t. Francis, the founder of the
Franciscan order; in it were the scenes of his early life, and here, in
1226, at the age of forty-four years, he died. The convent-church of San
Francesco, built to his memory in 1230; the lower church, completed at
that date, while the upper was finished in 1253; the magnificent
Cathedral of Santa Maria Degli Angeli, completed in 1640; the Church of
Santa Chiara and the Duomo, are the points of interest.

[Illustration: SAN FRANCESCAN CONVENT-CHURCH, ASSISI
_Page 346_]

The purple Apennines, on one spur of which Assisi is built, are a
picturesque feature of lovely Umbria. The old houses of Assisi rise
white in the sunshine. The ancient walls still surround the city, and
its towers stand as they stood before the eyes of St. Francis, almost
seven centuries ago. The peak of Mt. Subasio, a neighboring peak of the
Apennines, looms above the colossal rock that crowns the hill around
whose top Assisi clusters in winding terraces. The massive pile of the
Francescan church and monastery--the two churches, one above the
other--forms an architectural group whose imposing aspect arrests the
eye of every traveller for miles around. The pointed arches of the
cloisters and the square campanile contrast rather than blend in an
effective and harmonious manner and resemble military fortifications
rather than an edifice of the church. The old walls still surround
Assisi, and the houses all rise white under the blue Italian sky. The
narrow streets, hardly wide enough for one carriage to pass another, are
so intricate in their curves as they climb the steep hill, that it
requires a faith hardly less than the traditional degree said to move
mountains to lead the visitor to suppose that he will ever emerge
from one that he has entered. Many of the houses along these curious
thoroughfares have no windows, the only light and air coming through the
open door. The bells from the campanile of the Francescan
convent-church, from the Duomo and from the Church of Santa Chiara ring
every quarter of an hour; and this constant clash of bells is almost the
only sound that breaks the silence of the mediaeval town, which lends
itself to visions and to dreams. On the very air is stamped the impress
of St. Francis. His personality, his teachings, his faith pervaded the
atmosphere in a way that no one could believe until he had himself
entered into the experience. In narration it cannot but seem like a
plea