Chapter IV: Unity (5)

We have seen the repudiating Executive message and repudiating legislative resolutions of January, 1842, and their failure to influence the decision of the court. And now, we approach another act in the drama. The court having affirmed the constitutionality of the Union Bank bonds, and as the act of 1833 directed their payment, the Legislature of 1844 enacted a new law, in these words: 'That hereafter, no judgment or decree of any court of law or equity having jurisdiction of suits against the State, shall be paid by warrants on the Treasurer, or otherwise, without an appropriation by law, any former law or usage to the contrary notwithstanding.' The 'law and usage' were plain, to pay such decrees, as required by the law and Constitution; but both were disregarded, and the act of 1833, for all practical purposes, repealed. It remained in part, on the statute book, only to invite to the gambler's game of 'odd I win, even you lose'--that is, if, under the act of 1833, there should be a decision in any case in favor of the State, it should be conclusive, but if against the State, the money should not be paid, where (as in the case of these bonds) the Legislature differed from the court, and had already repudiated its decision. Such was the action of the Legislature in 1842 and 1844. In 1842, it repudiated, in advance, the decision of the court on these bonds, and, after that decision, repealed so much of the law as required the payment of the decrees of the court. Now, with a full knowledge of these facts, is it not amazing, incredible, that, several years subsequently, Mr. Jefferson Davis should have declared, in his first letter of 1849, 'By the Constitution and laws of Mississippi, any creditor of the State may bring suit against the State, and test his claim as against an individual; but, conscious that they have no valid claim, they have not sought the remedy;' and he repeats this averment, substantially, in his second letter. Now, who would have supposed, that more than five years before the date of Mr. Davis's letters, the highest judicial tribunal of the State, the one designated by the law and the Constitution, had already unanimously decided that these bonds were valid, and that the State Legislature, instead of paying the money, had _repealed the appropriation_. But there came a new court, all chosen by the people, under the wretched system, in many of the States, of an elective judiciary, but unknown to the independent Federal judicial system. A suit was brought in 1851, under the act of 1833, on one of the Union Bank State bonds and coupons before the Chancellor. After elaborate argument, the Chancellor decided against the State, and entered a decree for the payment of the money. The State, as authorized by the law, appealed from this decision to its own High Court of Errors and Appeals, elected by the people.

Surely, it was supposed, that this new court, so recently chosen by the people, after the legislative repudiation, would be governed by '_a proper regard for the public interest and public opinion_.' Before the Chancellor, as well as the High Court, all the objections made by Governor McNutt and Senator Davis were earnestly pressed by the Attorney-General of the State and associate counsel, but in vain; the decision of the Chancellor was against the State, and it was unanimously affirmed by the High Court. This case will be found reported by the State reporter, Johnson _v._ The State, April term, 1853. (3 Cushman, 625 to 882,--257 pages.)

In this case, the bond sued on is given in the record, and will be found an exact copy of that (heretofore quoted) under the original act, which had passed two successive Legislatures, the principal as well as coupons being payable in Federal currency.

On the reverse side of the bond is the following:

'£450 sterling. The President, Directors, and Co. of the
Mississippi Union Bank, do hereby designate the agency of the
Bank of the United States in London, as the place of payment of
the within bond and interest, and hereby assign and transfer
the same for value received to the bearer, principal equal to
£450 sterling, and guarantee the payment of the same at the
place designated.

'S. GWIN, _Cashier_.

'H. G. RUNNELLS, _President_.

'Mississippi State Bond, No. 91. 'Redeemable February 25th,
1850.'

As to the place where the bond was made payable, there could be no objection, for the original, as well as the supplemental act, gave full authority to make the bonds payable abroad. But as to the objection that they were said to be payable in sterling, at the rate of four shillings and sixpence to the pound, the answer was, as shown: 1st. That this was the true rate of exchange. 2d. That the bond was payable in Federal currency, and this was all the bondholder ever asked from the State. As to the allegation that the bonds were sold below par, the court showed most conclusively from the facts and agreed case, that they were sold above par, and their constitutionality was fully affirmed.

The argument of the Attorney-General (Glenn) for the State, embraced 32 printed pages; in addition to which was an elaborate argument by his associate, Mr. Stearns. The opinion of Chief Justice Smith embraced 45 pages, the concurring opinion of Justice Yerger, 27 pages, and Justice Fisher concurred. The State was not satisfied, but moved for a reargument, that of Wharton for the State, embracing 54 pages, and that of Mays, on the same side, 32 pages; but the court adhered to their decision, and unanimously affirmed the decree of the Chancellor against the State. The decision of the court, in the heading of the case, is thus given by the reporter.

