In retiring from the turmoil of society, Chopin concentrated his cares and affections upon the circle of his own family and his early acquaintances.  Without any interruption he preserved close relations with them; never ceasing to keep them up with the greatest care.  His sister Louise was especially dear to him, a resemblance in the character of their minds, the bent of their feelings, bound them closely to each other.  Louise frequently came from Warsaw to Paris to see him.  She spent the last three months of his life with the brother she loved, watching over him with undying affection.  Chopin kept up a regular correspondence with the members of his own family, but only with them.  It was one of his peculiarities to write letters to no others; it might almost have been thought that he had made a vow to write to no strangers.  It was curious enough to see him resort to all kinds of expedients to escape the necessity of tracing the most insignificant note.  Many times he has traversed Paris from one end to the other, to decline an invitation to dinner, or to give some trivial information, rather than write a few lines which would have spared him all this trouble and loss of time.  His handwriting was quite unknown to the greatest number of his friends.  It is said he sometimes departed from this custom in favor of his beautiful countrywomen, some of whom possess several of his notes written in Polish.  This infraction of what seemed to be a law with him, may be attributed to the pleasure he took in the use of this language.  He always used it with the people of his own country, and loved to translate its most expressive phrases.  He was a good French scholar, as the Sclaves generally are.  In consequence of his French origin, the language had been taught him with peculiar care.  But he did not like it, he did not think it sufficiently sonorous, and he deemed its genius cold.  This opinion is very prevalent among the Poles, who, although speaking it with great facility, often better than their native tongue, and frequently using it in their intercourse with each other, yet complain to those who do not speak Polish of the impossibility of rendering the thousand ethereal and shifting modes of thought in any other idiom.  In their opinion it is sometimes dignity, sometimes grace, sometimes passion, which is wanting in the French language.  If they are asked the meaning of a word or a phrase which they may have cited in Polish, the reply invariably is:  “Oh, that cannot be translated!” Then follow explanations, serving as comments to the exclamation, of all the subtleties, all the shades of meaning, all the delicacies contained in the not to be translated words.  We have cited some examples which, joined to others, induce us to believe that this language has the advantage of making images of abstract nouns, and that in the course of its development, through the poetic genius of the nation, it has been enabled to establish striking