“There are different crowns,” says Goethe, “there are some which may be readily gathered during a walk.”  Such crowns charm for the moment through their balmy freshness, but who would think of comparing them with those so laboriously gained by Chopin by constant and exemplary effort, by an earnest love of art, and by his own mournful experience of the emotions which he has so truthfully depicted?

As he sought not with a mean avidity those crowns so easily won, of which more than one among ourselves has the modesty to be proud; as he was a pure, generous, good and compassionate man, filled with a single sentiment, and that one of the most noble of feelings, the love of country; as he moved among us like a spirit consecrated by all that Poland possesses of poetry; let us approach his sacred grave with due reverence!  Let us adorn it with no artificial wreaths!  Let us cast upon it no trivial crowns!  Let us nobly elevate our thoughts before this consecrated shroud!  Let us learn from him to repulse all but the highest ambition, let us try to concentrate our labor upon efforts which will leave more lasting effects than the vain leading of the fashions of the passing hour.  Let us renounce the corrupt spirit of the times in which we live, with all that is not worthy of art, all that will not endure, all that does not contain in itself some spark of that eternal and immaterial beauty, which it is the task of art to reveal and unveil as the condition of its own glory!  Let us remember the ancient prayer of the Dorians whose simple formula is so full of pious poetry, asking only of their gods:  “To give them the Good, in return for the Beautiful!” In place of laboring so constantly to attract auditors, and striving to please them at whatever sacrifice, let us rather aim, like Chopin, to leave a celestial and immortal echo of what we have felt, loved, and suffered!  Let us learn, from his revered memory, to demand from ourselves works which will entitle us to some true rank in the sacred city of art!  Let us not exact from the present with out regard to the future, those light and vain wreath which are scarcely woven before they are faded and forgotten!...

In place of such crowns, the most glorious palms which it is possible for an artist to receive during his lifetime, have been placed in the hands of Chopin by illustrious equals.  An enthusiastic admiration was given him by a public still more limited than the musical aristocracy which frequented his concerts.  This public was formed of the most distinguished names of men, who bowed before him as the kings of different empires bend before a monarch whom they have assembled to honor.  Such men rendered to him, individually, due homage.  How could it have been otherwise in France, where the hospitality, so truly national, discerns with such perfect taste the rank and claims of the guests?