The Catacombs and Pere La Chaise.

Chapter LX. **

The Catacombs and Pere La Chaise** **

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 Pere 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 either 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 mockery of nature, framed into mosaics and piled into walls and barriers!

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 90 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 flesh. 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, 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 into the open air.

The visitor of Paris will find it both curious and interesting to contrast with these another receptacle for the dead, the cemetery of Pere la Chaise. It is strange that there should exist amongst 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 Pere 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 profanation to attempt 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 “90 steps” of descent to gloom and horror; on the contrary, a gradual *ascent *leads to the cemetery of Pe’e la Chaise, and to its enchanting summit, on every side shaded by brilliant evergreens. The straight lofty cypress arid spreading cedar uplift themselves around, and the arbutus exposing all its treasure of deceptive berries. In lieu of the damp mouldering scent exhaled by three millions of human skeletons we art presented with the fragrant perfume of jessamines 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.

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; whilst 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. Pere Ja Chaise presents a solitary instance of the abode of the dead ever interesting me in an *agreeable *way.

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 Pere 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!

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