The Second Funeral of Napoleon | Page 4

red as a hollyhock, and put down the
history-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 one of them.
They appear before you in their public capacities, but the individuals
you know not. Suppose, for instance, your mamma had purchased her
tea in the Borough from a grocer living there by the name of Greenacre:
suppose you had been asked out to dinner, and the gentleman of the
house had said: "Ho! Francois! a glass of champagne for Miss
Smith;"--Courvoisier would have served you just as any other footman
would; you would never have known that there was anything
extraordinary in these individuals, but would have thought of them only
in their respective public characters of Grocer and Footman. This,
Madam, is History, in which a man always appears dealing with the
world in his apron, or his laced livery, but which has not the power or
the leisure, or, perhaps, is too high and mighty to condescend to follow
and study him in his privacy. Ah, my dear, when big and little men
come to be measured rightly, and great and small actions to be weighed
properly, and people to be stripped of their royal robes, beggars' rags,
generals' uniforms, seedy out- at-elbowed coats, and the like--or the
contrary say, when souls come to be stripped of their wicked deceiving
bodies, and turned out stark naked as they were before they were
born--what a strange startling sight shall we see, and what a pretty
figure shall some of us cut! Fancy how we shall see Pride, with his
Stultz clothes and padding pulled off, and dwindled down to a forked
radish! Fancy some Angelic Virtue, whose white raiment is suddenly

whisked over his head, showing us cloven feet and a tail! Fancy
Humility, eased of its sad load of cares and want and scorn, walking up
to the very highest place of all, and blushing as he takes it! Fancy,--but
we must not fancy such a scene at all, which would be an outrage on
public decency. Should we be any better than our neighbors? No,
certainly. And as we can't be virtuous, let us be decent. Figleaves are a
very decent, becoming wear, and have been now in fashion for four
thousand years. And so, my dear, history is written on fig-leaves.
Would you have anything further? O fie!
Yes, four thousand years ago that famous tree was planted. At their
very first lie, our first parents made for it, and there it is still the great
Humbug Plant, stretching its wide arms, and sheltering beneath its
leaves, as broad and green as ever, all the generations of men. Thus, my
dear, coquettes of your fascinating sex cover their persons with figgery,
fantastically arranged, and call their masquerading, modesty. Cowards
fig themselves out fiercely as "salvage men," and make us believe that
they are warriors. Fools look very solemnly out from the dusk of the
leaves, and we fancy in the gloom that they are sages. And many a 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 the ornament
and see his numskull bare.
And such--(excuse my sermonizing)--such is the constitution of
mankind, that men have, as it were, entered into a compact among
themselves to pursue the fig-leaf system a l'outrance, and to cry down
all who oppose it. Humbug they will have. Humbugs themselves, they
will respect humbugs. Their daily victuals of life must be seasoned with
humbug. Certain things are there in the world that they will not allow to
be called by their right names, and will insist upon our admiring,
whether we will or no. Woe be to the man who would enter too far into
the recesses of that magnificent temple where our Goddess is enshrined,
peep through the vast embroidered curtains indiscreetly, penetrate the
secret of secrets, and expose the Gammon of Gammons! And as you
must not peer too curiously within, so neither must you remain
scornfully without. Humbug- worshippers, let us come into our great
temple regularly and decently: take our seats, and settle our clothes
decently; open our books, and go through the service with decent
gravity; listen, and be decently affected by the expositions of the decent

priest of the place; and if by chance some straggling vagabond,
loitering in the sunshine out of doors, dares to laugh or to sing, and
disturb the sanctified dulness of the faithful;--quick! a couple of big
beadles rush out and belabor the wretch, and his yells make our
devotions more comfortable.
Some magnificent religious ceremonies of this nature are at present
taking place in France; and thinking