'The bonds might have been legally issued to the bank, by the
Governor, on the 5th June, 1838, pursuant to the provision of
the original charter of the bank, and the faith of the State
pledged for the purpose of raising the capital.' 'The
supplement was not void in consequence of not having been
passed in conformity with the provisions of the Constitution
contained in the 7th article, 9th section of that instrument.'
'The object of the original pledge of the faith of the State,
was not changed by the supplemental charter, but it was passed
in aid of the original charter.' 'Campbell _v._ Union Bank (6
Howard 625) _cited and confirmed_.' 'The liability of the
State, under the operation of the charter of the bank, attached
so soon or whenever the bonds were legally executed to the
bank, and the execution of the mortgages was neither a
condition precedent to the pledge of the faith of the State,
nor the condition on which the State bonds were to be executed
and delivered.' 'It does not appear from the facts that the
bonds were sold for less than their par value. Held that the
sale was neither illegal nor void.' 'If the commissioners in
the sale of the bonds received 'sterling money of Great
Britain' at the rate of four shillings and sixpence to the
pound, that is not such an act on their part as would avoid the
bonds.'

Here, then, the whole case was again fully decided in 1853, by the very tribunal to which Jefferson Davis, in 1849, invited the bondholders. And did he or the State then yield or pay the obligations. Not at all, but they adhered to the repudiation of these bonds, disregarded and defied the decision of the court, and have never paid one dollar of principal or interest, and never will, so long as slavery exists in Mississippi.

And now, after the almost unanimous passage of the supplemental act in 1838, the sanction of the Legislature in 1839 and 1841, the decision of the Circuit Court and Chancellor, and of the High Court of Errors and Appeals, how strange is the assertion of Mr. Slidell, that 'The Union Bank bonds were issued in direct violation of an express constitutional provision.' It is a well settled principle of American law, so adjudicated by the State Courts, as well as by the Supreme Court of the United States, that, 1st, To authorize the court to decide that a law is unconstitutional, the repugnance to the Constitution must be '_plain and palpable_.' 2d., That the interpretation given by the _highest court of a State_, to a State law, or constitution, '_is conclusive_.' But the truth is, as is proved by Mr. Slidell's own letter (having never resided in the State), he knew nothing of the subject, or he never would have spoken of Jefferson Davis as 'Governor,' or alluded to 'his administration,' when he never held that office. But it is of some moment, at least to the unfortunate bondholders, that the minister of Jefferson Davis at Paris, _avers now_ that these bonds are _unconstitutional_.

But, Mr. Slidell says, 'There is a wide difference between these bonds and those of the Planters' Bank, for the repudiation of which, neither excuse nor palliation can be offered.'

Now, in a subsequent letter, I will prove conclusively, from authentic documents, that the State of Mississippi has, _most effectually_, repudiated those bonds also, and that Jefferson Davis has sustained that repudiation.

In the case, also, of another slaveholding State, I will prove, from the public documents, that Jefferson Davis volunteered to sustain her in the repudiation of her State bonds, in a case more atrocious, if possible, than that of Mississippi. As Jefferson Davis is now at the head of a slaveholding conspiracy, endeavoring to destroy the Government of my country, and is now also engaged in selling worthless Confederate bonds in this market, I have deemed it my duty to make this publication.

R. J. WALKER.

NOTE.--Since this was written, the supposed menacing message from the Continent has been officially contradicted. Surely, however, I had a right to conclude, after such solemn assurances from a member to the House, that, although acting in the character of a Confederate messenger, and avowing such atrocious sentiments, he at least spoke the truth on that point.

R. J. W.

EVERGREEN BEAUTY.

Perhaps if my early home had stood upon an island of evergreens, or if I had dreamed my first bright dreams among pine hills and cliffs of laurel, I should have loved their changeless beauty less. But through all my early years I saw but little of our native evergreens, and none of cultured, save a stunted cedar, that grew, or, rather, refused to grow, in our front yard at home; and thus they have ever attracted me exceedingly--the charm of rarity and novelty being added for me to their exceeding beauty.

And yet, if brought up among them, I might but have loved them more. For all I know of philosophy, if I had been earlier familiar with shrubs, hedges, groups, cedared cliffs, and tall forests of evergreens, they might have brought me still nobler conceptions, a more exquisite sense of beauty, than they now do.

