--man, alas! so eager to explore the secrets of the
heart--so dull to divine them!

Hiller, whose talent was allied to Chopin's, and who was one of his most
intimate friends, was there also. In advance of the great compositions
which he afterwards published, of which the first was his remarkable
Oratorio, "The Destruction of Jerusalem," he wrote some pieces for the
Piano. Among these, those known under the title of Etudes, (vigorous
sketches of the most finished design), recall those studies of foliage,
in which the landscape painter gives us an entire little poem of light
and shade, with only one tree, one branch, a single "motif," happily and
boldly handled.

In the presence of the spectres which filled the air, and whose rustling
might almost be heard, Eugene Delacroix remained absorbed and silent.
Was he considering what pallet, what brushes, what canvas he must use,
to introduce them into visible life through his art? Did he task
himself to discover canvas woven by Arachne, brushes made from the long
eyelashes of the fairies, and a pallet covered with the vaporous tints
of the rainbow, in order to make such a sketch possible? Did he then
smile at these fancies, yet gladly yield to the impressions from which
they sprung, because great talent is always attracted by that power in
direct contrast to its own?

The aged Niemcevicz, who appeared to be the nearest to the grave among
us, listened to the "Historic Songs" which Chopin translated into
dramatic execution for this survivor of times long past. Under the
fingers of the Polish artist, again were heard, side by side with the
descriptions, so popular, of the Polish bard, the shock of arms, the
songs of conquerors, the hymns of triumph, the complaints of illustrious
prisoners, and the wail over dead heroes. They memorized together the
long course of national glory, of victory, of kings, of queens, of
warriors; and so much life had these phantoms, that the old man, deeming
the present an illusion, believed the olden times fully resuscitated.

Dark and silent, apart from all others, fell the motionless profile of
Mickiewicz: the Dante of the North, he seemed always to find "the salt
of the stranger bitter, and his steps hard to mount."

Buried in a fauteuil, with her arms resting upon a table, sat Madame
Sand, curiously attentive, gracefully subdued. Endowed with that rare
faculty only given to a few elect, of recognizing the Beautiful under
whatever form of nature