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[from Roundabout papers; The four Georges; The English humourists;
to which is added The second funeral of Napoleon.,
London: Smith, Elder and Co., 15, Waterloo Place.]
SHALL I tell you, my dear, that when François woke me
at a very early hour on this eventful morning, while the
keen stars were still glittering overhead, a half-moon, as
sharp as a razor, beaming in the frosty sky, and a wicked
north wind blowing, that blew the blood out of one's fingers
and froze your leg as you put it out of bed; -- shall I tell
you, my dear, that when François called me, and said,
"V'là vot' café, Monsieur Titemasse,
buvez-le, tiens, il est tout chaud," I felt myself, after
imbibing the hot breakfast, so comfortable under three
blankets and a mackintosh, that for at least a
quarter-of- Besides, my dear, the cold, there was another
reason for doubting. Did the French nation, or did they not,
intend to offer up some of us English over the imperial
grave? And were the games to be concluded by a massacre? It
was said in the newspapers that Lord Granville had
despatched circulars to all the English resident in Paris,
begging them to keep their homes. The French journals
announced this news, and warned us charitably of the fate
intended for us. Had Lord Granville written? Certainly not
to me. Or had he written to all except me? And was
I the victim -- the doomed one? -- to be seized
directly I showed my face in the Champs Elysées, and
torn in pieces by French Patriotism to the frantic chorus of
the "Marseillaise?" Depend on, it, Madam, that high and low
in this city on Tuesday were not altogether at their ease,
and that the bravest felt no small tremor! And be sure of
this, that as his Majesty Louis Philippe took his night-cap
off his royal head that morning, he prayed heartily that be
might, at night, put it on in safety.
Well, as my companion and I came out of
doors, being bound for the Church of the Invalides, for
which a Deputy had kindly furnished us with tickets, we saw
the very prettiest sight of the whole day, and I can't
refrain from mentioning it to my dear, tender-hearted Miss
Smith.
In the same house where I live (but about
five storeys nearer the ground), lodges an English family,
consisting of -- 1. A great-grandmother, a hale, handsome
old lady of seventy, the very best-dressed and neatest old
lady in Paris. 2. A grandfather and grandmother, tolerably
young to bear that title. 3. A daughter. And 4. Two little
great-grand, or grand-children, that may be of the age of
three and one, and belong to a son and daughter who are in
India. The grandfather, who is as proud of his wife as he
was thirty years ago, when he married, and pays her
compliments still twice or thrice in a day, and when he
leads her into a room looks round at the persons assembled,
and says in his heart, "Here, gentlemen, here is my wife --
show me such another woman in England," -- this gentleman
had hired a room on the Champs Elysées, for he would
not have his wife catch cold by exposing her to the
balconies in the open air.
When I came to the street, I found the family
assembled in the following order of march: --
"My dear," his face seemed to say to his
lady, "I think you might have left the little things in the
nursery, for we shall have to squeeze through a terrible
crowd in the Champs Elysées."
The lady was going out for a days pleasure,
and her face was full of care: she had to look first after
her old mother who was walking ahead, then after No. 4
junior with the nurse -- he might fall into all sorts of
danger, wake up, cry, catch cold; nurse might slip down, or
heaven knows what. Then she had to look her husband in the
face, who had gone to such expense and been so kind for her
sake, and make that gentleman believe she was thoroughly
happy; and, finally, she had to keep an eye upon No. 4
senior, who, as she was perfectly certain, was about in two
minutes to be lost for ever, or trampled to pieces in the
crowd.
These events took place in a quiet little
street leading into the Champs Elysées, the entry of
which we had almost reached by this time. The four
detachments above described, which had been straggling a
little in their passage down the street, closed up, at the
end of it, and stood for a moment huddled together. No. 3,
Miss X---, began speaking to her companion the
great-grandmother.
"Hush, my dear," said that old lady, looking
round alarmed at her daughter. "Speak French." And
she straightway began nervously to make a speech which she
supposed to be in that language, but which was as much like
French as Iroquois. The whole secret was out: you could read
it in the grandmother's face, who was doing all she could to
keep from crying, and looked as frightened as she dared to
look. The two elder ladies had settled between them that
there was going to be a general English slaughter that day,
and had brought the children with them, so that they might
all be murdered in company.
God bless you, O women, moist-eyed and
tender-hearted! In those gentle silly tears of yours there
is something touches one, be they never so foolish. I don't
think there were many such natural drops shed that day as
those which just made their appearance in the grandmother's
eyes, and then went back again as if they had been ashamed
of themselves, while the good lady and her little troop
walked across the road. Think how happy she will be when
night comes, and there has been no murder of English, and
the brood is all nestled under her wings sound asleep, and
she is lying awake thanking God that the day and its
pleasures and pains are over. Whilst we were considering
these things, the grandfather had suddenly elevated No. 4
senior upon his left shoulder, and I saw the tartan hat of
that young gentleman, and the bamboo-cane which had been
transferred to him, high over the heads of the crowd on the
opposite side through which the party moved.
After this little procession had passed away
-- you may laugh at it, but upon my word and conscience,
Miss Smith, I saw nothing in the course of the day which
affected me more - -after this little procession had passed
away, the other came, accompanied by gun-banging,
flag-waving, incense-burning, trumpets pealing, drums
rolling, and at the close, received by the voice of six
hundred choristers, sweetly modulated to the tones of
fifteen score of fiddlers. Then you saw horse and foot,
jack-boots and bearskin, cuirass and bayonet, national guard
and line, marshals and generals all over gold, smart
aides-de-camp galloping about like mad, and high in the
midst of all, riding on his golden buckler, Solomon in all
his glory, forsooth -- Imperial Cæsar, with his crown
over his head, laurels and standards waving about his
gorgeous chariot, and a million of people looking on in
wonder and awe.
His Majesty the Emperor and King reclined on
his shield, with his head a little elevated. His Majesty's
skull is voluminous, his forehead broad and large. We
remarked that his Imperial Majesty's brow was of a yellowish
colour, which appearance was also visible about the orbits
of the eyes. He kept his eyelids constantly closed, by which
we had the opportunity of observing that the upper lids were
garnished with eyelashes. Years and climate have effected
upon the face of this great monarch only a trifling
alteration; we may say, indeed, that Time has touched his
Imperial and Royal Majesty with the lightest feather in his
wing. In the nose of the Conqueror of Austerlitz we remarked
very little alteration: it is of the beautiful shape which
we remember it possessed five-and-twenty years since, ere
unfortunate circumstances induced him to leave us for a
while. The nostril and the tube of the nose appear to have
undergone some slight alteration, but in examining a beloved
object the eye of affection is perhaps too critical.
Vive l'Empereur! the soldier of Marengo is among us
again. His lips are thinner, perhaps, than they were before!
how white his teeth are! you can just see three of them
pressing his under lip; and pray remark the fulness of his
cheeks and the round contour of his chin. Oh, those
beautiful white hands! many a time have they patted the
cheek of poor Josephine, and played with the black ringlets
of her hair. She is dead now, and cold, poor creature; and
so are Hortense and bold Eugene, "than whom the world never
saw a courtlier knight," as was said of King Arthur's Sir
Lancelot. What a day would it have been for those three
could they but have lived until now, and seen their hero
returning! Where's Ney? His wife sits looking out from M.
Flahaut's window yonder, but the bravest of the brave is not
with her. Murat too is absent: honest Joachim loves the
Emperor at heart, and repents that he was not at Waterloo:
who knows, but that at the sight of the handsome swordsman
those stubborn English "canaille" would have given way? A
king, Sire, is, you know, the greatest of slaves -- State
affairs of consequence -- his Majesty the King of Naples is
detained no doubt. When we last saw the King, however, and
his Highness the Prince of Elchingen, they looked to have as
good health as ever they had in their lives, and we heard
each of them calmly calling out "Fire!" as they
have done in numberless battles before.
Is it possible? can the Emperor forget? We
don't like to break it to him, but has he forgotten all
about the farm at Pizzo, and the garden of the Observatory?
Yes, truly: there he lies on his golden shield, never
stirring, never so much as lifting his eyelids, or opening
his lips any wider.
O vanitas vanitatum! Here is our
Sovereign in all his glory, and they fired a thousand guns
at Cherbourg and never woke him!
However, we are advancing matters by several
hours, and you must give just as much credence as you please
to the subjoined remarks concerning the Procession, seeing
that your humble servant could not possibly be present at
it, being bound for the church elsewhere.
Programmes; however, have been published of
the affair, and your vivid fancy will not fail to give life
to them, and the whole magnificent train will pass before
you.
Fancy then, that the guns are fired at
Neuilly: the body landed at daybreak from the funereal
barge, and transferred to the car; and fancy the car, a huge
juggernaut of a machine, rolling on four wheels of an
antique shape, which supported a basement adorned with
golden eagles, banners, laurels, and velvet hangings. Above
the hangings stand twelve golden statues with raised arms
supporting a huge shield, on which the coffin lay. On the
coffin was the imperial crown, covered with violet velvet
crape, and the whole vast machine was drawn by horses in
superb housings, led by valets in the imperial livery.
