with a sweetness marked by the simplicity of manners of an agricultural people.  Foreigners have distorted this character of the polonaises; the natives themselves preserve it less in our day in consequence of the frequent employment of motives drawn from modern operas.  As to the dance itself, the polonaise has become in our day a kind of promenade which has little charm for the young, and is but a scene of etiquette for those of a riper age.  Our fathers danced it with a marvellous ability and a gravity full of nobleness; the dancer, making gliding steps with energy, but without skips, and caressing his moustache, varied his movements by the position of his sabre, of his cap, and of his tucked-up coat-sleeves, distinctive signs of a free man and warlike citizen.  Whoever has seen a Pole of the old school dance the polonaise in the national costume will confess without hesitation that this dance is the triumph of a well- made man, with a noble and proud tournure, and with an air at once manly and gay.

After this Brodzinski goes on to describe the way in which the polonaise used to be danced.  But instead of his description I shall quote a not less true and more picturesque one from the last canto of Mickiewicz’s “Pan Tadeusz":—­

It is time to dance the polonaise.  The President comes forward; he lightly throws back the fausses manches of his overcoat, caresses his moustache, presents his hand to Sophia:  and, by a respectful salute, invites her for the first couple.  Behind them range themselves the other dancers, two and two; the signal is given, the dance is begun, the President directs it.

His red boots move over the green sward, his belt sends forth flashes of light; he proceeds slowly, as if at random:  but in every one of his steps, in every one of his movements, one can read the feelings and the thoughts of the dancer.  He stops as if to question his partner; he leans towards her, wishes to speak to her in an undertone.  The lady turns away, does not listen, blushes.  He takes off his cap, and salutes her respectfully.  The lady is not disinclined to look at him, but persists in being silent.  He slackens his pace, seeks to read in her eyes, and smiles.  Happy in her mute answer, he walks more quickly, looking proudly at his rivals; now he draws his cap with the heron-feathers forward, now he pushes it back.  At last he puts it on one side and turns up his moustaches.  He withdraws; all envy him, all follow his footsteps.  He would like to disappear with his lady.  Sometimes he stops, raises politely his hand, and begs the dancers to pass by him.  Sometimes he tries to slip dexterously away, changing the direction.  He would like to deceive his companions; but the troublesome individuals follow him with a nimble step, entwine him with more and more tightened loops.  He becomes angry; lays his right hand on his sword as if he wished to say:  “Woe to the jealous!” He turns, pride on his countenance, a challenge in