XIV.

Canal-street--Octagonal church--Government house--Future

prospects of New-Orleans--Roman chapel--Mass for the dead

--Interior of the chapel--Mourners--Funeral--Cemeteries--

Neglect of the dead--English and American grave yards--

Regard of European nations for their dead--Roman Catholic

cemetery in New-Orleans--Funeral procession--Tombs--Burying

in water--Protestant grave-yard.

Canal-street, as I have in a former letter observed, with its triple row

of young sycamores, extending throughout the whole length, is one of the

most spacious, and destined at no distant period, to be one of the first

and handsomest streets in the city. Every building in the street is of

modern construction, and some blocks of its brick edifices will vie in

tasteful elegance with the boasted granite piles of Boston.

Yesterday, after a late dinner, the afternoon being very fine, I left my

hotel, and without any definite object in view, strolled up this street.

The first object which struck me as worthy of notice was a small brick

octagon church, enclosed by a white paling, on the corner of

Bourbon-street. The entrance was overgrown with long grass, and the

footsteps of a worshipper seemed not to have pressed its threshold for

many an unheeded Sunday. In its lonely and neglected appearance, there

was a silent but forcible comment upon that censurable neglect of the

Sabbath, which, it has been said, prevails too generally among the

citizens of New-Orleans. In front of this church, which is owned, I

believe, by the Episcopalians, stands a white marble monument,

surmounted by an urn, erected in memory of the late Governor Claiborne.

With this solitary exception, there are no public monuments in this

city. For a city so ancient, (that is, with reference to cis-Atlantic

antiquity) as New-Orleans, and so French in its tastes and habits, I am

surprised at this; as the French themselves have as great a mania for

triumphal arches, statues, and public monuments, as had the ancient

Romans. But this fancy they seem not to have imported among their other

nationalities; or, perhaps, they have not found occasions for its

frequent exercise.

The government house, situated diagonally opposite to the church, and

retired from the street, next attracted my attention. It was formerly a

hospital, but its lofty and spacious rooms are now convened into public

offices. Its snow-white front, though plain, is very imposing; and the

whole structure, with its handsome, detached wings, and large green,

thickly covered with shrubbery in front, luxuriant with orange and lemon

trees, presents, decidedly, one of the finest views to be met with in

the city. These two buildings, with the exception of some elegant

private residences, are all that are worth remarking in this street,

which, less than a mile from the river, terminates in the swampy

commons, every where surrounding New-Orleans, except on the river side.

Not far beyond the government house, the Mall, which ornaments the

centre of Canal-street, forms a right angle, and extends down

Rampart-street to Esplanade-street, and there making another right

angle, extends back again to the river, nearly surrounding the "city

proper" with a triple row of sycamores, which, in the course of a

quarter of a century, for grandeur, beauty, and convenience, will be

without a parallel. The city of New-Orleans is planned on a magnificent

scale, happily and judiciously combining ornament and convenience. Let

the same spirit which foresaw and provided for its present greatness,

animate those who will hereafter direct its public improvements, and

New-Orleans, in spite of its bug-bear character and its unhealthy

location, will eventually be the handsomest, if not the largest city in

the United States.

Following the turning of the Mall, I entered Rampart-street, which, with

its French and Spanish buildings, presented quite a contrast to the

New-England-like appearance of that I had just quitted. There are some

fine buildings at the entrance of this street, which is not less broad

than the former. On the right I passed a small edifice, much resembling

a Methodist meeting-house, such as are seen in northern villages, which

a passing Frenchman, lank and tall, in answer to my inquiry, informed me

was "L'eglise Evangelique, Monsieur," with a touch of his chapeau, and

a wondrous evolution of his attenuated person. This little church was as

neglected, and apparently unvisited as its episcopalian neighbour. A

decayed, once-white paling surrounded it; but the narrow gate, in front

of the edifice, probably constructed to be opened and shut by devout

hands, was now secured by a nail, whose red coat of rust indicated long

and peaceable possession of its present station over the latch. Comment

again, thought I, as I passed on down the street, to where I had

observed, not far distant, a crowd gathered around the door of a large

white-stuccoed building, burthened by a clumsy hunch-backed kind of

tower, surmounted by a huge wooden cross.

