrong but an indignity offered to the whole. But if that cannot be, then I trust the day will never dawn when the Southern people will add degradation to defeat and hypocrisy to subjugation, by professing a love for the Union which denies to one of their States a single right accorded to Massachusetts or New York- to such a Union we will never be heartily loyal while that bronze hand grasps its sword — while yonder river chants the requiem of the sixteen thousand Confederate dead who, with Stuart among them, sleep on the hills of Hollywood.

But I will not end my oration with an anticipation so disheartening. I can not so end it because I look forward to the future with more of hope than of despondency. I believe in the perpetuity of republican institutions, so far as any work of man may be said to possess that attribute. The complete emancipation of our constitutional liberty must come from other quarters, but we have our part to perform, one requiring patience, prudence, fortitude, faith.

A cloud of witnesses encompass us. The bronze figures on these monuments seem for the moment to be replaced by the spirits of the immortal men whose names they bear.

As if an angel spoke, their tones thrill our hearts.

First, it is the calm voice of Washington that we hear: “Of all the dispositions and habits which lead to political prosperity, religion and morality are indispensable supports. In vain would that man claim the tribute of patriotisin who should labor to subvert these great pillars of human happiness, these firmest props of the duties of men and citizens."

Then, Henry's clarion notes arouse us: “Liberty, the greatest of all earthly blessings: give us that precious jewel, and you may take all the rest!”

Then Jefferson speaks : "Fellow-citizens, it is proper you should understand what I deem the essential principles of government. Equal and exact justice to all men of whatsoever state or persuasion, religious or political. The support of State governments in all their rights, as the surest bulwarks against anti-republican tendencies; the preservation of the general government in its whole constitutional vigor as the sheet-anchor of our peace at home and safety abroad; the supremacy of the civil over military authority; the honest payment of our debts and sacred preservation of the public faith. And should we wander from these principles in moments of error and alarm, let us hasten to retrace our steps, and to regain the road which alone leads to peace, liberty, and safety.”

And last, it is Jackson's clear ringing tone to which we listen:

" What is life without honor? Degradation is worse than death. We must think of the living and of those who are to come after us, and see that by God's blessing we transmit to them the freedom we have enjoyed.”

Heaven, hear the prayer of our dead, immortal hero!



THE public has hitherto known but little of the last moments,

and indeed of the last years of Paganini. The following particulars, collected at Nice, where the great virtuoso died, will probably prove interesting to those who are curious in biography, as they will be enabled to trace him to the tomb, and even beyond it. The incidents are perfectly authentic, and taken from the most trustworthy sources.

Nicolo Paganini was born at Genoa in 1784. He was instructed by the celebrated Italian violinist Rolla, who, seeing the extraordinary progress made by his young pupil, ceased giving him lessons, saying that the child already knew more than the master. There is no truth in the absurd stories printed and circulated about Paganini and his musical education. The poor man never killed anybody, never passed twenty-four hours in a prison, and never had any dealings with the powers of darkness, for he was always a good Catholic. He learned to play the violin as you or I might have done, only he learned to play it a great deal better, thanks to a certain bump which the phrenologists can explain to you. When he went to play at Paris he was already attacked by the malady that was to conduct him to the tomb. His most brilliant period was from 1815 to 1817. He was the admiration of his countrymen of Genoa, and his name was already popular in Italy. He was then living as a true artist, occupying a garret in a sombre house in one of the dullest streets of Genoa. He was poor, and threw to all the winds of Bohemia an existence full of tumult and perplexity. Love and play disputed his heart and time with the god of music. He was not, however, at this period as niggard of his talent as he became later; he was prodigal of himself and his violin, to the great enjoyment of his fellow-citizens. He could be heard at concerts, in the splendid saloons of the aristocracy, and even in the streets after the manner of the Italians. There was at this time another artist of great merit in Genoa, M. Palliari Léa, a native of Nice. Paganini became attached to him; and so highly did he esteem his talent that he would allow no one else to play with him. Often have the two friends been heard at night in the narrow streets of Genoa, one on his fantastic violin and the other on his delicious violoncello or complaisant guitar. They would wander through the streets of the marble city, improvising the most ravishing duetts beneath the windows of some lovely marchioness, charming the neighbors they aroused, and taming even the unsentimental sentinels. When the heat would overcome them, the performers would enter the first open tavern and refresh themselves after the manner of Benvenuto Cellini.

One evening a rich gentleman requested Paganini to serenade a lady for him. He went to the place indicated with M. Léa, who was to play the guitar, and Zephirina, an excellent Neapolitan violinist. As they were about to commence, his two companions observed hiin holding an open penknife in his right hand. What could he be about to do? They questioned him, but received no reply. They commenced, when suddenly, in the midst of a brilliant prelude, they heard a string snap; it was the treble which had gone.

“ It is the dampness of the night,” cried Paganini, still continuing to play on his remaining three strings. In another minute the A had also given out. “ Do you see the effect of the damp?” said he, with well-feigned impatience, yet not appearing the least disconcerted. Then after a few more notes the D also snapped. “This is unbearable,” he murmured; 6 what is to be done? The gallant, who was watching his musicians, trembled for the rest of his serenade. How could Paganini extricate himself from such a position with only one remaining string? But merely smiling he continued to play upon the G with wonderful ease and power all that he had before played upon the three other strings. Of course the dampness was not to blame for the disaster, the penknife being the culprit. It was by such tricks as these that Paganini laid the foundation for the eccentric character which he afterwards bore. Such things are, however, in accordance with Italian taste. At the end of a concert which he gave in Genoa, he made his violin say “Good-night” to the audience so distinctly that everybody understood it and replied, “Buona sera." The Paris people would have shrugged their shoulders, but in Genoa the public delighted in the joke.

