A£ 03705

THE GALILEE OF
ST. FRANCIS

PART 1 — FONTE COLOMBO—THE FRANCISCAN SINAI

PART 2 — GRECCIO — THE FRANCISCAN BETHLEHEM

PART 3 — LA VERNA — THE FRANCISCAN CALVARY

PART 4 — ASSISI — THE FRANCISCAN GETHSEMANE

Marie Donegan Walsh

FRANCISCAN HERALD PRESS
1434 W. 51ST ST., CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

1926



Nihil Obstat:

Fr. James Meyer, O. F. M.,

Censor Deputatus

Imprimi Permittitur:

Fr. Martin Strub, O. F. M.,

Minister Provincial

Die 8 Augusti, 1926.

Imprimatur

:

George Cardinal Mundelein,

Archbishop of Chicago

Die 14 Augusti, 1926.



St. Francis of Assisi





1223—Fonte Colombo—1923
The Franciscan Sinai





F
EW, even if familiar with Franciscan shrines

and sanctuaries throughout Italy, know the

Franciscan Sinai—that solitary convent on
an almost inaccessible mountain height crowning

the valley of Rieti, where St. Francis drew up his

rule and dictated it to Brother Leo. Even among

the notable group of convents with which the sairft

endowed this exquisite valley (a place which came

next in his affections to Assisi), Fonte Colombo

stands out from the rest in strong individuality and

holiness of association.

Its very name, Fonte Colombo, seems to be alto-

gether appropriate. It comes down from the day

of St. Francis himself, when a noble and devout

lady of Rieti called Colomba, who owned a small

property on the mountain summit, presented it, with

the house, to the holy founder that he might enlarge

it into a convent, near where a limpid mountain

spring has its source. The remains of Colomba’s

original, medieval house still exist, and are incor-

porated with the newer building.

The Holy Wood

Ascending to the friary by a steep precipitous

pathway high above Rieti, one first reaches the

“Bosco Sacro” (holy wood), by which Fonte

Colombo is surrounded and almost concealed from

view. These holy woods, with their centuries-old

luxuriant growth, constitute in themselves an out-

door sanctuary, hallowed by the prayers and pres-

ence of saints. It was here that St. Francis daily



8 THE FRANCISCAN SINAI

and nightly prayed and wept, fitting himself by this

incessant communion with his God for the incoming

of the Holy Ghost, who was to inspire the rule.

Each separate spot on earth, covered by the succes-

Friary at Fonte Colombo

sion of tiny shrines erected over them, has its spe-

cial memory—convent, chapel, rock-hewn cavern,
one more holy in association than the other, sancti-

fied by the atmosphere of prayer and contempla-

tion which surround them like a mantle. This

mountain hermitage is more rude and primitive in

its simplicity than any other Franciscan shrine

—

truly a home of solitary and anchorite, poised high

between heaven and earth. It merits the inscrip-

tion placed above the outside entrance—the verse
from Scripture : “Take off the covering from thy

feet, for holy is the ground on which they stand
!”



THE FRANCISCAN SINAI 9

The First Chapel

We reach the first chapel, which St. Francis him-

self erected in‘1217, by a narrow stone pathway on

the side of the rock, skirting the convent buildings,

where the Stations of the Cross are placed against

the cliff of rock. This ante-room, so to speak, of

St. Francis' Gethsemane garden, is the scene, each

week, of a beautiful and touching commemorative

ceremony when on Saturdays, after Compline, the

Franciscan brethren go in procession to the shrine,

chanting the Transitus.

The walls of this early chapel of the saints, with

its rude stone altar resting on a single column, were

originally decorated with frescoes
;
but these have

faded with time and few traces remain save a figure

of St. Mary Magdalen, from which the chapel now

takes its name, though St. Francis had originally

dedicated it to his beloved Queen of the Angels.

In the course of centuries the small edifice fell

into decay, but the spot was so dear to the Francis-

cans that it was fully restored some years ago, in

all its primitive form, every vestige and ornament

that remained being left intact and incorporated into

the new building. Even the low narrow, medieval

doorway is a souvenir of St. Francis, for over it, in

the quaint bell tower is the little bell which he

caused to be rung till it re-echoed out over the val-

ley, to call the friars to Mass from the hermitage

solitudes where they dwelt.

The whole scene is absolutely unchanged from



10 THE FRANCISCAN SINAI

the days of St. Francis; and as the bell rings out

today for midday Angelus, one wholly expects to

see the small doorway glorified by a slight, brown-

robed figure, with the “novice robin-red-breasts”

perching on his shoulder, standing to greet Brother

Leo and his companions, as they emerged from their

grottoes of prayer.

