The New York Herald Newspaper, February 4, 1873, Page 3

NAPOLEON Ill. The Last Scene in His Strange, Eventful History. CAMDEN HOUSE AT CHISELHURST “The Prince Imperial’s First Levee. The Bonaparte Party at the * Emperor’s Funeral. POLITICAL SPECULATIONS. The Lying in State---Napoleon the Third’s Last Levee. VISIT OF THE PRINCE OF WALES. A Legend of Camden FEfouse. The Morning of the Funeral. THE MARCH TO THE GRAVE. The Route to the Chapel---Mass for the Dead---Reception of the Young Prince. “VIVE NAPOLEON THE FOURTH!” Lonpon, Jan. 15, 1878. It has fallen my duty to write fer the HERaLp the last chapter of the strange, romantic history of Louis Napoleon Bonaparte. This duty took me to Chiselhurst, the exile home of the Empress. A little rain had dampened the meadows, and the ground was muddy and uzpleasant as we tramped up the long hill leading to Camden House. Chisel- hurst is about as far from London as Yonkers is from New York. It is an old-fashioned, pretty Kentish village, with a mass of freshly-built work. men’s houses grouped near the station. The most Prominent feature 1s the sign announcing the man- wfacture and sale of ale and beer. But this is no special characteristic, for the same announcement May be found in every English town. Back from the station, the distance of a mile, is the old town of Chiselburst. In America, the railway being older than most such villages, the station-house is in the very midst of the village, and you walk from your carriage into the hotel. But here the towns’ Were made before railways were fancied, and were built on hills, on bright, inviting sites, Rear streams or noble wooded English castles and homes. Chiselhurst proper is a dull town, with little spots of rural beauty here and there—queer old mansions in quaint architecture, the two rival taverns, one called “Tiger’s Head,” the other un- known to meby name. I see no special use for Chisiehurst, unless it may be as am agricultural centre for the convenience of farmers. But it looks fresh and warm and comfortable even on this cold Bnd raw winter day. CAMDEN IOUSE. We pass up the hill and through the pretentious archway, made of variegated brick, and before us 1s the exile home of the Emperor, Camden House. It stands back from the fenee, and all that you see Bre the low gables, the coat of arms cut in whitish stone, the flagstat’ with the French tricolor at half-mast, every window closed and darkened, sen- tinels in citizen’s apparel pacing up and down in front, now and then a earriage hurrying away: groups ef eager Frenchmen, maifly with the red ribbon in tteir coat lapels, sauntering about for the air or hurrying on some errand of grief or duty, Wayfarers slacken their gait or bring their horses toa walk as they pass, for this is now the house ‘of death, CAMDEN PARK. ‘Through favor of an old retainer of the Emperor we were among those whe obtained entrance to Camden House this Sunday afternoon, the third @ayofmourning. A few curious people were at the porter’s lodge, chatting with the woman who kept it—a cheery, bright-faced Englishwoman— wt ~3wered all questions promptly and did not In any way underrate the importance of the great event. A long avenue of trees runs from the gate tothe house. Along this avenue a couple of gen- Glemen were strolling, whose salute was returned, and we were informed they were the son of Mar- shal Ney and the grandson of Murat. So we quietly kept on to the house, walking slowly, as becomes one. whe enters the house of death and woe. There were two carriages, or rather one carriage and a small pony wagon, at the door in tharge of grooms. People slowly moved in and Out, apparently, as is the habit of people in a house of mourning, from the want of something else to do. Two superb footmen, in the Bonaparte livery of dark green cloth and imperial buttons, kept watch at the door. As we passed the window we saw @ group in earnest dis- cussion or conversation, prominent among whom ‘was the face of Prince Jerome Napoleon. There were also Princes Lucien and Charles, all ef whom, » especially Prince Jerome, bore a striking like- mess to the old Emperor. But we are not bidden to their discussions, and so we pass in. The foot- men receive our outer garments; we open the door, return the bow of the Duke de Bassano, who ‘welcomes all comers, and continue to the drawing foom. Weare in the house of Napoleon IIl., and above us lics all that remains of his majesty an¢é power, THE HOUSE OF MOURNING, Everything is clesed, and all light seems to be excluded, and the men and women whe are around Os look like shadows. But in time the eye accus- toms itself to the darkness, and we see, one after another, that these men and women were ameng the glorious company of highborn ladies, maidens ‘nd gentlemen that formed the Court of the third Empire. They were the gay, conspic- nous butterflies of the gilded era in Franee. We gee Rouher, De Failly, Marshaf Le Bauf, Fres- sard, Pietri, the old Prefect of the Empire; the Duke de Bassano, formerly Grand Chamberlain; the Duke de Cambacerts, Count Clary, Prince Murat, Princess Clothilde, daughter ef Victor Emmanuel ana wile of Prince Napoleon ; the Prince of Moscow, Abbé Laine, Abbé Metaire, Monsiegneur Baner, Father Goddard, the priest who confessed the Emperor and gave him the last offices; Marquis @Avrinceurt, Comte de Egviore, Baron de Bour. goigne, Baron de Pierre, M. Delessert, General Gasteinau, General Le Brun, Duke de Tarent, Count de Cass¢Brissac, Prince Poniatowsky, Countess Walewski, whose husband was a natural gon of the old Napoleon; Princess de ia Moskowa, the wives of Marshals Canrobert and Pelissier, Maurice Richard, Duke de Gramont, Foreign Minister at the end of the Empire; Jerome David, the famous Count Benedetti, whom Kaiser William gnabbed so at Ems. Count Rousset and others, ‘whose names would weary you, to the number of a hundred. “It is all here,” said my companion and friend; “ali there was of leadership and dignity and glory under the Empire—ail here to see the dear, good, old Emperor. He is alone on two NEW YORK HERALD, TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 4, 