The economists and calculators might here interpose with a great deal of reason; for, indeed, there was no reason why a nation should impoverish itself to do honor to the memory of an individual for whom, after all, it can feel but a qualified enthusiasm:  but it surely might have employed the large sum voted for the purpose more wisely and generously, and recorded its respect for Napoleon by some worthy and lasting memorial, rather than have erected yonder thousand vain heaps of tinsel, paint, and plaster, that are already cracking and crumbling in the frost, at three days old.

Scarcely one of the statues, indeed, deserves to last a month:  some are odious distortions and caricatures, which never should have been allowed to stand for a moment.  On the very day of the fete, the wind was shaking the canvas pedestals, and the flimsy wood-work had begun to gape and give way.  At a little distance, to be sure, you could not see the cracks; and pedestals and statues looked like marble.  At some distance, you could not tell but that the wreaths and eagles were gold embroidery, and not gilt paper—­the great tricolor flags damask, and not striped calico.  One would think that these sham splendors betokened sham respect, if one had not known that the name of Napoleon is held in real reverence, and observed somewhat of the character of the nation.  Real feelings they have, but they distort them by exaggeration; real courage, which they render ludicrous by intolerable braggadocio; and I think the above official account of the Prince de Joinville’s proceedings, of the manner in which the Emperor’s remains have been treated in their voyage to the capital, and of the preparations made to receive him in it, will give my dear Miss Smith some means of understanding the social and moral condition of this worthy people of France.

III.—­ON THE FUNERAL CEREMONY.

Shall I tell you, my dear, that when Francois 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 Francois called me, and said, “V’la vot’ cafe, 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 an hour no man in Europe could say whether Titmarsh would or would not be present at the burial of the Emperor Napoleon.