course, every thing beyond the circle
of its own nationality remaining alien to it, can we hope to obtain
an exact picture of the past; for it alone, like a faithful mirror,
reflects it in its primal coloring, preserves its proper lights and
shades, and gives it with its varied and picturesque accompaniments.
From such minds alone can we obtain, with the ritual of customs which
are rapidly becoming extinct, the spirit from which they emanated.
Chopin was born too late, and left the domestic hearth too early, to be
himself in possession of this spirit; but he had known many examples of
it, and, through the memories which surrounded his childhood, even more
fully than through the literature and history of his country, he found
by induction the secrets of its ancient prestige, which he evoked from
the dim and dark land of forgetfulness, and, through the magic of his
poetic art, endowed with immortal youth. Poets are better comprehended
and appreciated by those who have made themselves familiar with the
countries which inspired their songs. Pindar is more fully understood by
those who have seen the Parthenon bathed in the radiance of its limpid
atmosphere; Ossian, by those familiar with the mountains of Scotland,
with their heavy veils and long wreaths of mist. The feelings which
inspired the creations of Chopin can only be fully appreciated by those
who have visited his country. They must have seen the giant shadows
of past centuries gradually increasing, and veiling the ground as the
gloomy night of despair rolled on; they must have felt the electric and
mystic influence of that strange "phantom of glory" forever haunting
martyred Poland. Even in the gayest hours of festival, it appalls and
saddens all hearts. Whenever a tale of past renown, a commemoration of
slaughtered heroes is given, an allusion to national prowess is made,
its resurrection from the grave is instantaneous; it takes its place
in the banquet-hall, spreading an electric terror mingled with intense
admiration; a shudder, wild and mystic as that which seizes upon the
peasants of Ukraine, when the "Beautiful Virgin," white as Death, with
her girdle of crimson, is suddenly seen gliding through their tranquil
village, while her shadowy hand marks with blood the door of each
cottage doomed to destruction.

During many centuries, the civilization of Poland was entirely peculiar
and aboriginal; it did not resemble that of any other country; and,
indeed, it seem