I Had Also The Same Afternoon Visited The Receptacle Into Which The
Population Of The City Are Swept When The Game Of Life Is Played Out - The
Campo Santo, As It Is Called, Or Public Cemetery Of Havana.
Going out of
the city at the gate nearest the sea, I passed through a street of the
wretchedest houses I had seen; the ocean was roaring at my right on the
coral rocks which form the coast.
The dingy habitations were soon left
behind, and I saw the waves, pushed forward by a fresh wind, flinging
their spray almost into the road; I next entered a short avenue of trees,
and in a few minutes the volante stopped at the gate of the cemetery. In a
little inclosure before the entrance, a few starvling flowers of Europe
were cultivated, but the wild plants of the country flourished luxuriantly
on the rich soil within. A thick wall surrounded the cemetery, in which
were rows of openings for coffins, one above the other, where the more
opulent of the dead were entombed. The coffin is thrust in endwise, and
the opening closed with a marble slab bearing an inscription.
Most of these niches were already occupied, but in the earth below, by far
the greater part of those who die at Havana, are buried without a monument
or a grave which they are allowed to hold a longer time than is necessary
for their bodies to be consumed in the quicklime which is thrown upon
them.
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