6 Things not to do when you're dead
Advice from my walk through Highgate Cemetery, London
A jumble of leaning tombstones, plants gone wild, and narrow paths, London’s Highgate Cemetery is atmospheric to the point of self-parody, a marvelously disheveled nature reserve and Grade I Listed Historic potting ground for dead people.
Highgate sits high on a hillside just east of the vast slopes of Hampstead Heath, which is an immense public park about 5 miles north of the Thames. Its cemetery has been a burial place of choice for “people of means” since it opened in 1839, one of several cemeteries the Victorians established when the health hazards caused by overcrowding in London churchyards could no longer be ignored.
Even before I reached the official entrance on Swain’s lane, the cheery creepiness of what I could see through the fence made it easy to imagine ghosts in waistcoats or in bustles and lace.
After buying my entrance ticket I did a comprehensive mosey through both halves of the cemetery grounds. There’s little I can add to the tourist guides’ praises; it’s worth seeing. I did, however notice 6 choices or situations that I would advise any funeral planner to avoid repeating.
Call them cases of questionable design sense, or hubris that went a bit too far, or just lack of foresight, here are 6 things not to do when you’re dead. Followed by a description of 2 more graves that, to me at least, were perfect.
1) Don’t ignore the context.
The most famous tomb at Highgate may be that of Karl Marx. It’s also that of his wife and some other members of his family, but the design is all for Karl.
Leaving aside the irony that the father of Marxism is entombed in what has become one of the most exclusive areas of one of the world’s priciest cities, his tomb gives new meaning to the word “headstone.”
Unveiled in 1956, the tomb is out of proportion with its surroundings. The way it dwarfs the nearby tombs seems antithetical to Marx’s focus on class struggle. It’s so visually antithetical, in fact, that if the head were Donald Trump’s instead of Karl Marx’s and were cast in gold, Trump would put it on display at Mar a Lago with a bit of Rococo bling.
Besides the problems of irony and physical proportion, there’s the fact that it looks more like a monument to a head than to a whole human being. It’s called a bust, but in truth, the shoulders and neck are incidental. It’s a head. A big, looming head on a block of rock decorated with wilting flowers left by visitors immune to irony.
2) Remember that practical outlives fancy.
The doors to many of the mausoleums in two of the cemetery’s most visited and originally upscale areas, Egyptian Avenue and Cypress Circle, no longer stay closed without help. The solution? Chain link and padlocks, the kind you find at any hardware store. Definitely not the high-end look the occupants intended.
3) Don’t fall for fads.
For a while in the 1800s it was popular to inscribe mausoleum entrances with the occupants’ former address to signal class and status. Some folks listed homes, plural, to emphasize how well they’d done. But doesn’t how you lived matter more than where?
4) Don’t belabor the obvious.
One of the contemporary tombstones in the cemetery is especially problematic. It’s a large block of charcoal granite set upright on a matching grave lid. The lid is inscribed with a loved one’s name and the usuals: date of birth, date of death, heartfelt words.
The upright stone doesn’t fit in with its surroundings, but compared to Marx’s tomb, that’s a minor issue. What earned it a place on this list is this:
The right edge of the tombstone is carved into 4 steps, and each step is a see-through cut-out. On second look I realized the cut-outs were simplified block letters that from top to bottom spell DEAD.
Grief is a heavy thing, but OMG. Someone could have done the bereaved a kindness and probably saved them a heap of money by reminding them about that the location—a cemetery—was enough to make their beloved’s condition clear. The message was so grimly redundant, I had to laugh.
5) Don’t tempt fate or (worse in my opinion) ignore the women of your line.
A prime piece of real estate in the west half of the otherwise crowded cemetery is an unsightly triangle of mostly bare ground with a few oddly placed tombs on it. It’s underused because the man who bought the plot for himself and future generations permanently restricted its use to his direct male descendants: his sons, their sons, and so on. No cousins. And no women. Ever. Forever. Period.
His direct male line died out long ago. Since the women didn’t merit his consideration, what’s left is something lonely and grim. So much for hubris and misogyny. (I took no photo because the plot looked so unappealing.)
6) Prepositions matter. Choose lettering that lasts.
From several feet away on the path, one tombstone seemed to read as follows:
“Christ, the beloved wife of C. James, entered into rest June 25, 1891, aged 79.”
It went on to say Christ was equally the wife of C.R. James. Neither case seemed likely, given the New Testament and all.
On closer inspection it was clear that the original read “In Christ.” The preposition, like the rest of the lengthy list of names and inscriptions, had been made of metal lettering affixed to stone. “In” and the names of the beloved wives (Rhoda and Caroline) had since gone missing.
I guess the lesson is to make sure the lettering on your tombstone is carved, not affixed. Otherwise your descendants might risk a visit from the local vicar.
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These 6 examples aside, the overall effect of the cemetery’s many hundreds of crowded stones and crosses and marble and granite tombs is as peaceful as you could hope for. Surrounded by the rich greens and wildflowers of an English spring, it was also thought-provoking, as all good cemeteries are.
Two graves stood out.
One of the loveliest tombs is a woman’s, covered by a nearly life-size sleeping angel carved in stone. The inscription beneath the angel marks a widower’s and son’s love for their wife and mother.
Below it a later inscription in an almost matching style marks a later death—that of the woman’s son’s son, at 18 months. I don’t know whether it was normal back then to add a child’s body to an adult’s grave, but here it felt profound. I hope it comforted her son and his wife to believe their boy’s spirit would be sheltered not only by an angel’s presence, but also by his grandmother’s love.
I was about to leave when I passed another grave that was perfectly beautiful and sad. It was the burial site of a boy who died 20 years ago at age 16. Unlike all the others I saw, this one was a garden. Dozens of lush marigolds and foliage plants grew around a cross of silver artemisia. Three clay pots at the foot of the grave overflowed with flowers and greens.
I stood there a long time, wondering what the boy was like. I imagined his spirit returning to admire this flourishing garden every spring, and I imagined his family’s grief and love. It seemed to me the plants knew their purpose there.
Someday the boy’s family or their descendants will stop tending the plot so carefully, out of choice, generational detachment, or necessity. Perhaps it too will be overtaken by wild plants and the simple, elegant stone pillar carved with his name, dates, and a few words will be what’s left. That will be fine, too. For now though, 20 years on, his garden offers an infusion of life and loveliness to everyone who stops to look.
Stones are the enduring memory of a dream in the world.
I love old cemeteries too. Thank you for sharing this! I love your sense of humour. 💗🌈🙏🏻