THE sentiment which affects survivors in the disposition of their dead,
and which is, in one regard, a superstition, is, in another, a creditable
outcome of our common humanity: namely, the desire to honour the memory
of departed worth, and to guard the “hallowed reliques” by the erection
of a shrine, both as a visible mark of respect for the dead, and as a
place of resort for those pilgrims who may come to pay him tribute. It
is this sentiment which dots our graveyards with memorial tablets and
more ambitious sculptures, and which still preserves so many of our
closed churchyards from desecration, and our {1a} ancient tombs from the
molestation of careless, curious, or mercenary persons.
But there is another sentiment, not inconsistent with this, which prompts
us, on suitable occasions, to disinter the remains of great men, and
remove them to a more fitting and more honourable resting-place. The
Hôtel des Invalides at Paris, and the Basilica of San Lorenzo Fuori le
Mura at Rome, {1b} are indebted to this sentiment for the possession of
relics which make those edifices the natural resort of pilgrims as of
sight-seers. It were a work of superfluity to adduce further
illustration of the position that the mere exhumation and reinterment of
a great man’s remains, is commonly held to be, in special cases, a
justifiable proceeding, not a violation of that honourable sentiment of
humanity, which protects and consecrates the depositaries of the dead.
On a late occasion it was not the belief that such a proceeding is a
violation of our more sacred instincts which hindered the removal to
Pennsylvania of the remains of William Penn; but simply the belief that
they had already a more suitable resting-place in his native land. {2}
There is still another sentiment, honourable in itself and not
inconsistent with those which I have specified, though still more
conditional upon the sufficiency of the reasons conducing to the act:
namely, the desire, by exhumation, to set at rest a reasonable or
important issue respecting the person of the deceased while he was yet a
living man. Accordingly it is held justifiable to exhume a body recently
buried, in order to discover the cause of death, or to settle a question
of disputed identity: nor is it usually held unjustifiable to exhume a
body long since deceased, in order to find such evidences as time may not
have wholly destroyed, of his personal appearance, including the size and
shape of his head, and the special characteristics of his living face.
It is too late for the most reverential and scrupulous to object to this
as an invasion of the sanctity of the grave, or a violation of the rights
of the dead or of the feelings of his family. When a man has been long
in the grave, there are probably no family feelings to be wounded by such
an act: and, as for his rights, if he can be said to have any, we may
surely reckon among them the right of not being supposed to possess such
objectionable personal defects as may have been imputed to him by the
malice of critics or by the incapacity of sculptor or painter, and which
his remains may be sufficiently unchanged to rebut: in a word we owe him
something more than refraining from disturbing his remains until they are
undistinguishable from the earth in which they lie, a debt which no
supposed inviolable sanctity of the grave ought to prevent us from
paying.
It is, I say, too late to raise such an objection, because exhumation has
been performed many times with a perfectly legitimate object, even in the
case of our most illustrious dead, without protest or objection from the
most sensitive person. As the examples, more or less analogous to that
of Shakespeare, which I am about to adduce, concern great men who were
born and were buried within the limits of our island, I will preface them
by giving the very extraordinary cases of Schiller and Raphael, which
illustrate both classes: those in which the object of the exhumation was
to give the remains a more honourable sepulture, and those in which it
was purely to resolve certain questions affecting the skull of the
deceased. The following is abridged from Mr. Andrew Hamilton’s
narrative, entitled “The Story of Schiller’s Life,” published in
_Macmillan’s Magazine_ for May, 1863.
“At the time of his death Schiller left his widow and children almost
penniless, and almost friendless too. The duke and duchess were
absent; Goethe lay ill; even Schiller’s brother-in-law Wolzogen was
away from home. Frau von Wolzogen was with her sister, but seems to
have been equally ill-fitted to bear her share of the load that had
fallen so heavily upon them. Heinrich Voss was the only friend
admitted to the sick-room; and when all was over it was he who went
to the joiner’s, and, knowing the need of economy, ordered ‘a plain
deal coffin.’ It cost ten shillings of our money.
