ust be ranked among the first musicians thus individualizing in
themselves the poetic sense of an entire nation, not because he adopted
the rhythm of POLONAISES, MAZOURKAS, and CRACOVIENNES, and called
many of his works by such names, for in so doing he would have limited
himself to the multiplication of such works alone, and would always
have given us the same mode, the remembrance of the same thing; a
reproduction which would soon have grown wearisome, serving but to
multiply compositions of similar form, which must have soon grown
more or less monotonous. It is because he filled these forms with the
feelings peculiar to his country, because the expression of the national
heart may be found under all the modes in which he has written, that he
is entitled to be considered a poet essentially Polish. His PRELUDES,
his NOCTURNES, his SCHERZOS, his CONCERTOS, his shortest as well as
his longest compositions, are all filled with the national sensibility,
expressed indeed in different degrees, modified and varied in a thousand
ways, but always bearing the same character. An eminently subjective
author, Chopin has given the same life to all his productions, animated
all his works with his own spirit. All his writings are thus linked by
a marked unity. Their beauties as well as their defects may be traced
to the same order of emotions, to peculiar modes of feeling. The
reproduction of the feelings of his people, idealized and elevated
through his own subjective genius, is an essential requisite for the
national poet who desires that the heart of his country should vibrate
in unison with his own strains.

By the analogies of words and images, we should like to render it
possible for our readers to comprehend the exquisite yet irritable
sensibility peculiar to ardent yet susceptible hearts, to haughty yet
deeply wounded souls. We cannot flatter ourselves that in the cold realm
of words we have been able to give any idea of such ethereal odorous
flames. In comparison with the vivid and delicious excitement produced
by other arts, words always appear poor, cold, and arid, so that the
assertion seems just: "that of all modes of expressing sentiments, words
are the most insufficient." We cannot flatter ourselves with having
attained in our descriptions the exceeding delicacy of touch, necessary
to sketch that which Chopin has painted with hues so ethereal. All is
subtle in his compositions, even the source of excitement, of passion;