Second Funeral of Napoleon , livre ebook

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pubOne.info present you this new edition. MY DEAR - - , - It is no en the Voyage from St. Helena asy task in this world to distinguish between what is great in it, and what is mean; and many and many is the puzzle that I have had in reading History (or the works of fiction which go by that name), to know whether I should laud up to the skies, and endeavor, to the best of my small capabilities, to imitate the remarkable character about whom I was reading, or whether I should fling aside the book and the hero of it, as things altogether base, unworthy, laughable, and get a novel, or a game of billiards, or a pipe of tobacco, or the report of the last debate in the House, or any other employment which would leave the mind in a state of easy vacuity, rather than pester it with a vain set of dates relating to actions which are in themselves not worth a fig, or with a parcel of names of people whom it can do one no earthly good to remember.

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Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	06 novembre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819942177
Langue	English

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THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON
by William Makepeace Thackeray
AKA Michael Angelo Titmarch.
I.—ON THE DISINTERMENT OF NAPOLEON AT ST.HELENA.
MY DEAR — — , — It is no en the Voyage from St.Helena asy task in this world to distinguish between what is greatin it, and what is mean; and many and many is the puzzle that Ihave had in reading History (or the works of fiction which go bythat name), to know whether I should laud up to the skies, andendeavor, to the best of my small capabilities, to imitate theremarkable character about whom I was reading, or whether I shouldfling aside the book and the hero of it, as things altogether base,unworthy, laughable, and get a novel, or a game of billiards, or apipe of tobacco, or the report of the last debate in the House, orany other employment which would leave the mind in a state of easyvacuity, rather than pester it with a vain set of dates relating toactions which are in themselves not worth a fig, or with a parcelof names of people whom it can do one no earthly good toremember.
It is more than probable, my love, that you areacquainted with what is called Grecian and Roman history, chieflyfrom perusing, in very early youth, the little sheepskin-boundvolumes of the ingenious Dr. Goldsmith, and have been indebted foryour knowledge of the English annals to a subsequent study of themore voluminous works of Hume and Smollett. The first and thelast-named authors, dear Miss Smith, have written each an admirablehistory, — that of the Reverend Dr. Primrose, Vicar of Wakefield,and that of Mr. Robert Bramble, of Bramble Hall— in both of whichworks you will find true and instructive pictures of human life,and which you may always think over with advantage. But let mecaution you against putting any considerable trust in the otherworks of these authors, which were placed in your hands at schooland afterwards, and in which you were taught to believe. Modernhistorians, for the most part, know very little, and, secondly,only tell a little of what they know.
As for those Greeks and Romans whom you have read ofin “sheepskin, ” were you to know really what those monsters were,you would blush all over as red as a hollyhock, and put down thehistory-book in a fury. Many of our English worthies are no better.You are not in a situation to know the real characters of any oneof them. They appear before you in their public capacities, but theindividuals you know not. Suppose, for instance, your mamma hadpurchased her tea in the Borough from a grocer living there by thename of Greenacre: suppose you had been asked out to dinner, andthe gentleman of the house had said: “Ho! Francois! a glass ofchampagne for Miss Smith; ”— Courvoisier would have served you justas any other footman would; you would never have known that therewas anything extraordinary in these individuals, but would havethought of them only in their respective public characters ofGrocer and Footman. This, Madam, is History, in which a man alwaysappears dealing with the world in his apron, or his laced livery,but which has not the power or the leisure, or, perhaps, is toohigh and mighty to condescend to follow and study him in hisprivacy. Ah, my dear, when big and little men come to be measuredrightly, and great and small actions to be weighed properly, andpeople to be stripped of their royal robes, beggars' rags,generals' uniforms, seedy out-at-elbowed coats, and the like— orthe contrary say, when souls come to be stripped of their wickeddeceiving bodies, and turned out stark naked as they were beforethey were born— what a strange startling sight shall we see, andwhat a pretty figure shall some of us cut! Fancy how we shall seePride, with his Stultz clothes and padding pulled off, and dwindleddown to a forked radish! Fancy some Angelic Virtue, whose whiteraiment is suddenly whisked over his head, showing us cloven feetand a tail! Fancy Humility, eased of its sad load of cares and wantand scorn, walking up to the very highest place of all, andblushing as he takes it! Fancy, — but we must not fancy such ascene at all, which would be an outrage on public decency. Shouldwe be any better than our neighbors? No, certainly. And as we can'tbe virtuous, let us be decent. Figleaves are a very decent,becoming wear, and have been now in fashion for four thousandyears. And so, my dear, history is written on fig-leaves. Would youhave anything further? O fie!