On approaching nearer, I discovered many carriages extended in a long

line up the street, and a hearse with tall black plumes, before the door

of the building, which, I was informed, was the Catholic chapel. Passing

through the crowd around the entrance, I gained the portico, where I had

a full view of the interior, and the ceremony then in progress. In the

centre of the chapel, in which was neither pew nor seat, elevated upon a

high frame or altar, over which was thrown a black velvet pall, was

placed a coffin, covered also with black velvet. A dozen huge wax

candles, nearly as long and as large as a ship's royal-mast, standing in

candlesticks five feet high, burned around the corpse, mingled with

innumerable candles of the ordinary size, which were thickly sprinkled

among them, like lesser stars, amid the twilight gloom of the chapel.

The mourners formed a lane from the altar to the door, each holding a

long, unlighted, wax taper, tipped at the larger end with red, and

ornamented with fanciful paper cuttings. Around the door, and along the

sides of the chapel, stood casual spectators, strangers, and negro

servants without number. As I entered, several priests and singing-boys,

in the black and white robes of their order, were chanting the service

for the dead. The effect was solemn and impressive. In a few moments the

ceremony was completed, and four gentlemen, dressed in deep mourning,

each with a long white scarf, extending from one shoulder across the

breast, and nearly to the feet, advanced, and taking the coffin from its

station, bore it through the line of mourners, who fell in, two and two

behind them, to the hearse, which immediately moved on to the grave-yard

with its burthen, followed by the carriages, as in succession they drove

up to the chapel, and received the mourners. The last carriage had not

left the door, when a man, followed by two little girls, entered from

the back of the chapel, and commenced extinguishing the lights:--he,

with an extinguisher, much resembling in size and shape an ordinary

funnel, affixed to the extremity of a rod ten feet long, attacking the

larger ones, while his youthful coadjutors operated with the forefinger

and thumb upon the others. In a few moments every light, except two or

three, was extinguished, and the "Chapel of the Dead" became silent and

deserted.

To this chapel the Roman Catholic dead are usually brought before

burial, to receive the last holy office, which, saving the rite of

sepulture, the living can perform for the dead. These chapels are the

last resting-places of their bodies, before they are consigned for ever

to the repose of the grave. To every Catholic then, among all temples of

worship, these chapels--his _last home_ among the dwelling-places of

men--must be objects of peculiar sanctity and veneration.

Burial-grounds, even in the humblest villages, are always interesting to

a stranger. They are marble chronicles of the past; where, after

studying the lively characters around him, he can retire, and over a

page that knows no flattery, hold communion with the dead.

The proposition that "care for the dead keeps pace with civilization"

is, generally, true.--The more refined and cultivated are a people, the

more attention they pay to the performance of the last offices for the

departed. The citizens of the United States will not certainly

acknowledge themselves second to any nation in point of refinement. But

look at their cemeteries. Most of them crown some bleak hill, or occupy

the ill-fenced corners of some barren and treeless common, overrun by

cattle, whose preference for the long luxuriant grass, suffered to grow

there by a kind of prescriptive right, is matter of general observation.

Our neglect of the dead is both a reproach and a proverb. Look at

England; every village there has its rural burying-ground, which on

Sundays is filled with the well-dressed citizens and villagers, who walk

among the green graves of parents, children, or friends, deriving from

their reflections the most solemn and impressive lesson the human heart

can learn. In America, on the contrary, the footsteps of a solitary

individual, the slow and heavy tramp of a funeral procession, or the

sacrilegious intrusion of idle school-boys--who approach a grave but to

deface its marble--are the only disturbers of the graveyard's

loneliness.

But even England is behind France. There every tomb-stone is crowned

with a chaplet of roses, and every grave is a variegated bed of flowers.