1873,—TRIPLE SHEET. chairs, with a Sister of Mercy praying Over him, and now and then the Empress slips in and prays too, until they come and take her away. Poor lady, she is so worm out! And we are not sure whether he was sensible enough to recognize the priest when he gave him the holy eucharist, and that complicates matters, The Empire is all here. Every name is a history, and there are only two or three strangers in the room, There are two can- dies barning over the Emperor. But the room is very dark.” The Empire was all there; all the Imperial family but Cardinal Bonaparte, grandson of Lucien, the first Emperor's brother, who has not arrived from Reme, and Prince Pierre Bonaparte, the son of Lucien. Prince Pierre is now in London, where his wife supports him by keeping a dressmaker’s shop. Prince Pierre is the Bonaparte who shot Victor Noir at Auteuil, and was tried and fined for it. I loeked for His Imperial Highness in vain; but he evidently had not been asked to come and mourn fer his cousin. The Prince is in disgrace, I fear, although he is one Bonaparte who is not afraid of a pistol. I made no inquiries about Prince Pierre, for fear they would be misunderstood. We are in the house of sorrow, and we pass slowly from room to room, leoking, as well as we can inthe uncertain light, at the pictures and statues and medallions. Here and there is a group whispering, and now and then a messenger walks on tiptoe to the room where General Fleury and Pietri are transacting business. Messeagers come and go softly with telegraph despatches, If they are important or personal they are tuken to the Empress, who is in seclusion in the room adjoining that in which her husband now reposes. In the dining room a table is set apart for the press. AS we pass in, Lord Sydney, the English Lord Chamberlain—the high divine au- thority on etiquette and plush, and wigs and red tape; tothe eye @ sedate, pleasant, rather hand- some Englishman—ts writing a despatch, while a forlorn correspondent of a London journal is ‘‘on duty,” wishing the hour were come for him to re- turn with his copy, and killing time over a ‘Court Guide.” Three or four bright-looking French jour- nalists—evidently good swordsmen—are going in and ont, talking politics to their friends and smok- ing cigarettes. They are Bonapartist, 2nd so are Inside the house, and may smoke their cigarettes under the very trees where Napoleon III. dreamed of Sedan and destiny. Just now they area little vexed. A tall, harmless Frenchman, in seeay clothes and a slouch hat, was seen a moment since outside of the gate. He is reported to be a corre- Spondent of the République Francaise—Gambetta’s paper—and there is great indignation ; and the poor fellow who smokes his cigar- ette on the roadside and looks over the railings at fhe house is discussed as a, cochon and a scélérat, and, but for an uncertainty as to the operations of English law, Iam sure our lively, handsome Bonapartist writers would go out and have an encounter with this radical contemporary who dares to come under the shadow of the dead Emperor's home, But nothing comes of it, and the incident was not without its amusing aspects, showing the bitterness of political feeling in France, where even journalists cannot meet professionally without the risk of duels next morning. NAPOLEON IV.’S FIRST LEVEE. About four o’elock there is 4 little rustle in the saloon, amd all eyes turn toward an opening door. There is a whisper, and my friend says eagerly, “It is the Prince Imperial! His Majesty Napoleon [V.1!” The company instinctively and in an instant form a group, asin the old Tuileries days, when Napo- leon ILI. had an audience. We see directly a young. lad, dressed in the uniform of an English artillery cadet, accompanied bya taller lad—a fellow stu- dent, ig the same uniform. This is the Prince Im- perial, accompanied by the son of Dr. Conneau. He enters the circle and passes from one to another. All are friends. The ladies kiss him on the cheek and shed tears, and nods of sympathy pass, Some of the most violent Bonapartists kneel and kiss his hand—now and then holding it for an instant and bathing it in tears, The Prince slowly comes toward us, and we see 4 lad with a clear, kind, blue, womanly eye ; features in which the Spanish charac- ter predominates, a pleasing face in every respect, the figure slender and well poised. We are struck at once with the grace and courtesy and self-posses- sion of the Prince’s manner, He bears himself with dignity, and shows careful training. To some old friends he speaks for a minute or twe. With others he merely interchanges a word. Now and then an emotional lady places her head on his shoulder and weeps aloud. When he came te your correspondent we shook hands. “Monseigneur,” I said, “permit me to offer you my condolences.’; “It is very sad, very sad,” he replied, and passed to my neighbor, one of the famous men of the Em- pire, who bent his knee and kissed the young man’s hand and sobbed vehemently. This was the first levee of Napoleon IV.! For although there was no formal recognition of the Prince as Emperor, as far as I could see, and although he was addressed as “Mon Prince” or “Monseigneur,” so far as I could observe, it was the reception that men and women only give to a kimg. Certainly the young man bore himself like a sovereign. As I remarked, he has very pleasant eyes. I have rarely seen eyes more frank and kindly. As I looked into themI wondered what destiny was before them, and whether, when he finally closed them in the rest which has now ceme to his father, he would not feel that it would have been petter and happier far had he not been born to a throne. IMPERIALI8T SPECULATIONS, It is impossible for 80 many men, especially men as eager and daring as the partisans of the house of Bonaparte, to assemble, even upon an errand as sad as this, without speculating upon the political future. And, after all this, Napoleon is dead; and with these men—the tears and the grief well over— the question is with the quick and not tne dead.. During my visits to Camden Louse in the idle hours, when we sauntered under the trees