High overhead, in a sort of mist, with the glare of their original colors 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 flapping 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-la.”  “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-colored 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.