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 a contagious plague; conflagrations which wrap whole cities in their glittering flames; fathomless abysses which open at our feet;—­remove us less sensibly from all the fleeting attachments “which pass, which can be broken, which cease,” than the prolonged view of a soul conscious of its own position, silently contemplating the multiform aspects of time and the mute door of eternity!  The courage, the resignation, the elevation, the emotion, which reconcile it with that inevitable dissolution so repugnant to all our instincts, certainly impress the bystanders more profoundly than the most frightful catastrophes, which, in the confusion they create, rob the scene of its still anguish, its solemn meditation.

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 Stradella.  “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 sung 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.