On the way I passed a little ruined church,
shattered, I was told, by an earthquake three years before; its
lonely position made it interesting, and the cupola of coloured
tiles (like that of the Cathedral at Amalfi) remained intact, a
bright spot against the grey hills behind. A high enclosing wall
signalled the cemetery; I rang a bell at the gate and was admitted
by a man of behaviour and language much more refined than is common
among the people of this region; I felt sorry, indeed, that I had
not found him seated in the Sindaco's chair that morning. But as
guide to the burial-ground he was delightful. Nine years, he told
me, he had held the post of custodian, in which time, working with
his own hands, and unaided, he had turned the enclosure from a
wretched wilderness into a beautiful garden. Unaffectedly I admired
the results of his labour, and my praise rejoiced him greatly. He
specially requested me to observe the geraniums; there were ten
species, many of them of extraordinary size and with magnificent
blossoms. Roses I saw, too, in great abundance; and tall
snapdragons, and bushes of rosemary, and many flowers unknown to me.
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