Fig 1: The magnificent crypt houses the tombs of Empress Eugénie, Napoleon III and the couple’s son, the Prince Imperial
IN last week’s issue, we saw how the exiled Empress Eugénie, the widow of Napoleon III (d. 1873), bought the Farnborough Hill estate in 1880 and remained there until her death in 1920. Inside the house, she created a museum-like display that recounted the history of the Bonaparte dynasty from the rise of Napoleon Bonaparte, her husband’s uncle, up to the death of the Prince Imperial, her only son, in 1879. All of this was dismantled in 1927.
Her most important act of memorialisation, however, was the Mausoleum that she built within sight of the house in 1883–88. She had intended to build this at Camden Place, Chislehurst, in Kent, where the family had settled after the collapse of the imperial regime in 1870, but she faced opposition and was unable to buy enough land. It was primarily for this reason that she relocated to Hampshire. The bodies of the Emperor and the Prince were translated there in 1888.
Fig 2 above: The west front of the Mausoleum, now the conventual church of the abbey, built between 1883 and 1888 by Hippolyte Destailleur.
The Mausoleum stands to the south of the house, on the brow of a hill close by. Located in an estate of its own, it is separated from the grounds of the house by a railway line, but it was always meant to be seen across the parkland of Farnborough Hill and the view is essentially unchanged. Indeed, the sight of the Mausoleum, with its lofty dome rising through the pine trees of Hampshire, is one of the great unknown views of England.
Denne historien er fra August 19, 2020-utgaven av Country Life UK.
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Denne historien er fra August 19, 2020-utgaven av Country Life UK.
Start din 7-dagers gratis prøveperiode på Magzter GOLD for å få tilgang til tusenvis av utvalgte premiumhistorier og 9000+ magasiner og aviser.
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Save our family farms
IT Tremains to be seen whether the Government will listen to the more than 20,000 farming people who thronged Whitehall in central London on November 19 to protest against changes to inheritance tax that could destroy countless family farms, but the impact of the good-hearted, sombre crowds was immediate and positive.
A very good dog
THE Spanish Pointer (1766–68) by Stubbs, a landmark painting in that it is the artist’s first depiction of a dog, has only been exhibited once in the 250 years since it was painted.
The great astral sneeze
Aurora Borealis, linked to celestial reindeer, firefoxes and assassinations, is one of Nature's most mesmerising, if fickle displays and has made headlines this year. Harry Pearson finds out why
'What a good boy am I'
We think of them as the stuff of childhood, but nursery rhymes such as Little Jack Horner tell tales of decidedly adult carryings-on, discovers Ian Morton
Forever a chorister
The music-and way of living-of the cabaret performer Kit Hesketh-Harvey was rooted in his upbringing as a cathedral chorister, as his sister, Sarah Sands, discovered after his death
Best of British
In this collection of short (5,000-6,000-word) pen portraits, writes the author, 'I wanted to present a number of \"Great British Commanders\" as individuals; not because I am a devotee of the \"great man, or woman, school of history\", but simply because the task is interesting.' It is, and so are Michael Clarke's choices.
Old habits die hard
Once an antique dealer, always an antique dealer, even well into retirement age, as a crop of interesting sales past and future proves
It takes the biscuit
Biscuit tins, with their whimsical shapes and delightful motifs, spark nostalgic memories of grandmother's sweet tea, but they are a remarkably recent invention. Matthew Dennison pays tribute to the ingenious Victorians who devised them
It's always darkest before the dawn
After witnessing a particularly lacklustre and insipid dawn on a leaden November day, John Lewis-Stempel takes solace in the fleeting appearance of a rare black fox and a kestrel in hot pursuit of a pipistrelle bat
Tarrying in the mulberry shade
On a visit to the Gainsborough Museum in Sudbury, Suffolk, in August, I lost my husband for half an hour and began to get nervous. Fortunately, an attendant had spotted him vanishing under the cloak of the old mulberry tree in the garden.
