University of Virginia Library

8. PÈRE LA CHAISE.

8. PÈRE LA CHAISE.

The cemetery of Père La Chaise is the
Westminster Abbey of Paris. Both are the
dwellings of the dead; but in one they repose
in green alleys and beneath the open sky;—in
the other their resting place is in the shadowy
aisle and beneath the dim arches of an
ancient abbey. One is a temple of nature—
the other a temple of art. In one the soft melancholy
of the scene is rendered still more
touching by the warble of birds and the shade
of trees, and the grave receives the gentle visit
of the sunshine and the shower;—in the other

no sound but the passing foot-fall breaks the
silence of the place; the twilight steals in
through high and dusky windows; and the
damps of the gloomy vault lie heavy on the
heart, and leave their stain upon the mouldering
tracery of the tomb.

Père La Chaise stands just beyond the
Barrière d' Aulney, on a hill side, looking towards
the city. Numerous gravel walks,
winding through shady avenues and between
marble monuments, lead up from the principal
entrance to a chapel on the summit. There is
hardly a grave that has not its little enclosure
planted with shrubbery; and a thick mass of
foliage half conceals each funeral stone. The
sighing of the wind, as the branches rise and
fall upon it,—the occasional note of a bird
among the trees, and the shifting of light and
shade upon the tombs beneath, have a soothing
effect upon the mind; and I doubt whether any
one can enter that enclosure, where repose the
dust and ashes of so many great and good men,
without feeling the religion of the place steal
over him, and seeing something of the dark and
gloomy expression pass off from the stern countenance
of death.

It was near the close of a bright summer
afternoon, that I visited this celebrated spot for
the first time. The first object, that arrested
my attention on entering, was a monument in
the form of a small gothic chapel, which stands
near the entrance, in the avenue leading to the
right hand. On the marble couch within are
stretched two figures carved in stone, and
dressed in the antique garb of the Middle Ages.
It is the tomb of Abélard and Héloïse. The
history of these unfortunate lovers is too well
known to need recapitulation; but perhaps it
is not so well known how often their ashes
were disturbed in the slumber of the grave.
Abélard died in the monastery of Saint-Marcel,
and was buried in the vaults of the church.
His body was afterwards removed to the convent
of the Paraclet, at the request of Héloïse,
and at her death her body was deposited in the
same tomb. Three centuries they reposed together;
after which they were separated to
different sides of the church to calm the delicate
scruples of the lady Abbess of the convent.
More than a century afterwards, they were
again united in the same tomb; and when at

length the Paraclet was destroyed, their mouldering
remains were transported to the church
of Nogent-sur-Seine. They were next deposited
in an ancient cloister at Paris; and
now repose near the gate-way of the cemetery
of Père La Chaise. What a singular destiny
was theirs!—that after a life of such passionate
and disastrous love—such sorrows, and
tears, and penitence—their very dust should
not be suffered to rest quietly in the grave!
that their death should so much resemble their
life in its changes and vicissitudes—its partings
and its meetings,—its inquietudes and its persecutions!
that mistaken zeal should follow
them down to the very tomb,—as if earthly
passion could glimmer, like a funeral lamp,
amid the damps of the charnel-house, and “even
in their ashes burn their wonted fires!”

As I gazed on the sculptured forms before
me, and the little chapel, whose gothic roof
seemed to protect their marble sleep, my busy
memory swung back the dark portals of the
past, and the picture of their sad and eventful
lives came up before me in the gloomy distance.
What a lesson for those who are endowed

with the fatal gift of genius!—It would
seem, indeed, that he who “tempers the wind
to the shorn lamb,” tempers also his chastisements
to the errors and infirmities of a weak
and simple mind,—while the transgressions of
him upon whose nature are more strongly
marked the intellectual attributes of the deity,
are followed, even upon earth, by severer tokens
of the divine displeasure. He who sins in the
darkness of a benighted intellect, sees not so
clearly, through the shadows that surround
him, the countenance of an offended God;—
but he who sins in the broad noon-day of a
clear and radiant mind, when at length the delirium
of sensual passion has subsided, and the
cloud flits away from before the sun, trembles
beneath the searching eye of that accusing
power, which is strong in the strength of a
godlike intellect. Thus the mind and the heart
are closely linked together, and the errors of
genius bear with them their own chastisement,
even upon earth. The history of Abélard and
Héloïse is an illustration of this truth. But at
length they sleep well. Their lives are like a
tale that is told; their errors are “folded up
like a book;” and what mortal hand shall
break the seal that death has set upon them!