Fancy at the head of the procession first of
all --
THE CAR. The cords of the pall are held by two Marshals, an
Admiral and General Bertrand; who are followed by -- Among the company assembled under the dome of
that edifice, the casual observer would not perhaps have
remarked a gentleman of the name of Michael Angelo Titmarsh,
who nevertheless was there. But as, my dear Miss Smith, the
descriptions in this letter, from the words in page 617,
line 37 -- the party moved - -up to the words paid
to it, on this page, have purely emanated from your
obedient servant's fancy, and not from his personal
observation (for no being on earth, except a newspaper
reporter, can be in two places at once), permit me now to
communicate to you what little circumstances fell under my
own particular view on the day of the 15th of December.
As we came out, the air and the buildings
round about were tinged with purple, and the clear sharp
half-moon before-mentioned was still in the sky, where it
seemed to be lingering as if it would catch a peep of the
commencement of the famous procession. The Arc de Triomphe
was shining in a keen frosty sunshine, and looking as clean
and rosy as if it had just made its toilet. The canvas or
pasteboard image of Napoleon, of which only the gilded legs
had been erected the night previous, was now visible, body,
head, crown, sceptre and all, and made an imposing show.
Long gilt banners were flaunting about, with the imperial
cipher and eagle, and the names of the battles and victories
glittering in gold. The long avenues of the Champs
Elysées had been covered with sand for the
convenience of the great procession that was to tramp across
it that day. Hundreds of people were marching to and fro,
laughing, chattering, singing, gesticulating as happy
Frenchmen do. There is no pleasanter sight than a French
crowd on the alert for a festival, and nothing more catching
than their good-humour. As for the notion which has been put
forward by some of the opposition newspapers that the
populace were on this occasion unusually solemn or
sentimental, it would be paying a bad compliment to the
natural gaiety of the nation, to say that it was, on the
morning at least of the 15th of December, affected in any
such absurd way. Itinerant merchants were shouting out
lustily their commodities of segars and brandy, and the
weather was so bitter cold that they could not fail to find
plenty of customers. Carpenters and workmen were still
making a huge banging and clattering among the sheds which
were built for the accommodation of the visitors. Some of
these sheds were hung with black, such as one sees before
churches in funerals; some were robed in violet, in
compliment to the Emperor whose mourning they put on. Most
of them had fine tricolour hangings with appropriate
inscriptions to the glory of the French arms.
All along the Champs Elysées were urns
of plaster-of-Paris destined to contain funereal incense and
flames; columns decorated with huge flags of blue, red, and
white, embroidered with shining crowns, eagles, and N's in
gilt paper, and statues of plaster representing Nymphs,
Triumphs, Victories, or other female personages, painted in
oil so as to represent marble. Real marble could have had no
better effect, and the appearance of the whole was lively
and picturesque in the extreme. On each pillar was a buckler
of the colour of bronze, bearing the name and date of a
battle in gilt letters: you had to walk through a
mile-long avenue of these glorious reminiscences, telling of
spots where, in the great imperial days, throats had been
victoriously cut.
As we passed down the avenue, several troops
of soldiers met us: the garde-municipale à
cheval, in brass helmets and shining jack-boots,
noble-looking men, large, on large horses, the pick of the
old army, as I have beard, and armed for the special
occupation of peace-keeping: not the most glorious, but the
best part of the soldier's duty, as I fancy. Then came a
regiment of Carabineers, one of Infantry -- little, alert,
brown-faced, good-humoured men, their band at their head
playing sounding marches. These were followed by a regiment
or detachment of the Municipals on foot -- two or three
inches taller than the men of the Line, and conspicuous for
their neatness and discipline. By-and-by came a squadron or
so of dragoons of the National Guards: they are covered with
straps, buckles, aiguillettes, and cartouche-boxes, and made
under their tricolour cock's-plumes a show sufficiently
warlike. The point which chiefly struck me on beholding
these military men of the National Guard and the Line, was
the admirable manner in which they bore a cold that seemed
to me as sharp as the weather in the Russian retreat.
through which cold the troops were trotting without
trembling and in the utmost cheerfulness and good-humour. An
aide-de-camp galloped past in white pantaloons. By heavens!
it made me shudder to look at him.
With this profound reflection, we turned
away to the right towards the hanging-bridge (where we met a
detachment of young men of the Ecole de l'Etat Major,
fine-looking lads, but sadly disfigured by the wearing of
stays or belts that make the waists of the French dandies of
a most absurd tenuity), and speedily passed into the avenue
of statues leading up to the Invalides. All these were
statues of warriors from Ney to Charlemagne, modelled in
clay for the nonce, and placed here to meet the corpse of
the greatest warrior of all. Passing these, we had to walk
to a little door at the back of the Invalides, where was a
crowd of persons plunged in the deepest mourning, and
pushing for places in the chapel within.
The chapel is spacious and of no great
architectural pretensions, but was on this occasion
gorgeously decorated in honour of the great person to whose
body it was about to give shelter.