“In the early part of 1805, one Carl Leberecht Schwabe, an
enthusiastic admirer of Schiller, left Weimar on business. Returning
on Saturday the 11th of May, between three and four in the afternoon,
his first errand was to visit his betrothed, who lived in the house
adjoining that of the Schillers. She met him in the passage, and
told him, Schiller was two days dead, and that night he was to be
buried. On putting further questions, Schwabe stood aghast at what
he learned. The funeral was to be private and to take place
immediately after midnight, without any religious rite. Bearers had
been hired to carry the remains to the churchyard, and no one else
was to attend.
“Schwabe felt that all this could not go on; but to prevent it was
difficult. There were but eight hours left; and the arrangements,
such as they were, had already been made. However, he went straight
to the house of death, and requested an interview with Frau von
Schiller. She replied, through the servant, ‘that she was too
greatly overwhelmed by her loss to be able to see or speak to any
one; as for the funeral of her blessed husband, Mr. Schwabe must
apply to the Reverend Oberconsistorialrath Günther, who had kindly
undertaken to see done what was necessary; whatever he might direct,
she would approve of.’ With this message Schwabe hastened to
Günther, and told him, his blood boiled at the thought that Schiller
should be borne to the grave by hirelings. At first Günther shook
his head and said, ‘It was too late; everything was arranged; the
bearers were already ordered.’ Schwabe offered to become responsible
for the payment of the bearers, if they were dismissed. At length
the Oberconsistorialrath inquired who the gentlemen were who had
agreed to bear the coffin. Schwabe was obliged to acknowledge that
he could not at that moment mention a single name; but he was ready
to guarantee his Hochwürde that in an hour or two he would bring him
the list. On this his Hochwürde consented to countermand the
bearers.
“Schwabe now rushed from house to house, obtaining a ready assent
from all whom he found at home. But as some were out, he sent round
a circular, begging those who would come to place a mark against
their names. He requested them to meet at his lodgings ‘at half-past
twelve o’clock that night; a light would be placed in the window to
guide those who were not acquainted with the house; they would be
kind enough to be dressed in black; but mourning-hats, crapes and
mantles he had already provided.’ Late in the evening he placed the
list in Günther’s hands. Several appeared to whom he had not
applied; in all about twenty.
“Between midnight and one in the morning the little band proceeded to
Schiller’s house. The coffin was carried down stairs and placed on
the shoulders of the friends in waiting. No one else was to be seen
before the house or in the streets. It was a moonlight night in May,
but clouds were up. The procession moved through the sleeping city
to the churchyard of St. James. Having arrived there they placed
their burden on the ground at the door of the so-called
_Kassengewölbe_, where the gravedigger and his assistants took it up.
In this vault, which belonged to the province of Weimar, it was usual
to inter persons of the higher classes, who possessed no
burying-ground of their own, upon payment of a _louis d’or_. As
Schiller had died without securing a resting-place for himself and
his family, there could have been no more natural arrangement than to
carry his remains to this vault. It was a grim old building,
standing against the wall of the churchyard, with a steep narrow
roof, and no opening of any kind but the doorway which was filled up
with a grating. The interior was a gloomy space of about fourteen
feet either way. In the centre was a trap-door which gave access to
a hollow space beneath.
“As the gravediggers raised the coffin, the clouds suddenly parted,
and the moon shed her light on all that was earthly of Schiller.
They carried him in: they opened the trap-door: and let him down by
ropes into the darkness. Then they closed the vault. Nothing was
spoken or sung. The mourners were dispersing, when their attention
was attracted by a tall figure in a mantle, at some distance in the
graveyard, sobbing loudly. No one knew who it was; and for many
years the occurrence remained wrapped in mystery, giving rise to
strange conjectures. But eventually it turned out to have been
Schiller’s brother-in-law Wolzogen, who, having hurried home on
hearing of the death, had arrived after the procession was already on
its way to the churchyard.
“In the year 1826, Schwabe was Bürgermeister of Weimar. Now it was
the custom of the _Landschaftscollegium_, or provincial board under
whose jurisdiction this institution was placed, to _clear out_ the
Kassengewölbe from time to time—whenever it was found to be
inconveniently crowded—and by this means to make way for other
deceased persons and more _louis d’or_. On such occasions—when the
Landschaftscollegium gave the order ‘aufzuräumen,’ it was the usage
to dig a hole in a corner of the churchyard—then to bring up _en
masse_ the contents of the Kassengewölbe—coffins, whether entire or
in fragments, bones, skulls, and tattered graveclothes—and finally to
shovel the whole heap into the aforesaid pit. In the month of March
Schwabe was dismayed at hearing that the Landschaftscollegium had
decreed a speedy ‘clearing out’ of the Gewölbe. His old prompt way
of acting had not left him; he went at once to his friend Weyland,
the president of the Collegium. ‘Friend Weyland,’ he said, ‘let not
the dust of Schiller be tossed up in the face of heaven and flung
into that hideous hole! Let me at least have a permit to search the
vault; if we find Schiller’s coffin, it shall be reinterred in a
fitting manner in the New Cemetery.’ The president made no
difficulty.
“Schwabe invited several persons who had known the poet, and amongst
others one Rudolph, who had been Schiller’s servant at the time of
his death. On March 13th, at four o’clock in the afternoon, the
party met in the churchyard, the sexton and his assistants having
received orders to be present with keys, ladders, &c. The vault was
opened; but, before any one entered it, Rudolph and another stated
that the coffin of the deceased Hofrath von Schiller must be one of
the longest in the place. After this the secretary of the
Landschaftscollegium was requested to read aloud from the records of
the said board the names of such persons as had been interred shortly
before and after the year 1805. This being done, the gravedigger
Bielke remarked that the coffins no longer lay in the order in which
they had originally been placed, but had been displaced at recent
burials. The ladder was then adjusted, and Schwabe, Coudray the
architect, and the gravedigger, were the first to descend. Some
others were asked to draw near, that they might assist in recognising
the coffin. The first glance brought their hopes very low. The
tenants of the vault were found ‘over, under and alongside of each
other.’ One coffin of unusual length having been descried underneath
the rest, an attempt was made to reach it by lifting out of the way
those that were above it; but the processes of the tomb were found to
have made greater advances than met the eye. Hardly anything would
bear removal, but fell to pieces at the first touch. Search was made
for plates with inscriptions, but even the metal plates crumbled away
on being fingered, and their inscriptions were utterly effaced. Two
plates only were found with legible characters, and these were
foreign to the purpose. Probably every one but the Bürgermeister
looked on the matter as hopeless. They reascended the ladder and
closed the vault.
“Meanwhile these strange proceedings in the Kassengewölbe began to be
noised abroad. The churchyard was a thoroughfare, and many
passengers had observed that something unusual was going on. There
were persons living in Weimar whose near relatives lay in the
Gewölbe; and, though neither they nor the public at large had any
objection to offer to the general ‘clearing out,’ they did raise very
strong objections to this mode of anticipating it. So many pungent
things began to be said about violating the tomb, disturbing the
repose of the departed, &c., that the Bürgermeister perceived the
necessity of going more warily to work in future. He resolved to
time his next visit at an hour when few persons would be likely to
cross the churchyard at that season. Accordingly, two days later he
returned to the Kassengewölbe at seven in the morning, accompanied
only by Coudray and the churchyard officials.
“Their first task was to raise out of the vault altogether six
coffins, which it was found would bear removal. By various tokens it
was proved that none of these could be that of which they were in
search. There were several others which could not be removed, but
which held together so long as they were left where they lay. All
the rest were in the direst confusion. Two hours and a half were
spent in subjecting the ghastly heap to a thorough but fruitless
search: not a trace of any kind rewarded their trouble. Only one
conclusion stared Schwabe and Coudray in the face—their quest was in
vain: the remains of Schiller must be left to oblivion. Again the
Gewölbe was closed, and those who had disturbed its quiet returned
disappointed to their homes. Yet, that very afternoon, Schwabe went
back once more in company with the joiner who twenty years before had
made the coffin: there was a chance that he might recognise one of
those which they had not ventured to raise. But this glimmer of hope
faded like all the rest. The man remembered very well what sort of
coffin he had made for the Hofrath von Schiller, and he certainly saw
nothing like it here. It had been of the plainest sort, he believed
without even a plate; and in such damp as this it could have lasted
but a few years.
“The fame of this second expedition got abroad like that of the
first, and the comments of the public were louder than before.
