prevailing tint of the ceiling. The cornice is silver white, set off by
a velvet crimson. The wall paper is gold and red, broken by eight lofty
mirrors, which are chastely margined with black and faced with fleece.

Their imperfect surfaces reflect the lofty catafalque, an open canopy of
solemn alapaca, lined with tasteful satin of creamish lead, looped at
the curving roof and dropping to the four corners in half transparent
tapestry. Beneath the roof, the half light shines upon a stage of fresh
and fragrant flowers, up-bearing a long, high coffin. White lace of pure
silver pendant from the border throws a mild shimmer upon the solid
silver tracery hinges and emblazonings. A cross of lilies stands at the
head, an anchor of roses at the foot. The lid is drawn back to show the
face and bosom, and on the coffin top are heather, precious flowers, and
sprigs of green. This catafalque, or in plain words, this coffin set
upon a platform and canopied, has around it a sufficient space of
Brussels carpet, and on three sides of this there are raised steps
covered with black, on which the honored visitors are to stand.

The fourth side is bare, save of a single row of chairs some twenty in
number, on which the reporters are to sit. The odor of the room is fresh
and healthy; the shade is solemn, without being oppressive. All is rich,
simple, and spacious, and in such sort as any king might wish to lie.
Approach and look at the dead man.

Death has fastened into his frozen face all the character and
idiosyncrasy of life. He has not changed one line of his grave,
grotesque countenance, nor smoothed out a single feature. The hue is
rather bloodless and leaden; but he was alway sallow. The dark eyebrows
seem abruptly arched; the beard, which will grow no more, is shaved
close, save the tuft at the short small chin. The mouth is shut, like