ASSISI, _14th April, 1874_.
I got to-day your lovely letter of the 6th, but I never knew my Susie
_could_ be such a naughty little girl before; to burn her pretty
story[5] instead of sending it to me. It would have come to me so
exactly in the right place here, where St. Francis made the
grasshopper (cicada, at least) sing to him upon his hand, and preached
to the birds, and made the wolf go its rounds every day as regularly
as any Franciscan friar, to ask for a little contribution to its
modest dinner. The Bee and Narcissus would have delighted to talk in
this enchanted air.
Yes, that _is_ really very pretty of Dr. John Brown to inscribe your
books so, and it's so like him. How these kind people understand
things! And that bit of his about the child is wholly lovely; I am so
glad you copied it.
I often think of you, and of Coniston and Brantwood. You will see, in
the May Fors, reflections upon the temptations to the life of a
Franciscan.
There are two monks here, one the sacristan who has charge of the
entire church, and is responsible for its treasures; the other
exercising what authority is left to the convent among the people of
the town. They are both so good and innocent and sweet, one can't pity
them enough. For this time in Italy is just like the Reformation in
Scotland, with only the difference that the Reform movement is carried
on here simply for the sake of what money can be got by Church
confiscation. And these two brothers are living by indulgence, as the
Abbot in the Monastery of St. Mary's in the Regent Moray's time.
The people of the village, however, are all true to their faith; it is
only the governing body which is modern-infidel and radical. The
population is quite charming,--a word of kindness makes them as bright
as if you brought them news of a friend. All the same, it does not do
to offend them; Monsieur Cavalcasella, who is expecting the Government
order to take the Tabernacle from the Sanctuary of St. Francis,
cannot, it is said, go out at night with safety. He decamped the day
before I came, having some notion, I fancy, that I would make his life
a burden to him, if he didn't, by day, as much as it was in peril by
night. I promise myself a month of very happy time here (happy for
_me_, I mean) when I return in May.
The sacristan gives me my coffee for lunch, in his own little cell,
looking out on the olive woods; then he tells me stories of
conversions and miracles, and then perhaps we go into the Sacristy and
have a reverent little poke out of relics. Fancy a great carved
cupboard in a vaulted chamber full of most precious things (the box
which the Holy Virgin's veil used to be kept in, to begin with), and
leave to rummage in it at will! Things that are only shown twice in
the year or so, with fumigation! all the congregation on their knees;
and the sacristan and I having a great heap of them on the table at
once, like a dinner service! I really looked with great respect at St.
Francis's old camel-hair dress.
I am obliged to go to Rome to-morrow, however, and to Naples on
Saturday. My witch of Sicily[6] expects me this day week, and she's
going to take me such lovely drives, and talks of "excursions" which I
see by the map are thirty miles away. I wonder if she thinks me so
horribly old that it's quite proper. It will be very nice if she does,
but not flattering. I know her mother can't go with her, I suppose her
maid will. If she wants any other chaperon I won't go.
She's really very beautiful, I believe, to some people's tastes, (I
shall be horribly disappointed if she isn't, in her own dark style,)
and she writes, next to Susie, the loveliest letters I ever get.
Now, Susie, mind, you're to be a very good child while I'm away, and
never to burn any more stories; and above all, you're to write me just
what comes into your head, and ever to believe me your loving