Be that as it may, two years 'among the pines' of Virginia and her piny mountains, have enriched my mind with rare pictures of scenic beauty that shall keep fresh and green in memory while memory endures! I am no botanist, I have made no studies of the evergreens, nor shall I attempt to write of them as scholar or critic, but only as a fascinated observer. I neither care to know or tell whether the shrubs and trees in my evergreen pictures are angiosperms or gymnosperms; we have no 'transportation' for text books for students! During these two years, however, I have been charmed with a thousand views of landscape scenery, embracing every form, hue, and combination of our lovely native evergreens, whether on mountain, hill, or plain. I have seen them along winding streams, with backgrounds of bold, rocky bluffs; sweeping across undulating plains; rising with the uplifting mountains; peering into and over romantic mountain gorges; and growing up through the interstices of bowldered cascades. Or, standing on the mountain peaks, I have seen them sweep away into the vastness and grandeur of mighty, varied, and almost boundless expanse. These are but parts of my evergreen pictures. I have looked upon a simple holly bush when the wind of winter was upon it, scattering in lovely fragments its pure white robe of snow, revealing the gleaming of the rich green leaves, and the half-hidden clusters of the carmine berries. Three distinct colors thrown carelessly together, but no want of harmony--only pure and exquisite beauty!

In the summer months our evergreens are greatly less noticeable. They are overshadowed and eclipsed by the rich and exuberant foliage of our common but noble forest trees; but their beauty is not, even then, lost. They give variety of hues to the forests which they fringe or help to form; variety of shapes, and always exquisite, spicy, and healthful odors. But when the autumn comes, with its infinitely varied tintings of orange and vermilion; when the frost works its wonders, and the wooded hills are clothed with splendor--then the rich groups of our native evergreens rise in their immortality of freshness. How exquisitely their bright unfading green sets off and contrasts with the rich golds, glowing scarlets, russet browns, purples, and crimsons, in all their delicate shades and evanescent hues! The forest leaves grow sere and fall from their stems, sailing down singly or in groups, like bevies of frightened birds, until the hickory, oak, maple, and elm stand uncrowned, disrobed, lifting their bare arms to the winter skies; then higher and ever higher rises, as the gloom of winter deepens, the glory of evergreen shrub and tree.

The fields are dull russet, the forests are black, each tree seems a skeleton; all nature, save the evergreen, looks dead. But our mountains of firs, our hills of pine, our groves of cedar, our thickets of holly, our cliffs crowned with laurel, full of life, and covered with unchangeable verdure, keep eternally fresh and beautiful. Then come the great white silent snowflakes, sailing round and falling gently down, alighting on trunk, branch, and leaf, and covering and draping the hills, until they are pure and fair as the hills of Beulah. There is a dreamlike beauty in an evergreen forest mantled with snow. What words could tell the purity of coloring, the gracefulness of form of the pine boughs bending under their white burden of feathery crystals? Especially is this true of the young and pliant trees in hedgerows and thickets, and such as are everywhere springing up over the waste and wornout lands of Virginia.

The old monarch pine stands out like a sculptured column of ebony against the blue sky. Its umbel top, crowned with white, makes a fitting capital for a shaft so noble. It is a picture, in and of itself. The shrubs and young trees, so rich in leaves and verdure, so pliant to the lines and curves of grace, when happily and picturesquely grouped, are almost bewilderingly beautiful. Yet perhaps that which contains in itself the greatest number of the elements of beauty, is the medium-sized pyramidal tree, be it of spruce, Norway pine, or balsam fir. It unites at once, in its pyramidal shape, the strength and majesty of the old, and in its gracefully curved limbs and abundant leaves, the beauty and freshness of the young tree. When loaded down with a spotless burden of snow until its limbs are almost ready to break, no pyramid of art, no monument chiselled by human hands, can hope to approach its pure and model beauty.

The evergreen itself, however, seems to know no season but spring. In none other does it appear to change, and even then it casts not off the old--it only puts on the new in tenderer and fresher beauty! The new growth of the spruce and fir, the pale yellowish-green tips set in the dark old background, are exquisitely lovely; nor are the light green shoots of the white, yellow, and pitch pine much, less beautiful.

Later comes the glory of the laurel bloom, the most beautiful woodflower in our climate. As the other trees put on their leaves successively, the tinting of light, dark, and yellowish green are infinitely varied and pleasing.

Nor must I pass over, in my picture of evergreen, the mosses and ferns of the mountains of Virginia. More fragile than the trees and shrubs, they cannot be considered less beautiful. Indeed, the mosses of Cheat Mountain are the most luxuriant, exquisite, delicate, and richly beautiful things in nature. No dream of fairyland could, to my imagination, be lovelier than are the evergreen heights of these mountains, covered, matted, fringed, heaped, piled as they are with the greatest variety of mosses of the most delicate texture, feathery forms, and wondrously beautiful combinations. No one who has not seen them can have any just conception of mountain mosses, nor of the marvellous luxuriance of beauty with which they clothe rock, and tree, and earth, and everything upon these lone wild slopes and summits. Over the rocks, amid the mosses, hang the long pendent ferns, in richer, darker green. And with the grand old pine and fir trees lifting their heads to the heavens, and the thick tanglewood of shrub and underbrush, there is grandeur, grace, and beauty in bewildering, changeful, and ravishing confusion.

