play of light and color on the picturesque hills and mountains of the
Umbrian country; the gray-green gleam of olive orchards and the silver
threads of winding streams; the towers and ruins and castles of a dozen
towns and villages that crown the slopes, and the violet shadows of
deepening twilight, with Assisi bathed in a splendor of rose and
gold,--all combine to make this an ever-changing panorama for the poet
and painter.

No journey in Italy is quite like that to the lovely Umbrian valley and
its Jerusalem, Assisi, the shrine which, with the single exception of
Rome, is the special place of pilgrimage for the entire religious world.
Perugia offers the charm of art, and attracts the visitor, also, by an
exceptional degree of modern comfort and convenience; but Assisi is the
shrine before which he kneels, where the footsteps of saints who have
knelt in prayer make holy ground, and where he realizes anew the
consecration of faith and sacrifice. The very air is filled with divine
messages, and in lowly listening he will hear, again, those wonderful
and thrilling words of St. Francis:--

"By the holy love which is in God I pray all to put aside every
obstacle, every care, every anxiety, that they may be able to
consecrate themselves entirely to serve, love, and honor the Lord
God, with a pure heart and a sincere purpose, which is what He asks
above all things."

_White phantom city, whose untrodden streets
Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting
Shadows of palaces and strips of sky;
I wait to see thee vanish like the fleets
Seen in mirage, or towers of clouds uplifting
In air their unsubstantial masonry._

LONGFELLOW.

_Fair as the palace builded for Aladdin,
Yonder St. Mark uplifts its sculptured splendor--
Intricate fretwork, Byzantine mosaic,
Color on color, column upon column,
Barbaric, wonderful, a thing to kneel to!
Over the portal stand the four gilt horses,
Gilt hoof in air, and wide distended nostril,
Fiery, untamed, as in the days of Nero.
Skyward, a cloud of domes and spires and crosses;
Earthward, black shadows flung from jutting stonework.
High over all the slender Campanile
Quivers, and seems a falling shaft of silver._

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

_As one who parts from Life's familiar shore,
Looks his last look in