blication at his Grazyna and
Wallenrod, that he could triumph over the difficulties that classic
restrictions oppose to inspiration, and that, when holding the classic
lyre of the ancient poets, he was still master. In making analogous
attempts, we do not think Chopin has been equally successful. He could
not retain, within the square of an angular and rigid mould, that
floating and indeterminate contour which so fascinates us in his
graceful conceptions. He could not introduce in its unyielding lines
that shadowy and sketchy indecision, which, disguising the skeleton, the
whole frame-work of form, drapes it in the mist of floating vapors, such
as surround the white-bosomed maids of Ossian, when they permit
mortals to catch some vague, yet lovely outline, from their home in the
changing, drifting, blinding clouds.

Some of these efforts, however, are resplendent with a rare dignity of
style; and passages of exceeding interest, of surprising grandeur, may
be found among them. As an example of this, we cite the Adagio of the
Second Concerto, for which he evinced a decided preference, and which
he liked to repeat frequently. The accessory designs are in his best
manner, while the principal phrase is of an admirable breadth. It
alternates with a Recitative, which assumes a minor key, and which seems
to be its Antistrophe. The whole of this piece is of a perfection
almost ideal; its expression, now radiant with light, now full of
tender pathos. It seems as if one had chosen a happy vale of Tempe,
a magnificent landscape flooded with summer glow and lustre, as a
background for the rehearsal of some dire scene of mortal anguish. A
bitter and irreparable regret seizes the wildly-throbbing human heart,
even in the midst of the incomparable splendor of external nature. This
contrast is sustained by a fusion of tones, a softening of gloomy hues,
which prevent the intrusion of aught rude or brusque that might awaken
a dissonance in the touching impression produced, which, while saddening
joy, soothes and softens the bitterness of sorrow.

It would be impossible to pass in silence the Funeral March inserted in
the first Sonata, which was arranged for the orchestra, and performed,
for the first time, at his own obsequies. What other accents could have
been found capable of expressing, with the same heart-breaking effect,
the emotions, the tears, which should accompany to the last long sleep,
one who had taught in a manner so sublime