The ordinary graves were marked with a small wooden cross; where a head-stone had been raised, it generally presented a skull and crossed bones.  Round the enclosure stood a number of mortuary chapels, gloomy and ugly.  An exception to this dull magnificence in death was a marble slab, newly set against the wall, in memory of a Lucifero—­one of that family, still eminent, to which belonged the sacrilegious bishop.  The design was a good imitation of those noble sepulchral tablets which abound in the museum at Athens; a figure taking leave of others as if going on a journey.  The Lucifers had shown good taste in their choice of the old Greek symbol; no better adornment of a tomb has ever been devised, nor one that is half so moving.  At the foot of the slab was carved a little owl (civetta), a bird, my friend informed me, very common about here.

When I took leave, the kindly fellow gave me a large bunch of flowers, carefully culled, with many regrets that the lateness of the season forbade his offering choicer blossoms.  His simple good-nature and intelligence greatly won upon me.  I like to think of him as still quietly happy amid his garden walls, tending flowers that grow over the dead at Cotrone.

On my way back again to the town, I took a nearer view of the ruined little church, and, whilst I was so engaged, two lads driving a herd of goats stopped to look at me.  As I came out into the road again, the younger of these modestly approached and begged me to give him a flower—­by choice, a rose.  I did so, much to his satisfaction and no less to mine; it was a pleasant thing to find a wayside lad asking for anything but soldi.  The Calabrians, however, are distinguished by their self-respect; they contrast remarkedly with the natives of the Neapolitan district.  Presently, I saw that the boy’s elder companion had appropriated the flower, which he kept at his nose as he plodded along; after useless remonstrance, the other drew near to me again, shamefaced; would I make him another present; not a rose this time, he would not venture to ask it, but “questo piccolo”; and he pointed to a sprig of geranium.  There was a grace about the lad which led me to talk to him, though I found his dialect very difficult.  Seeing us on good terms, the elder boy drew near, and at once asked a puzzling question:  When was the ruined church on the hillside to be rebuilt?  I answered, of course, that I knew nothing about it, but this reply was taken as merely evasive; in a minute or two the lad again questioned me.  Was the rebuilding to be next year?  Then I began to understand; having seen me examining the ruins, the boy took it for granted that I was an architect here on business, and I don’t think I succeeded in setting him right.  When he had said good-bye he turned to look after me with a mischievous smile, as much as to say that I had naturally refused to talk to him about so important a matter as the building of a church, but he was not to be deceived.