How I have loved, in leisure hours, to turn aside from the stern duties of the field, or the dull monotony of the camp, to gallop under the great pines, or wind through pathless thickets and native parks of evergreen, feasting my very soul on their eternal freshness and glory! How I have loved to see 'Black Hawk' crush with his feet, and sink up to his fetlocks, in the tender and fairy-like mosses that drape the mountains! How I have delighted to weave the trailing evergreens into wreaths, trellises, and bowers in front of my white tent! And, alas! with hushed and solemn pride, I have planted the holly and the pine on the graves of my dead comrades, hoping they might live in all their wondrous beauty over the quiet mound, and keep green the memory of the brave forever!

DYING IN THE HOSPITAL.

I am dying, mother, dying, in the hospital alone;
With a hundred faces round me, not a single one is known;
And the human heart within me, like a fluttering, wounded dove,
Hungers with a ceaseless yearning for one answering word of love.

Oh, 'tis hard, 'tis hard, my mother, thus to linger day by day,
Dying here, without the music of the battle's fierce array;--
Dying, far from home and kindred, robbed of all life's dearest ties,
With the eager eyes out-gazing but to meet with stranger eyes.

It were sweet to fall, my mother, with the battle raging round,
And to leap from earth to heaven at a single patriot-bound;
It were sweet to feel that glory would check the tears of woe--
That o'er hearts whose griefs were deepest a gush of pride would flow.

But to lie at night, dear mother, and to list the warder's tread,
As it falls upon my heart, I seem a prisoner with the dead;
And I long to lose my sense of pain, to find a calm release,
And to sink each vain, vain longing, in a silent sea of peace.

Oh, could I see, dear mother, the dog that guards our door,
It would make each life throb at my heart beat quicker than before;
And the nursing of your own dear hands, the breath of our old hills,
Would send a flood of fresh life back through all these draining rills.

But it may not be, loved mother: I must die here, all alone;
Where, a hundred faces round me, not a single one is known;
With the human heart within me hungering, like a wounded dove,
For the soft glance of my mother, and her dear home-words of love.

Oh, the heart of man, loved mother, is as dauntless as a rock
In a time of mortal danger--in the battle's deadly shock;
But alone--alone and dying, how he craves affection's ties--
Craves a woman's strength in weakness, and the lovelight in her eyes!

Oh, the dreams, the dreams, my mother, that have vanished from my sky,
Like the misty mountain vapors that before the sunlight fly--
All the golden dreams of glory, with their rainbow tints of fame,
That would link with deeds of valor my bright, my deathless name!

Where are they now, dear mother? Like a mirage of the plain,
Like a bubble on the ocean, like a jewel on the main,
Like the sweetest flowers of autumn, when they feel the biting frost,
All those glorious aspirations--they are lost, forever lost!

Yet if I could live, my mother, I know I still should go
And help to rid our country of her fratricidal foe;
For you have taught me, long ago, that he was no true man
Who would not, in a time like this, step forward with the van.

And though I leave, my mother, no laurel crown of fame,
There is not linked with my past life a single breath of shame;
And though I ne'er shall see your face, I will no more complain,
For I know that not a sparrow falleth to the ground in vain.

But another dawn, sweet mother, is breaking o'er me now;
When to-morrow's sunlight beameth, it will find a calm, cold brow;
And another rough, rude coffin will be taken from the door:
God bless you, dearest mother, and good-by forevermore!

LITERARY NOTICES.

WEAK LUNGS, AND HOW TO MAKE THEM STRONG; or, Diseases of the
Organs of the Chest, with their Home Treatment by the Movement
Cure. By DIO LEWIS, M. D. Profusely illustrated. Ticknor &
Fields, Boston, 1863.