We had ariived at nine: the ceremony was not to
begin, they said, till two: we had five hours before us to
see all that from our places could be seen.
We saw that the roof, up to the first lines
of architecture, was hung with violet; beyond this with
black. We saw N's, eagles, bees, laurel wreaths, and other
such imperial emblems, adorning every nook and corner of the
edifice. Between the arches, on each side of the aisle, were
painted trophies, on which were written the names of some of
Napoleon's Generals and of their principal deeds of arms --
and not their deeds of arms alone, pardi, but their
coats of arms too. O stars and garters! but this is too
much. What was Ney's paternal coat, prithee, or honest
Junot's quarterings, or the venerable escutcheon of King
Joachim's father, the innkeeper?
You and I, dear Miss Smith, know the exact
value of heraldic bearings. We know that though the greatest
pleasure of all is to act like a gentleman, it is a
pleasure, nay a merit, to be one -- to come of an
old stock, to have an honourable pedigree, to be able to say
that centuries back our fathers had gentle blood, and to us
transmitted the same. There is a good in gentility:
the man who questions it is envious, or a coarse dullard not
able to perceive the difference between high breeding and
low. One has in the same way heard a man brag that he did
not know the difference between wines, not he -- give him a
good glass of port and he would pitch all your claret to the
deuce. My love, men often brag about their own dulness in
this way.
In the matter of gentlemen, democrats cry,
"Psha! Give us one of Nature's gentlemen, and hang your
aristocrats." And so indeed Nature does make some
gentlemen -- a few here and there. But Art makes most. Good
birth, that is, good handsome well-formed fathers and
mothers, nice cleanly nursery-maids, good meals, good
physicians, good education, few cares, pleasant easy habits
of life, and luxuries not too great or enervating, but only
refining -- a course of these going on for a few generations
are the best gentleman-makers in the world, and beat Nature
hollow.
If, respected Madam, you say that there is
something better than gentility in this wicked
world, and that honesty and personal worth are more valuable
than all the politeness and high-breeding that ever wore
red-heeled pumps, knights' spurs, or Hoby's boots, Titmarsh
for one is never going to say you nay. If you even go so far
as to say that the very existence of this super-genteel
society among us, from the slavish respect that we pay to
it, from the dastardly manner in which we attempt to imitate
its airs and ape its vices, goes far to destroy honesty of
intercourse, to make us meanly ashamed of our natural
affections and honest, harmless usages, and so does a great
deal more harm than it is possible it can do good by its
example -- perhaps, Madam, you speak with some sort of
reason. Potato myself, I can't help seeing that the tulip
yonder has the best place in the garden, and the most
sunshine, and the most water, and the best tending -- and not
liking him over well. But I can't help acknowledging that
Nature has given him a much finer dress than ever I can hope
to have, and of this, at least, must give him the benefit.
Or say, we are so many cocks and hens, my
dear (sans arrière pensée), with our
crops pretty full, our plumes pretty sleek, decent picking
here and there in the straw-yard, and tolerable snug
roosting in the barn: yonder on the terrace, in the sun,
walks Peacock, stretching his proud neck, squealing every
now and then in the most pert fashionable voice and
flaunting his great supercilious dandified tail. Don't let
us be too angry, my dear, with the useless, haughty,
insolent creature, because he despises us.
Something there is about Peacock that we don't
possess. Strain your neck ever so, you can't make it as long
or as blue as his -- cock your tail as much as you please,
and it will never be half so fine to look at. But the most
absurd, disgusting, contemptible sight in the world would
you and I be, leaving the barn-door for my lady's
flower-garden, forsaking our natural sturdy walk for the
peacock's genteel rickety stride, and adopting the squeak
of his voice in the place of our gallant lusty
cock-a-doodle-dooing.
Do you take the allegory? I love to speak in
such, and the above types have been presented to my mind
while sitting opposite a gimcrack coat-of-arms and coronet
that are painted in the Invalides Church, and assigned to
one of the Emperor's Generals.
Ventrebleu! Madam, what need have
they of coats-of-arms and coronets, and wretched
imitations of old exploded aristocratic gewgaws that they
had flung out of the country -- with the heads of the owners
in them sometimes, for indeed they were not particular -- a
score of years before? What business, forsooth, had they to
be meddling with gentility and aping its ways, who had
courage, merit, daring, genius sometimes, and a pride of
their own to support, if proud they were inclined to be? A
clever young man (who was not of high family himself, but
had been bred up genteelly at Eton and the university) --
young Mr. George Canning, at the commencement of the French
Revolution, sneered at "Roland the just, with ribbons in his
shoes," and the dandies, who then wore buckles, voted the
sarcasm monstrous killing. It was a joke, my dear, worthy
of a lacquey, or of a silly smart parvenu, not knowing the
society into which his luck had cast him (God help him! in
later years, they taught him what they were!) and fancying
in his silly intoxication that simplicity was ludicrous and
fashion respectable. See, now, fifty years are gone, and
where are shoebuckles! Extinct, defunct, kicked into the
irrevocable past off the toes of Europe.
