Adolphe Nourrit, a noble artist, at once ascetic and passionate, was also there.  He was a sincere, almost a devout Catholic, dreaming of the future with the fervor of the Middle Ages, who, during the latter part of his life, refused the assistance of his talent to any scene of merely superficial sentiment.  He served Art with a high and enthusiastic respect; he considered it, in all its divers manifestations, only a holy tabernacle, “the Beauty of which formed the splendor of the True.”  Already undermined by a melancholy passion for the Beautiful, his brow seemed to be turning into stone under the dominion of this haunting feeling:  a feeling always explained by the outbreak of despair, too late for remedy from man—­man, alas! so eager to explore the secrets of the heart—­so dull to divine them!

Hiller, whose talent was allied to Chopin’s, and who was one of his most intimate friends, was there also.  In advance of the great compositions which he afterwards published, of which the first was his remarkable Oratorio, “The Destruction of Jerusalem,” he wrote some pieces for the Piano.  Among these, those known under the title of Etudes, (vigorous sketches of the most finished design), recall those studies of foliage, in which the landscape painter gives us an entire little poem of light and shade, with only one tree, one branch, a single “motif,” happily and boldly handled.

In the presence of the spectres which filled the air, and whose rustling might almost be heard, Eugene Delacroix remained absorbed and silent.  Was he considering what pallet, what brushes, what canvas he must use, to introduce them into visible life through his art?  Did he task himself to discover canvas woven by Arachne, brushes made from the long eyelashes of the fairies, and a pallet covered with the vaporous tints of the rainbow, in order to make such a sketch possible?  Did he then smile at these fancies, yet gladly yield to the impressions from which they sprung, because great talent is always attracted by that power in direct contrast to its own?

The aged Niemcevicz, who appeared to be the nearest to the grave among us, listened to the “Historic Songs” which Chopin translated into dramatic execution for this survivor of times long past.  Under the fingers of the Polish artist, again were heard, side by side with the descriptions, so popular, of the Polish bard, the shock of arms, the songs of conquerors, the hymns of triumph, the complaints of illustrious prisoners, and the wail over dead heroes.  They memorized together the long course of national glory, of victory, of kings, of queens, of warriors; and so much life had these phantoms, that the old man, deeming the present an illusion, believed the olden times fully resuscitated.

Dark and silent, apart from all others, fell the motionless profile of Mickiewicz:  the Dante of the North, he seemed always to find “the salt of the stranger bitter, and his steps hard to mount.”