Spain, dark and gloomy Spain! is behind all. Whoever has rambled among

her gloomy cemeteries, or gazed with feelings of disgust and horror,

upon the pyramids of human sculls, bleaching in those Golgothas, the

_Campos santos_ of Monte Video, Buenos Ayres, and South America

generally, need not be reminded how little they venerate what once

moved--the image of God! The Italians singularly unite the indifference

of the Spaniards with the affection of the French in their respect for

the dead. Compare the "dead vaults" of Italia's cities, with the

pleasant cemeteries in her green vales! Without individualising the

European nations, I will advert to the Turks, who, though not the most

refined, are a sensitive and reflecting people, and pay great honours to

their departed friends, as the mighty "City of the Dead" which

encompasses Constantinople evinces. But the cause of this respect is to

be traced, rather to their Moslem creed, than to the intellectual

character, or refinement of the people.

To what is to be attributed the universal indifference of Americans to

honouring the dead, by those little mementos and marks of affection and

respect which are interwoven with the very religion of other countries?

There are not fifty burial-grounds throughout the whole extent of the

Union, which can be termed beautiful, rural, or even neat. The

Bostonians, in the possession of their lonely and romantic Mount Auburn,

have redeemed their character from the almost universal charge of apathy

and indifference manifested by their fellow countrymen upon this

subject. Next to Mount Auburn, the cemetery in New-Haven is the most

beautifully picturesque of any in this country. In Maine there is but

one, the burial-place in Brunswick, deserving of notice. Its snow-white

monuments glance here and there in bold relief among the dark melancholy

pines which overshadow it, casting a funereal gloom among its deep

recesses, particularly appropriate to the sacred character of the spot.

I intended to devote this letter to a description of my visit to the

Roman Catholic burying-ground of this city, the contemplation of which

has given occasion to the preceding remarks, and from which I have just

returned; but I have rambled so far and so long in my digression, that I

shall have scarcely time or room to express all I intended in this

sheet. But that I need not encroach with the subject upon my next, I

will complete my remarks here, even at the risk of subjecting myself

to--with _me_--the unusual charge of _brevity_.

Leaving the chapel, I followed the procession which I have described,

for at least three quarters of a mile down a long street or road at

right angles with Rampart-street, to the place of interment. The priests

and boys, who in their black and white robes had performed the service

for the dead, leaving the chapel by a private door in the rear of the

building, made their appearance in the street leading to the cemetery,

as the funeral train passed down, each with a black mitred cap upon his

head, and there forming into a procession upon the side walk, they moved

off in a course opposite to the one taken by the funeral train, and soon

disappeared in the direction of the cathedral. Two priests, however,

remained with the procession, and with it, after passing on the left

hand the "old Catholic cemetery," which being full, to repletion is

closed and sealed for the "Great Day," arrived at the new burial-place.

Here the mourners alighted from their carriages, and proceeded on foot

to the tomb. The priests, bare-headed and solemn, were the last who

entered, except myself and a few other strangers attracted by curiosity.

This cemetery is quite out of the city; there being no dwelling or

enclosure of any kind beyond it. On approaching it, the front on the

street presents the appearance of a lofty brick wall of very great

length, with a spacious gateway in the centre. This gateway is about ten

feet deep; and one passing through it, would imagine the wall of the

same solid thickness. This however is only apparent. The wall which

surrounds, or is to surround the four sides of the burial-ground, (for

it is yet uncompleted,) is about twelve feet in height, and ten in

thickness. The external appearance on the street is similar to that of

any other high wall, while to a beholder within, the cemetery exhibits

three stories of oven-like tombs, constructed _in_ the wall, and

extending on every side of the grave-yard. Each of these tombs is

designed to admit only a single coffin, which is enclosed in the vault

with masonry, and designated by a small marble slab fastened in the face

of the wall at the head of the coffin, stating the name, age, and sex of

the deceased. By a casual estimate I judged there were about eighteen

hundred apertures in this vast pile of tombs. This method, resorted to

here from necessity, on account of the nature of the soil, might serve

as a hint to city land-economists.

When I entered the gateway, I was struck with surprise and admiration.