How fatal to the parvenu, throughout history,
has been this respect for shoebuckles. Where, for instance,
would the Empire of Napoleon have been, if Ney and Lannes
had never sported such a thing as a coat-of-arms, and had
only written their simple names on their shields, after the
fashion of Desaixs scutcheon yonder? -- the bold Republican
who led the crowning charge at Marengo, and sent the best
blood of the Holy Roman Empire to the right-about, before
the wretched misbegotten imperial heraldry was born, that
was to prove so disastrous to the father of it. It has
always been so. They won't amalgamate. A country must be
governed by the one principle or the other. But give, in a
republic, an aristocracy ever so little chance, and it works
and plots and sneaks and bullies and sneers itself into
place, and you find democracy out of doors. Is it good that
the aristocracy should so triumph? -- that is a question
that you may settle according to your own notions and taste;
and permit me to say, I do not care twopence how you settle
it. Large books have been written upon the subject in a
variety of languages, and coming to a variety of
conclusions. Great statesmen are there in our country, from
Lord Londonderry down to Mr. Vincent, each in his degree
maintaining his different opinion. But here, in the matter
of Napoleon, is a simple fact: he founded a great, glorious,
strong, potent republic, able to cope with the best
aristocracies in the world, and perhaps to beat them all; he
converts his republic into a monarchy, and surrounds his
monarchy with what he calls aristocratic institutions; and
you know what becomes of him. The people estranged, the
aristocracy faithless (when did they ever pardon one who was
not of themselves?) -- the imperial fabric tumbles to the
ground. If it teaches nothing else, my dear, it teaches one
a great point of policy -- namely, to stick by ones party.
While these thoughts (and sundry others
relative to the horrible cold of the place, the intense
dulness of delay, the stupidity of leaving a warm bed and a
breakfast in order to witness a procession that is much
better performed at a theatre) -- while these thoughts were
passing in the mind, the church began to fill apace, and you
saw that the hour of the ceremony was drawing near.
Imprimis, came men with lighted
staves, and set fire to at least ten thousand wax-candles,
that were hanging in brilliant chandeliers in various parts
of the chapel. Curtains were dropped over the upper windows
as these illuminations were effected, and the church was
left only to the funereal light of the spermaceti. To the
right was the dome, round the cavity of which sparkling
lamps were set, that designed the shape of it brilliantly
against the darkness. In the midst, and where the altar used
to stand, rose the catafalque. And why not? Who is God here
but Napoleon? and in him the sceptics have already ceased to
believe; but the people does still somewhat. He and Louis
XIV. divide the worship of the place between them.
As for the catafalque, the best that I can
say for it is that it is really a noble and imposing-looking
edifice, with tall pillars supporting a grand dome, with
innumerable escutcheons, standards and allusions military
and funereal. A great eagle of course tops the whole:
tripods burning -spirits of wine stand round this kind of
dead man's throne, and as we saw it (by peering over the
heads of our neighbours in the front rank), it looked, in
the midst of the black concave, and under the effect of
half-a-thousand flashing cross-lights, properly grand and
tall. The effect of the whole chapel, however (to speak the
jargon of the painting-room), was spoiled by being cut
up: there were too many objects for the eye to rest
upon: the ten thousand wax-candles, for instance, in their
numberless twinkling chandeliers, the raw tranchant
colours of the new banners, wreaths, bees, N's, and other
emblems dotting the place all over, and incessantly puzzling
or rather bothering the beholder.
High overhead, in a sort of mist, with the
glare of their original colours worn down by dust and time,
hung long rows of dim ghostly-looking standards, captured in
old days from the enemy. They were, I thought, the best and
most solemn part of the show.
To suppose that the people were bound to be
solemn during the ceremony is to exact from them something
quite needless and unnatural. The very fact of a squeeze
dissipates all solemnity. One great crowd is always, as I
imagine, pretty much like another. In the course of the last
few years I have seen three: that attending the coronation
of our present sovereign, that which went to see Courvoisier
hanged, and this which witnessed the Napoleon ceremony. The
people so assembled for hours together are jocular rather
than solemn, seeking to pass away the weary time with the
best amusements that will offer. There was, to be sure, in
all the scenes above alluded to, just one moment -- one
particular moment -- when the universal people feels, a
shock and is for that second serious.
But except for that second of time, I declare
I saw no seriousness here beyond that of ennui. The church
began to fill with personages of all ranks and conditions.
