46 CEMETERY OF MONTM ARTRE. 



Does not all proclaim that willing feet and duteous hands visit con- 

 tinually the cherished spot which retains in death what was beloved 

 in life ? Alas ! the grave of those he loves is the only spot of earth 

 in the pendent globe, on which the poor man can place his foot, and 

 say '* It is mine" The " narrow house," which must finally 

 enclose the richest and the greatest, is the only one to which he can 

 ever look forward as his own : his griefs raise him to the dignity of a 

 proprietaire : and as he weeds the handful of grass which he has a 

 right to adorn according to his fancy, he feels something of the 

 pleasure of possession, he feels that God is no respecter of persons ; 

 and says to himself, " one day all will be equal." 



But Montmartre is not solely devoted to the poor and lowly no ; 

 the city of the cemetery has its departments, its quartiers distingucs, 

 and its obscure alleys: the districts allotted to its humbler inhabit- 

 ants may be easily recognised by the piles of black wooden crosses, 

 looking at a distance like trains of ecclesiastics, congregating beneath 

 the cypresses that shadow them ; among these a few are overgrown, 

 dark, solitary, nameless: perhaps those who moulder beneath were 

 strangers, for whom hearts afar off may be breaking in silence. 



The patrician quarters display many a lofty monument : many a 

 proud and noble name is to be found there, many a high and daring, 

 deed is 'there recorded. The Montmorenci, one of the four oldest 

 families in Europe, is exalted on a tall column, 



pointing to the skies :" 



and at its side a prince of Saxe Cobourg cries out from his grave 

 upon the injustice of his enemies; though, by his own acknow- 

 ledgmentj he had, at any rate, the privilege of being tried by his 

 peers. 



" Les princes, assis sur leurs tribunaux, m'ontjuge 

 Les medians ! ils m'ont poursuivi, ils m' ont tue ! " 



It is a strange effect which is produced in the mind, by long 

 wandering among places thus consecrated to the dead ; it seems as 

 if they, alone, were the real and rightful habitants of their respective 

 districts, and that all besides are intruders, and shadowy. One 

 becomes indeed dreamy, and uncertain : the perpetual recurrence of 

 the " $i-git" the " born on such a day," " died on such," seems to 

 make the span of existence, whatever space may in reality have 

 filled up the interval, no longer, in imagination, than the moment it 

 requires to read the brief summing up of the putting on and putting 

 off " this mortal coil." So entirely does it seem the business of life 

 to die, when we see only the memorials of death around us, that we 

 feel as if it were an impertinence to be still living; and as we peruse 

 the varied narrative of the perpetually recurring griefs of the sur- 

 vivors, for only sons, and only daughters, and the tenderest of 

 mothers, and best of fathers, and most beloved of wives, and revered 

 of husbands, and devoted of friends, the mere circumstance of dying, 

 in itself, seems the least misfortune of any that " flesh is heir to," 

 nay, rather, a most fortunate escape from the chance of having to 