or ad. mired the garden statues, I have sought to make the conversation tend in a political direction. This was in every one's mind, and it is not dificult to induce speech from the full mind. I shall not take advantage of the freedoms that were permitted to your correspondent by mentioning names, but give you briey what useful things were said in reference to the political future of France and the Napoleon family. THE DISLIKE OF PRINCE NAPOLEON. “Were it not for Plon-Plon,” said one, who in his day was very near to the Emperor, “this would be a harmonious party. He is the evil genius of the gathering. We are all full of hope, but he, although a Napoleon and now only second from the throne, is a coward and a traitor.” “Has he shown any ill-will or discourtesy ? I asked, “Oh, never,’ was the response, “or we should have thrown him over the garden gate. But he is only loyal to himself. He afects to be the only Bonaparte, because he combs his hair ever his foreiead and wears his beard like the Emperor. He was never true to the dynasty. When all was dared fer success in the coup d'état he took pains te make a barrier between himself and the Em- peror, Well, we have never taken that barrier down. Prince Napoleon gained wealth, Station, rank from that event, and now stands on the steps of the throne—next to the throne in fact. Ican well conceive his one day being the head. But we do not want him for Napoleon V. He believesin nothing—not even his name. The Emperor wasan enthusiast, He Lad no hope, no dream, but to be worthy of Bis uncle, and be in al! things true to his destiny. His early youth carried him to personal memortes ef his uncle, and bis young eyes saw the ineffable radiance of the Empire. So his life had consistent aim and dream. But this Prince Napo- leon 1s an adventurer, and even now claims to be regent, or to be associated with the Empress in a Tegency. I cannot conceive such a thing possible.” I inquired if such @ thing had been discussed. “Discussed,” said my friend ; “hardly, But every one talks about it. We cannot discuss these things while the Emperor is unburied. But we are all here now, and the heads of the party will not sepa- Tate until some conclusions on the subject are reached. So all minds now turn that way, and the only question is, Shall there be a regency with the Prince Napoleon or one without him?” WHAT PRINCE NAPOLBON’S FRIENDS THINK, But there were other opinions. A Bonapartist, who came into the party late, and has some emi- nence iy jts councils, said that there wag no iguor- ing the diMculties that now surrounded the dy- nasty. “You see,” he said, ‘our main trouble is the Empress. She has no sympathy with the Na- Poleon party or principles, except so far as it may lead to her son’s advancement. And who is her son, pray? A kindly boy, whose soul is wrapped up in his mother and the priests, Well, if we want priests to govern France let us take the old Count de Chambord, who will give us a cabinet of Jesuits, Napoleonism respects the Pope, but does not surrender its policy to the Pope. Then we want to strengthen the dynasty. Suppose ‘anything happens to the Prince Imperial? God save him! we all pray; but he is only a lad, and not over strong. Then comes Prince Na- poleon—the only Napoleon who has anything like bis uncle’s genius—the only one who can claim royal blood outside of the Bonaparte line, He is aconnection of the reigning families, as a , G@escendant of the King of Wurtemberg, and his wife is daughter of Victor Emmanuel. And we Must not underrate the value of this alliance, King Victor is now the strongest ruler in the Latin countries. He rules united Italy, his son governs Spain, and with his daughter Empress of Franco, and the House of Savoy blended into the House of Bonaparte, we should come near to our dream of a Latin confederation.” “That is something like a dream,” I said, “The great Emperor had it. Napoleon III. real- ized it, To France—and especially to Spain and Italy—it is of more consequence than the personal ambitiens of the gooa, kind woman, who is up stairs there saying her prayers to two priests. Mind, I am not disavowing any allegiance to the young Prince. But these Jesuits here are doing all they can to divide the party, by heaping reproaches upon Jerome and the other members of the family. We are not strong enough now to quarrel. Nor «Would it be-wise or patriotic to quarrel with the King of Italy. We must draw near te him, and to Spain and Portugal, who are now united with the House of Savoy in blood and marriage. 1am more friendly to Napoleonism than lam even to Napo- leon IV.” THE LYING IN STATE. The lying in state was arranged for Tuesday. There were to be many antecedent preparations in the way of embalming and upholstery, and arrang- ing a chapelle ardente, So when we came again to Chiselhurst, on Tuesday morning, to pay our last respects to Cwsar, we found the stations crowded as though it were a Derby day. The weather was fine for England, and exceedingly warm, considering it was January. Public an- nouncement wag made that all who came would do well to wear mourning, and your correspondent expressed his sorrow in 4 pair of black gloves. “Going tosee the Emperor, sir, I suppose, sir,” said my Strand shopkeeper, as he worked the gloves on my fingers. ‘Yes,’ I replied. “Great man, he was, sir; yes, indeed, sir, and a true friend to England. Very kind to the poor, sir; took otf his hat whenever he saw a poor man, sir, and was very kind to his people. He was good to England, and we all feel very sorry. 