First, opposite our seats came a company of fat grenadiers
of the National Guard, who presently, at the word of
command, put their muskets down against benches and
wainscots, until the arrival of the procession. For seven
hours these men formed the object of the most anxious
solicitude of all the ladies and gentlemen seated on our
benches: they began to stamp their feet, for the cold was
atrocious, and we were frozen where we sat. Some of them
fell to blowing their fingers; one executed a kind of dance,
such as one sees often here in cold weather -- the
individual jumps repeatedly upon one leg, and kicks out the
other violently: meanwhile his hands are flipping across his
chest. Some fellows opened their cartouche-boxes, and from
them drew eatables of various kinds. You can't think how
anxious we were to know the qualities of the same. "Tiens,
ce gros qui mange une cuisse de volaille!" -- "Il a du
jambon, celui-là." "I should like some too," growls
an Englishman, "for I hadn't a morsel of breakfast," and so
on. This is the way, my dear, that we see Napoleon buried.
Did you ever see a chicken escape from clown
in a pantomime, and hop over into the pit, or amongst the
fiddlers? and have you not seen the shrieks of enthusiastic
laughter that the wondrous incident occasions? We had our
chicken, of course: there never was a public crowd without
one. A poor unhappy woman in a greasy plaid cloak, with a
battered rose-coloured plush bonnet, was seen taking her
place among the stalls allotted to the grandees. "Voyez donc
l'Anglaise," said everybody, and it was too true. You could
swear that the wretch was an Englishwoman: a bonnet was
never made or worn so in any other country. Half-an-hour's
delightful amusement did this lady give us all. She was
whisked from seat to seat by the huissiers, and at
every change of place woke a peal of laughter. I was, glad,
however, at the end of the day to see the old pink bonnet
over a very comfortable seat, which somebody had not claimed
and she had kept.
Are not these remarkable incidents? The next
wonder we saw was the arrival of a set of tottering old
Invalids, who took their places under us with drawn sabres.
Then came a superb drum-major, a handsome smiling
good-humoured giant of a man, his breeches astonishingly
embroidered with silver lace. Him a dozen little
drummer-boys followed -- "the little darlings!" all the
ladies cried out in a breath: they were indeed pretty little
fellows, and came and stood close under us: the huge
drum-major smiled over his little red-capped flock, and for
many hours in the most perfect contentment twiddled his
moustaches and played with the tassels of his cane.
Now the company began to arrive thicker and
thicker. A whole covey of Conseillers-d'Etat came in, in
blue coats, embroidered with blue silk, then came a crowd of
lawyers in toques and caps, among whom were sundry venerable
judges in scarlet, purple velvet, and ermine -- a kind of
Bajazet costume. Look there! there is the Turkish Ambassador
in his red cap, turning his solemn brown face about and,
looking preternaturally wise. The Deputies walk in in a
body. Guizot is not there: he passed by just now in full
ministerial costume. Presently little Thiers saunters in:
what a clear, broad, sharp-eyed face the fellow has, with
his grey hair cut down so demure! A servant passes, pushing
through the crowd a shabby wheel-chair. It has just brought
old Monçey the Governor of the Invalids, the honest
old man who defended Paris so stoutly in 1814. He has been
very ill, and is worn down almost by infirmities: but in his
illness he was perpetually asking, "Doctor, shall I live
till the 18th? Give me till then, and I die contented." One
can't help believing that the old man's wish is honest,
however one may doubt the piety of another illustrious
Marshal, who once carried a candle before Charles X. in a
procession, and has been this morning to Neuilly to kneel
and pray at the foot of Napoleon's coffin. He might have
said his prayers at home, to be sure; but don't let us ask
too much: that kind of reserve is not a Frenchman's
characteristic.
Bang -- bang! At about half-past two a dull
sound of cannonading was heard without the church, and
signals took place between the Commandant of the Invalids,
of the National Guards, and the big drum-major. Looking to
these troops (the fat Nationals were shuffling into line
again) the two Commandants uttered, as nearly as I could
catch them, the following words --
"HARRUM
HUMP!"
At once all the National bayonets were on the
present, and the sabres of the old Invalids up. The big
drum-major looked round at the children, who began very
slowly and solemnly on their drums, Rub-dub-dub --
rub-dub-dub -- (count two between each) -- rub-dub-dub, and a
great procession of priests came down from the altar.
First, there was a tall handsome
cross-bearer, bearing a long gold cross, of which the front
was turned towards his grace the Archbishop. Then came a
double row of about sixteen incense-boys, dressed in white
surplices; the first boy, about six years old, the last with
whiskers and of the height of a man. Then followed a
regiment of priests in black tippets and white gowns; they
had black hoods, like the moon when she is at her third
quarter, wherewith those who were bald (many were, and fat
too) covered themselves. All the reverend men held their
heads meekly down, and affected to be reading in their
breviaries.