The interior of the chapel is simple as the lover

of poverty could have wished it. His presence is

suggested by a large red letter, T, frescoed on the

wall; for to him who saw his crucified God in all

things, the letter T ever suggested the form of the

cross, and he would have it everywhere he dwelt,

even placing it on his written blessing to Brother

Leo.

From the hush of the little early church one

emerges again into the rock pathway, from which

it is only a step into the inner sanctuary—the power
house of Fonte Colombo, whence St. Francis’

“Counsel of Perfection” went forth to the world

of his day and to countless future generations.

Here one seems to stand literally on the holy moun-

tain where heaven descended to earth. Hidden

deep in the very heart of Nature in her sternest,

wildest beauty, is this eagles’ nest of rock, poised

on the very fringe of the confines of mortality,

where the voice of the Spirit awoke, amid the mur-

mur of many waters and the diapason of the wind.

Before entering the rock-bound sanctuary, it is well

to let the beauty of the spot sink into mind and

heart.



THE FRANCISCAN SINAI 11

This little chapel of St. Michael contains the flat

rock on which St. Francis slept. It bears the fol-

lowing inscription: “This hard stone served as a

bed for the penitent Francis, when he had to allow

his suffering members a short rest, to the confusion

of delicate Christians, who have a horror of the

least inconvenience !” The only striking decoration

in the chapel is a picture of a Franciscan friar of

Padua, representing St. Francis receiving the rule

from our Lord, who appears high up against the

oak-tree while the holy founder kneels in ecstasy at

his feet, and the group of brethren, apart behind

the bushes, look on with awe and wonder.

On a lower level still, reached by seven rock-cut

steps, is the “Holy of Holies,” the cleft in the rock

called the Sacro Speco. On coming to Fonte Col-

ombo, when St. Francis first beheld this rock-cleft

fissure on the mountain, and heard the ancient leg-

end that it had been riven at the time of our Sav-

ior's crucifixion, he claimed it for his own, first in

view of its solitude, then for its double association

with the Crucifixion. Into it he crept, as into the

side of Christ, to meditate, night and day, with

burning love on the Passion, and from it he beheld

the wondrous vision of Jesus on the oak-tree out-

side.

The very spirit of St. Francis dwells yet in this

spot, where he fasted for forty days on bread and

water in honor of St. Michael before drawing up

his rule, a spot in which, after La Verna, he attained

the greatest height of revelation.



12 THE FRANCISCAN SINAI

The Rule

When the seraphic father came forth, like Moses

from the burning bush, his worn, etherealized face

was so transfigured that the brethren could scarcely

look upon it. On his knees he dictated the rule.

Past as Brother Leo wrote, he failed to keep pace

with the burning flood of eloquence from the mouth

of one who was habitually slow, simple and unelo-

quent in speech.

This rule, with its ascetic mysticism, its literal

adherence to the Gospel precepts, struck terror into

the hearts of those who, though they wished to

serve God, were yet far from Francis' summits, and

they came there to beg him to mitigate it some-

what, to make some concessions to the frailty of

human nature. They shrank from his white heat

of sanctity, fearing that few would be able to com-

pass it. They counted on Francis' gentleness, his

Christ-like compassion of human weakness, to bend

him to what, in all good faith, they deemed the true-

est wisdom, forgetting that it was not their per-

sonal founder who spoke, but the mouthpiece of the

Holy Ghost transmitting words of heavenly wis-

dom! As of old, signs and wonders were needed to

convince, and once more God vouchsafed them.

It needs very little imagination to conjure up the

scene which happened on this spot. Francis kneel-

ing before his grotto, rapt in communion with his

Lord, unmindful of the deputation of brethren on

their errand of compromise. They, fearful to ap-



THE FRANCISCAN SINAI 13

proach him, crept near as they dared; near enough

to hear the sorrowful words he uttered audibly to

the Presence unseen by them, before which he knelt

with wide-stretched arms of intercession : “Lord,

did I not say that these would not listen to me?”

Then suddenly, as they listened awestruck, rocks

and trees around glowed with a marvelous and

blinding radiance, and Francis fell on his face be-

fore the vision of his Lord, high up against the

branches of the giant oak tree before which we

stand today, now incorporated, to protect it, in the

convent wall. All present heard the solemn words

—this time not from the mouth of the saint:
“Francis, in this rule there is nothing of thine. All

that is in it originates from One alone. I will that

it be observed to the letter, without comment. I

know what human weakness can do, and also when

I wish to aid it. Let those who do not wish to sub-

mit, leave the order, leaving the others and those

who will come to it by them, to observe it purely
!”