1 wisn I could go my- self. I would put crape on my hat. Per- haps, sir, you would like a bit ef crape on yours, sir.” Your. correspondent thanked the tradesman and intimated that his grief was sufti- elently expressed by the gloves—that crape might be an exaggeration. But England was in mourn- ing, if one could read the signs in the twenty-five or thirty thousand who swarmed around Chisel- hurst. All kinds of black hats and black gloves and shiny black coats that had not seen the sun for @ season or two—black ribbons and mourning veils were worn everywhere. There was a rush from the station as though admittance depended upon ce- lerity. But upon our arrival we found Camden House in a state of siege. All around, over the damp heath and along the roads were hundreds of carriages and thousands of people, looking like a country camp mecting or a public execution in some of our American communities. There were few tradesmen doing business, however. An old woman or two offered cakes and ale to the hungry. A dismal old man, whose hat alone was in mourning, offered “Memorial cards of His late Majesty the Emperor Napoleon” for twopence. A French merchant had bought a@ large quantity of yellow immortelle wreaths from Ptre la Chaise, which he retailed at two shillings each, being a large advance on the Paris gaotations. The crowd was like all crowds. The pelice kept the gates, now and then pursuing some adventurous Briton who climbed the wall and expelling im amid great enthusiasm. We watched the mob a little while, in company with Mr. M. D. Conway, of the Cincin- nati Commercial, and in time were admitted by the intervention of that guardian angel who watches over gentlemen of the press—through a back gate, THE CHAPELLE ARDENTE, Once in we scurried along from one door to another until a little knot of policemen called out in encouraging terms to hurry while we had a chance, for there was afresh batch coming. And, sure enough, on looking back dewn the avenue of trees, a hundred or two of honest English men and women were coming at full speed, mainly dressed in black and carrying umbrellas, running as though there was @ racing match for @ cup or a purse. We took advantage of the admonition and passed over the low step into the dvor. There was a long, narrow way draped in black. A line of policemen passed in, saying, in composite phrase, “Keep going—s'il vous plait.” The passage was s0 dark that one could noteven see the faces of our guides. Then came a heavy sense of odors—the perfume of vio- lets and roses—and in a moment we were before His Majesty the Emperor Napoleon. IMPERIAL MAJESTY’S LAST LEVEE, What with hustling and jostling and necessary railroad bothers, the mind was searcely prepared for the honors of this august presence—for the emotions that one would certainly feel upon seeing this mighty, puissant prince. His Imperial Majesty was in an easy position, the head higher than the feet, looking out upon you with acalm glance. Yet we are not surprised at this impassive recognition when we remember the half-closed eyes, the slow-moving pace, the spbynx-like immobility of feature with which he was wont to accept our homage in the Tuileries. The mustache seems to be a trifle grayer than usual, and we note that its threads hang loosely over the severely pressed lip instead of being waxed to the tapering point asin happier and more splendid days. The hair has been carefully lapped over the forehead, a3 though loving hands had sought to give grace to the mysterious brow. The face is thinner than when we last saw it, rigid around the lips, and of the color of lead—a most unearthly and unlifelike aspect, Your Majesty, if one may venture a criticism in this sublime presence. The haads are crossed as in prayer, @ pair of glasses lying loosely be- tween the fingers, which are holding @ crucifix. All grace has gone from the hands that once wave command to millions, at the head of triumphant armies. All grace has gone, and the praying fingers are apart and rigid as though they would clutch something. We ob- serve two rings on the fnger—plain rings of burnished geld. One was given to His Majesty by fair, young Eugénie Montijo, when he won her love. Oh! but she was beautiful, this fair Eugénie, with her sunny, radiant hair; and how her eyes sparkled and her merry laugh rang loud, as they gayly rode together through the avenues of St. Clond? Fair Eugénie is no longer young, but has had her own splendors and heart-sorrows since, and now, in the very next room, surrounded by weeping women in black, looks mournfully out upon those gray Eng- lish skies, and the tall, barren trees, that sigh with her in sympathy, and recalls the Summer days of her romantic life. And ail that now remains is tnis plain gold ring, with which she pledged the faith of an Emperor. The other ring—of thin, burnished gold—was given to Hortense Beauharnais when she weadcd Louis Napoleon, and is new here upon the hand of this her august, imperial son. How the mind is carried back, as with @ flash, to a history that seems ancient, but which, in this presence, we feel to be almest the history of to-day. For, as I have said, this 1s the very son of Hortense Beau- harnais, he who now gives us audience, and she was the bride of Louis Bonaparte, whom you may remember as the prating, dreaming, sentimental, verse-writing brother of Napoleon Bonaparte, the Corsican and first of the race, And the life that now closes. and had ite due relations to this ying, .cedence, came into notice at the Tuileries, amid the thunder ofcannon at the Invalides; the gray, thin face—then chapby and red and burying itself in a happy mother’s bosom—as emperor and queen, and high noblemen and marshals of the Empire gathered around and murmured congratulations and prayers upon the birth of another imperial prince. ‘That was on the 20th of April, 1808, and we know what joy came to the heart of poor Josephine, who believed she saw in the new-born son assurance of her reign as the queen of Napoleon, And now all that remains is what we see to-day. This ring which @ Napoleon circled on the fingers of fair Hortense is the only living token. The great Em- Peror, who was 80 happy as he heard the gladden- ing guns; Josephine, who saw in his young eyes a new pledge of love and peace; Hortense, who re- joiced in every “tle that brought her near the throne—a queen and -happy as the motner of kings; the attending company of princes and Statesmen and soldiers—all have vanished like shadows, and those lipé which Napoleon and Jose- phine and Hertense so proudly kissed, how cold they are, and never @ smile nor a menace, only the same calm, silent, hidden look, at which men greatly wondered as he gave audience in the Tuileries, Nor