Leaving this interesting tomb behind me, I
took a path-way to the left which conducted
me up the hill-side. I soon found myself in
the deep shade of heavy foliage, where the
branches of the yew and willow mingled, interwoven
with the tendrils and blossoms of the
honey-suckle. I now stood in the most populous
part of this city of tombs. Every step
awakened a new train of thrilling recollections;
for at every step my eye caught the name of
some one, whose glory had exalted the character
of his native land, and resounded across
the waters of the Atlantic. Philosophers, historians,
musicians, warriors, and poets slept
side by side around me; some beneath the
gorgeous monument, and some beneath the
simple head-stone. There were the graves of
Fourcroi and Haüy;—of Ginguené and Volney;—of
Grêtry and Méhul;—of Ney, and
Foy, and Masséna;—of La Fontaine, and Molière,
and Chénier, and Delille, and Parny.
But the political intrigue, the dream of science,
the historical research, the ravishing harmony

of sound, the tried courage, the inspiration
of the lyre,—where are they? With the
living, and not with the dead! The right hand
has lost its cunning in the grave; but the soul,
whose high volitions it obeyed, still lives to reproduce
itself in ages yet to come.

Among these graves of genius, I observed
here and there a splendid monument, which
had been raised by the pride of family, over
the dust of men, who could lay no claim either
to the gratitude or remembrance of posterity.
Their presence seemed like an intrusion into
the sanctuary of genius. What had wealth to
do there? Why should it crowd the dust of
the great! That was no thoroughfare of business—no
mart of gain! There were no costly
banquets there; no silken garments, nor gaudy
liveries, nor obsequious attendants! “What
servants,” says Jeremy Taylor, “shall we
have to wait upon us in the grave? What
friends to visit us? What officious people to
cleanse away the moist and unwholesome cloud
reflected upon our faces from the sides of the
weeping vaults, which are the longest weepers
for our funerals?” Material wealth gives a

factitious superiority to the living, but the treasures
of intellect give a real superiority to
the dead; and the rich man, who would not
deign to walk the street with the starving and
penniless man of genius, deems it an honor,
when death has redeemed the fame of the neglected,
to have his own ashes laid beside him,
and to claim with him the silent companionship
of the grave.

I continued my walk through the numerous
winding paths, as chance or curiosity directed
me. Now I was lost in a little green hollow,
overhung with thick-leaved shrubbery, and
then came out upon an elevation, from which,
through an opening in the trees, the eye caught
glimpses of the city, and the little esplanade at
the foot of the hill, where the poor lie buried.
There poverty hires its grave, and takes but a
short lease of the narrow house. At the end
of a few months, or at most of a few years, the
tenant is dislodged to give place to another, and
he in turn to a third. “Who,” says Sir Thomas
Browne, “knows the fate of his bones, or
how often he is to be buried? who hath the
oracle of his ashes, or whither they are to be
scattered?”

Yet, even in that neglected corner, the
hand of affection had been busy in decorating
the hired house. Most of the graves were
surrounded with a slight wooden paling, to secure
them from the passing footstep;—there
was hardly one so deserted as not to be marked
with its little wooden cross, and decorated
with a garland of flowers; and here and there
I could perceive a solitary mourner, clothed in
black, stooping to plant a shrub on the grave,
or sitting in motionless sorrow beside it.

As I passed on amid the shadowy avenues
of the cemetery, I could not help comparing
my own impressions, with those which others
have felt when walking alone among the dwellings
of the dead. Are, then, the sculptured
urn and storied monument nothing more than
symbols of family pride? Is all I see around
me a memorial of the living more than of the
dead?—an empty show of sorrow, which thus
vaunts itself in mournful pageant and funeral
parade? Is it indeed true, as some have said,
that the simple wild-flower, which springs
spontaneously upon the grave, and the rose,
which the hand of affection plants there, are

fitter objects wherewith to adorn the narrow
house? No!—I feel that it is not so! Let the
good and the great be honored even in the
grave. Let the sculptured marble direct our
footsteps to the scene of their long sleep; let
the chiselled epitaph repeat their names, and
tell us where repose the nobly good and wise!
It is not true that all are equal in the grave.
There is no equality even there. The mere
handful of dust and ashes—the mere distinction
of prince and beggar—of a rich winding-sheet
and a shroudless burial—of a solitary
grave and a family vault—were this all—then
indeed it would be true that death is a common
leveller. Such paltry distinctions as those
of wealth and poverty are soon levelled by the
spade and mattoc; the damp breath of the
grave blots them out forever. But there are
other distinctions which even the mace of death
cannot level or obliterate. Can it break down
the distinction of virtue and vice? Can it confound
the good with the bad? the noble with
the base? all that is truly great, and pure and
godlike, with all that is scorned, and sinful, and
degraded! No! Then death is not a common
leveller! Are all alike beloved in death and
honored in their burial? Is that ground holy
where the bloody hand of the murderer sleeps
from crime? Does every grave awaken the
same emotions in our hearts? and do the foot-steps
of the stranger pause as long beside each
funeral stone? No! Then all are not equal
in the grave! And as long as the good and evil
deeds of men live after them, so long will there
be distinctions even in the grave. The superiority
of one over another is in the nobler and
better emotions which it excites; in its more
fervent admonitions to virtue; in the livelier
recollection, which it awakens, of the good and
the great, whose bodies are crumbling to dust
beneath our feet!

If, then, there are distinctions in the grave,
surely it is not unwise to designate them by
the external marks of honor. These outward
appliances and memorials of respect,—the
mournful urn,—the sculptured bust,—the epitaph
eloquent in praise,—cannot indeed create
these distinctions, but they serve to mark them.
It is only when pride or wealth builds them to
honor the slave of mammon, or the slave of appetite,

when the voice from the grave rebukes
the false and pompous epitaph, and the dust and
ashes of the tomb seem struggling to maintain
the superiority of mere worldly rank, and to
carry into the grave the baubles of earthly vanity,—it
is then, and then only, that we feel
how utterly worthless are all the devices of
sculpture, and the empty pomp of monumental
brass!

After rambling leisurely about for some
time, reading the inscriptions on the various
monuments, which attracted my curiosity,
and giving way to the different reflections they
suggested, I sat down to rest myself on a sunken
tombstone. A winding gravel-walk, overshaded
by an avenue of trees, and lined on both
sides with richly sculptured monuments, had
gradually conducted me to the summit of the
hill, upon whose slope the cemetery stands.
Beneath me in the distance, and dim-discovered
through the misty and smoky atmosphere of
evening, rose the countless roofs and spires
of the city. Beyond, throwing his level rays
athwart the dusky landscape, sank the broad
red sun. The distant murmur of the city rose

upon my ear; and the toll of the evening bell
came up, mingled with the rattle of the paved
street and the confused sounds of labor. What
an hour for meditation! What a contrast between
the metropolis of the living and the metropolis
of the dead! I could not help calling
to my mind that allegory of mortality, written
by a hand, which has been many a long year
cold;

Before I left the grave-yard, the shades of
evening had fallen, and the objects around me
grown dim and indistinct. As I passed the
gate-way, I turned to take a parting look. I
could distinguish only the chapel on the summit
of the hill, and here and there a lofty obelisk

of snow-white marble, rising from the
black and heavy mass of foliage around, and
pointing upward to the gleam of the departed
sun, that still lingered in the sky, and mingled
with the soft star-light of a summer evening.