Though destitute of trees, the cemetery is certainly more deserving,

from its peculiarly novel and unique appearance, of the attention of

strangers, than (with the exception of that at New-Haven, and Mount

Auburn,) any other in the United States. From the entrance to the

opposite side through the centre of the grave-yard, a broad avenue or

street extends nearly an eighth of a mile in length; and on either side

of this are innumerable isolated tombs, of all sizes, shapes, and

descriptions, built above ground. The idea of a Lilliputian city was at

first suggested to my mind on looking down this extensive avenue. The

tombs in their various and fantastic styles of architecture--if I may

apply the term to these tiny edifices--resembled cathedrals with towers,

Moorish dwellings, temples, chapels, palaces, _mosques_--substituting

the cross for the crescent--and structures of almost every kind. The

idea was ludicrous enough; but as I passed down the avenue, I could not

but indulge the fancy that I was striding down the Broadway of the

capital of the Lilliputians. I mention this, not irreverently, but to

give you the best idea I can of the cemetery, from my own impressions.

Many of the tombs were constructed like, and several were, indeed,

miniature Grecian temples; while others resembled French, or Spanish

edifices, like those found in "old Castile." Many of them, otherwise

plain, were surmounted by a tower supporting a cross. All were perfectly

white, arranged with the most perfect regularity, and distant little

more than a foot from each other. At the distance of every ten rods the

main avenue was intersected by others of less width, crossing it at

right angles, down which tombs were ranged in the same novel and regular

manner. The whole cemetery was divided into squares, formed by these

narrow streets intersecting the principal avenue. It was in reality a

"City of the Dead." But it was a city composed of miniature palaces, and

still more diminutive villas.

The procession, after passing two-thirds of the way up the spacious

walk, turned down one of the narrower alleys, where a new tomb, built on

a line with the others, gaped wide to receive its destined inmate. The

procession stopped. The coffin was let down from the shoulders of the

bearers, and rolled on wooden cylinders into the tomb. The mourners

silently gathered around; every head was bared; and amid the deep

silence that succeeded, the calm, clear, melancholy voice of the priest

suddenly swelled upon the still evening air, in the plaintive chant of

the last service for the dead. "Requiescat in pace!" was slowly chanted

by the priest,--repeated in subdued voices by the mourners, and echoing

among the tombs, died away in the remotest recesses of the cemetery.

The dead was surrendered to the companionship of the dead--the priest

and mourners moved slowly away from the spot, and the silence of the

still evening was only broken by the clinking of the careless mason, as

he proceeded to wall up the aperture in the tomb.

As night was fast approaching, I hastened to leave the place; and,

taking a shorter route than by the principal avenue, I came suddenly

upon a desolate area, without a tomb to relieve its dank and muddy

surface, dotted with countless mounds, where the bones of the moneyless,

friendless stranger lay buried. There was no stone to record their names

or country. Fragments of coffins were scattered around, and new-made

graves, half filled with water, yawned on every side awaiting their

unknown occupants; who, perchance, may now be "laying up store for many

years" of anticipated happiness. Such is the nature of the soil here,

that it is impossible to dig two feet below the surface without coming

to water. The whole land seems to be only a thin crust of earth, of not

more than three feet in thickness, floating upon the surface of the

water. Consequently, every grave will have two feet or more of water in

it, and when a coffin is placed therein, some of the assistants have to

stand upon it, and keep it down till the grave is re-filled with the mud

which was originally thrown from it, or it would float. The citizens,

therefore, having a very natural repugnance to being drowned, after

having died a natural death upon their beds, choose to have their last

resting-place a dry one; and hence the great number of tombs, and the

peculiar features of this burial-place.

Returning, I glanced into the old Catholic cemetery, in the rear of the

chapel before alluded to. It was crowded with tombs, though without

displaying the systematic arrangement observed in the one I had just

left. There is another burying-place, in the upper faubourg, called the

Protestant cemetery. Here, as its appellation indicates, are buried all

who are not of "Holy Church." There are in it some fine monuments, and

many familiar names are recorded upon the tomb-stones. Here moulder the

remains of thousands, who, leaving their distant homes, buoyant with all

the hopes and visions of youth, have been suddenly cut down under a

foreign sun, and in the spring time of life. When present enjoyment

seemed prophetic of future happiness, they have found here--a stranger's

unmarbled grave! A northerner cannot visit this cemetery, and read the

familiar names of the multitudes who have ended their lives in this

pestilential climate, without experiencing emotions of the most

affecting nature. Here the most promising of our northern young men

have found an untimely grave: and, as she long has been, so New-Orleans

continues, and will long continue to be, the charnel-house of the pride

and nobleness of New-England.