as still neither sign nor sound of horses. Dr.
Jarocki comforted himself with meat and drink, but Chopin began to look
uneasily about him for something to while away the weariness of waiting.
His search was not in vain, for in an adjoining room he discovered an
old piano of unpromising appearance, which, on being opened and tried,
not only turned out to be better than it looked, but even in tune. Of
course our artist did not bethink himself long, but sat down at once,
and launched out into an improvisation on a Polish air. One of his
fellow-passengers, a German, and an inveterate smoker, attracted by the
music, stepped in, and was soon so wrapped up in it that he forgot even
his pipe. The other passengers, the postmaster, his buxom wife, and
their pretty daughters, came dropping in, one after the other. But when
this peaceful conventicle had for some time been listening silently,
devoutly, and admiringly, lo, they were startled by a stentorian voice
bawling into the room the words:--"Gentlemen, the horses are put in."
The postmaster, who was indignant at this untimely interruption, begged
the musician to continue. But Chopin said that they had already
waited too long, it was time to depart. Upon this there was a general
commotion; the mistress of the house solicited and cajoled, the young
ladies bashfully entreated with their eyes, and all pressed around the
artist and supported the request, the postmaster even offering extra
horses if Chopin would go on with his playing. Who could resist? Chopin
sat down again, and resumed his fantasia. When he had ended, a servant
brought in wine, the postmaster proposed as a toast "the favourite of
Polyhymnia," and one of the audience, an old musician, gave voice to his
feelings by telling the hero that, "if Mozart had heard you, he would
have shaken hands with you and exclaimed 'Bravo!' An insignificant
man like me dare not do that." After Chopin had played a mazurka as a
wind-up, the tall postmaster took him in his arms, carried him to the
coach--the pockets of which the ladies had already filled with wine and
eatables--and, bidding him farewell, said that as long as he lived he
would think with enthusiasm of Frederick Chopin.

We can have no difficulty in believing the statement that in after-life
our artist recalled with pleasure this incident at the post-house of
Zullichau, and that his success among these unsophisticated people was
dearer to him than many a more brilliant one in