asked the woman he loved to sacrifice her philosophical opinions to his passionate devotion. But unfortunately marriage found no place in Madame Sand's system of morals. She considered it a snare to a man, and a delusion to a woman. This controversy first brought out the glaring differences of character which had always existed between them, and from the hour of Madame Sand's deliberate refusal, Chopin was seized with a restless and inextinguishable jealousy. Although Madame Sand had been considerate and consistent enough to remove every cause, yet Chopin was never satisfied, and in his misery and impatience he began to attack her philosophy and religion. It was a fatal step! Off his own peculiar ground, he was not able to meet her. The "Floriani" confesses that at last she grew tired of his endless reproaches, and the knell of their separation at length sounded. It could not be otherwise. They met and parted in dreamland, and it is the keenest satire on Madame Sand's philosophy of passion, that an intimacy, begun with the conviction that here at last were all the elements of a deep and enduring union, should end with the mournful confession that "two natures, the one rich in its exuberance, the other in its exclusiveness, could never really mingle, and that a whole world separated them!”*

But the love that was only an episode in the life of Madame Sand proved to be the whole life of Chopin. All the cords," he would frequently say, "that bound me to life are broken." From this time his health

• "Lucrezia Floriani."

visibly declined. He was soon seized with another severe attack of his old complaint; but he was now no longer tended by his incomparable nurse. Her place was supplied by his favourite pupil, M. Gutman, "whose presence," he said, "was dearer to him than that of any other person." Contrary to expectation, he rallied; but a great change had passed over him; he had lost much of his outward equanimity, and looked so pale and cadaverous, that his friends hardly recognised him. He soon began to resume his former occupations, but with an ever-growing restlessness which announced too surely the beginning of the end. He seemed utterly careless about his health: "Why should he care? he would sometimes ask; there was nothing to live for now; "no second friend." He had "passed through Paris,"-Paris could never be the same to him again, he had best leave it, and go anywhere to London. So his friends and disciples assembled once more in M. Pleyel's rooms, and there they heard him for the last time. In vain they besought him to delay his visit; Chopin was bent upon leaving Paris immediately, and although threatened with a relapse, at the most inclement season of the he started for England.

year

His fame had preceded him, and the highest circles opened their ranks to receive him. He was presented to the Queen by the Duchess of Sutherland; played twice in public at Willis's Rooms, and at many private concerts. He went much into society, sat up late at

night, and exposed himself to constant fatigues. Against the advice of his physicians, he next visited Scotland, and returned to London in the last stage of consumption. One more concert, the last he ever played at-in aid of his exiled countrymen, the Poles -and then he hurried back to Paris. But his favourite physician, Dr. Molin, who had saved his life more than once, was dead, and Chopin had no confidence in any other. His unnatural energy was now succeeded by the deepest lassitude and dejection. He scarcely ever left his bed, and seldom spoke. M. Gutman, Louise, his own sister, and the beautiful and accomplished Countess Delphine Potocka, were his constant attendants.

One evening towards sunset, Chopin, who had lain insensible for many hours, suddenly rallied. He observed the Countess draped in white standing at the foot of the bed. She was weeping bitterly. "Sing!" murmured the dying man. She had a lovely voice. It was a strange request, but so earnest a one that his friends wheeled the piano from the adjoining parlour to his bedroom door, and there, as the twilight deepened, with the last rays of the setting sun streaming into the room, the Countess sang that famous canticle to the Virgin, which it is said once saved the life of Stradella. "How beautiful it is!" he exclaimed. "My God, how beautiful!-Again, again!" In another moment he swooned away.

On the 17th of October, 1849, having entered upon his fortieth year, Chopin breathed his last in the arms

of his devoted pupil, M. Gutman. Many of his intimate friends came to see him; his love of flowers was well known, and the next day they were brought in such quantities, that the bed on which he lay, and indeed the whole room, disappeared beneath a variegated covering of a thousand bright tints. The pale face seemed to have regained in death all its early beauty! there was no more unrest,-no signs of care, -he lay sleeping tranquilly amongst the flowers.

On the 30th day of October his requiem was sung at the Madeleine Church in Paris,-Signor Lablache, Madame Viardot, and Madame Castellan claiming the principal solos, and M. Wély presiding at the organ. He lies in the cemetery of Père la Chaise, between Cherubini and Bellini.

Al

Chopin was essentially a national musician. though he lived much in France, his music is never French. "He sings to one clear harp in divers tones," the swan-song of his people's nationality. His genius was elegiac. He is more often tender than strong, and even his occasional bursts of vigour soon give way to the prevailing undertone of a deep melancholy. His country is ever uppermost in his thoughts. His Polonaises reflect the national ardour of a noble but unhappy patriotism. His mazourkas and scherzos are full of the subtle coquetry and passionate sensibility of his gifted countrywomen, whilst his ballads are

There are sixteen published. They are very little known. No. 12, "My Joy," and 10, "Riding Home from the Fight," are quite remarkable.

nothing but the free, wild songs of his native land, transcribed for the first time by himself.

He, first of all musicians, understood the dignity of manners and the language of deportment, and with varied utterance he seems to be continually reminding us that

"Manners are not idle, but the fruit

Of noble nature and of loyal mind."

His dance music has added a strange and fascinating solemnity to the graces of the ball-room,-elevating a mere pastime into what may almost be called a philosophy.

As a romance writer for the pianoforte, he had no models, and will have no rivals. He was original without extravagance, and polished without affectation. It is to him we owe the extension of chords struck together in arpeggio, the little groups of superadded notes, "falling like light drops of pearly dew upon the melodic figure;" he also invented those admirable harmonic progressions which lend importance to many a slender subject, and redeem its slightest efforts from triviality. Of Schubert he once remarked, that "the sublime is desecrated when followed by the trivial or commonplace." A certain rollicking fun, and vulgar though powerful energy, that frequently peeps out in Schubert's marches, was abhorrent to him. Perhaps he hardly appreciated the enormous range of men like Beethoven or even Schubert. His own range was limited, but within it he has probably never been equalled in absolute perfection of finish. His works