at this, his last audience, is his glory forgotten, His Majesty, although in praying pesture, has his sword at his side, sheathed and sparkling with a gem or two that catch the eye with a twinkle that seems almost a mockery—the sword of Solferino and Sedan. He wears the uni- form of a general of the army. The sash of the Legion of Honor enfolds his breast, while the star of the Legion glitterson his bosom, There are one or two Italian decorations, and the star of the Orderof the Garter. Over the feet and from the feet trailing to the Moer is the purple, violet pall, fringed with yellow and bullion. At the side isa large wreath of violets enclosing a letter N, and flowers and tokens are scattered in profusion and overwhelm the senses with their fragrance ard make the breathing bard. THE PRINCE OF. WALES, Those who assembled at this last levee—many of them have been written before. But as becomes a great Emperor higher honors are in store. It is not enough that the most splendid names in France (I mean splendid with Bonaparte splendor) should shine here and bask under the imperial smiles. It is known that the heir of England and “all these islands,” even the most high, mighty and illustrious Prince of Wales, is coming to honor us with his company. It is not often that a Prince of Wales has honored the levees of a Napoleon; but en this occa- ston, being the last, he has graciously deigned to come, And, if the truth must be known, we are in & great flutter about it, and our friend, Lord Sya- ney, the Court Chamberlain, ts in the next room, anxiety on his noble brow lest the rules of eti- quette and courtly honor be not observed, The Napoleons are in @ room, all in a row—Jerome, Charles and Lucien—all the available Princes but poor Pierre, who is not present. Then in ®& second row are the Murats, who are also princes in due order and pre- satisfying to the eye of Lord Sydney. The Prince Imperial enters and sits in the middie. By and by there is a noise. The Duke de Bassano opens the door, Lord Sydney hurrying out. Two young men jump out—the Prince of Wales and his brother the Duke of Edinburgh. They are in mourning costume and wear black gloves, like the HeRaLp correspondent. Sydney bows to the Princes and leads them to the house. The Napoleon Princes (all but poor Pierre) advance, the Prince Imperial leading. The Prince of Wales, who has a good, honest face and looks very well, takes the young boy’s hand in a hearty, manly way and kisses him in the most unaffected, natural manner—just as any feeling man would be apt to kiss the beardless cheek of a lad who had just lost his father. The Duke of Edin- burgh kissed him again, and shook hands with the rest. Then, hand in hand, the Prince of Wales, the great grandnephew of George IL, walked with the grandnephew of Napoleon I. to look upon the face of Napoleon III. This was another historical incident, and would make a good study for your painters. The Princes remained gazing upon the Emperor a few minutes in silence, ‘Then the Prince of Wales was conducted to the chamber of Eugénic, and shortly after departed. He had journeyed all night to pay this simple courtesy, and he did itin a genuime, kind, sympa- thetic way. HIS MAJESTY’S COUNCILLORS, Nor must you suppose that with all this unex- pected honor His Majesty the Emperor receives alone, Just beyond the stool upon which he deigns to incline his head there are two clergymen at prayer, for this levee is more soiemn than was gen- erally the case at the Tuileries, Other priests are in attendance to relieve them when weary, for there must be a ceaseless current of prayer that peace may come to His Majesty. All the court is here, Napoleon is not dishonored or forgotten in hie last levee. His court wait in adjoining rooms, four members of it remaining at his side a half hour at a time to be at hand should he, as is not very probable, suddenly open his eyes and need their aid. It ia not very probable, but it has been the etiquette, and Got! forbid that in this final levee Napoleon IL should be in any way neg- lected! Mere they are, and as we pass we see them in courteous attitude—silent, attentive, as becomes noblemen and courtiers in the presence of so pow- erful @ Prince—ribboned, gloved, in full dress, as though His Majesty were again in the Tuileries and they were following him around the audience chamber, On his right is the faitmful General Fleury, whois now, as he has been for nearly twenty years, first in the confidence of his imperial master. At his side is Dr. Conneau, who took @ powder and feigned to be ill and gath- ered himself to bed and pretended to be Prince Napoleon, so as to enable his master and friend to escape from Ham Prison, This was twenty-eight years ago, when Louis Philippe was King, and days were dark for His Majesty. Faithful Connean had his account for it, and no doubt feels more sincere sorrow in tis heart than any one in this select and high gathering. He has been friend to His Majesty, man and boy, forty years, and one wonders as he looks from the patient, sorrowing gray head to the majestic countenance of the silent Casar whether poor Conneau has had mention in the will. Even a@ mention would, no doubt, gladden the dear, faithfulold man; but let us hope that there he has a few thousand francs for tobacco and drink in his older days. The third of the group is Comte dAvillier, a quiet statesman, wko drew his pay with untiring regularity and vigilance during the Empire, and was His Majesty's good friend in quiet ways, but made no impression outside of the impe- rial circle. The fourth of the group is the most high and illustrious Prince de la Moskowa, People in France and elsewhere know him better as the son of the. great Marshal Ney. He is a mild, middle-aged gentleman, his hair dashed with gray, with nothing but kis name to indicate that he is the son of “the bravest of the brave.” It is proper that the son of Marshal Ney should stand in wait- ing at the side of the nephew of Napoleon Bona- parte. Historical justice and poetry is calculated to arouse many thoughts, even although we see at his side the flery, furious