CHAPTER XIII.

Death of Mr. Calhoun-Funeral Honors-His Family-Personal Ap pearance-Character-Habits in Private Life-Mental PowersStyle as a Speaker and Writer-Work on Government-Manner as an Orator-Course as a Statesman-Popularity-Memory.

FAITHFUL to his duty unto the end, Death found Mr. Calhoun at his post. Feeble though he was in body, to the very close of his earthly pilgrimage he was sustained by the wonderful energy and power of an intellect that never knew what it was to be dependent. Like Chatham, wrapped up in flannels, he occasionally crawled to the Senate chamber to take his friends by the hand, and to encourage them to stand firmly by the rights of the South; and on the 13th of March, his voice was heard for the last time in debate, no longer clear as a trumpet, but often giving way with the failure of the powers of utterance-quivering from weakness and husky with emotion, yet still indicating the unconquerable will and determination of his character. It was the triumph of mind over matter,-of the immortal. spirit over the frail body that contained it!

The last words of Mr. Calhoun in the Senate were uttered on this occasion, in defence of his proposition for the amendment of the Constitution, which had been assailed by several senators in the course of the dis

cussion. The scene was an exciting one; he was nearly overcome, and returned to his private room only to die. The slavery question was the engrossing subject that occupied his mind. He wished to see the Union preserved, but he feared that the slaveholding states would be driven to secede. His friends were not interdicted from visiting him, and he conversed with them freely until it was evident that his powers were fast giving way, and that his ever-active mind was wearing out the body. At intervals he employed himself in writing, or in looking over his papers: this taxed his strength less than conversation, yet intense and earnest thought, like the vampire, was constantly draining the life-blood from his heart.

His son, John B. Calhoun, who is a physician, was with him for several weeks previous to his death, and other friends almost equalled his filial devotion in their kind attentions. On the 30th of March, it could no longer be doubted that the hours of the great statesman would soon be numbered. In the morning he was restless and much weaker than he had ever before been. He sat up, however, for a couple of hours during the day; and toward evening, the stimulants which had been employed to protract his life seemed to have regained their power, and he conversed with apparent ease and freedom, mainly upon the absorbing topic, the slavery question. About half-past twelve, that night, he commenced breathing very heavily-so much so as to alarm his son. The latter inquired how he felt; he replied that he was unusually wakeful, but desired his son to lie down. His pulse was then very low, and he said he was sinking; but he refused to take any more

stimulants. The son lay down, but in a little more than an hour was aroused, by his father calling in a feeble voice, "John, come to me!" His respiration now denoted great physical weakness, though it did not appear to be difficult. When his son approached him,

he held out his arm, and remarked that there was no pulsation at the wrist.

He then directed his son to take his watch and papers and put them in his trunk, after which he said that the medicine given to restore him had had a delightful effect and produced an agreeable perspiration. In reply to an inquiry as to how he had rested, he stated that he had not rested at all; but he assured his son that he felt no pain, and had felt none during the whole attack. A little after five o'clock on the morning of the 31st, his son asked him if he was comfortable. "I am perfectly comfortable," he replied. These were his last words.

Shortly before six o'clock, he made a sign to his son to approach the bed. Extending his hand, he grasped that of his son, looked him intently in the face, and moved his lips, but was unable to articulate. Other friends were now called in, and a fruitless effort was made to revive him. Meanwhile he was perfectly conscious, and his eyes retained their brightness, and his countenance its natural expression. But the golden cord was about to be severed-and in a few moments he drew a deep inspiration, his eyes closed, and his spirit passed, "like the anthem of a breeze, away."

The death of Mr. Calhoun was announced in the Senate, in a most impressive manner, by his friend and colleague, Judge Butler, on the first of April. Eloquent

and feeling addresses were also made by Henry Clay and Daniel Webster, the great rivals of the deceased in talents and in fame. Appropriate funeral honors were, of course, paid to his memory by the assembled representatives of the states. The sad event was not altogether unexpected; and it elicited, at Washington not only, but in every town throughout the wide Union, a general and sincere expression of regret. Forms and ceremonies may be but idle show, yet this was the genuine homage paid to departed worth.

On the 2d day of April, the funeral ceremonies were held, and the remains of Mr. Calhoun were then conveyed to Charleston, accompanied by a committee of the Senate. They found a whole people in tears. South Carolina truly mourned her loss; and the citizens of her metropolis, with all the outward manifestations of mourning-a funeral procession, halls and balconies draperied in crape, the tolling of bells, muffled drums and plaintive music, drooping plumes and shrouded banners-received all that was left of him who had constituted the chief glory of his native state, and whose greatness, like the giant pine of her virgin forests, towered far heavenward.

The body of Mr. Calhoun was temporarily deposited in a vault in the cemetery of St. Philip's Church, Charleston, there to await the action of the Legislature -the family consenting, at the request of the governor, that the state should take charge of the remains of her favorite son. They are to be removed to Columbia, the seat of government of the state, where a monument is to be erected to his memory-and thus the legislators of South Carolina be constantly reminded of the virtues,

and the manly dignity and character, of her distinguished statesman.

Mr. Calhoun was married in early life to a cousin by the name of Caldwell, who survived him. She has ever been remarked for the quiet grace and ease of her manners, her unassuming deportment, and the mingled simplicity and dignity of her character; and in the private circles of Washington, once adorned by her presence, but to which she may never again return, she is still remembered with affection and regret. They had three sons: Andrew P. Calhoun, a planter; Patrick, an officer in the army; and John B., a physician. They had several daughters, also, one of whom married Thomas G. Clemson, of Pennsylvania, late chargé d'affaires to Belgium.

No one ever saw Mr. Calhoun for the first time without being forcibly impressed with the conviction of his mental superiority. There was that in his air and in his appearance which carried with it the assurance that he was no common man. He had not Hy. perion's curls, nor the front of Jove. Miss Martineau termed him, in her Travels in America, the cast-iron man, "who looked as if he had never been born." In person he was tall and slender, and his frame appeared gradually to become more and more attenuated till he died. His features were harsh and angular in their outlines, presenting a combination of the Greek and the Roman. A serene and almost stony calm was habitual to them when in repose, but when enlivened in conversation or debate, their play was remarkable— the lights were brought out into bolder relief, and the shadows thrown into deeper shade.