nt, the
beautiful in soul; the suffering, the strong, the simple, the victorious
over self and sin; the celestial who trampled upon earth and rose on
wings of ecstasy to heaven; the Christ-inebriated saint of visions
supersensual and life beyond the grave. Far down below the feet of those
who worship God through him, S. Francis sleeps; but his soul, the
incorruptible part of him, the message he gave the world, is in the
spaces round us. This is his temple. He fills it like an unseen god. Not
as Phoebus or Athene, from their marble pedestals; but as an abiding
spirit, felt everywhere, nowhere seized, absorbing in itself all
mysteries, all myths, all burning exaltations, all abasements, all love,
self-sacrifice, pain, yearning, which the thought of Christ, sweeping
the centuries, hath wrought for men. Let, therefore, choir and
congregation raise their voices on the tide of prayers and praises; for
this is Easter morning--Christ is risen! Our sister, Death of the Body,
for whom S. Francis thanked God in his hymn, is reconciled to us this
day, and takes us by the hand, and leads us to the gate whence floods of
heavenly glory issue from the faces of a multitude of saints. Pray, ye
poor people; chant and pray. If all be but a dream, to wake from this
were loss for you indeed!

PERUSIA AUGUSTA.

The piazza in front of the Prefettura is my favourite resort on these
nights of full moon. The evening twilight is made up partly of sunset
fading over Thrasymene and Tuscany; partly of moonrise from the
mountains of Gubbio and the passes toward Ancona. The hills are capped
with snow, although the season is so forward. Below our parapets the
bulk of S. Domenico, with its gaunt, perforated tower, and the finer
group of S. Pietro, flaunting the arrowy "Pennacchio di Perugia," jut
out upon the spine of hill which dominates the valley of the Tiber. As
the night gloom deepens, and the moon ascends the sky, these buildings
seem to form the sombre foreground to some French etching. Beyond them
spreads the misty moon-irradiated plain of Umbria. Over all rise shadowy
Apennines, with dim suggestions of Assisi, Spello, Foligno, Montefalco,
and Spoleto on their basements. Little thin whiffs of breezes, very
slight and searching, flit across, and shiver as they pass from Apennine
to plain. The slowly moving population--women in veils, men
winter-mantled--pass to and fro between the buildings and the grey
immensity of sky. Bells ring. The bugles