Like many great artists he had his share of vanity, and was persuaded that some jealous musician would cause him to be assassinated should he go to Paris ; and in consequence of this idea he refused to go there, and only yielded at last from the conviction that in France he might greatly increase an already very large fortune. In England too he was possessed by fears which give a singular idea of his courage. One evening during a brilliant concert an eccentric individual jumped up, and interrupting the maestro, cried out somewhat in the following terms to the astonished crowd: “What! you do not blush to give each one of you a guinea to hear this miserable fiddler, a mountebank whose only merit consists in drawing sounds from an ugly wooden shoe strung with cat-gut? Cannot you make better use of your money? Why don't you give it to the poor? Look at this great juggler, who resembles the devil; he laughs at your credulity while he pockets your sovereigns!” Hardly was this speech ended, delivered as it was ab irato, than Paganini, seized with alarm and believing that assassins were after him, brusquely quitted the hall and started for Manchester. He left another English town just as hastily from the same fears, all proceeding from the infirmity of vanity.

If he feared the envious, he inspired other passions to which he more readily accommodated himself. He was a great favorite with the fair sex, some of whom actually followed him from their own countries. But though his conquests were numerous, he always left them with perfect coolness. The great artist never married. He was capricious, fantastic, and sometimes grotesque. The following incident occurred at Parma. Happening to be in the capital one day that the Grand-duchess Marie Louise, widow of Napoleon, gave a fête, he wrote to the grand-chamberlain, offering to play at the concert announced for the evening. Hardly had he sent his letter when, seized with a sudden caprice, he declared that he could not play, but was going away.

The chamberlain sent for him to come and explain himself, and observed to him that if an engagement made with a private person is a serious thing, it differs in nothing with one contracted with a prince. The maestro insisted that he must leave immediately, giving as a pretence some urgent business at Milan or Turin. The functionary had recourse to menace, and with Paganini this was an unanswerable argument, therefore he consented to play. The concert commenced. The rule was to wear either a court-dress or uniform. After a short delay the artist appeared, muffled in a French coat of sky-blue velvet, trimmed with huge cut-steel buttons. A long flowered waistcoat, the remains of some ancient tapestry, descended much lower than was customary and completely hid his figure. White satin breeches, hired like the rest of the costume from a neighboring Jew, defined his thin legs with great precision; white silk stockings, much too large, were hanging in wrinkles around his meagre calves; and thick shoes of enormous size, with huge silver buckles, completed this extraordinary costume. At the aspect of so absurd-looking a person there was a general laugh, and the hilarity redoubled when they observed the strange ornaments hanging from his breast. From a wooden skewer hung innumerable decorations, and all the trinkets that he had received as presents either from sovereigns or persons of distinction; there were crosses, emblems of all sizes and shapes, stars, rings, pins, buckles, clasps, birds, fish, miniature violins, lyres, harps, tiny bows, and all these baubles of gold, silver and platina tinkled and clattered at every movement, and thus augmented the laughing surprise of the spectators. At length quiet was restored, the great artist preluded, and was as usual sublime.

When he had reached the summit of his talent he did not, like so many others, who, having no longer anything to learn, turn their instruments into mere money-makers. He continued his researches, not in the beaten tracks, but outside of the path which he himself had hitherto trodden. The desire to create, to find out something new, something extraordinary, kept him in perpetual anxiety. He studied to invent curious effects of the bow and sound. Outside of these exercises of patience he laid his Guarnerius quietly aside. He no longer even studied the pieces he was to play in public, but contented himself with the orchestral rehearsal. M. Hauser, a painter of rare merit, roomed next to him for three months in a German town, and frequently heard him take up bis violin in the middle of the night and labor till morning at producing the most fantastic sounds. During the day complete silence reigned. It is well known that the great master played with a broken bow mended with thread, and that he would have no other.

In 1836 the Count de Cessole, a member of one of the oldest families of Nice, an excellent violinist, more of an artist than an amateur, went to Turin on purpose to become acquainted with Paganini. He found him sick and much discouraged, and earnestly entreated him to come to Nice and give concerts, as the influx of strangers in the winter would ensure him a rich harvest. A month later M. de Cessole found he bad arrived, and had accepted the hospitality of M. Léa, the friend of his youthful days. In spite of his impatience and his entreaties, M. de Cesscle could not for the first fortnight persuade the great artist to allow him to hear even a few notes. But one day that Paganini was in good humor he at length beheld him opening his violin-case. " Seat yourself there," said the maestro, “ and listen." “ What I then heard,” says M. de Cessole, “is indescribable. It seemed to me impossible that any human hand could render such sounds. He improvised, and celestial songs of ineffable harmony byrst from his magic bow." He continued to play for a long time; when the inspiration had seized him, he willingly remained under its influence. Acceding to the earnest entreaties of M. Léa, he consented to have some musical meetings, and apparently grew interested in them, as the number of matinées extended to thirteen, an extraordinary phenomenon for Paganini.

He read music at sight with great facility. Classical music was not in his line, and did not accord with the romantic nature of his talent. He was not exclusive in his tastes, though he declared himself especially enthusiastic for Glück, and bowed down before the science of Spohr. After three concerts given at Nice, during his three months' residence with M. Léa, he left for Marseilles, whither he was urgently called. Already his health had become greatly affected, and he appeared but the shadow of his former self. In spite of this, and of his weakness, his talent had lost nothing of its éclat. He sojourned at Marseilles for several months, during which time his host, M. Brun, a lawyer and great lover of music, sometimes heard him playing quartettes in his own apartments, but he never took up his instrument to work nor to improvise.

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