Thought and affliction, passion, death itself,
They turn to favour and to prettiness?
It would, I believe, be more just, as well as more generous, instead
of accusing the whole nation of being the victims of affectation
instead of sorrow under every affliction that death can cause, to
believe that they feel quite as sincerely as ourselves; though they
have certainly a very different way of showing it.
I wish they, whoever they are, who had the command of such matters,
would have let the curious tomb of Abelard and Eloïsa remain in decent
tranquillity in its original position. Nothing can assimilate worse
than do its Gothic form and decorations with every object around it.
The paltry plaster tablet too, that has been stuck upon it for the
purpose of recording the history of the tomb rather than of those who
lie buried in it, is in villanously bad taste; and we can only hope
that the elements will complete the work they have begun, and then
this barbarous defacing will crumble away before our grandchildren
shall know anything about it.
The thickly-planted trees and shrubs have grown so rapidly, as in many
places to make it difficult to pass through them; and the ground
appears to be extremely crowded nearly over its whole extent. A few
neighbouring acres have been lately added to it; but their bleak,
naked, and unornamented surface forbids the eye as yet to recognise
this space as part of the enclosure. One pale solitary tomb is placed
within it, at the very verge of the dark cypress line that marks the
original boundary; and it looks like a sheeted ghost hovering about
between night and morning.
One very noble monument has been added since I last visited the
garden: it is dedicated to the memory of a noble Russian lady, whose
long unspellable name I forget. It is of white or greyish marble, and
of magnificent proportions,--lofty and elegant, yet massive and
entirely simple. Altogether, it appeared to me to be as perfect in
taste as any specimen of monumental architecture that I have ever
seen, though it had not the last best grace of sculpture to adorn it.
There is no effigy--no statue--scarcely an ornament of any kind, but
it seems constructed with a view to unite equally the appearance of
imposing majesty and enduring strength. This splendid mausoleum
stands towards the top of the garden, and forms a predominating and
very beautiful object from various parts of it.
Among the hundreds of names which one reads in passing,--I hardly know
why, for they certainly convey but small interest to the mind,--we met
with that of the _Baron Munchausen_. It was a small and
unpretending-looking stone, but bore a host of blazing titles, by
which it appears that this Baron, whom I, and all my generation, I
believe, have ever looked upon as an imaginary personage, was in fact
something or other very important to somebody or other who was very
powerful. Why his noble name has been made such use of among us, I
cannot imagine.
In the course of our wanderings we came upon this singular
inscription:--
"Ci-gît Caroline,"--(I think the name is Caroline,)--"fille de
Mademoiselle Mars."
Is it not wonderful what a difference twenty-one miles of salt-water
can make in the ways and manners of people?
There are not many statues in the cemetery, and none of sufficient
merit to add much to its embellishment; but there is one recently
placed there, and standing loftily predominant above every surrounding
object, which is strongly indicative of the period of its erection,
and of the temper of the people to whom it seems to address itself.
This is a colossal figure of Manuel. The countenance is vulgar, and
the expression of the features violent and exaggerated: it might stand
as the portrait of a bold factious rebel for ever.