Part 2

“Dannecker’s colossal bust of Schiller had recently been acquired for the Grand Ducal library, where it had been placed on a lofty pedestal opposite the bust of Goethe; and in this pedestal, which was hollow, it was resolved to deposit the skull. The consent of the family having been obtained, the solemnity was delayed till the arrival of Ernst von Schiller, who could not reach Weimar before autumn. On September the 17th the ceremony took place. A few persons had been invited, amongst whom, of course, was the Bürgermeister. Goethe, _more suo_, dreaded the agitation and remained at home, but sent his son to represent him as chief librarian. A cantata having been sung, Ernst von Schiller, in a short speech, thanked all persons present, but especially the Bürgermeister, for the love they had shown to the memory of his father. He then formally delivered his father’s head into the hands of the younger Goethe, who, reverently receiving it, thanked his friend in Goethe’s name, and having dwelt on the affection that had subsisted between their fathers vowed that the precious relic should thenceforward be guarded with anxious care. Up to this moment the skull had been wrapped in a cloth and sealed: the younger Goethe now made it over to the librarian, Professor Riemer, to be unpacked and placed in its receptacle. All present subscribed their names, the pedestal was locked, and the key carried home to Goethe.

“None doubted that Schiller’s head was now at rest for many years. But it had already occurred to Goethe, who had more osteological knowledge than the excellent Bürgermeister, that, the skull being in their possession, it would be possible to find the skeleton. A very few days after the ceremony in the library, he sent to Jena, begging the Professor of Anatomy, Dr. Schröter, to have the kindness to spend a day or two at Weimar, and to bring with him, if possible, a functionary of the Jena Museum, Färber by name, who had at one time been Schiller’s servant. As soon as they arrived, Goethe placed the matter in Schröter’s hands. Again the head was raised from its pillow and carried back to the dismal Kasselgewölbe, where the bones still lay in a heap. The chief difficulty was to find the first vertebra; after that all was easy enough. With some exceptions, comparatively trifling, Schröter succeeded in reproducing the skeleton, which then was laid in a new coffin ‘lined with blue merino,’ and would seem (though we are not distinctly told) to have been deposited in the library. Professor Schröter’s register of bones recovered and bones missing has been both preserved and printed. The skull was restored to its place in the pedestal. There was another shriek from the public at these repeated violations of the tomb; and the odd position chosen for Schiller’s head, apart from his body, called forth, not without reason, abundant criticism.

“Schwabe’s idea of a monument in the new cemetery was, after a while, revived by the Grand Duke, Carl August, but with an important alteration, which was, that on the spot indicated at the head of the rising ground there should be erected a common sepulchre for Goethe and Schiller, in which the latter’s remains should at once be deposited—the mausoleum to be finally closed only when, in the course of nature, Goethe should have been laid there too. The idea was, doubtless, very noble, and found great favour with Goethe himself, who entering into it commissioned Coudray, the architect, to sketch the plan of a simple mausoleum, in which the sarcophagi were to be visible from without. There was some delay in clearing the ground—a nursery of young trees had to be removed—so that at Midsummer, 1827, nothing had been done. It is said that the intrigues of certain persons, who made a point of opposing Goethe at all times, prevailed so far with the Grand Duke that he became indifferent about the whole scheme. Meanwhile it was necessary to provide for the remains of Schiller. The public voice was loud in condemning their present location, and in August, 1827, Louis of Bavaria again appeared as a _Deus ex machina_ to hasten on the last act. He expressed surprise that the bones of Germany’s best-beloved should be kept like rare coins, or other curiosities, in a public museum. In these circumstances, the Grand Duke wrote Goethe a note, proposing for his approval that the skull and skeleton of Schiller should be reunited and ‘provisionally’ deposited in the vault which the Grand Duke had built for himself and his house, ‘until Schiller’s family should otherwise determine.’ No better plan seeming feasible, Goethe himself gave orders for the construction of a sarcophagus. On November 17th, 1827, in presence of the younger Goethe, Coudray and Riemer, the head was finally removed from the pedestal, and Professor Schröter reconstructed the entire skeleton in this new and more sumptuous abode, which we are told was seven feet in length, and bore at its upper end the name

SCHILLER

in letters of cast-iron. That same afternoon Goethe went himself to the library and expressed his satisfaction with all that had been done.

