coronation-festival, so gorgeously regal is its step. His Studies, again, are of the highest order and this not solely as finger-exercises, but also as compositions-in spite of the peculiar notation adopted, which renders them sometimes needlessly difficult to decipher. Two remarks, however, must be offeredsince they will supply a key to Chopin's peculiar manner to those whom Chopin's music in any respect attracts. The left hand of the player is never to be out of tempo: the right hand may almost always (save in the case of some distinctly formal instrumental figure) indulge in tempo rubato. Again, whereas other pianoforte masters insist on the equality of the fingers-in spite of the anatomical lock and key put by Nature on the motion of the third digit,-Chopin provided for their inequality: wishing, as he once told me, so far as was possible, to develop, not to destroy, the individuality of each member of the hand. Hence a system of fingering, which might possibly have made the Clementis and Hummels as irate as such gentlemen are apt to become when anything in the least new is broached, and the wisdom of which is open to controversy, -but which is still a system.

Those, however, who knew and who loved the man (for the two things were one), will best taste and render the peculiar humor of Chopin's music-will best understand how it will bear a certain dash of private judgment on the part of the player-but not the slightest touch of exaggeration. Pianists of the hammer-and-tongs school-or who can do nothing without a metronome, are warned off Chopin's fairy-land. His interpreters ought to have hands as long as Perugino's angels, and as delicately firm as though they were framed on adamant. The uttermost precision and the most sensitive ease are all too little to play Chopin's music as he played it himself. For, though anything but foolish-anything but weak (there is iron in the rose) he was a curious compound of fantasy, feeling, and strength-one of the most wayward, tender, spirituel persons I have ever conversed with. Alike remarkable for his simplicity and for his self-consciousness-he could be as eagerly irritable as a child about some little mistake in a concert-programme, as eagerly entertained over the toys of art or luxury, with which his appartement was filled by his friends and pupils. He could divert himself with trifling courtesies and mysteries-making genial sport, to those who were in his confidence, of his own interest in such things. Yet never did artist more

VOL. XIX. NO. IV.

quietly trust in his own genius as sufficient for his own success, nor more worthily hold himself remote from the intrigues, and the littleness, and the fevers, with which the intercourse betwixt performer and public, the connection betwixt art and letters, are now spoiled and mixed up in France-than Chopin. There was in his nature a mixture of delicacy and pride, which cleared him of any possible participation in the practices of Parisian journalism. Traffic he could notdirectly or indirectly. He was loved and admired as a bon camarade, but it was said of him truly, that "into the shop he would not, could not, go." Hence arose his extreme aversion to playing in public, and not altogether, as some have stated it, from his physical weakness. It was further his fancy that the best artists are unequal, and that it is only perfect mediocrity which can be perfect always-and when the clock strikes. And he knew, too, that the wayward, quaint, mournful playfulness of his Mazurkas, and ballads, and Notturni, ought always to have not only the air, but, in some degree, the reality of improvisation, which few men can control. I have never been thoroughly satisfied in the playing of Chopin's more poetical music by any performer, save by Liszt; when Liszt is in his gentler mood, and sits dreaming away at the piano,-calling upon his supernatural memory to give up its treasures for the delight of one or two intimates and of himself. But as the best written account of playing is about as unsatisfactory as the lessons for dancing printed in a book, the solemn perusal of which (with illustrative diagrams) once surprised me into a hearty laugh, greatly to the offence of its author-let us come away from the piano."

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In his intercourse with his friends, Chopin had established certain ways and caprices of his own, against which all remonstrance was fruitless. To write letters, or to answer notes, did not seem to him so much difficult as impossible. Neither from his dictation, nor from his own pen, was there any means of extracting a written reply--even when the question concerned his own interests. How his pupils managed, I could never imagine; but I know that, save by word of mouth, it was utterly useless to introduce a pupil to him-still more to induce him to make any appointment for an interview. This in one, the largest portion of whose revenues was derived from teaching, was, to say the best of it, an uncomfortable peculiarity. Chopin had, however, as many delightfully ingenious reasons in its defence, as most people com

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mand, who, from indolence indulged till it becomes a system, neglect what Anna Seward called the "epistolary interchange of courtesies." Had the fates pleased to have allowed him a few years' residence in England, he would possibly have sacrificed so inconvenient and unpolite an eccentricity. For there is a certain sober high-breeding in our atmosphere, which, let newly-arrived or distant foreigners rail at it as they will, rarely in the end fails to penetrate them as something better, more to be relied upon, nay, and absolutely more conducive to easy enjoyment, than either the faux brillant of old French politeness, or the laissez aller of modern French philosophy! It is only the mock-genius, and the mock-gentleman, whom our life, and our manners, and our sense of mutual obligation, fail, sooner or later, to impress.

At all events, no two things could be more entirely different than Madame Dudevant's intimate circle, with its eccentric ordinances and artificial usages-parcel savage, parcel super-civilized-and its intensely exciting conversation, in which every feverish opinion and false principle found its most eloquent and refined representative-from the matter-of-fact, bustling, unsympathetic drawing-rooms of London; where Mrs. Leo Hunters may be found by the score eager alike to stare at a Bastardella or a Prince Lee Boo, and into which refined, and intelligent, and appreciating admirers of instrumental music rarely enter. Yet so far from bearing the change badly-or from making a sulky, or cynical, or mournful “lion Chopin (in spite of his being driven hither ward by no choice of his own, but simply by the total destruction of Art in Paris by the Revolution) seemed heartily to be amused in London-and to enjoy his power of appreciating the good qualities of our fine ladies and our plain gentlemen. He was neither touchy in withholding nor tiresome in giving too much of his playing. If a good listener or two was near the pianoforte he was easily prevailed upon to begin, and always ended too soon. Over himself his art exercised a great charm. I have seen him look fifty when he took his place, and twenty-five when he quitted it sit down a meagre, worn, livid, panting man (his face, as some one described it, seamed with pain and anxiety"), and as he proceeded, shadow after shadow gradually dissolve, and fold after fold soften, and the flush of health come back into the cheek, and the dim glassy eyes brighten with a cheerful and living intelligence!

