But Poland has always beckoned me like a friend—­a friend which combined all the poetry, romance, fascination, nobility, and honor of a first love.  If the Pole is proud, he has something to be proud of.  His honor has dignity.  His country’s sorrows touch the heart.  Polish literature has sentiment, her music has fire, her men of genius stand out like heroes, her women are adorable.  Balzac describes not only one but a not infrequent type when he dedicates Modeste Mignon “To a Polish Lady” in the most exquisite apostrophe which ever graced the entrance-hall to one of the noblest novels of this inimitable master.

“Daughter of an enslaved land, angel through love, witch through fancy, child by faith, aged by experience, man in brain, woman in heart, giant by hope, mother through sorrow, poet in thy dreams, to Thee belongs this book, in which thy love, thy fancy, thy experience, thy sorrow, thy hope, thy dreams, are the warp through which is shot a woof less brilliant than the poesy of thy soul, whose expression when it shines upon thy countenance is, to those who love thee, what the characters of a lost language are to scholars.”

Such a tribute as this would of itself be sufficient to turn the heart expectantly towards Poland, to say nothing of the interest her history has for the brain.  The history of Poland is one long struggle for home and country.  The Pole is a patriot by inheritance.  His patriotism, goes deeper than his love.

His country comes first in his soul, and for that reason the Poles have in me an enthusiastic ally, an ardent admirer, and a sympathetic friend.

In speaking of the story of Poland with a cold-blooded reader of history I expressed my appreciation of the noble proportions of their struggles and my sympathy for their present unfortunate plight, to which she replied:  “Yes, but it is so entirely their own fault.  They are so fiery, so precipitate, so romantic.  They got themselves into it!  Their poesy and romance and folly make them charming as individuals, but ridiculous as a nation.  I like the Poles, but I have no patience with Poland.”  How exactly the world’s verdict on the artistic temperament!  There is a round hole, and, lo and behold! all squares must be forced into it!

Suppose that everything resolved itself into the commonplace; where would be your imagination, your fancy, your rich experience of the heart and soul?  Poland furnishes just this element in history.  Her struggles are so romantic, her follies so charmingly natural to a high-strung nation, her despair so profound, her frequent revolutions so buoyant in hope, that she reminds me of a brilliant woman striving to make dull women understand her, and failing as persistently and completely as the artistic temperament always fails.

A frog spat at a glowworm.  “Why do you spit at me?” said the glowworm.  “Why do you shine so?” said the frog.