s
between the handsome gilded gas-lamps that at present ornament that
avenue; next day, all these scaffoldings were filled with brick and
mortar. Presently, over the bricks and mortar rose pediments of statues,
legs of urns, legs of goddesses, legs and bodies of goddesses, legs,
bodies, and busts of goddesses. Finally, on the 13th December, goddesses
complete. On the 14th they were painted marble-color; and the basements
of wood and canvas on which they stood were made to resemble the
same costly material. The funereal urns were ready to receive the
frankincense and precious odors which were to burn in them. A vast
number of white columns stretched down the avenue, each bearing a bronze
buckler on which was written, in gold letters, one of the victories of
the Emperor, and each decorated with enormous imperial flags. On these
columns golden eagles were placed; and the newspapers did not fail to
remark the ingenious position in which the royal birds had been set:
for while those on the right-hand side of the way had their heads turned
TOWARDS the procession, as if to watch its coming, those on the left
were looking exactly the other way, as if to regard its progress. Do not
fancy I am joking: this point was gravely and emphatically urged in
many newspapers; and I do believe no mortal Frenchman ever thought it
anything but sublime.

Do not interrupt me, sweet Miss Smith. I feel that you are angry. I can
see from here the pouting of your lips, and know what you are going to
say. You are going to say, "I will read no more of this Mr. Titmarsh;
there is no subject, however solemn, but he treats it with flippant
irreverence, and no character, however great, at whom he does not
sneer."

Ah, my dear! you are young now and enthusiastic; and your Titmarsh is
old, very old, sad, and gray-headed. I have seen a poor mother buy a
halfpenny wreath at the gate of Montmartre burying-ground, and go with
it to her little child's grave, and hang it there over the little humble
stone; and if ever you saw me scorn the mean offering of the poor shabby
creature, I will give you leave to be as angry as you will. They say
that on the passage of Napoleon's coffin down the Seine, old soldiers
and country people walked miles from their villages just to catch a
sight of the boat which carried his body and to kneel down on the shore
and pray for him. God forbid that we should quarrel with such prayers
and sorrow, or question their sincerity. Someth