After the Priests came some Bishops of the
neighbouring districts, in purple, with crosses sparkling on
their episcopal bosoms.
Then came, after more priests, a set of men
whom I have never seen before -- a kind of ghostly heralds,
young and handsome men, some of them in stiff tabards of
black and silver, their eyes to the ground, their hands
placed at right angles with their chests.
Then came two gentlemen bearing remarkable
tall candlesticks, with candles of corresponding size. One
was burning brightly, but the wind (that chartered
libertine) had blown out the other, which nevertheless kept
its place in the procession -- I wondered to myself whether
the reverend gentleman who carried the extinguished candle,
felt disgusted, humiliated, mortified -- perfectly conscious
that the eyes of many thousands of people were bent upon
that bit of refractory wax. We all of us looked at it with
intense interest.
Another cross-bearer, behind whom came a
gentleman carrying an instrument like a bed-room
candlestick.
His Grandeur Monseigneur Affre, Archbishop of
Paris: he was in black and white, his eyes were cast to the
earth, his hands were together at right angles from his
chest: on his hands were black gloves, and on the black
gloves sparkled the sacred episcopal -- what do I say? --
archiepiscopal ring. On his head was the mitre. It is unlike
the godly coronet that figures upon the coach-panels of our
own Right Reverend Bench. The Archbishop's mitre may be
about a yard high: formed within probably of consecrated
pasteboard, it is without covered by a sort of watered silk
of white and silver. On the two peaks at the top of the
mitre are two very little spangled tassels, that frisk and
twinkle about in a very agreeable manner.
Monseigneur stood opposite to us for some
time, when I had the opportunity to note the above
remarkable phenomena. He stood opposite me for some time,
keeping his eyes steadily on the ground, his hands before
him, a small clerical train following after. Why didn't they
move? There was the National Guard keeping on presenting
arms, the little drummers going on rub-dub-dub --
rub-dub-dub -- in the same steady, slow way, and the
Procession never moved an inch. There was evidently, to use
an elegant phrase, a hitch somewhere.
Enter a fat priest, who bustles up to the
drum-major.]
Fat priest -- "Taisez-vous."
Little drummer -- Rub-dub-dub --
rub-dub-dub -- rub-dub-dub, &c.
Drum-major -- "Quest-ce donc?"
Fat priest -- "Taisez-vous, vous
dis-je; ce n'est pas le corps. Il n'arrivera pas -- pour une
heure."
The little drums were instantly hushed, the
procession turned to the right-about, and walked back to the
altar again, the blown-out candle that had been on the near
side of us before was now on the off side, the National
Guards set down their muskets and began at their sandwiches
again. We had to wait an hour and a half at least before the
great procession arrived. The guns without went on booming
all the while at intervals, and as we heard each, the
audience gave a kind of "ahahah!" such as you hear
when the rockets go up at Vauxhall.
At last the real Procession came.
Then the drums began to beat as formerly, the
Nationals to get under arms, the clergymen were sent for and
went, and presently -- yes, there was the tall cross-bearer
at the head of the procession, and they came back!
They chanted something in a weak, snuffling,
lugubrious manner, to the melancholy bray of a serpent.
Crash! however, Mr. Habeneck and the fiddlers
in the organ-loft pealed out a wild shrill march, which
stopped the reverend gentlemen, and in the midst of this
music --
And of a great trampling of feet and
clattering,
And of a great crowd of Generals and Officers
in fine clothes,
With the Prince de Joinville marching quickly
at the head of the procession,
And while everybody's heart was thumping as
hard as possible,
NAPOLEON'S COFFIN
PASSED.
It was done in an instant. A box covered with
a great red cross -- a dingy-looking crown lying on the top
of it -- Seamen on one side and Invalids on the other --
they had passed in an instant and were up the aisle.
A faint snuffling sound, as before, was heard
from the officiating priests, but we knew of nothing more.
It is said that old Louis Philippe was standing at the
catafalque, whither the Prince de Joinville advanced and
said, "Sire, I bring you the body of the Emperor Napoleon."
Louis Philippe answered, "I receive it in the
name of France." Bertrand put on the body the most glorious
victorious sword that ever has been forged since the apt
descendants of the first murderer learned how to hammer
steel; and the coffin was placed in the temple prepared for
it.
The six hundred singers and the fiddlers now
commenced the playing and singing of a piece of music; and a
part of the crew of the "Belle Poule" skipped into the
places that had been kept for them under us, and listened to
the music, chewing tobacco. While the actors and fiddlers
were going on, most of the spirits-of-wine lamps on the
altars went out.