Terrified by the insistent power of the clear, un-

earthly voice, the temporizing brethren were put to

utter confusion, and only the familiar accents of

Francis, stern, yet sweet, roused them from their

great fear. “You have heard!” he said, turning

upon them his glorified face. “Do you desire that

it shall be repeated?”

Fully convinced of the supernatural force aiding

and inspiring their founder, the weaker brethren

went forth, in holy obedience, leaving St. Francis

in the peace of his riven rock.



14 THE FRANCISCAN SINAI

Not far from the holy grotto is another holy

cavern, or rather, a hollow, in the bastion of rock,

which one of the tenderest of Franciscan chronicles

connects with Brother Leo, the saintly brother who

St. Francis Receiving Approbation of His Rule

was St. Francis’ confessor and secretary and so

like him in humility and gentleness—the “pecorella”
(little sheep) of God, as the saint loved to call him.

At the time of the apparition of our Lord, Leo,

who was never far from his hero, knelt prostrate in



THE FRANCISCAN SINAI 15

this low-lying rock-cell, in close proximity to the

oak-tree. His humility being overcome with a long-

ing to see the beloved Lord whose glory shone from

Francis' face, he lifted his head with a sudden

movement, which naturally would have brought it

into violent contact with the rock; but he suffered

no harm, while to this day is shown the impression,

made as on wax, on the hard rock by Brother Leo's

head. The good Lord ever watched over these

faithful, childlike servants of His, who placed their

hope in Him.

Perhaps on account of St. Francis' long and fre-

quent sojourns in this favorite hermitage, the touch-

ing little daily records concerning him seem to be

multiplied here. The place seems to have attracted

the saint constantly; it was the scene of revelation

and sorrow, anguish and joy unspeakable! He

came to its grateful peace and solitude when in ter-

rible suffering from his painful malady of the eyes,

brought on by constant weeping and penance over

the sufferings of Christ.

The Miracle of the Fite

Here also took place the miracle of the fire. Ac-

cording to the rude surgical theories of the middle

ages, it was held that by cauterizing the forehead

down to the eyebrows, relief would be afforded to

the patient's eyes. St. Francis, with his usual docil-

ity, consented to the operation. But his courage

momentarily failed at the sight of the fire and red-



The

First

Followers

of

St.

Francis



THE FRANCISCAN SINAI 17

hot iron. Then, instantly regaining his habitual

serenity, he faced it fairly, and turning to the fire

with his never-failing sweetness and winning cour-

tesy, thus addressed it: “Oh Brother Fire, noble,

beautiful and useful among all creatures ! Be cour-

teous to me on this occasion, for the sake of the

love I have always borne thee
!”

Meanwhile all the brethren, sick with horror at

the agony of their beloved father was about to un-

dergo, fled from the sight. When it was over they

crept back, fearfully, to tend him. Francis received

them with his usual tranquil smile, gently inquiring

:

“Why did you flee, oh timid ones ? I assure you, I

felt no pain whatsoever, and my brother the doctor

may once more burn my flesh, if he desires !” Just

as he got back from humanity and from living things

the love he lavished upon them, so Francis found

the very elements repay his love and admiration.

Those who stood around, doctors and brethren,

could only humble themselves in wonder before this

manifest sanctity, murmuring: “What manner of

a man is this that the elements obey him?”

Like all his friends, the doctor was passionately

devoted to the saint; and through his authoritative

insistence and persuasion, seeing that St. Francis’

austerities were seriously undermining his constitu-

tion, he was able, up here at Fonte Colombo, to per-

suade him to modify somewhat his incessant morti-

fications. And then “God’s sunbeam,” as Francis

has been called, acceded to the doctors’ commands,

and asked pardon of his “Brother Ass” (as he was



18 THE FRANCISCAN SINAI

wont to call his body) for having treated it so badly,

saying gravely but with a smile on his lips : “Now

be joyful, Brother Body ! For see now, how will-

ingly I second your desires and hasten to cede to

your just remonstrances
!”

One imagines, somewhat, that a keen perception

of humor must often go to the composition of a

saint, to enable them to realize and condone the

curious foibles of their fellow creatures; for so

many saints seem to have been endowed with it. St.

Francis possessed the gift to the highest degree, and

it helped him greatly in his dealings with others.