adventurer, whose zeal was the life of the coup a@état, Un one side the son of Marshal Ney; on the other Fleury! Could Napo- leonism have & more fitting apotheosis, especially in this, its last, grand, solemn, imperial levee? Fer one represents the glory of a hundred hard fought fields, when France, in the blazing days of Messi- dor, stood alone against Europe, and justified her glory and her power, while the other recalled the dismal scenes of street mas- sacre and wanton outrage upon French freedom— the crimes and horrors of the coup d’état—the first act of the tragedy that could only end in Sedan. Yes, in bis last levee, His Majesty, who had always a dramatic turn of mind and an eye for effect, takes pains to show us in these two men the glory aud shame of his house. A STORY OF CAMDEN HOUSE, Well, we pass from the imperial presence into the open air. The odor of the violets is so oppres- sive and the policemen hurry you so that one has little time for historical reflections. Out in the open air there are little scattering groups, one group crowding around a table and writing ina book. This, We are told, is an ofMice of courtesy, that ‘the family” may know who have called, And the honest British tradesmen avail themselves of Lord | the circumstance and establish relations with the Bonaparte family in all kinds of signatures. Having no instructions that justify us in this social duty, we wander off down the long avenue of trees and towards the stables, and thinking of an incident in the history of this very Camden House—which made a great sensa- tion in England at the time. And asIam now writing of the hero of the coup d’état, the circum- stance comes more aptly to my story. It was in 1813, when this Napoleon was a laughing child in the Tuileries gardens, and the First was hurrying home from Russia to measure his strength with the great alliance that drove him to Elba, that there dwelt herea Mr. and Mrs, Bon: They had in their service one Philip Nicholson as tootman, who was given to unusual drink, Under the in- fluence of brandy, witl?no motive of anger or re- sentment, he took a poker from the fireplace, and, passing through the hall—the very hall where Na- Poleon now holds his last levee, with General Count Fleury at his stde—made an attack upon his master and mistress, killing Mr. Bonar instantly and wounding his wife so severely that even Sir Astley Cooper could not save her, and she died in the afternoon. Like the lounging strollers on the Boulevards, who were suddenly fired upon by delirious troops, in obedi- ence ,to the orders of Fleury, and latd down in the agonies of death under the café tables, where they had been sipping their coffee unconscious of wrong or harm, Mr. and Mrs. Bonar nad done no wrong or harm to their murderer. His coup d'état, how- ever, was hardly judged, for the English law did not find that killing narmless people in cold blood, merely because the killers were under a mania— be it politics or delirium tremens—was an excusa- ble transaction, An English jury found it murder, and so far from holding Philip Nicholson in honor— a8 a man of enterprise and resolution, and fitted to do brave deeds with a poker—they dragged him to the scaffold on Pennenden Heath in a hurdle, which was really “a shallow box, about six feet by three,” and there, under the shining sun and in presence of thousands of his countrymen, hanged him, and kept him hanging for an hour, But this, you know was in England, and the English are a brutal, practical race—not dis- posed tosec ia a proper light the /dées Napoltennes of @ man like Count Fleury. Nor should [ have mentioned the circumstance, nor invited the criti- cism the narrative must bring, but that I am obey- ing my duty as a historian. Louis Napoleon Bona- parte, the hero of the coup d'état, held his last levee—on one side of him Count Fleury, on the other side of him the son of Marshal Ney—in the very house and almost upon the very spot where the most horrible and wanton murder ever re- corded in the Newgate calendar was committed, just sixty years ago. History in its pitiless irony makes these coincidences, and your correspondent, who had his own thoughts about it, simply writes them down. THE COFFIN CLOSED—THE EMPRESS NIGHT IN PRAYER, It was very late When the last of sight-seers passed through the room. Those who had it in charge resolved that all who came to see should have the privilege. About nine the chapel was closed, The priests spent two hours in prayer. Towards midnight it was resolved to close the coffin, A few of the immediate friends of the Em- peror gathered for the last farewell. Rouher, Bas- sano, Abbatucci, Pictri, Fleury and the rest. Prayers were read, the attendants quietly put on the lid and soldered down the leaden covering. ‘The coffin was in three parts, an inner shell of lead, The outer lid was then screwed down, It bore an imperial crown in gold, the imperial arms, a Latin cross, and this inscription in letters of gold :— pnnnennnsenees ne cn nnnnnn NAPOLEON III. EMPEREUR DES FRANCAIS, 3 Né a Paris, le 20 Avril, 1808, 2 Mort a Camden House, Chiselhurst, le 9 Janvier, 1873, R. 1. Pe Qrenene nero nenene NOOe ROE LOOELEOODEOIOLE DOLE NEES EE 9) It was after midnight when this was completed, The friends drew apart—some to watch, others to sleep. Then Eugénie, who had been in seclusion, came down stairs and knelt by the coffin, She had resolved to spend the last night of her husband's stay on earth in prayer at the side of his coffin. Efforts were made to dissnade her from the fond, pious resolution, but with no avail, The night grew on, and she remained kneeling, praying, thinking thoughts that it is not for us to even venture to di- vine, What memories of gloryand ambition and pride and hope—from the sunny maiden days in far Mad- rid; her splendid reign in the palace of Louis XIV. ; her exile and now her widowhood, and before her the cares of a party, with its passion, yearnings, in- trigues and dreams! Once queen among queens and envied among women, is there any one more wretched now? Any one whqse heart does not pity the poor widowed mother kneeling in tears and sorrow