The Catacombs of Paris—Ineffective nature of the written description of
these as compared with the reality—Author’s descent into them—His
speedy return—Contrast presented by the cemetery of Père la
Chaise—Tomb of Abelard and Heloise—An English capitalist’s notions of
sentiment.
The stupendous catacombs of Paris form perhaps the greatest curiosity of
that capital. I have seen many well-written descriptions of this
magazine of human fragments, yet on actually visiting it, my sensations
of awe, and I may add, of disgust, exceeded my anticipation.
I found myself (after descending to a considerable depth from the light
of day) among winding vaults, where, ranged on every side, are the
trophies of Death’s universal conquest. Myriads of grim, fleshless,
grinning visages seem (even through their eyeless sockets) to stare at
the passing mortals who have succeeded them, and ready with long knotted
fingers to grasp the living into their own society. On turning away from
these hideous objects, my sight was arrested by innumerable white
scalpless skulls and mouldering limbs of disjointed skeletons—mingled
and misplaced in terrific pyramids; or, as if in architectural mockery
of nature, framed into mosaics, or piled into walls and barriers with
taste fantastic!
There are men of nerve strong enough to endure the contemplation of such
things without shrinking. I participate not in this apathetic mood.
Almost at the first step which I took between these ghastly ranks in the
deep catacomb d’Enfer, (whereinto I had plunged by a descent of ninety
steps,) my spirit no longer remained buoyant: it felt subdued and cowed;
my feet reluctantly advanced through the gloomy mazes; and at length a
universal thrill of horror crawled along the surface of my skin. It
would have been to little purpose to protract this struggle, and _force_
my will to obedience: I therefore, instinctively as it were, made a
retrograde movement; I ascended into the world again, more rapidly than
I had gone downward, and left my less sensitive and wiser friends to
explore at leisure those dreary regions. And never did the sun appear to
me more bright; never did I feel his rays more cheering and genial, than
as I emerged from the melancholy catacombs, to resume the sight of man
and the sensations of existence.
The visitor of Paris will find it both curious and interesting to
contrast with these another receptacle for the dead—the cemetery of Père
la Chaise. It is strange that there should exist among the same people,
in the same city, and almost in the same vicinity, two _Golgothas_, in
their nature so utterly dissimilar and repugnant from each other.
The soft and beautiful features of landscape which characterise Père la
Chaise are scarcely describable: so harmoniously are they blended
together,—so sacred does the spot appear to quiet contemplation and
hopeful repose,—that it seems almost profane to attempt description, or
to submit its charms in detail before the reader’s eye. All in fact that
I had ever read about it fell, as in the case of the catacombs, (“alike,
but ah, how different!”) far short of the reality.
I have wandered whole mornings together over its winding paths and
venerable avenues. Here are no “ninety steps” of descent to gloom and
horror: on the contrary, a gradual _ascent_ leads to the cemetery of
Père la Chaise, and to its enchanting summit, on every side shaded by
brilliant evergreens. The straight lofty cypress and spreading cedar
uplift themselves around; and the arbutus, exposing its deceptive
berries, tenders to the walker at once its shade and fragrance. In lieu
of the damp mouldering scent exhaled by three millions of human
skeletons, we are presented with the perfumes of jasmines and of
myrtles—of violet-beds or variegated flower-plats decked out by the
ministering hand of love or duty;—as if benignant Nature had spread her
most splendid carpet to cover, conceal, and render alluring even the
abode of death, and commemorate the noblest passions and the purest
sympathies of mortality.
Whichever way we turn, the labours of art combine with the luxuriance of
vegetation to raise in the mind new reflections: marble, in all its
varieties of shade and grain, is wrought by the hand of man into
numerous bewitching shapes; while one of the most brilliant and cheerful
cities in the universe seems to lie, with its wooded boulevards, gilded
domes, palaces, gardens, and glittering waters, just beneath our feet.
One sepulchre, alone, of a decidedly mournful character, attracted my
notice—a large and solid mausoleum, buried amidst gloomy yews and low
drooping willows; and this looked only like a patch on the face of
loveliness. Père la Chaise presents a solitary instance of the abode of
the dead ever interesting me _agreeably_.
I will not remark on the well-known tomb of Abelard and Eloisa: a
hundred pens have anticipated me in most of the observations I should be
inclined to make respecting that celebrated couple. The most obvious
circumstance in their “sad story” always struck me as being—that he
turned priest when he was good for nothing else, and she became “quite
correct” when opportunities for the reverse began to slacken. They no
doubt were properly qualified to make very respectable _saints_: but
since they took care previously to have their fling, I cannot say much
for their _morality_.
I am not sure that a burial-place similar to Père la Chaise would be
admired in England: it is almost of too picturesque and sentimental a
character. The humbler orders of the English people are too coarse to
appreciate the peculiar feeling such a cemetery is calculated to excite;
the higher orders too licentious; the trading classes too avaricious.
The plum-holder of the city would very honestly and frankly “d—n all
your nonsensical sentiment!” I heard one of these gentlemen, last year,
declare that what poets and _such-like_ called _sentiment_, was neither
more nor less than deadly poison to the _Protestant religion_!
Though there is perhaps as much real refinement in London as in Paris,
the French certainly mingle more _mind_ with their _vices_. Those of the
Englishman are merely sensual: those of the French seasoned with
intellect.—The Englishman’s the result of _instinct_—the Frenchman’s of
_excitement_: an Englishman is _always_, a Frenchman _never_, in
_earnest_.
Père la Chaise would only remind a cockney of _suicide_: it sets a
Parisian gabbling about the meadows of Elysium. A Paris shopkeeper can
descant on the _heathen mythology_: the _cockney_ talks of _heaven_ from
his _bible_ and the _pulpit_; and if the _river Styx_ should be
mentioned, he probably considers it scaffolding at London Bridge.
As to the French ladies, they all fancy that they are saturated with
refinement. A very spirited and handsome Frenchwoman told me some time
since, with as much gravity as she was susceptible of, that she had more
_refinement_ than she knew what to do with, and most ardently wished
that she could have the honour of transferring the _balance_ to some of
my fair countrywomen, who, she understood, considered it a particular
_dainty_.