No doubt there is a great deal of truth in these maxims; but in spite of them, and many more like them, death has never been rendered very attractive to persons enjoying good health and a fair degree of prosperity. Death bears about the same relation to life that the Catacombs do to Paris; and I have never yet known any man or woman who would willingly quit the gay Boulevards or the delightful Champs Elysées to walk in the bone-lined and noisome vaults of the subterranean city.
We passed only through the main avenues of the Catacombs,—there is very little variety in them,—and after spending nearly three hours underground, having supped full of material horrors, we reached another staircase, and once more ascended to the light of day, and the blessed sunshine. I had no idea where we were, and I was somewhat surprised to find that we came out nearly a mile and a half from where we had gone down. The charming capital never, I think, appeared quite so charming as it did on that delicious afternoon when I returned from death and decay to the living and the loving, to the comforts and the joys, of the upper world.
AN ENGLISHMAN’S OPINIONS.
While we were in that vast subterranean graveyard, I was struck by the different effect it produced upon different persons in our party. An Englishman, who was extremely anxious to “do the thing, you know,” was superlatively disgusted after he had passed the vestibule, and declared the Catacombs the “beastliest place” he had ever seen. He grumbled like Vesuvius before eruption, and swore that the French authorities ought to be exposed for permitting the subjects of Her Majesty to thrust themselves into such a “bloody” hole. He even suggested that it was a French trick to get rid of certain true and noble Britons, and, of course, threatened to write to the Times on the subject. He was constantly predicting that the rock overhead would tumble down and bury us all, and really seemed uncomfortable because something horrible did not happen. After he had gone half way through, he wanted to go back, and when he had reached the end of the route, he was much dissatisfied that we hadn’t done a great deal more. He fretted and fumed every minute of the three hours, and did his best to render every one as nervous and discontented as himself.
Several Americans ran all sorts of saws on the Englishman, and prophesied some terrible calamity at every step, saying they never would have thought of coming into the gloomy region unless they had expected that a fair proportion of the excursionists would be killed. Two of my countrymen insisted that they had made their wills before they had left their hotel, and a third averred that he had a vial of prussic acid and a revolver in his pocket for the express purpose of committing suicide, if he should be lost in the cavernous windings. He asked the Briton if he had not taken the same precaution, and pronounced him superlatively reckless because he had not, explaining the advantage of self-destruction over a lingering and horrible death. John Bull, remarkable to relate, had not the slightest suspicion that the “Yankees” were poking fun at him. On the contrary, he regarded all their jests as solemnly sincere, and asserted that it was exactly like our nation never to enjoy anything that was not accompanied by a bloody murder of some sort.
A young Italian, who was quite good-looking, and far more conscious of the fact than anybody else, endured martyrdom in the Catacombs from quite another cause. He was very carefully and daintily dressed, and appeared to consider dust or soil upon his clothes as a sovereign evil. He was the dandiest of dandies, and the most fastidious of fools. He looked rather blank, as I had noticed, when we first began the descent of the circular staircase in the Custom House garden. He was in advance, and before we had gone down a dozen steps, I observed a number of large drops falling from the blazing tapers above him upon his new hat and coat. Some kind friend pointed these out to him, and he actually turned pale with wrath and chagrin.
INCONVENIENCES OF A VISIT.
“Who could have done this? Such conduct is disgraceful! I did not come here to have my clothes ruined. I wish the Catacombs were in the bottomless pit.” These and other phrases he ejaculated in choice Tuscan, which very few understood, but which those who did understand enjoyed not a little. After the marring of his wardrobe, there could be no pleasure for him. If he had been shown all the wonders of the world, he could not have forgotten his tarnished garments. His misfortunes followed him. The water dropped through the crevices upon his august person, and as he was unusually tall, he crushed his hat every few minutes against the overhanging rock, which struck oaths out of him as steel strikes fire out of flint. I fancied sometimes that he envied the skeletons he passed, because they had no clothes to spoil. Long before he had finished his underground journey, his beauty of person and raiment was sadly injured, and I am confident that he will remember the Catacombs, and curse them for the harm they did his garments, till the end of his days.
INQUISITIVENESS OF AN AMERICAN.
A native of Maine entertained us by inquiring constantly of the guide, who could not speak a word of English, while the New Englander had not the least knowledge of French, in regard to the probable cost of the Catacombs, and whether they paid as an investment. He was very desirous to know, also, whose skull this one might be, and whose that, evidently under the impression that all the monarchs and historic characters of France were buried there. Our guide, too polite not to pretend to comprehend the inquisitive fellow, gabbled away in bewildering generalities. The Maine man asseverated again and again, that he would give five dollars to know what the Frenchman said; and therefore I assumed to tell him. I informed him, though the Catacombs had cost five hundred millions of dollars, that they paid a larger interest than any property in the country; that they were owned by the Rothschilds, who received one hundred dollars from the government for every skull put into the vaults; and that, as there were six millions of them, he could calculate the profits. “By thunder!” he replied; “no wonder those old Jews are so rich. I never knew before how they made all their money. I wonder if a chap couldn’t buy a little Catacomb stock.”