Diet, air, sunshine, dress, exercise, and water, are all indispensable hygienic agents, but considerable knowledge and experience are necessary for their proper adaptation to particular cases. Dr. Lewis's work is designed (to a certain degree) to impart such knowledge, and, while the general rules he gives cannot fail to be useful to all, we doubt not there are many instances of the especial malady under consideration in which the proposed mode of treatment would prove entirely efficacious. The numerous and carefully elaborated illustrations contained in the book render the application of the text simple and easy. The feature which especially pleases us is, that arrangements are made for home treatment, for, if there is anything depressing to the human spirit, it is an association of invalids. We do not mean a regular hospital, where people are suffering from acute forms of disease, and are learning and teaching the grand lessons of patience, endurance, and fortitude so necessary to humanity, but a community of individuals, able to walk about, talk to one another, and be generally engrossed with one idea, the pursuit of health. We once spent thirty days in a water-cure establishment, and can truly say that it was one of the most miserable months we ever passed. The totally physical atmosphere, the selfish, material countenances surrounding us, weighed upon our spirit until our nerves gave way, and we wondered which were on the broad road to insanity, our companions or ourselves. We examined narrowly, and found (in the generality of cases) that the angels within the bodies of those men and women had had their wings cut away until nothing remained but the senses and the limited knowledge they are capable of conveying.

Our experience may have been peculiarly unfortunate, but it has rendered us always happy to welcome a rational treatment of disease that may be pursued at home. Self-denial and activity are the two principal lessons inculcated in the work; and if we be careful to lift them from the body to the soul, we need not fear the slight tinge of materialism that seems almost inseparable from essays on bodily health. We repeat that Dr. Lewis's book abounds in excellent suggestions, essential to all, and its wide circulation will doubtless tend to the improvement of the general health of our people. Those even who, in some points, fail to agree with the author, must acknowledge the usefulness and practicability of the general ideas advanced, together with the simplicity of their application.

LIFE OF CHOPIN, by F. LISZT. Translated from the French by
MARTHA WALKER COOK. 12mo, pp. 202. Philadelphia: F. Leypoldt.
New York: F. W. Christern and James Miller. 2d Edition.

We are glad to see that this little work has already gone into its second edition. It gives evidence that, in spite of our domestic afflictions, more interest is felt in this country for art, than is generally believed to be the case, even by the most astute publishers among us. In calling the attention of our readers to this second edition of Liszt's 'Chopin,' we do not think we can do better than place before them the following extracts from a critique which appeared in the New York _Daily Tribune_ of June 11th, 1863.

'The lovers of musical art may justly be congratulated on the appearance of this extraordinary biographical study in an appropriate English dress. It is the enthusiastic tribute of a man of noble genius to a kindred spirit, whose mastership he acknowledged, and with whom he cherished a deep and tender friendship, beyond the vitiating touch of personal or artistic rivalry. The volume, indeed, affords a no less admirable illustration of the impulsive, generous, unworldly character of the author, than of the rare and wonderful gifts of its unique subject. It is the product of the heart rather than the head, and its frequent passages of childlike _naïveté_, its transparent revelations of the inmost soul of the writer, and the radiant atmosphere of spiritual beauty in which thoughts and images are melted together with a magic spell, transport it from the sphere of prose composition to that of high poetry. In spite of the trammels of words, it gives expression to the same subtle and ethereal conceptions which inspired the genius of Liszt as a musical artist. As a sketch of the life of the great composer, it possesses an interest with which few biographical works can compare; but no details of incident could imprison the soul of the author; and a fine æsthetic aroma breathes from every page, fragrant with the blossoming out of a rich, original nature, as well as with an exquisite sense of art.

'Chopin was born in Poland, near Warsaw, in the year 1810. His boyhood was marked by no events that gave promise of the greatness of his future career. He early became the victim of ill health, which was almost the perpetual torment of his after life. He grew up in simple and quiet habits, surrounded by the purest influences, conversant with bright examples of piety, modesty, and integrity, which gave to his imagination 'the velvety tenderness that characterizes the plants which have never been exposed to the dust of the beaten highways.' Commencing the study of music when he was but nine years old, he was soon after confided to a passionate disciple of Sebastian Bach, who for many years directed his studies in accordance with the prevailing classic models. Through the liberality of a distinguished patron of art, Prince Radziwill, he was placed in one of the first colleges in Warsaw, where he received a finished education in every branch of learning. The following picture, although partaking of the nature of a fancy piece, is introduced by Liszt, from the pen of one of the greatest living writers of fiction, as a just representation of the youthful artist at this period of his life.

'Gentle, sensitive, and very lovely, at fifteen years of age he
united the charms of adolescence with the gravity of a more
mature age. He was delicate both in body and in mind. Through
the want of muscular development he retained a peculiar beauty,
an exceptional physiognomy, which had, if we may venture so to
speak, neither age nor sex. It was not the bold and masculine
air of a descendant of a race of magnates, who know nothing but
drinking, hunting, and making war; neither was it the
effeminate loveliness of a cherub _couleur de rose_. It was
more like the ideal creations with which the poetry of the
Middle Ages adorned the Christian temples: a beautiful angel,
with a form pure and slight as a young god of Olympus, with a
face like that of a majestic woman filled with a divine sorrow,
and as the crown of all, an expression at the same time tender
and severe, chaste and impassioned.