Each circumstance which happened in this little

beloved convent reveals the saint in some new

beauty of character and holiness. No matter how

simple and homely the incident, his personality il-

luminated it, like sunlight glorifies a simple land-

scape ! He who considered himself not at all, was

always thoughtful of others. Hospitable to a fault,

he would have no one turned away from the con-

vent door, neither friend or foe, pilgrim or four-

footed or feathered pensioner.

One day his good doctor had come up from Rieti

to visit him for his increasing eye trouble, which

yielded to no remedies
;
and St. Francis refused to

let him make the steep descent again till he had

shared their midday repast ! “Go and prepare some-

thing good for our brother the doctor!” he com-

manded the Brother Cook, unmindful of the state

of the convent larder. Hurriedly anxious consulta-

tions ensued, and the brother, tip-toeing in, re-



THE FRANCISCAN SINAI 19

monstrated with the saint in an agitated whisper:

“Dear father, can we offer him but a small portion

of black bread, some oil and wine? It is all we

have
!”

“Man of little faith,” replied the saint,

“must I repeat? But do as I tell you!”

While this homely scene went on, the guest de-

clared himself only too honored to share any frugal

fare. Just as they sat down to table, loud knocking

came at the convent door, and a peasant woman

deposited with the porter a large basket, containing

white bread, fish, delicate dishes, fruit and honey

—

a gift to St. Francis from some distant grateful

friend.

It was Francis’ “Wedding Feast of Cana,” and

the brothers were saved mortification, while the

saint smiled his kindly smile, pressing the good fare

on his guest with the same princely hospitality with

which he would have offered the black bread. One

can imagine how they must have said among them-

selves : “What a thing it is to have a saint in the

house !” for they were accustomed to signs and won-

ders when Francis was concerned.

But the good doctor sat pondering it all over;

till, coming out of his brown study with a start, he

said to the friars : “Brothers, neither you nor I

realize the sanctity of Francis
!”

One could multiply unendingly these records at

Fonte Colombo
;
but time presses. Modern pilgrims

cannot delay. They must descend to catch trains,

and plunge themselves once more into the rushing

whirl of daily life, refreshed, however, both in mind



20 THE FRANCISCAN SINAI

and spirit by that glimpse into the clear heights

where sanctity flourished ! For with the complete

absorption into the personality of St. Francis which

characterizes all these convents where he lived,

making them seem a visible part of himself, we

must not forget that many holy anchorites and her-

mits followed him here; such as Fra Innocenzo da

Chiusi, who made his abode for years in the spread-

ing branches of an ancient oak-tree, known even

yet as the “tree of Fra Innocenzo/'

After him came Venerable Bartholomew of Sal-

lutio, who lived in two caverns (one serving as

chapel) suspended almost in mid-air over the

precipitous rock. Among the terrific penances of

this holy hermit, it is told that on each Friday of

the year, in memory of Our Lord's suffering he,

having made a cross of a heavy tree-trunk, loaded

himself with it and climbed the three mountains ad-

joining Fonte Colombo, planting it on the summit of

the loftiest!

It can well be seen that this mountain of Fonte

Colombo has always kept its character as dedicated

to the memory of the Passion, since St. Francis

consecrated it with prayer and blood and tears—

a

fitting environment for the inception of that rule,

which, like its founder, clings closely into the side

of Christ crucified.

Fonte Colombo (that is, the Dove Fountain) sug-

gests its inner source of unearthly peace. This very

peace, however, the cloistered shade of oaks, the



THE FRANCISCAN SINAI 21

hush of the pines, and the rush of falling water,

causes us momentarily to forget the price of high

renunciation by which it was attained. Suffering

is ever the cost of revelation, and St. Francis paid

the price, not only for himself, but for the spiritual

children who were to come after him throughout the

ages. But the peace of his victory reigns trium-

phant at Fonte Colombo.



t

V



1223—Greccio—1923
The Franciscan Bethlehem





M
ANY of the fairest spots in a land where
Nature has been prodigal of beauty, are

inseparably connected with Franciscan

memories. The saint who loved Nature so closely

and intimately as the outward manifestation of his

one transcendent Love, seemed, in all the great

crises of his life, to have been vouchsafed an intui-

tive inspiration to seek her in her most hidden won-

der spots.

