His playing was so rare, so peculiarly delicate, that no one in Paris could approach him in his chosen style. One critic called him "the piano god," another, "Velvet Fingers"; and when his compositions were printed, and the people could play them for themselves, they were nigh transported by his genius. London vainly besought him to take up his residence there, but he steadily refused, remaining for the rest of his days in Paris, the pride of the Parisians and the idol of the many Poles who, like himself, were exiled from their native land. When the end came, and the "velvet fingers" were stilled at last, he was buried from the Church of the Madeleine. Crowds of distinguished persons and homeless Poles attended the sacred service, and the procession was numbered by hundreds, that, to the strains of his own "Funeral March," followed Frédéric Chopin to the tomb. Finally, when his body was lovingly laid in the place prepared for it, one of his countrymen brought forth the silver goblet which for nineteen years the composer had fondly cherished, and, as the sweetest benediction he could offer, reverently took a handful of Polish earth and sprinkled it upon the body of Frédéric of Warsaw. FOOTNOTE: [4] Chopin (pronounced _Sho-pang_). End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Boys Who Became Famous Men, by Harriet Pearl Skinner