and deep entreaty by the side of dead Napoleon? It was almost morning before she left the coftin’s side, and it was only in obedience to the urgent entreaties of her confessor and physi- cians that just before dawn she permitted herself to be removed to her chamber. ° THE MORNING OF THE FUNERAL. The fine weather did not abandon Napoleon in his final parade. The French used to say fair weatheralways favors the Emperor. The morning is a8 warm as Spring, and the trains bring down even @ larger multitude than came yesterday. There are ten times as many police, and no ab- sence of order, Within the house nothing is done but to wait upon the dead, Every train brings new arrivals of imperialists. One of these informs us that before the ceffim was closed there was @ box of earth, taken from the Tuileries garden, piaced under his head. So that the head of Napoleon III. would really rest on French soil, You will be pleased to know that this circumstance gave great pleasure to the imperial family. But this ts not all; for, as Ihave said, the dramatic instinct follows Napoleon even to the grave. Up the long avenne of trees comes @ body of workmen—ouvriers—who have testified their love for the Emperor of the Peasant. They carry at their head a tricoior flag, and are well received by the noblemen, who are here and there, in groups, smoking cigarettes. The workmen are honest enough in their way, and look as if they had had a bad night on the channel. I try to find out who inspired this happy thought, and especially, who paid their expenses, as it would take a long time for a French workman, at the present price of bread and coal, to earn eneugh to take a trip to England. THE FUNERAL MARCH. It is nearly eleven o'clock. The workmen have marched down the avenue of trees and formed in line—the French flag at their head, tied to @ tree branch ana borne aloft. The hearse is at the door, drawn by eight norses. The two leading horses are mounted. In a ‘moment a priest comes out, carrying @ cross, followed by other priests reading prayers. Then comes the coffin, resting on the sheul- ders of eight men. They gently shove it im the hearse. Over the cofMin is thrown the imperial pall, Then come servants and friends, who throw flowers and wreaths over it. The company instantly forms into @ general procession. The hearse passes on amid the hush of thousand voices. Immediately behind, draped in a long mourning cloak, walks the Prince Imperial. His eyes are bent upon the cofMfn. Behind him ts the line containing the Princes of the Napoleon family. All eyes—English eyes, especially—instantly turn to Prince Napoleon. You see at once the startling resemblance to the great Napoleon, and, as you study it, the resemblance seems more and more striking. After the crowd had looked with sym. pathy upon the orphaned young Prince, whose mild blue eyes amd slender, boy-like form excited the compassion of all hearts, Prince Napoleon, as to English eyes the very body and form of the old Emperor, was an object of curious gaze, By his side were Prince Lucien and Prince Charles—the descendants of Lucien Bonaparte, the brother of the first Emperor, In their faces are noted also the Bonaparte resemblance, but not so strongly as in that of Jerome. Immediately behind the Princes were Lord SuMeld, who represented the Prince of Wales, and Lord Sydney, who was in attendance as the representative of the Queen. To them was assigned the place of honor. THE FUNERAL PROCESSION. Then came @ procession of about eight hundred, SPENDS TIE necenooe. aver cenene erecoraenees: walking in line, five or six abreast, all dressed plainly indeeymourping. One single Freach uni- form attracted attention mainly from its oddity. The members of the Legion of Honor wore tha collars and ribbons of their order. Nearly every one had bunches of violets in the lapeis of hig coat. After the Princes pass one sees so many famous men that the “memory faiis to note themr Behind the Bonapartes walk the Princes of the Murat family, as descendants of Napoleon by hia sister, who married Murat. That full, round, al- most waddling person, with a face that looks onthe biush as though it might be a caricature of Henry Wilson, is Rouher, the old Minister of State, now member of the Assembly and representative Napo- leonist in France. He seems sad enough to-day, and no doubt will sincerely serve his present party until a better offers, That slim, weasel-like face, whose eyes roll im all directions, on which you read silence and assiduity, is the man who was in his time the most unpopular man in France. He is Pietri, Prefect of Paria under the Empire, Master of the Police, and latterly, in exile, the Emperor's; private secretary, That imposing, venerable figure is La Valette, once Minister to London, and with a good name under the Empire as a zealous diplomatist. Near him ia the Duke de Cambarceres, who will be remembered only for his name. THE LAST OF THR “ELYSEE BRETIREN."! But who is this, with the stern militar y tramp the eyes like steel, a long tapering mustache well tinged with gray, surmounting a. closely combed,, imperial, looking steadily with an expression more of wonder than grief—such a man as you would look upon a second time inquiringly did you not know that it was the famous General Count Fleury * Tlooked upon him as curiously as I would nave looked upon lara or Lambro, o: any of Byron’s marvellons pirates coming to life. If Fleury would, only speak he could tell, more than any one no} living, of the manner of man, whether taken as man! or Emperor, who is now passing ahead of him in the; coffin. Fleury was the fire of the coup a’état, ard in him was as much of electricity and daring as th sluggish Emperor ever showed. What can bi: thoughts be this heavy Winter day, as he follows hist master to the grave over the Kentish meadows? I: this, then, the end of your coups d'état, most nobi Count, your schemes and plots and counterplots,, your massacres on the boulevards and your twenty years of security and wealth behind the throne?! And why are you here alone—alone of alt that daring brotherhood who plotted in the Elysée, and, bursting