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When Chopin was thus excited his countenance was full of beauty; and one then gave one's self up to the hopeful fallacy that his health was less bad than it appeared to be-that other men worse bested than he had struggled on to old age, and that a deliverance from the hot-bed life in which he had been enervated, might be followed by a slow return to a healthier and more manly condition of health and strength. Alas! the wonder was that such shattered fragments could be made to assume even the semblance of consistency and volition-that such a life could be prolonged from evening to evening by any spell! Even before he came to our rude climate, Chopin was so weak, and a pulmonary or asthmatic affection had gained such ground, that he was compelled to be carried up stairs; and it was a distressing sight to see him (as I have more than once done) shivering and trembling with eagerness among the arriving or departing guests of a London rout, arrested by the apparition of so very peculiar a shadow, until some friend came by, who could explain or provide for his infirmity.

Chopin's death was probably hastened by a visit to Scotland, which he was induced to make at the close of the London musical season of 1848. The climate, he said, "pierced him through like a spear;" but his enjoyment of our vie de chateau, and his wonderful power of endurance, carried him through. He himself, on his return to London, described with sad humor the utter amazement testified by a party of sportsmen in rude health, on stumbling over him as he lay gasping for breath on the deck of a steamer, covered with warm wrappings, and their doubt (he said)" as to his species." It became too evident to every one that his decay had been cruelly accelerated by his lingering too late in the North; and, for a fortnight, in November, he lay in that state of prostration from which some of us conceived he could never rally. Will it be believed that, in this state of death-in-life, Chopin was solicited by the charity-mongers and philanthropical patriots (well acquainted with the intensity of his national affections) to appear at Guildhall on the night of the Polish Ball, and to perform at the concert, which on such occasions must be hurried through before the dancing begins? Some of his friends interfered, by pointing out the peril of such exposure to the dying man, and by advancing the harder and more selfish argument that his playing would produce not the slightest effect, heard under

such circumstances, nor his name in the bill attract, his celebrity as a musician being select rather than universal. It was of no avail, remonstance was unheeded by the enthusiastic promoters of the scheme, whose callous disregard of everything save the contents of the begging-box to be filled at other people's cost is laid by for "the rainy day," on which the charity extorted from musicians by mendicant persons of quality is to be repaid by the critic and historian. Chopin was got out of bed and patched up, and blistered, and drugged, and carried off to the City; and after all this, as another musician who was present on the occasion described it, "hardly one of the audience cared when he began, or knew when he ended." But the Polish cause was served, and the thing made a show in the morning papers!

I saw Chopin once again in Paris in April last, a stage or two further down the hill; then so feeble as to converse with difficulty, having been for many weeks compelled to give up playing. Nevertheless, he managed to rally under the spell of the strong interest of Meyerbeer's "Prophète," and in order to be present at the first appearance of Madame Viardot Garcia, for whom he entertained a deep friendship. I think this must have been the last music he ever heard, for shortly afterward we learned that his disease had made such progress that he was removed to Chaillot for the sake of the better air. Once or twice he might be seen driving in the Bois de Boulogne by the side of Mlle. Jenny Lind; but soon came the time when his own carriage came to the door every day by his orders, to be sent away after an hour's waiting. He was always to be better-to drive out "to-morrow!" Before this period his sister had arrived from Warsaw to attend upon him, and it became evident soon that her detention in Paris would not be long one. New symptoms of disease appeared; new pains had to be suffered-but as death approached and agony deepened, all little whimsies and manifestations of irritabi

a

| lity dropped away from the invalid and utterly disappeared; and an affectionate and touching patience (the real nature of the man) to the end sustained him, and made the task of watching his death-bed easy. Something of the poet, too, broke out in Chopin's last hours. Among the friends who attended upon him were M. Franchomme, the admirable violoncellist, and M. Guttmann, a favorite pupil. On the eve of his death, the 16th of October, he turned to them and entreated them "never to play anything save good music," adding earnestly, "Pray give me this pleasure-I am sure I shall hear you." About five o'clock in the morning of the 17th, a Polish lady, with whom he had long maintained an intimate friendship, arrived. Chopin smiled when he saw her enter, and though then almost inarticulate, said, “Ever since yesterday evening I have been asking, why God was so long in calling me to him. But now I know it was that I might have the pleasure of seeing you once again." then entreated Madame de P— to sing, and while she was singing sunk away and expired.

He

It had always been Chopin's wish that "the Requiem" of Mozart should be performed over his remains. This was done in La Madeleine with as much musical splendor as was attainable; and more real sorrow and sympathy than is common (dare I say it?) at Parisian ceremonials. The choir was led by Madame Castellan, Madame Viardot Garcia, M. Alexis Dupont, and Signor Lablache. The funeral march from Chopin's own first pianoforte Sonata, and one of his Preludes, were played;-and after this the remains were transferred to that strangest and most theatrical of Golgothas, the cemetery of Pere la Chaise. A monument to his memory is projected; but do what sculptor or epitaph-monger will, they will not better the old adage, that Chopin's best monument is in his music. His death leaves us almost without a composer for his instrument meriting the name.