When we arrived in the open air we passed
through the court of the Invalides, where thousands of
people had been assembled, but where the benches were now
quite bare. Then we came on to the terrace before the place:
the old soldiers were firing off the great guns, which made
a dreadful stunning noise, and frightened some of us, who
did not care to pass before the cannon and be knocked down
even by the wadding. The guns were fired in honour of the
King, who was going home by a back door. All the forty
thousand people who covered the great stands before the
Hôtel had gone away too. The Imperial Barge had been
dragged up the river, and was lying lonely along the Quay,
examined by some few shivering people on the shore.
It was five o'clock when we reached home: the
stars were shining keenly out of the frosty sky, and
François told me that dinner was just ready.
In this manner, my dear Miss Smith, the great
Napoleon was buried.
Farewell.
THE END.
Proofread by Patricia Teter
Back to the Second Funeral
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-- No. 1, the great-grandmother walking daintily along,
supported by
No. 3, her granddaughter.
-- A nurse carrying No. 4 junior, who was sound asleep: and
a huge basket
containing saucepans, bottles of milk, parcels of
infants'
food, certain dimity napkins, a child's coral,
and a little horse
belonging to No. 4 senior.
-- A servant bearing a basket of condiments.
-- No. 2, grandfather, spick and span, clean shaved, hat
brushed, white
buckskin gloves, bamboo cane, brown great-coat, walking
as
upright and solemn as may be, having his lady on his
arm.
-- No. 4, senior, with mottled legs and a tartan costume,
who was
frisking about between his grandpapa's legs, who heartily
wished
him at home.
The Gendarmerie of the Seine, with their trumpets and
Colonel.
The Municipal Guard (horse), with their trumpets, standard,
and Colonel.
Two squadrons of the 7th Lancers, with Colonel, standard,
and music.
The Commandant of Paris and his Staff.
A battalion of Infantry of the Line, with their flag,
sappers, drums, music, and Colonel.
The Municipal Guard (foot), with flag, drums, and
Colonel.
The Sapper-pumpers, with ditto.
Then picture to yourself more squadrons of Lancers and
Cuirassiers.
The General of the Division and his Staff; all officers of
all arms employed at Paris, and unattached; the Military
School of Saint Cyr, the Polytechnic School, the School of
the Etat Major; and the Professors and Staff of each. Go on
imagining more battalions of Infantry, of Artillery,
companies of Engineers, squadrons of Cuirassiers, ditto of
the Cavalry, of the National Guard, and the first and second
legions of ditto.
Fancy a carriage, containing the Chaplain of the St. Helena
expedition, the only clerical gentleman that formed a part
of the procession.
Fancy you hear the funereal music, and then figure in your
mind's eye--
THE EMPEROR'S CHARGER, that is, Napoleon's own saddle and
bridle (when First Consul) upon a white horse. The saddle
(which has been kept ever since in the Garde-meuble of the
Crown) is of amaranth velvet, embroidered in gold: the
holsters and housings are of the some rich material. On them
you remark the attributes of War, Commerce, Science and Art.
The bits and stirrups are silver-gilt chased. Over the
stirrups, two eagles were placed at the time of the empire.
The horse was covered with a violet crape embroidered with
golden bees.
After this, came more Soldiers, General Officers,
Sub-Officers, Marshals, and what was said to be the
prettiest sight almost of the whole, the banners of the
eighty-six departments of France. These are due to the
invention of M. Thiers, and were to have been accompanied by
federates from each Department. But the Government very
wisely mistrusted this and some other projects of Monsieur
Thiers; and as for a federation, my dear, it has been
tried. Next comes --
His Royal Highness the Prince de Joinville.
The 500 sailors of the "Belle Poule" marching in double file
on each side of
[Hush! the enormous crowd thrills as it passes, and only
some few
voices cry Vive l'Empereur! Shining
golden in the frosty sun -- with
hundreds of thousands of
eyes upon it, from houses and housetops,
from balconies,
black, purple, and tricolour, from tops of leafless
trees,
from behind long lines of glittering bayonets
under shakos and bearskin
caps, from behind the Line and
the National Guard again,
pushing, struggling, heaving,
panting, eager, the heads of an
enormous multitude
stretching out to meet and follow
it, amidst long
avenues of columns and statues
gleaming white, of
standards rainbow-coloured,
of golden eagles, of pale
funereal urns,
of discharging odours amidst huge
volumes of pitch-black smoke,
THE GREAT IMPERIAL CHARIOT
ROLLS MAJESTICALLY ON.
The Prefects of the Seine and Police, &c.
The Mayors of Paris, &c.
The Members of the Old Guard, &c.
A squadron of Light Dragoons, &c.
Lieutenant-General Schneider, &c.
More cavalry, more infantry, more artillery, more everybody;
and as the procession passes the Line and the National Guard
forming line on each side of the road fall in and follow it,
until it arrives at the Church of the Invalides, where the
last honours are to be paid to it.]
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