“At last, on December 16th, 1827, at half-past five in the morning, a few persons again met at the same place. The Grand Duke had desired—for what reason we know not—to avoid observation; it was Schiller’s fate that his remains should be carried hither and hither by stealth and in the night. Some tapers burned around the bier: the recesses of the hall were in darkness. Not a word was spoken, but those present bent for an instant in silent prayer, on which the bearers raised the coffin and carried it away. They walked along through the park: the night was cold and cloudy: some of the party had lanterns. When they reached the avenue that led up to the cemetery, the moon shone out as she had done twenty-two years before. At the vault itself some other friends had assembled, amongst whom was the Mayor. Ere the lid was finally secured, Schwabe placed himself at the head of the coffin, and recognised the skull to be that which he had rescued from the Kassengewölbe. The sarcophagus having then been closed, and a laurel wreath laid on it, formal possession, in the name of the Grand Duke, was taken by the Marshal, Freiherr von Spiegel. The key was removed to be kept in possession of his Excellency, the Geheimrath von Goethe, as head of the Institutions for Art and Science. This key, in an envelope, addressed by Goethe, is said to be preserved in the Grand Ducal Library, where, however, we have no recollection of having seen it.

“The ‘provisional’ deposition has proved more permanent than any other. Whoever would see the resting-place of Goethe and Schiller must descend into the Grand Ducal vault, where, through a grating, in the twilight beyond he will catch a glimpse of their sarcophagi.”

The other case of exhumation, and reinterment with funeral rites, which I deem of sufficient importance to be recorded here, is that of the great Raphael. In this the motive was not, as in that of Schiller, to give his bones a worthier resting-place, nor yet, as in so many other cases, to gratify a morbid curiosity, but to set at rest a question of disputed identity. In this respect the case of Raphael has a special bearing upon the matter in hand. I extract the following from _Mrs. Jameson’s Lives of Italian Painters_, ed. 1874, p. 258:

“In the year 1833 there arose among the antiquarians of Rome a keen dispute concerning a human skull, which on no evidence whatever, except a long-received tradition, had been preserved and exhibited in the Academy of St. Luke as the skull of Raphael. Some even expressed a doubt as to the exact place of his sepulchre, though upon this point the contemporary testimony seemed to leave no room for uncertainty.

“To ascertain the fact, permission was obtained from the Papal Government, and from the canons of the Church of the Rotunda (_i.e._, of the Pantheon), to make some researches; and on the 14th of September in the same year, after five days spent in removing the pavement in several places, the remains of Raphael were discovered in a vault behind the high altar, and certified as his by indisputable proofs. After being examined, and a cast made from the skull and [one] from the right hand, the skeleton was exhibited publicly in a glass case, and multitudes thronged to the church to look upon it. On the 18th of October, 1833, a second funeral ceremony took place. The remains were deposited in a pine-wood coffin, then in a marble sarcophagus, presented by the Pope (Gregory XVI), and reverently consigned to their former resting-place, in presence of more than three thousand spectators, including almost all the artists, the officers of government, and other persons of the highest rank in Rome.”

This event, as will appear in the sequel, is our best precedent for not permitting a sentimental respect for departed greatness to interfere with the respectful examination of a great man’s remains, wherever such examination may determine a question to which “universal history is _not_ indifferent.”

Toland tells us that Milton’s body was, on November 12, 1674, carried “to the Church of S. Giles, near _Cripplegate_, where he lies buried in the Chancel; and where the Piety of his Admirers will shortly erect a Monument becoming his worth, and the incouragement of Letters in King William’s Reign.” {19} It appears that his body was laid next to that of his father. A plain stone only was placed over the spot; and this, if Aubrey’s account be trustworthy, was removed in 1679, when the two steps were raised which lead to the altar. The remains, however, were undisturbed for nearly sixteen years. On the 4th of August, 1790, according to a small volume written by Philip Neve, Esq. (of which two editions were published in the same year), Milton’s coffin was removed, and his remains exhibited to the public on the 4th and 5th of that month. Mr. George Steevens, the great editor of Shakespeare, who justly denounced the indignity _intended_, not offered, to the great Puritan poet’s remains by Royalist landsharks, satisfied himself that the corpse was that of a woman of fewer years than Milton. Thus did good Providence, or good fortune, defeat the better half of their nefarious project: and I doubt not their gains were spent as money is which has been “gotten over the devil’s back.” Steevens’ assurance gives us good reason for believing that Mr. Philip Neve’s indignant protest is only good in the general, and that Milton’s “hallowed reliques” still “rest undisturb’d within their peaceful shrine.” I have adduced this instance to serve as an example of what I condemn, and should, in any actual case, denounce as strongly as Mr. Philip Neve or George Steevens. To expose a man’s remains after any interval for the purpose of treating his memory with indignity, or of denouncing an unpopular cause which he espoused, or (worst of all) “to fine his bones,” or make money by the public exhibition of his dust, deserves unmeasured and unqualified reprobation, and every prudent measure should be taken to render such an act impossible.