'This expression revealed the depths of his being. Nothing
could be purer, more exalted than his thoughts; nothing more
tenacious, more exclusive, more intensely devoted, than his
affections.... But he could only understand that which closely
resembled himself.... Everything else only existed for him as a
kind of annoying dream which he tried to shake off while living
with the rest of the world. Always plunged in reveries,
realities displeased him. As a child, he could never touch a
sharp instrument without injuring himself with it; as a man, he
never found himself face to face with a being different from
himself without being wounded by the living contradiction....

'He was preserved from a constant antagonism by a voluntary and
almost inveterate habit of never seeing or hearing anything
which was disagreeable to him, unless it touched upon his
personal affections. The beings who did not think as he did,
were only phantoms in his eyes. As his manners were polished
and graceful, it was easy to mistake his cold disdain or
insurmountable aversion for benevolent courtesy....

'He never spent an hour in open-hearted expansiveness, without
compensating for it by a season of reserve. The moral causes
which induced such reserve were too slight, too subtle, to be
discovered by the naked eye. It was necessary to use the
microscope to read his soul, into which so little of the light
of the living ever penetrated....

'With such a character, it seems strange he should have had
friends: yet he had them, not only the friends of his mother,
who esteemed him as the noble son of a noble mother, but
friends of his own age, who loved him ardently, and who were
loved by him in return.... He had formed a high ideal of
friendship; in the age of early illusions he loved to think
that his friends and himself, brought up nearly in the same
manner, with the same principles, would never change their
opinions, and that no formal disagreement could ever occur
between them....

'He was externally so affectionate, his education had been so
finished, and he possessed so much natural grace, that he had
the gift of pleasing even where he was not personally known.
His exceeding loveliness was immediately prepossessing, the
delicacy of his constitution rendered him interesting in the
eyes of women, the full yet graceful cultivation of his mind,
the sweet and captivating originality of his conversation,
gained for him the attention of the most enlightened men. Men
less highly cultivated, liked him for his exquisite courtesy of
manner. They were so much the more pleased with this, because,
in their simplicity, they never imagined it was the graceful
fulfilment of a duty into which no real sympathy entered.

'Could such people have divined the secrets of his mystic
character, they would have said he was more amiable than
loving--and with respect to them, this would have been true.
But how could they have known that his real, though rare
attachments, were so vivid, so profound, so undying?...

'Association with him in the details of life was delightful. He
filled all the forms of friendship with an unaccustomed charm,
and when he expressed his gratitude, it was with that deep
emotion which recompenses kindness with usury. He willingly
imagined that he felt himself every day dying; he accepted the
cares of a friend, hiding from him, lest it should render him
unhappy, the little time he expected to profit by them. He
possessed great physical courage, and if he did not accept with
the heroic recklessness of youth the idea of approaching death,
at least he cherished the expectation of it with a kind of
bitter pleasure.'...

'After completing his studies in harmony with a celebrated master, he complied with the wishes of his parents, who desired that he should travel, in order that he should become familiar with the best musical productions under the advantage of their perfect execution. For this purpose he visited many of the German cities, and was absent from Warsaw on one of his excursions when the revolution broke out in the autumn of 1830. He was thus forced to remain in Vienna, and was heard there in some concerts, but failed to receive the appreciation from the artistic public of that city which he had a right to anticipate. Leaving Vienna, he repaired to Paris, which was henceforth to be the scene of his brilliant triumphs. His constitution, being frail and delicate, could not long sustain the rude shocks of life unscathed, and we accordingly find Chopin at the age of thirty with rapidly declining health; and for the next decade, his existence was only a continued succession of the alternations of disease. At last, he began to fail so rapidly that the fears of his friends assumed the shape of despair. He scarcely ever left his bed, and spoke but rarely.

'His sister, upon receiving this intelligence, came from Warsaw
to take her place at his pillow, which she left no more. He
witnessed the anguish, the presentiments, the redoubled sadness
around him, without showing what impression they made upon him.
He thought of death with Christian calm and resignation, yet he
did not cease to prepare for the morrow. From week to week and
soon from day to day, the cold shadow of death gained upon him.
His end was rapidly approaching; his sufferings became more and
more intense; his crises grew more frequent, and at each
accelerated occurrence resembled more and more a mortal agony.
He retained his presence of mind, his vivid will upon their
intermission, until the last; neither losing the precision of
his ideas, nor the clear perception of his intentions. The
wishes which he expressed in his short moments of respite,
evinced the calm solemnity with which he contemplated the
approach of death.'

