is indeed more mellifluous, more lingering, more caressing, fuller of sighs than the Polish.  Its cadencing is peculiarly fitted for song.  The finer poems, such as those of Zukowski and Pouchkin, seem to contain a melody already designated in the metre of the verses; for example, it would appear quite possible to detach an arioso or a sweet CANTIABLE from some of the stanzas of Le CHALE NOIR, or the Talisman.  The ancient Sclavonic, which is the language of the Eastern Church, possesses great majesty.  More guttural than the idioms which have arisen from it, it is severe and monotonous yet of great dignity, like the Byzantine paintings preserved in the worship to which it is consecrated.  It has throughout the characteristics of a sacred language which has only been used for the expression of one feeling and has never been modulated or fashioned by profane wants.]

Chopin mingled a charming grace with all the intercourse which he held with his relatives.  Not satisfied with limiting his whole correspondence to them alone, he profited by his stay in Paris to procure for them the thousand agreeable surprises given by the novelties, the bagatelles, the little gifts which charm through their beauty, or attract as being the first seen of their kind.  He sought for all that he had reason to believe would please his friends in Warsaw, adding constant presents to his many letters.  It was his wish that his gifts should be preserved, that through the memories linked with them he might be often remembered by those to whom they were sent.  He attached the greatest importance, on his side, to all the evidences of their affection for him.  To receive news or some mark of their remembrance, was always a festival for him.  He never shared this pleasure with any one, but it was plainly visible in his conduct.  He took the greatest care of every thing that came from his distant friends, the least of their gifts was precious to him, he never allowed others to make use of them, indeed he was visibly uneasy if they touched them.

Material elegance was as natural to him as mental; this was evinced in the objects with which he surrounded himself, as well as in the aristocratic grace of his manners.  He was passionately fond of flowers.  Without aiming at the brilliant luxury with which, at that epoch, some of the celebrities in Paris decorated their apartments, he knew how to keep upon this point, as well as in his style of dress, the instinctive line of perfect propriety.

Not wishing the course of his life, his thoughts, his time, to be associated or shackled in any way by the pursuits of others, he preferred the society of ladies, as less apt to force him into subsequent relations.  He willingly spent whole evenings in playing blind man’s buff with the young people, telling them little stories to make them break into the silvery laughs of youth, sweeter than the song of the nightingale.  He was fond of a life in the country, or the life of the chateau.  He was ingenious in varying its amusements, in multiplying its enjoyments.  He also loved to compose there.  Many of his best works written in such moments, perhaps embalm and hallow the memories of his happiest days.