Yes, four thousand years ago that famous tree wasplanted. At their very first lie, our first parents made for it,and there it is still the great Humbug Plant, stretching its widearms, and sheltering beneath its leaves, as broad and green asever, all the generations of men. Thus, my dear, coquettes of yourfascinating sex cover their persons with figgery, fantasticallyarranged, and call their masquerading, modesty. Cowards figthemselves out fiercely as “salvage men, ” and make us believe thatthey are warriors. Fools look very solemnly out from the dusk ofthe leaves, and we fancy in the gloom that they are sages. And manya man sets a great wreath about his pate and struts abroad a hero,whose claims we would all of us laugh at, could we but remove theornament and see his numskull bare.
And such— (excuse my sermonizing)— such is theconstitution of mankind, that men have, as it were, entered into acompact among themselves to pursue the fig-leaf system al'outrance, and to cry down all who oppose it. Humbug they willhave. Humbugs themselves, they will respect humbugs. Their dailyvictuals of life must be seasoned with humbug. Certain things arethere in the world that they will not allow to be called by theirright names, and will insist upon our admiring, whether we will orno. Woe be to the man who would enter too far into the recesses ofthat magnificent temple where our Goddess is enshrined, peepthrough the vast embroidered curtains indiscreetly, penetrate thesecret of secrets, and expose the Gammon of Gammons! And as youmust not peer too curiously within, so neither must you remainscornfully without. Humbug-worshippers, let us come into our greattemple regularly and decently: take our seats, and settle ourclothes decently; open our books, and go through the service withdecent gravity; listen, and be decently affected by the expositionsof the decent priest of the place; and if by chance some stragglingvagabond, loitering in the sunshine out of doors, dares to laugh orto sing, and disturb the sanctified dulness of the faithful; —quick! a couple of big beadles rush out and belabor the wretch, andhis yells make our devotions more comfortable.
Some magnificent religious ceremonies of this natureare at present taking place in France; and thinking that you mightperhaps while away some long winter evening with an account ofthem, I have compiled the following pages for your use. Newspapershave been filled, for some days past, with details regarding theSt. Helena expedition, many pamphlets have been published, men goabout crying little books and broadsheets filled with real or shamparticulars; and from these scarce and valuable documents thefollowing pages are chiefly compiled.
We must begin at the beginning; premising, in thefirst place, that Monsieur Guizot, when French Ambassador atLondon, waited upon Lord Palmerston with a request that the body ofthe Emperor Napoleon should be given up to the French nation, inorder that it might find a final resting-place in French earth. Tothis demand the English Government gave a ready assent; nor wasthere any particular explosion of sentiment upon either side, onlysome pretty cordial expressions of mutual good-will. Orders weresent out to St. Helena that the corpse should be disinterred in duetime, when the French expedition had arrived in search of it, andthat every respect and attention should be paid to those who cameto carry back to their country the body of the famous dead warriorand sovereign.
This matter being arranged in very few words (as inEngland, upon most points, is the laudable fashion), the FrenchChambers began to debate about the place in which they should burythe body when they got it; and numberless pamphlets and newspapersout of doors joined in the talk. Some people there were who hadfought and conquered and been beaten with the great Napoleon, andloved him and his memory. Many more were there who, because of hisgreat genius and valor, felt excessively proud in their ownparticular persons, and clamored for the return of their hero. Andif there were some few individuals in this great hot-headed,gallant, boasting, sublime, absurd French nation, who had taken acool view of the dead Emperor's character; if, perhaps, such men asLouis Philippe, and Monsieur A. Thiers, Minister and Deputy, andMonsieur Francois Guizot, Deputy and Excellency, had, from interestor conviction, opinions at all differing from those of themajority; why, they knew what was what, and kept their opinions tothemselves, coming with a tolerably good grace and flinging a fewhandfuls of incense upon the altar of the popular idol.
In the succeeding debates, then, various opinionswere given with regard to the place to be selected for theEmperor's sepulture. “Some demanded, ” says an eloquent anonymousCaptain in the Navy who has written an “Itinerary from Toulon toSt. Helena, ” “that the coffin should be deposited under the bronzetaken from the enemy by the French army— under the Column of thePlace Vendome. The idea was a fine one. This is the most gloriousmonument that was ever raised in a conqueror's honor. This columnhas been melted out of foreign cannon. These same cannons havefurrowed the bosoms of our braves with noble cicatrices; and thismetal— conquered by the soldier first, by the artist afterwards—has allowed to be imprinted on its front its own defeat and ourglory. Napoleon might sleep in peace under this audacious trophy.But, would his ashes find a shelter sufficiently vast beneath thispedestal? And his puissant statue dominating Paris, beams withsufficient grande