On the mountain summits he made holy for all

time, the soul of Francis, steeped in the earthly

beauty, stood in the very presence chamber of

Beauty divine and infinite! “His feet were beauti-

ful, indeed, upon the mountains,” and the loftier

the summit, the greater his revelation, culminating

on the Thabor of La Verna. From height to height

one can follow him, everyone showing Francis in a

new light of holiness. Even today his memory lives

in these mountain solitudes of his—a perennial mir-
acle—as no other man’s memory has survived or
will survive again. He who lived but for humility,

who fled to the heights to escape the world’s notice,

drew weary, restless humanity after him, wistfully

curious, eager to learn the secret which transfigured

him, even to their earth-bound eyes.

The modern critic will say scornfully that, apart

from his personal magnetism, which swayed them,

these contemporaries of St. Francis, prince or

peasant or townsman alike, were but simple, cred-

ulous medieval folks, to whom legends of miracles

and supernatural happenings seemed everyday



26 THE FRANCISCAN BETHLEHEM

events! Yet Francis' magnetic personality has

passed—seven centuries ago ! And can we, of this
most materialistic age, be called simple and credu-

lous? And does the supernatural enter greatly into

our busy lives? Yet even we have followed him up

to the mountain heights, and the Umbrian solitudes

are broken today by the chant of pilgrims, with St.

Francis' name and praise upon their lips.

Friary at Greccio

As I write, I have just returned from a pilgrim-

age to Greccio, the Franciscan Bethlehem, the hum-

ble birthplace of the tenderest of Franciscan mem-

ories—the one, perhaps, which has most influenced
the world.

“Serafico Francesco
!”

The pilgrims' hymn, as

they wind up the mountainside, still re-echoes in my

ears, mingled with the song of the birds and the



THE FRANCISCAN BETHLEHEM 27

purling of brooks. How little one realizes, at Christ-

mas time, that every Catholic, in every land, as he

kneels by the Christmas crib in mission chapel,

stately cathedral or city church, owes it to St.

Francis, who, in his “intellect of love” (as Dante

terms it), yearning to bring all men near to the

heart of a Child, encompassed it by this simple

human representation in the Cave of Greccio, which

all ages have copied! Not by rebuke or sermon did

he win the rough, neglected mountain people to the

Love he personified; but straight from the tender

heart of lover and mystic came the inspiration to

use the things of everyday life they knew so well,

to take them out of themselves. So when the Grec-

cio peasants helped Francis to prepare his Crib, and

lent their animals, and ransacked their winter

hedges for shining berries; and chose the fairest,

most modest girl for Our Lady, the best of the vil-

lage youths for St. Joseph, and the most angelic

babe for the Infant King, they too had done their

bit, wondering, yet content, as they knelt beside

him at midnight on the mountain, and watched his

glowing, ecstatic face
;
they felt the divine reflection

and came back to God, to “find the Child with Mary,

his Mother.” And with them followed the centuries

to come; all from that one inspiration of a beautiful

life.

The story of the Crib of Greccio returned to the

mind with fresh significance, in the seventh cen-

tenary year (1923) on account of the solemn cele-

brations in Rome and Greccio, where on Christmas



28 THE FRANCISCAN BETHLEHEM

eve, the Pope sent his Cardinal-Legate to celebrate

Mass in the Greccio grotto, on the very spot of St.

Francis' Crib. Simultaneously, in the great basilica

of Santa Maria Maggiore (Our Lady of the Snow)

in Rome, where the relics of the boards of our

Lord's manger are preserved, midnight Mass was

celebrated by a cardinal, before such multitudes of

people that hundreds who could not gain entrance

to the vast church, knelt outside the doors to assist

at Mass ! Thus the two Cribs alike, the humble

Greccio hermitage on its mountain ledge, and the

Bethlehem relic in its priceless reliquary framed by

the splendor of the Roman basilica, drew their wor-

shipers to kneel by the Christ-Child in the light of

the seraphic Father's face; as his deed, with joy

renewed a hundred-fold, found a living echo in the

heart of humanity.

The recent centenary celebrations filled one's

mind with a desire to see the spot of St. Francis'

Crib, and when the occasion of a Roman pilgrimage

to Greccio presented itself, one gladly availed one-

self of the opportunity.

A cool June morning found 130 Franciscan pil-
grims assembled at the Rome station, en route for

Greccio. The pilgrimage was under the direction

of a committee, whose genial director, Cavaliere

Verzicchi, was the life and soul of the party; leav-

ing nothing undone for the pilgrims' welfare. His

interesting talks on the holy places and Franciscan

landmarks we visited, made them live again in our

sight, besides giving us a fresh impetus of devotion



THE FRANCISCAN BETHLEHEM 29

to the saint of whom he was so worthy a follower

—

a true Franciscan Tertiary. The different congre-

gations of Roman Tertiaries were well represented,

accompanied by their various directors, whose gen-

ial and helpful presence added not a little to the

general satisfaction; for the sons of St. Francis in-

variably carry with them that atmosphere of real

kindliness, courtesy and simplicity of manner which

their seraphic Father left them as a perpetual

heritage.