'The inevitable hour came finally not without a certain strange, romantic beauty in its solemn aspects.

'The parlor adjoining the chamber of Chopin was constantly
occupied by some of his friends, who, one by one, in turn,
approached him to receive a sign of recognition, a look of
affection, when he was no longer able to address them in words.
On Sunday, the 15th of October, his attacks were more violent
and more frequent--lasting for several hours in succession. He
endured them with patience and great strength of mind. The
Countess Delphine Potocka, who was present, was much
distressed; her tears were flowing fast when he observed her
standing at the foot of his bed; tall, slight, draped in white,
resembling the beautiful angels created by the imagination of
the most devout among the painters. Without doubt, he supposed
her to be a celestial apparition; and when the crisis left him
a moment in repose, he requested her to sing; they deemed him
at first seized with delirium, but he eagerly repeated his
request. Who could have ventured to oppose his wish? The piano
was rolled from his parlor to the door of his chamber, while,
with sobs in her voice, and tears streaming down her cheeks,
his gifted countrywoman sang. Certainly, this delightful voice
had never before attained an expression so full of profound
pathos. He seemed to suffer less as he listened. She sang that
famous Canticle to the Virgin, which, it is said, once saved
the life of Siradella. 'How beautiful it is!' he exclaimed. 'My
God, how very beautiful! Again--again!' Though overwhelmed with
emotion, the Countess had the noble courage to comply with the
last wish of a friend, a compatriot; she again took a seat at
the piano, and sang a hymn from Marcello. Chopin again feeling
worse, everybody was seized with fright--by a spontaneous
impulse all who were present threw themselves upon their
knees--no one ventured to speak; the sacred silence was only
broken by the voice of the Countess, floating, like a melody
from heaven, above the sighs and sobs which formed its heavy
and mournful earth accompaniment. It was the haunted hour of
twilight; a dying light lent its mysterious shadows to this sad
scene--the sister of Chopin, prostrated near his bed, wept and
prayed--and never quitted this attitude of supplication while
the life of the brother she had so cherished lasted.

'His condition altered for the worse during the night, but he
felt more tranquil upon Monday morning, and as if he had known
in advance the appointed and propitious moment, he asked to
receive immediately the last sacraments. In the absence of the
Abbé ----, with whom he had been very intimate since their
common expatriation, he requested that the Abbé Jelowicki, one
of the most distinguished men of the Polish emigration, should
be sent for. When the holy Viaticum was administered to him, he
received it, surrounded by those who loved him, with great
devotion. He called his friends a short time afterward, one by
one, to his bedside, to give each of them his last earnest
blessing; calling down the grace of God fervently upon
themselves, their affections, and their hopes--every knee
bent--every head bowed--all eyes were heavy with tears--every
heart was sad and oppressed--every soul elevated.

'Attacks, more and more painful, returned and continued during
the day; from Monday night until Tuesday, he did not utter a
single word. He did not seem able to distinguish the persons
who were around him. About eleven o'clock on Tuesday evening he
appeared to revive a little. The Abbé Jelowicki had never left
him. Hardly had he recovered the power of speech, than he
requested him to recite with him the prayers and litanies for
the dying. He was able to accompany the Abbé in an audible and
intelligible voice. From this moment until his death, he held
his head constantly supported upon the shoulder of M. Gutman,
who, during the whole course of this sickness, had devoted his
days and nights to him.

'A convulsive sleep lasted until the 17th of October, 1849. The
final agony commenced about two o'clock; a cold sweat ran
profusely from his brow; after a short drowsiness, he assessed
in a voice scarcely audible: 'Who is near me?' Being answered;
he bent his head to kiss the hand of M. Gutman, who still
supported it--while giving this last tender proof of love and
gratitude, the soul of the artist left its fragile clay. He
died as he had lived--in loving.

'His love for flowers being well known, they were brought in
such quantities the next day, that the bed in which they had
placed them, and indeed the whole room, almost disappeared,
hidden by their varied and brilliant hues. He seemed to repose
in a garden of roses. His face regained its early beauty, its
purity of expression, its long unwonted serenity. Calmly--with
his youthful loveliness, so long dimmed by bitter suffering,
restored by death--he slept among the flowers he loved, the
last long and dreamless sleep!'

'We must not forget to thank the intelligent translator of this volume for the fidelity with which she has executed her by no means easy task. The elevated, almost aerial conceptions of Liszt, often seeming as if they disdained the bonds of language, are presented in lucid, idiomatic English, which derives a certain vital force more from warmth of sympathy with the original than from the use of any of the arts of vigorous expression.'