Invectives of no measured sort fell on the mayor in torrents. Not
only did society in general take offence, but a variety of persons in
authority, particularly ecclesiastical dignitaries, began to talk of
interfering. Schwabe was haunted by the idea of the ‘clearing out,’
which was now close at hand. That dismal hole in the corner of the
churchyard once closed and the turf laid down, the dust of Schiller
would be lost for ever. He determined to proceed. His position of
Bürgermeister put the means in his power, and this time he was
resolved to keep his secret. To find the skull was now his utmost
hope, but for that he would make a final struggle. The keys were
still in the hands of Bielke the sexton, who, of course, was under
his control. He sent for him, bound him over to silence, and ordered
him to be at the churchyard at midnight on the 19th of March. In
like manner, he summoned three day-labourers whom he pledged to
secrecy, and engaged to meet him at the same place and at the same
hour, but singly and without lanterns. Attention should not be
attracted if he could help it.
“When the night came, he himself, with a trusty servant, proceeded to
the entrance of the Kassengewölbe. The four men were already there.
In darkness they all entered, raised the trap-door, adjusted the
ladder, and descended to the abode of the dead. Not till then were
lanterns lighted; it was just possible that some late wanderer might,
even at that hour, cross the churchyard. Schwabe seated himself on a
step of the ladder and directed the workmen. Fragments of broken
coffins they piled up in one corner, and bones in another. Skulls as
they were found were placed in a heap by themselves. The work went
on from twelve o’clock till about three, for three successive nights,
at the end of which time twenty-three skulls had been found. These
the Bürgermeister caused to be put into a sack and carried to his
house, where he himself took them out and placed them in rows on a
table.
“It was hardly done ere he exclaimed, ‘_That_ must be Schiller’s!’
There was one skull that differed enormously from all the rest, both
in size and in shape. It was remarkable, too, in another way: alone
of all those on the table it retained an entire set of the finest
teeth, and Schiller’s teeth had been noted for their beauty. But
there were other means of identification at hand. Schwabe possessed
the cast of Schiller’s head, taken after death by Klauer, and with
this he undertook to make a careful comparison and measurement. The
two seemed to him to correspond, and, of the twenty-two others, not
one would bear juxtaposition with the cast. Unfortunately the lower
jaw was wanting, to obtain which a fourth nocturnal expedition had to
be undertaken. The skull was carried back to the Gewölbe, and many
jaws were tried ere one was found which fitted, and for beauty of
teeth corresponded with, the upper jaw. When brought home, on the
other hand, it refused to fit any other cranium. One tooth alone was
wanting, and this was said by an old servant of Schiller’s had been
extracted at Jena in his presence.
“Having got thus far, Schwabe invited three of the chief medical
authorities to inspect his discovery. After careful measurements,
they declared that among the twenty-three skulls there was but one
from which the cast could have been taken. He then invited every
person in Weimar and its neighbourhood, who had been on terms of
intimacy with Schiller, and admitted them to the room one by one.
The result was surprising. Without an exception they pointed to the
same skull as that which must have been the poet’s. The only
remaining chance of mistake seemed to be the possibility of other
skulls having eluded the search, and being yet in the vault. To put
this to rest, Schwabe applied to the Landschaftscollegium, in whose
records was kept a list of all persons buried in the Kassengewölbe.
It was ascertained that since the last ‘clearing out’ there had been
exactly twenty-three interments. At this stage the Bürgermeister saw
himself in a position to inform the Grand Duke and Goethe of his
search and its success. From both he received grateful
acknowledgments. Goethe unhesitatingly recognised the head, and laid
stress on the peculiar beauty and evenness of the teeth.
“The new cemetery lay on a gently rising ground on the south side of
the town. Schwabe’s favourite plan was to deposit what he had
found—all that he now ever dreamed of finding—of his beloved poet on
the highest point of the slope, and to mark the spot by a simple
monument, so that travellers at their first approach might know where
the head of Schiller lay. One forenoon in early spring he led Frau
von Wolzogen and the Chancellor von Müller to the spot. They
approved his plan, and the remaining members of Schiller’s family—all
of whom had left Weimar—signified their assent. They ‘did not
desire,’ as one of themselves expressed it, ‘to strive against
Nature’s appointment that man’s earthly remains should be reunited
with herself;’ they would prefer that their father’s dust should rest
in the ground rather than anywhere else. But the Grand Duke and
Goethe decided otherwise.