To take another example of the reprehensible practice of despoiling the grave of a great enemy: Oliver Cromwell was, as is proved by the most reliable evidence, namely, that of a trustworthy eye-witness, buried on the scene of his greatest achievement, the Field of Naseby. Some Royalist _Philister_ is said to have discovered, and stolen from its resting-place, the embalmed head of the great Protector. It found its way to London towards the end of the last century, where it was exhibited at No. 5, Mead Court, Old Bond Street. {20} It is said to have been acquired by Sir Joshua Reynolds in September, 1786, and to be now or late in the collection of Mr. W. A. Wilkinson, of Beckenham. It is recorded in one of the _Additional Manuscripts_ in the British Museum, under date April 21, 1813, that “an offer was made this morning to bring it to Soho Square, to show it to Sir Joseph Banks, but he desired to be excused from seeing _the remains of the old villanous Republican_, _the mention of whose very name makes his blood boil with indignation_. The same offer was made to Sir Joseph forty years ago, which he also refused.” What a charming specimen was Banks of the genus Tory! But after all it is a comfort to think that on this occasion he was right: for while this head was undoubtedly that which did duty for the Protector at Tyburn, and was afterwards fixed on the top of Westminster Hall, it was almost certainly not that of Oliver Cromwell: whose remains probably still lie crumbling into dust in their unknown grave on Naseby Field. {21a}

I give one more example of robbing the grave of an illustrious man, through the superstition of many and the cupidity of one. Swedenborg was buried in the vault of the Swedish Church in Prince’s Square, on April 5, 1772. In 1790, in order to determine a question raised in debate, viz., whether Swedenborg were really dead and buried, his wooden coffin was opened, and the leaden one was sawn across the breast. A few days after, a party of Swedenborgians visited the vault. “Various relics” (says White: _Life of Swedenborg_, 2nd ed., 1868, p. 675) “were carried off: Dr. Spurgin told me he possessed the cartilage of an ear. Exposed to the air, the flesh quickly fell to dust, and a skeleton was all that remained for subsequent visitors. {21b} At a funeral in 1817, Granholm, an officer in the Swedish Navy, seeing the lid of Swedenborg’s coffin loose, abstracted the skull, and hawked it about amongst London Swedenborgians, but none would buy. Dr. Wählin, pastor of the Swedish Church, recovered what he supposed to be the stolen skull, had a cast of it taken, and placed it in the coffin in 1819. The cast which is sometimes seen in phrenological collections is obviously not Swedenborg’s: it is thought to be that of a small female skull.”

In the latter part of the reign of George III a mausoleum was built in the Tomb House at Windsor Castle. On its completion, in the spring of 1813, it was determined to open a passage of communication with St. George’s Chapel, and in constructing this an opening was accidentally made in one of the walls of the vault of Henry VIII, through which the workmen could see three coffins, one of which was covered with a black velvet pall. It was known that Henry VIII and Queen Jane Seymour were buried in this vault, but a question had been raised as to the place of Charles the First’s interment, through the statement of Lord Clarendon, that the search made for the late King’s coffin at Windsor (with a view to its removal to Westminster Abbey) had proved fruitless. Sir Henry Halford, in his _Account_, appended to his _Essays and Orations_, 1831, {22} thus describes the examination of the palled coffin.

“On representing the circumstance to the Prince Regent, his R. H. perceived at once that _a doubtful point in history might be cleared up by opening this vault_; and accordingly his R. H. ordered an examination to be made on the first convenient opportunity. This was done on the First of April last [_i.e._, 1813], the day after the funeral of the Duchess of Brunswick, in the presence of his R. H. himself, who guaranteed thereby _the most respectful care and attention to the remains of the dead_, during the enquiry. His R. H. was accompanied by his R. H. the Duke of Cumberland, Count Munster, the Dean of Windsor, Benjamin Charles Stevenson, Esq., and Sir Henry Halford.”

“The vault was accordingly further opened and explored, and the palled coffin, which was of lead, and bore the inscription ‘King Charles, 1648,’ was opened at the head. A second Charles I, coffin of wood was thus disclosed, and, through this, the body carefully wrapped up in cere-cloth, into the folds of which a quantity of unctuous or greasy matter, mixed with resin, as it seemed, had been melted, so as to exclude, as effectually as possible, the external air. The coffin was completely full; and, from the tenacity of the cere-cloth, great difficulty was experienced in detaching it successfully from the parts which it enveloped. Wherever the unctuous matter had insinuated itself, the separation of the cere-cloth was easy; and when it came off, a correct impression of the features to which it had been applied was observed in the unctuous substance. {23} At length the whole face was disengaged from its covering. The complexion of the skin was dark and discoloured. The forehead and temples had lost little or nothing of their muscular substance; the cartilage of the nose was gone; but the left eye, in the first moment of exposure, was open and full, though it vanished almost immediately: and the pointed beard, so characteristic of the reign of King Charles, was perfect. The shape of the face was a long oval; many of the teeth remained; and the left ear, in consequence of the interposition of the unctuous matter between it and the cere-cloth, was found entire.”

