These negroes know that man is revengeful, so they consider that nothing will more content the dead than to sacrifice all his enemies upon his grave, and, as man is curious and may not know how to entertain himself in the other life, each year they send him a newsletter under the skin of a beheaded slave.
We ourselves differ from all the rest.

In spite of the inscriptions on the tombs, hardly any one believes that the dead rest, and much less, that they rest in peace.

The most optimistic fancies his forefathers still roasting in purgatory and, if it turns out that he himself be not completely damned, he will yet be able to associate with them for many years.

If any one would contradict let him visit the churches and cemeteries of the country on All Saints' day and he will be convinced.
Now that we are in San Diego let us visit its cemetery, which is located in the midst of paddy-fields, there toward the west--not a city, merely a village of the dead, approached by a path dusty in dry weather and navigable on rainy days.

A wooden gate and a fence half of stone and half of bamboo stakes, appear to separate it from the abode of the living but not from the curate's goats and some of the pigs of the neighborhood, who come and go making explorations among the tombs and enlivening the solitude with their presence.