“Dannecker’s colossal bust of Schiller had recently been acquired for
the Grand Ducal library, where it had been placed on a lofty pedestal
opposite the bust of Goethe; and in this pedestal, which was hollow,
it was resolved to deposit the skull. The consent of the family
having been obtained, the solemnity was delayed till the arrival of
Ernst von Schiller, who could not reach Weimar before autumn. On
September the 17th the ceremony took place. A few persons had been
invited, amongst whom, of course, was the Bürgermeister. Goethe,
_more suo_, dreaded the agitation and remained at home, but sent his
son to represent him as chief librarian. A cantata having been sung,
Ernst von Schiller, in a short speech, thanked all persons present,
but especially the Bürgermeister, for the love they had shown to the
memory of his father. He then formally delivered his father’s head
into the hands of the younger Goethe, who, reverently receiving it,
thanked his friend in Goethe’s name, and having dwelt on the
affection that had subsisted between their fathers vowed that the
precious relic should thenceforward be guarded with anxious care. Up
to this moment the skull had been wrapped in a cloth and sealed: the
younger Goethe now made it over to the librarian, Professor Riemer,
to be unpacked and placed in its receptacle. All present subscribed
their names, the pedestal was locked, and the key carried home to
Goethe.
“None doubted that Schiller’s head was now at rest for many years.
But it had already occurred to Goethe, who had more osteological
knowledge than the excellent Bürgermeister, that, the skull being in
their possession, it would be possible to find the skeleton. A very
few days after the ceremony in the library, he sent to Jena, begging
the Professor of Anatomy, Dr. Schröter, to have the kindness to spend
a day or two at Weimar, and to bring with him, if possible, a
functionary of the Jena Museum, Färber by name, who had at one time
been Schiller’s servant. As soon as they arrived, Goethe placed the
matter in Schröter’s hands. Again the head was raised from its
pillow and carried back to the dismal Kasselgewölbe, where the bones
still lay in a heap. The chief difficulty was to find the first
vertebra; after that all was easy enough. With some exceptions,
comparatively trifling, Schröter succeeded in reproducing the
skeleton, which then was laid in a new coffin ‘lined with blue
merino,’ and would seem (though we are not distinctly told) to have
been deposited in the library. Professor Schröter’s register of
bones recovered and bones missing has been both preserved and
printed. The skull was restored to its place in the pedestal. There
was another shriek from the public at these repeated violations of
the tomb; and the odd position chosen for Schiller’s head, apart from
his body, called forth, not without reason, abundant criticism.
“Schwabe’s idea of a monument in the new cemetery was, after a while,
revived by the Grand Duke, Carl August, but with an important
alteration, which was, that on the spot indicated at the head of the
rising ground there should be erected a common sepulchre for Goethe
and Schiller, in which the latter’s remains should at once be
deposited—the mausoleum to be finally closed only when, in the course
of nature, Goethe should have been laid there too. The idea was,
doubtless, very noble, and found great favour with Goethe himself,
who entering into it commissioned Coudray, the architect, to sketch
the plan of a simple mausoleum, in which the sarcophagi were to be
visible from without. There was some delay in clearing the ground—a
nursery of young trees had to be removed—so that at Midsummer, 1827,
nothing had been done. It is said that the intrigues of certain
persons, who made a point of opposing Goethe at all times, prevailed
so far with the Grand Duke that he became indifferent about the whole
scheme. Meanwhile it was necessary to provide for the remains of
Schiller. The public voice was loud in condemning their present
location, and in August, 1827, Louis of Bavaria again appeared as a
_Deus ex machina_ to hasten on the last act. He expressed surprise
that the bones of Germany’s best-beloved should be kept like rare
coins, or other curiosities, in a public museum. In these
circumstances, the Grand Duke wrote Goethe a note, proposing for his
approval that the skull and skeleton of Schiller should be reunited
and ‘provisionally’ deposited in the vault which the Grand Duke had
built for himself and his house, ‘until Schiller’s family should
otherwise determine.’ No better plan seeming feasible, Goethe
himself gave orders for the construction of a sarcophagus. On
November 17th, 1827, in presence of the younger Goethe, Coudray and
Riemer, the head was finally removed from the pedestal, and Professor
Schröter reconstructed the entire skeleton in this new and more
sumptuous abode, which we are told was seven feet in length, and bore
at its upper end the name