prism; spheres, like the Mexican opal, whose kaleidoscopical foci are dimmed by olive-colored mists veiling and unveiling the inner glories; spheres, in which all is magical and supernatural, reminding us of the marvellous worlds of realized dreams.  In such spheres Chopin delighted.  He once remarked to a friend, an artist who has since been frequently heard:  “I am not suited for concert giving; the public intimidate me; their looks, only stimulated by curiosity, paralyze me; their strange faces oppress me; their breath stifles me:  but you—­you are destined for it, for when you do not gain your public, you have the force to assault, to overwhelm, to control, to compel them.”

Conscious of how much was necessary for the comprehension of his peculiar talent, he played but rarely in public.  With the exception of some concerts given at his debut in 1831, in Vienna and Munich, he gave no more, except in Paris, being indeed not able to travel on account of his health, which was so precarious, that during entire months, he would appear to be in an almost dying state.  During the only excursion which he made with a hope that the mildness of a Southern climate would be more conducive to his health, his condition was frequently so alarming, that more than once the hotel keepers demanded payment for the bed and mattress he occupied, in order to have them burned, deeming him already arrived at that stage of consumption in which it becomes so highly contagious We believe, however, if we may be permitted to say it, that his concerts were less fatiguing to his physical constitution, than to his artistic susceptibility.  We think that his voluntary abnegation of popular applause veiled an internal wound.  He was perfectly aware of his own superiority; perhaps it did not receive sufficient reverberation and echo from without to give him the tranquil assurance that he was perfectly appreciated.  No doubt, in the absence of popular acclamation, he asked himself how far a chosen audience, through the enthusiasm of its applause, was able to replace the great public which he relinquished.  Few understood him:—­did those few indeed understand him aright?  A gnawing feeling of discontent, of which he himself scarcely comprehended the cause, secretly undermined him.  We have seen him almost shocked by eulogy.  The praise to which he was justly entitled not reaching him en masse, he looked upon isolated commendation as almost wounding.  That he felt himself not only slightly, but badly applauded, was sufficiently evident by the polished phrases with which, like troublesome dust, he shook such praises off, making it quite evident that he preferred to be left undisturbed in the enjoyment of his solitary feelings to injudicious commendation.