Inside the town stands the tiny little church of San Damiano, the one he wanted to rebuild at first, and for which he took the money. Sta. Chiara and her nuns were first there. All has been preserved as it was then. The tiny church, the rough choir seats, the simple nameless burial place, the vaulted refectory with its rugged seats, the small rude infirmary, Sta. Chiara’s little room, are all there, and have received, as herself did, his own stamp of humility, simplicity, and poverty, more truly, more abidingly than any others. They say she kept the Saracen from touching them by looking from a window; but, when she died, the nuns were frightened; and the citizens built for them a church and nunnery in the town. This, a large church, has now no marks of either simplicity or special beauty that I cared for, except four frescoes by Giotto, on the vaults of so high a roof that I could see little except the exquisite glow of resplendent colour, and enough of angel form to fall in with the general impression Assisi gives, that these glad and bright visitants were by the holy and humble men of heart, who dwelt and painted there, felt to be all around them, whether they kneel on earth during a crucifixion, or support the head of a dying saint, or guide a mortal on his dark path, or in bright companies fill the visible heaven, or, with stately splendour, stand in myriads before the rapt eyes of the man who conquers temptation. One feels no surprise; the sight of their high holy and cloudless faces seems quite familiar; it is as if earth and heaven must be filled with them; one feels one might hear the rush of their great wings any moment, or hear their swift strong tread either; and they are companionable too, not far from men, “not too bright and good for human nature’s daily food”; or, at least, the barrier is so slight a one, that it gives us no surprise when they step down among men, or when a weary man is lifted suddenly by and among them.
The monk who showed us over the church gave us a very graphic account of the discovery and opening of St. F.’s coffin fifty years ago. It reminded one of “Past and Present.” No one knew exactly where the coffin would be; they only knew the church had been built for the body to be brought there, just after his death. The Pope declared the coffin would be certainly under the altar. They would not disturb this, and so tunnelled sideways. They worked at night only, not to disturb the minds of the townspeople. They worked fifty-two nights; then they found the coffin. The head lay pillowed on a stone, the arms crossed; the figure was perfect for a moment, but crumbled as the air reached it. Medals proved its authenticity. It was sent to Rome to be certified by the Pope; then carried in procession through the town which was “full! full!” the monk said, “for everyone came, for he was not only a saint, but he did much good to all people; so everyone came to it.” Then they replaced the coffin on the solid rock, where for 500 years it had been, hollowed a chapel round it, and there it is. And he so humble a man, who wanted to be out of sight! Strangely sweet did the tiny little church of Portiuncula seem; and the little hut by it where he died, which now are enclosed by the great dome of St. Maria degli Angeli in the plain just below Assisi. They seemed to bring back the simple, child-like heart of the man; they and the home of Sta. Chiara seemed to me almost more to recall him than even the solemn glory of the frescoes on the twilight richness of San Francesco. And now the order he established will pass away.
REPORTS OF HOME WORK
May 11th, 1878 or 9?
Miranda to Octavia.
Miss Cons has spent Mr. Crewdson’s £10 on the Walmer Castle library, which has now 300 volumes and sixty members, many of them lads from sixteen to twenty. Miss Cons goes to the Walmer Castle herself from three to eleven every alternate Sunday afternoon; to set the managers free to go out. She said half-apologetically, “I don’t serve unless there is a great press; but I see that things go right.”
July 21st, 1878.
Gertrude to Octavia.
When I was in B. Court I took round some of the notices about the Club, as Mr. Brock had spoken so warmly of its efforts to right itself; and I had a very nice talk with Hobbs. He promised to go and talk to Mr. Brock that evening, and spoke with pleasure of the old days, when those who were teetotalers and those who were not worked side by side, and its own funds made it self-supporting. Bristow, too, spoke to Miss Garton most heartily. He brought out a chair that they might talk more comfortably; and he said he would sacrifice “I don’t know what time and money” rather than see the Club broken up. This week, too, Miss Kennedy sends good news from Dublin. She says she has been afloat three weeks with her father’s property in Dublin, which was neglected. She has adopted all your plans and books, and writes up for printed forms; and she seemed so interested. But just as keen as ever about B. Court. She says, “I had a delightful interview with Mrs. Fitch, just before leaving London, and we talked out all or most of our new ideas and wishes. So I hope the ‘alliance’ will be most satisfactory. I will do all I know to make it so.”
Hôtel Bellevue, Thun,