The head was found to be loose, and was once more held up to view; and after a careful examination of it had been made, and a sketch taken, and the identity fully established, it was immediately replaced in the coffin, which was soldered up and restored to the vault. Of the other two coffins, the larger one had been battered in about the middle, and the skeleton of Henry VIII, exhibiting some beard upon the chin, was exposed to view. The other coffin was left, as it was found, intact. Neither of these coffins bore any inscription.

In the Appendix to Allan Cunningham’s _Life of Burns_ {24} we read of an examination of the poet’s Tomb, made immediately after that life was published:

“When Burns’ Mausoleum was opened in March, 1834, to receive the remains of his widow, some residents in Dumfries obtained the consent of her nearest relative to take a cast from the cranium of the poet. This was done during the night between the 31st March and 1st April. Mr. Archibald Blacklock, surgeon, drew up the following description:

“The cranial bones were perfect in every respect, if we except a little erosion of their external table, and firmly held together by their sutures, &c., &c. Having completed our intention [_i.e._, of taking a plaster cast of the skull, washed from every particle of sand, &c.], the skull, securely closed in a leaden case, was again committed to the earth, precisely where we found it.—Archd. Blacklock.’”

The last example I shall adduce is that of Ben Jonson’s skull. On this Lieut.-Colonel Cunningham thus writes:

“In my boyhood I was familiar with the Abbey, and well remember the ‘pavement square of blew marble, 14 inches square, with O Rare Ben Jonson,’ which marked the poet’s grave. When Buckland was Dean, the spot had to be disturbed for the coffin of Sir Robert Wilson, and the Dean sent his son Frank, now so well known as an agreeable writer on Natural History, to see whether he could observe anything to confirm, or otherwise, the tradition about Jonson being buried in a standing posture. The workmen, he tells us, ‘found a coffin very much decayed, which from the appearance of the remains must have originally been placed in the upright position. The skull found among these remains, Spice, the gravedigger, gave me as that of Ben Jonson, and I took it at once into the Dean’s study. We examined it together, and then going into the Abbey carefully returned it to the earth.’ In 1859, when John Hunter’s coffin was removed to the Abbey, the same spot had to be dug up, and Mr. Frank Buckland again secured the skull of Jonson, placing it at the last moment on the coffin of the great surgeon. So far, so good; but not long afterwards, a statement appeared in the ‘Times’ that the skull of Ben Jonson was in the possession of a blind gentleman at Stratford-upon-Avon. Hereupon Mr. Buckland made further inquiries, and calmly tells us that he has convinced himself that the skull which he had taken such care of on two occasions, [such care as not so much as to measure or sketch it!] was not Jonson’s skull at all; that a Mr. Ryde had anticipated him both times in removing and replacing the genuine article, [!] and that the Warwickshire claimant [!] was a third skull which Mr. Ryde observed had been purloined from the grave on the second opening. Mr. Buckland is a scientific naturalist, and an ardent worshipper of the closest of all observers, John Hunter. Now mark what satisfies such a man on such an occasion as this. He was wrong and Mr. Ryde was right, because Mr. Ryde described _his_ skull as having _red hair_; and in Aubrey’s _Lives of Eminent Men_, ‘I find evidence quite sufficient for any medical man to come to the conclusion that Ben Jonson’s hair was in all probability of a red colour, though the fact _is not stated in so many words_.’ In so many words! I think not! Actually all that Aubrey says on the subject is, ‘_He was_, _or rather had been_, _of a cleare and faire skin_’! (_Lives_, ii, 414.) And this, too, in spite of our knowing from his own pen, and from more than one painting, that his hair was as black as the raven’s wing! Besides, he was sixty-five years old when he died, and we may be sure that the few locks he had left were neither red nor black, but of the hue of the ‘hundred of grey hairs’ which he described as remaining eighteen years before. Mr. Buckland’s statement will be found in the _Fourth Series_ of his _Curiosities of Natural History_, one of the most entertaining little volumes with which we are acquainted.” {26}

In reviewing the various incidents connected with the foregoing cases of exhumation one is perhaps most struck with the last two. That an illustrious man of science, and his son, who at that time must already have been a scientific naturalist, should have coöperated in so stupendous a blunder as the mere inspection of Ben Jonson’s skull, without taking so much as a measurement or drawing of it, would be incredible, but for the fact that both are dead, and nothing of the sort has come to light: and it is scarcely less surprising that the Swedenborgians, who believed themselves to be in possession of their founder’s skull, should not have left on record some facts concerning its shape and size.