In 1773, in Saulieu, Burgundy, an epidemic disease arising from the inhumation of a corpse in the church of St. Saturnin created considerable alarm. The body of a corpulent person had been interred on the 3d of March, and a woman was buried near it on the 20th of April following: both had died of a reigning fever. During the last burial a fetid effluvia arose from the vault, which pervaded the whole church; and, out of one hundred and seventy persons who were present, one hundred and forty-nine were attacked with the prevailing malady, although its progress had been arrested amongst the other inhabitants of the town.
In 1774, a similar accident occurred in a village near Nantes, where several coffins were removed in a vault, to make room for the lord of the manor: fifteen of the bystanders died from the emanation.
In 1744, one-third of the inhabitants of Lectouse perished from a fever of a malignant character that manifested itself after some works that required the removal of a burial-ground. Two destructive epidemics swept away large proportions of the population of Riom and Ambert, two towns in Auvergne.
Taking this matter under consideration in a moral, or even a religious light, it may be questioned whether any advantage can accrue from the continuance of this pernicious custom, which during the prevalence of epidemic diseases endangers the life of every person who resides near a church. Does it add to the respect which the remains of the dead are entitled to? Certainly not: the constant tolling of “the sullen bell”—the daily cortège of death that passes before us—the graves that we hourly contemplate, perusing monumental records which more frequently excite unseasonable laughter than serious reflection—every thing, in short, tends to make death of little or no moment, except to those who have heard the mutes gossiping at their door. So accustomed, indeed, are we from our childhood to sepulchral scenes, that, were it not for the parish-officers, our churchyards would become the playground of every truant urchin; and how often do we behold human bones become sportive baubles in the wanton pranks of the idlers, who group around the gravedigger’s preparations! So callous are we to all feelings of religious awe when surrounded with the dead, that our cemeteries are not unfrequently made the rendezvous of licentiousness and the assembly-ground of crime, where thieves cast lots upon a tomb for the division of their spoil.
With what different feelings does the traveller wander over the cemetery of Père la Chaise? I am well aware that many of the gewgaw attributes that there decorate the grave, have been called the “frippery,” “the foppery” of grief; but does there exist a generous, a noble sentiment, that may not be perverted by interested motives and hypocrisy into contemptible professions? How often is the sublime rendered ridiculous by bad taste and hyperbolic affectation! When we behold the fond lover pressing to his lips a lock of hair, or the portrait of all that he holds dear, the cold calculating egotist may call this the frippery of love; but the stoic who thinks thus, has never known the “sweet pangs” of requited affection, when, in bitter absence, the recollection of bliss gone by, imbodies in our imagination the form we once pressed to our respondent heart. The creation of our busy fancy stands before us, gazing on us with that tender look that in happier days greeted the hour of meeting; or trembles in our tears as when we last parted—to meet, perhaps, no more! With what fervour of religious love do we not behold the simple girl kneeling with uplift eye and hand on the green sod that covers all that endeared her to existence, till, overwhelmed with burning, choking regrets—as idle as they are uncontrollable—she sinks prostrate on the cold earth that now shrouds that bosom which once nestled her young hopes and fears! There have I seen the pale, the haggard youth,—to all appearances a student,—seated mournfully by the side of a tomb, absorbed in deep thought, heedless of the idlers who passed by him, looking at him perhaps with contempt!—heedless of the swift flight of time, which shrouded him imperceptibly in darkness, until he was warned by the guardian of the dead that it was time to depart—and to depart alone! No inscription recorded the “one loved name;” he would not expose it to the unfeeling gaze of the heartless tourist: all he would willingly have traced upon her tomb, would have been “Here lies my own!”
The mouldering earth, the fleshless skeleton over which he mourns, cannot obliterate the remembrance of what she was: though her eyes, perhaps, no longer exist, still their former languid, liquid look of bliss, beams freshly in his recollection. The lips which once pronounced the long wished-for avowal of mutual love are still moist and open to memory’s embrace—still seem to lisp the delicious tu! Our language is rich, without comparison richer far than the French; but we have nothing so endearing, so bewitching, as their tu-toiement: our thee’s and thou’s are frigid, chilly, when compared to the first toi that escapes inadvertently from beloved lips! A French writer has beautifully expressed this exquisite moment: “Le premier tu est tout-puissant; c’est le fiat lux de l’âme; il est sublime, il débrouille le chaos!”
Sublime are the words, “Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord!” Would it be irreligious to say, “Happy are the dead who die beloved?” Their fond and ardent heart had never been chilled by the withering hand of infidelity and ingratitude. They died in an ecstatic dream of perfect bliss on earth, and never were awakened to the world’s mocking realities!—they died when they felt and believed in their heart of hearts that they were dearly beloved—could not be loved more dearly: with that conviction, death, in a worldly acceptation, can never be untimely. Probably, they died still sufficiently animated by a latent, lingering spark of life, to press the hand that was so often linked in mutual pressure in happy days—to feel the burning tear of anguish drop on the pale cheek—to hear the sad, the awful, last word, à Dieu!—an expression that habit has rendered trivial, but which bears with it, in the tenderest solicitude, the most hallowed meaning; since, in pronouncing it, we leave all that we cherish under the protection and the safeguard of OUR GOD.
Affection deprives death of all horrors. We shrink not from the remains of what we cherished. Despite its impiety, there was something refined in that conviction of the ancients, who imagined that in bestowing their farewell kiss they inhaled the souls of those they loved. How sweet are those lines of Macrobius, originally attributed to Plato!
Dum semihulco suavio
Meum pullum suavior,
Dulcemque florem spiritus
Duco ex aperto tramite,
Animo tunc ægra et saucia
Cucurrit ad labia mihi!
Our Shakspeare has quaintly, yet beautifully, described this parting embrace: