which, when he left Vienna in 1831
to go to London, induced him, without foreseeing that his destiny would
fix him there, to pass through Paris. Chopin now sleeps between Bellini
and Cherubini, men of very dissimilar genius, and yet to both of whom
he was in an equal degree allied, as he attached as much value to
the respect he felt for the science of the one, as to the sympathy he
acknowledged for the creations of the other. Like the author of NORMA,
he was full of melodic feeling, yet he was ambitions of attaining the
harmonic depth of the learned old master; desiring to unite, in a great
and elevated style, the dreamy vagueness of spontaneous emotion with the
erudition of the most consummate masters.

Continuing the reserve of his manners to the very last, he did not
request to see any one for the last time; but he evinced the most
touching gratitude to all who approached him. The first days of October
left neither doubt nor hope. The fatal moment drew near. The next day,
the next hour, could no longer be relied upon. M. Gutman and his sister
were in constant attendance upon him, never for a single moment leaving
him. The Countess Delphine Potocka, who was then absent from Paris,
returned as soon as she was informed of his imminent danger. None of
those who approached the dying artist, could tear themselves from the
spectacle of this great and gifted soul in its hours of mortal anguish.

However violent or frivolous the passions may be which agitate our
hearts, whatever strength or indifference may be displayed in
meeting unforeseen or sudden accidents, which would seem necessarily
overwhelming in their effects, it is impossible to escape the impression
made by the imposing majesty of a lingering and beautiful death, which
touches, softens, fascinates and elevates even the souls the least
prepared for such holy and sublime emotions. The lingering and gradual
departure of one among us for those unknown shores, the mysterious
solemnity of his secret dreams, his commemoration of past facts
and passing ideas when still breathing upon the narrow strait which
separates time from eternity, affect us more deeply than any thing else
in this world. Sudden catastrophes, the dreadful alternations forced
upon the shuddering fragile ship, tossed like a toy by the wild breath
of the tempest; the blood of the battle-field, with the gloomy smoke of
artillery; the horrible charnel-house into which our own habitation is
converted by