its effect upon the mind to the impression left by a symphony or a tumultuous lyric.  The turbulence and splendour, the swiftness and resonance, the veiling of the scene in smoke of shattered water-masses, the withdrawal of these veils according as the volume of the river slightly shifted in its fall, the rainbows shimmering on the silver spray, the shivering of poplars hung above impendent precipices, the stationary grandeur of the mountains keeping watch around, the hurry and the incoherence of the cataracts, the immobility of force and changeful changelessness in nature, were all for me the elements of one stupendous poem.  It was like an ode of Shelley translated into symbolism, more vivid through inarticulate appeal to primitive emotion than any words could be.

MONTEFALCO

The rich land of the Clitumnus is divided into meadows by transparent watercourses, gliding with a glassy current over swaying reeds.  Through this we pass, and leave Bevagna to the right, and ascend one of those long gradual roads which climb the hills where all the cities of the Umbrians perch.  The view expands, revealing Spello, Assisi, Perugia on its mountain buttress, and the far reaches northward of the Tiber valley.  Then Trevi and Spoleto came into sight, and the severe hill-country above Gubbio in part disclosed itself.  Over Spoleto the fierce witch-haunted heights of Norcia rose forbidding.  This is the kind of panorama that dilates the soul.  It is so large, so dignified, so beautiful in tranquil form.  The opulent abundance of the plain contrasts with the severity of mountain ranges desolately grand; and the name of each of all those cities thrills the heart with memories.

The main object of a visit to Montefalco is to inspect its many excellent frescoes; painted histories of S. Francis and S. Jerome, by Benozzo Gozzoli; saints, angels, and Scripture episodes by the gentle Tiberio d’Assisi.  Full justice had been done to these, when a little boy, seeing us lingering outside the church of S. Chiara, asked whether we should not like to view the body of the saint.  This privilege could be purchased at the price of a small fee.  It was only necessary to call the guardian of her shrine at the high altar.  Indolent, and in compliant mood, with languid curiosity and half an hour to spare, we assented.  A handsome young man appeared, who conducted us with decent gravity into a little darkened chamber behind the altar.  There he lighted wax tapers, opened sliding doors in what looked like a long coffin, and drew curtains.  Before us in the dim light there lay a woman covered with a black nun’s dress.  Only her hands, and the exquisitely beautiful pale contour of her face (forehead, nose, mouth, and chin, modelled in purest outline, as though the injury of death had never touched her) were visible.  Her closed eyes seemed to sleep.  She had the perfect peace of Luini’s S. Catherine borne by the angels to her grave on Sinai.  I have rarely