upon France in the night, strangled! freedom and held the nation by the throat? Wher are your compantons in that desperate adventure? Companions, we say, but, more aptly, followers. Count Arnaud went long since, finding his death! in the Crimean trenches, The brilliant De Morn: found rest a few years since—dying at the apoge: of the Empire. Persigny—foolish, faithful aS signy—fell by the wayside not long after, Louis: Napoleon Bonaparte now trundles after them, pulled by elght horses and followed by a pale, sligh son, in a long black cloak—all that reniainal of the And you are alone, Count, and, rumor says, quite poor—not ’ being, easily satisfied in the way of money. and on the whole did not, we fear, find the Empire, @ permanent investment. Well, as Prince 0! Pirates, ancient or modern and worthy to be remem~- bered for the success of his awfol enterprise, wo give him a kind of curious admiration ag he slowly" marches in the funeral train. THE MINISTERS OF THE EMPIRE BEFORE SEDAN. This valiant, pretty gentleman, with military( mustache, is tho General Le Beuf whogvent into the war against Prussia so well prepared that not a button would be wanting to a soldier’s gaiter. But many buttons were wanting, and things more necessary than buttons, as the General found when’ Sedan came, and he fed from France as one who flies from vengeance. Nor does he care to return, and one looks upon him, so bitter have been the maledictions heaped upon his name, as a noted character escaped from prison. One fancies ho, dynasty. | Shows sucha sentiment on his face—a feeling of exile and discontent. Near him is the tall, slender, ; but well knit, thin-headed, heedless Duke do Gramont, about whose “revelations”? every ono is now talking, the only “revelation” that one cam find being that the Duke was a great fool in diplomacy when matched against Bismarck, and, Von Beust, ana spould be kept out of harm’s way, for the end of his career. It was Gramont who hurried on the war, ‘That swarthy-faced Corsican, who trips along so irregularly and impatiently that it would not surprise you to see him break from the ranks and run skipping over the meadow and turn @ somerset or do some other foolish thing, 1s Benedetti. You will remember him, no doubt, is the ambassador to Kaiser William when’ the war broke out, and how William would not speak to him one day at Ems, when he had an im- portant message to deliver, and how Bismarck proved him to have been coaxing Prussia to help Napoleon capture Belgium all the | time ne was promising to aid England, and was really in alliance with her, Well, Bene- dettt looks very meek and sad and sincerely sorry” for his master’s death, amd as though the world was not going well with him. And here comes in true life—as though it were a phantom, with ghastly cheeks and large solemn eyes, dimmed with spectacles, an expressively ugly face, witha bat-like avoidance of the sunshine—Napoleon’s last Prime Minister, Ollivier—Emile himself, who hag crept here from Italy to look upon the faces of the only Frenchmen who would not scowl derision’ and contempt. Well, one pities poor Oljivier ag he looks upon his grim visage and remembers the war upon which he entered with “so light a heart.” These were his very words, you will remem- ber. They were spoken in 1870, And no son of Adam since that day has had a heavier heart. But Ollivier does not seem at home in this fumerak train. He was the last convert to Napoleonism. He came tn to hurry its fall, and I fancy, although the grave has made a truce to all, his welcome bere has been far from hearty. THE GENERAL COMPANY. So we might dwell upon hundreds of others in this throng, but lam afraid it would have little interest fer America, There was this thought, however, that Napoleon had something more than his station to summon to his faneral train such & large fellowing. There would have been little honor in following his body trom the Tuileries to St. venis or St, Leu. Any one can honor a reign- ing dynasty; but this King was an exile, living away far irom home. He had no power, nor does itseem that his family will have power at any future time. When the First Napoleon fell at Fontainebleau bis marshals—men whom he had taken from the dust and stamped with honor, and, leading all, the very Marshal Ney whose son walks here in the rank where the princes ai were the first to abandon him, to ferce his abdication and to lay their swords at the feet of his ememy. Let it be said to the honor of this body of men that they were true to the Empire; that they did pot aban- don it when ft fell, and that now, in exile and help- lessness, they walk behind their Emperor to the tomb. yit not show that there was in thia Napoleon 8 principle more vital than any that in- i spired the policy of the First Napoleon? Thero | Must be some high traitin a king who can sum~ mon his friends in exile to pay him homage in tha grave. THE ROUTE TO THE GRAVE. From Camien House to the little church is im dis- tance abeut half or two-thirds of @ mile, mainly, over a country road, bordered with meadows. This Toad was held by pc‘icemen, and was lined with people to the namber of about thirty theusand—~ some say fifty thousand—bvut there i no way of knowing. They stood in many places eight and ten persons deep. The fences swarmed; benches and chairs were used; temporary stands wero’ erected. ‘The procession moved very slow!y.' The French walked with uncovered heads,| and a8 the hearse passed every one in the dense crowd lifted his hat. Not ® word was spoken—only whispered words of pity for the forlorn, young Prince, who walked alone in his crape cloak, and curious inquiries as to’ the men who followed him. With the exception of the dramatic workmen who walked ahead, carrying the flag—in number just fifty—the whole procession was in the simplest and most appropriate taste. & saw nothing more interesting, however, than an old man leaning ona cane, with thin, white bair, who had been propped up in a chair, and stood with his hat in Nie hand as the coffin passed. From his breast depended the Waterloo medal, which certified that as @ private soldier be haq