ROCKFORD; or, Sunshine and Storm. By Mrs. LILLIE DEVEREUX
UMSTED. Author of Southwold. Carleton, publisher, 413 Broadway,
New York.

A novel of considerable ability. The characters are well drawn, and the moral unexceptionable. The scenes occur in fashionable life; the descriptions are vivid, the conversations (in which it abounds) are easy and sparkling, and the pictures of social life varied and interesting.

GOOD THOUGHTS IN BAD TIMES, AND OTHER PAPERS. By THOMAS FULLER,
D. D. Price, $1.50. Ticknor & Fields, Boston.

Coleridge says of Fuller: 'Next to Shakespeare, I am not certain whether he, beyond all other writers, does not excite in me the sense and emotion of the marvellous.'

Thomas Fuller was born in 1608, was a chaplain in the army during the great civil war in England, and died in 1661, so that much of his fifty-four years of life was spent among no very peaceful scenes. He followed the army with a loyal heart and courageous spirit, and wrought earnestly to mitigate the violence of hostile parties. One of the wisest and wittiest divines who have ever ascended the pulpit, he has left behind him a fame second to none who have labored to elevate and make their fellow creatures better. 'Untiring humor seemed the ruling passion of his soul. With a heart open to all innocent pleasures, purged from the leaven of malice and uncharitableness, it was as natural that he should be full of mirth as it is for the grasshopper to chirp or bee to hum, or the birds to warble in the spring breeze and bright sunshine.'

His good thoughts are clothed in pure and beautiful language, are wise, quaint, genial, and witty. Being collected and matured during his marches and countermarches through the country at the time of the great civil war, we look upon their present publication as very timely and judicious, considering the disturbed state of our own suffering country.

THE GENTLEMAN. By GEORGE H. CALVERT. Ticknor & Fields. Boston.
Price, 75 cts.

A book which we hope will have a wide circulation, and exercise a beneficial influence in this country. It is no superficial essay on external matters of etiquette, or even of mere æsthetic culture: it goes to the very heart of the meaning of the abused word, Gentleman, and proves its root to be _unselfishness_. The author says: 'It is the _moral_ element which, in my conception of the gentleman, is pivotal. Dealing with the highest type, I conceive that in that type not only are morals primary, but that manners result from them; so that where there is not a solid substratum of pure, elevated feeling there cannot be a clean, high, and unaffected demeanor.' 'The true gentleman is a Christian product.

'The best of men
That e'er wore earth about him was a sufferer,
A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit,
The first true gentleman that ever breathed.''

These views are illustrated with genius and scholarship. Their dissemination among ourselves is especially important, because our ideas of what is requisite to form a gentleman are essentially vague, crude, unformed, and often false.

It is no dull book of commonplace thoughts, but a high and noble essay on an important subject, and we commend it to the attention of our readers. Let him who would look upon the reverse of the gentleman, turn to the Editor's Table of the July issue of THE CONTINENTAL, and regard the repulsive sketch of the 'Southern Colonel,' whose ideal seems to be 'Brandy Smash and Cocktails.' Alas! that such ideals too frequently occur among ourselves. Bayard and Sir Philip Sydney are valuable studies for our own young and gallant soldiers.

POINT OF HONOR. By the Author of the 'Morals of May Fair,'
'Creeds,' &c., &c. Harper & Brothers, publishers, Franklin
Square, New York.

This is no sensational tale. Its interest is not derived from intricacy of plot or mysterious developments; it presents us with admirable studies of male and female character, the traits of which are manifested in the progress of the plot. The portraits are detailed, natural, and living; the heroine feminine and lovely. The moral is good, and the 'Point of Honor' ably displayed.

SCIENCE FOR THE SCHOOL AND FAMILY. Part I. Natural Philosophy.
By WORTHINGTON HOOKER, M. D., Professor of the Theory and
Practice of Medicine in Yale College, Author of 'Human
Physiology,' 'Child's Book of Nature,' 'Natural History,' &c.,
Illustrated by nearly 300 engravings. Harper & Brothers,
publishers, Franklin Square, New York.

A valuable offering to teachers and pupils.

Professor Hooker has published a graduated series of books, carefully adapted to the different periods of the course of study; exceedingly simple for the beginner, stepping carefully from the known to the unknown, and widening their range with the increasing knowledge and mental growth of the student. The first in the graduated series is the 'Child's Book of Common Things.' Next, the 'Child's Book of Nature,' in three Parts, viz.: 'Plants,' 'Animals,' 'Air, Water, Light, Heat,'--then follow the 'First Book in Chemistry' and 'First Book in Physiology.' The next step in the gradation brings us to three books under one title: 'Science for the School and the Family;' Part I, Natural Philosophy;