Wisconsin Tribune

VOL I.

From Bentley's Miscellany.

THE TWO FUNERALS OF NAPOLEON LEON.

BY ROBERT POSTANS.

[CONTINUED.]

But where is he, the champion and the child.
Of all that's great or little, wise or wild?
Whose game was empires, and whose stakes were thrones,
Whose table earth—whose dice were human bones?
Behold the grand result in yon lone isle.
And, as thy nature urges, weep or smile.
BYRON.

After the lapse of six-and-twenty years and now, when the passions of that mighty conflict which filled Europe in the early part of the century are extinct, it would be difficult to make the present generation comprehend the profound sensations which this news had upon those who, like ourselves, happened to be at St. Helena at this eventful period. Consequently, on the second day after Napoleon's death, nearly every individual on the Island, as well as those in different vessels at anchor in the roads repaired to Longwood, the place where he died.

Of course the house was thronged with people, but as the greatest order prevailed, I was soon in the room with all that was left of the most wondrous man of modern times. Suddenly coming out of the glare of a tropical sun into a partially darkened room, a few moments elapsed before the objects were properly defined. Gradually, as the contents of the apartment tumbled into shape, the person of Napoleon, dressed in a plain green uniform, grew out of the comparative gloom, and became the loadstar of attraction.

He was lying on a small brass tent bedstead, which had been with him in most of his campaigns. I found it impossible to withdraw my eyes for an instant from his countenance: it caused in me a sensation, difficult to define, but such impression can never be forgotten. There was a crucifix on his breast, and by his side glittered a large diamond star, the brilliancy of which strangely contrasted with the pallid face of the dead. The skin was of a most intense whiteness, and looked like wax.

What struck me as most strange was the mean appearance of the surrounding furniture, and of the getting up of the ceremony. Few people in England, or indeed in France, would credit the dilapidated state of the apartment. It was literally swarming with rats and other vermin. There appeared, however, to be no want of respect to the memory of the dead hero—whatever might have been his treatment when living. But the knowledge of this tardy justice did not prevent a comparison between his fallen state in that rat-pestered chamber, and the magnificence and power with which imagination invested him when living.

And although it may be idle to compare the deeds of a great man with the appearance of the man himself, yet it is what most of us are prone to do: and on this occasion it was impossible to avoid falling into the practice, for possibly the results of a comparison could not be more striking. Napoleon at Austerlitz or Jena, with conquered Europe at his feet, and Napoleon lying dead in that miserable, poverty-stricken room, presents to the dullest imagination a theme pregnant with emotion. It was indeed difficult to understand how, even by the proverbial inconstancy of fortune, that insensible form lying in its utter helplessness, could ever have been the

Man of a thousand thrones
Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones.

Solemnly and sternly the reality forced itself upon all, and I felt that I was reading a journal of true romance, so absorbing, so wretched, that if I was to continue my studies to man, it would be unnecessary to peruse a second volume to grow perfect in knowledge or reflection.

The time allowed for visitors to remain in the chamber was very limited, and condensed observation into a passing glimpse. This could not have been otherwise, as every individual on the Island was anxious to obtain even a momentary view of one who had attracted so large a portion of the attention of the world.

And not the least singular spectacle seen on that day, was the motley group which Napoleon's fame had drawn around his funeral couch. For although St. Helena on the map may at first appear to be a secluded spot, yet in reality it is not so. A glance or two is sufficient to assure us that it is placed in the centre of the great highway of the world, where the necessities of commerce, and the wants and hazards inseparable from a seafaring life, are the means of bringing together the antipodes of the human race. And if the dense masses of people which thronged his second funeral at a more recent period, to his own dear France, were wanting, their deficiency in numbers was in some sort compensated by the variety of man; or if there was not a multitude, there was, at least, a medley of curious gazers.

Foremost in intelligence were the French and English; but apart from these stood the wondering African negro—the uncouth Hottentot from the Cape—the yellow Brazilian from South America—the fierce-looking Lascar from Bengal—and the quiet, inoffensive Chinese from remote Asia. Some of these knew but little of Napoleon's renown, but, being inoculated with the prevailing emotion, these, unlike the more intellectual European, knew at least that after Napoleon's death he was to be buried with great pomp.
to gaze upon the embers of that dazzling meteor, the blaze of which had so recently expired.

The same tincture of corruption dyes all mortality, and hero dust as well as common clay soon becomes offensive in a tropical climate. Even on the second day after his death, it was already time he should have been soldered up. With a knowledge of this fact, the Governor-General had ordered the funeral to take place on the 9th, thus allowing only four days to elapse between his death and his burial.

In the meantime, the spot where the pioneers were digging the grave, became an object of mingled curiosity and veneration; second only in importance to the illustrious hero who was so soon to make it his abiding place. It was close to a small spring, of which Napoleon always drank, and occasionally he breakfasted beneath the shade of two willows that bend over the bubbling waters. The grave was singularly made. It was formed very wide at the top, but sloped gradually inwards, having the appearance of an inverted pyramid. The lowest part was chambered to receive the coffin, and one large stone covered the whole of the chamber. It was said that this covering was taken from the floor of the kitchen at Longwood, where it had been used as a hearthstone in front of the fire-place; though why it should have been removed for such a purpose it is difficult to comprehend, for the Island is not deficient of the requisite material. The remaining space was to be filled up with solid masonry, clamped together with bands of iron. These precautions, it appeared, were intended to prevent the removal of the body, as much at the request of the French as of the governor of the Island.

Divested of the associations connected with his fame, Napoleon's funeral at St. Helena was a simple, though heartfelt affair. His long agony on that sunburnt rock commanded the reverence of every beholder. Consequently, on the 9th, all the inhabitants and visitors on the Island flocked to the line of march. Like many others, I selected a prominent position on the shoulders of a hill, from whence the solemn procession could be traced, as it threaded its way through the ravines and gorges of this picturesque place, on its way to the grave. The coffin was borne upon the shoulders of English grenadiers, and followed by the soldiers who had contributed more towards his downfall than those of any other nation. Their solemn tread and grave deportment contrasted strongly with the heartfelt sorrow of Count Montholon and General Bertrand, who bore the hero's pall. Madame Bertrand followed next, in tears, and then came Lady Lowe and her daughters, in mourning; the officers of the English men-of-war next, and then the officers of the army; the Governor General and Admiral Lambert closing the rear. The 66th and 20th Regiments of Infantry, the Artillery, and the marines, were stationed on the crests of the surrounding hills: and when the body was lowered into the tomb, three rounds of eleven guns were fired. And thus the great soldier of France received the last tribute of respect in honor of his achievements from the hands of his most constant, or as he described them, the most generous of his enemies.

The last years of Napoleon's life, except so far as they derived a gloomy and awful importance from the remembrance of his terrific career of blood and power, were as insignificant as his first. He could neither act upon, nor be acted upon, by the transactions of the world. He seemed to be buried alive. Kept as he was in close custody by a power, with whose strength it was useless to cope, and whose vigilance there was little chance of eluding.

On the following morning the sounds of labor were heard from every quarter of the Free Trader, and the long drawn sighs of the mariners were rising in the cool quiet of the early dawn. Preparations commenced the heavy toil which lifts the anchor from its bed: the ship once more released from her hold upon the land, stood across the Atlantic for England, and long ere noon the sun blistered rock of St. Helena was shut out from our view, by the rising waters in which it seemed to submerge. And thus ended the memorable event which formed such a singular episode in the otherwise monotonous voyage of the Free Trader.

[TO BE CONCLUDED.]