"Once when I was at Frankfort, Clara Schumann sent me this word: 'Hasten.' I left all my affairs, and came to watch for many months beside this beloved one. It was not a wild delirium which had taken possession of him; the only fit of that kind was that in which he tried to drown himself in the Rhine,--at the time when the papers got hold of the terrible secret. His insanity was manifested in his conviction that he was occupied by the souls of Beethoven and Schubert. Much in the manner of your American mediums, he would be seized by a controlling power,--would snatch a pencil, and dash out upon paper the wildest discords. These we would play for him, at his request, from morning till night,--during much of which time he would seem to be in a happy trance. Of this music no chord or melody was true; they were jangling memories of his earlier works. "One day he called his wife and myself, and took our hands in his own:--'Beethoven says that my earthly music is over; it cannot be understood here; he writes for angels, and I shall write for them.' Then, turning to me, he said,--'Louis, my friend, farewell! This is my last prayer for you,'--handing me the paper which I have shown you; 'and now leave us, to come again and kiss me when I am cold.' "Then I left him alone with his Clara. "A month from that time, Schumann was no more." * * * * * Out under the glowing sunset, I clasped hands parting with Louis Boehner, and said, as my voice would let me.--"Take this paper, and when you would have a friend, such as you have been to Robert Schumann, come and help me to be that friend." * * * * * THE FREEDMEN AT PORT ROYAL.