As the train wound by the exquisite curves of the

Tiber, through the valley of Sabina, with its vistas

of silver olives, its green vineyards and its crops

white for the harvest, framed by the encircling

chain of mountain ranges, fading into the blue line

of the distant Apennines, the pilgrims sang Francis-

can hymns or recited the Rosary, or broke spontane-

ously into the new hymn of the Catholic peoples,

“Vogliamo Iddio! We Want God!” with its star-
tlingly emphatic answer to unbelief, which surely

would have been dear to the heart of St. Francis,

expressing, as it does, the great need of nations,

which has brought the modern world low. “Vogli-

amo Iddio

!

We Want God!” It was striking to
hear it, rolling out in the strong sonorous Italian

strophes : “We want God ! We will have God ! In
home and school and factory ! That work may be

sanctified !” Then the chorus with its triumphant

refrain: “We Want God! We Want God! For
our Father and our King!” Surely this oft-re-

peated, heartfelt aspiration, as it has re-echoed ev-



30 THE FRANCISCAN BETHLEHEM

erywhere about the streets of Rome during the last

few months of many public religious demonstra-

tions, will bring its blessing not only on the city of

martyrs, but upon all this beautiful land, which has

been doubly blessed by Nature and Grace

!

The Holy Night at Greccio



THE FRANCISCAN BETHLEHEM 31

In the soft evening light our pilgrimage reached

the valley of Rieti, the second “land of St. Francis.
,,

We sped through the great plain, overshadowed by

mighty mountains and strewn with Franciscan sanc-

tuaries, each with its separate memories of the ser-

aphic founder. Foresta, Poggio Bussone, Fonte

Colombo (where St. Francis drew up his rule) and

Greccio, towering on in inaccessible height

!

Gteccio

The night was passed in the quaint old walled city

of Rieti, so full of Franciscan memories that it is

a pilgrimage apart. The next day, in the pearly

freshness of early morning, when the mists were

rolling off the Reatine valley, revealing peak after

peak in a wondrous panorama
;
the pilgrims arrived

at the tiny roadside station of Greccio Nuovo, ready

for the mountain ascent, which was to be made

processionally
;
headed, as becomes a Roman pil-

grimage, by the city flag of Rome.

A cavalcade of sturdy asinelli (donkeys) waited
outside the station; worthy descendants of St. Fran-

cis' “little brother Ass," which carried him so will-

ingly on his mountain journeys and whose smooth

grey coat and patient eyes were eulogized by the

saint; the saint's great tender heart instinctively

protected all things lowly, despised and humble,

even the familiar little beast of burden.

At first the pilgrims, starting with the sturdy

pilgrimage ideals of “peas in their boots," looked

askance at such concessions to “Brother Body,"



32 THE FRANCISCAN BETHLEHEM

unmindful of the wistful looks of the donkey-boys

and girls ! However, as the path grew ever steeper

and “Brother Sun” climbed merrily with us, high

in the heavens, some of the elderly folk or the

stouter brethren fell out of the march unobtrusiv-

ely; and at a sudden sharp curve of the path, it was

surprising to see that a considerable “cavalry de-

tachment” brought up the rear. But the fervor of

the pilgrims never waned, and the Rosary went on

unceasingly, varied by hymns.

In some curious way our singing seemed to repro-

duce or be suggested by the scenery! When the

beautifully wooded Monte San Francesco came in

sight (the lofty mountain on the summit of which

St. Francis built his first rough hermitage hut), the

pilgrims instinctively changed their Rosary into the

pathetic minor cadences of the Franciscan hymn

Serafico Francesco

,

lingering on the beloved words,

in themselves a prayer and a memory of him in

whose steps we followed up the mountain side;

amid all these things that he, too, looked upon and

loved—the birds and the running water and the
glorious morning face of Nature, fresh from the

hand of God.

When a particularly steep bit of rocky pathway

had to be negotiated, the hymn turned into the fine,

insistent marching rhythm of Vogliamo Iddio, to

the accompaniment of a vigorous crunching of

stones and gravel. Every now and then, at a short

halt, came an enthusiastic outburst of “Evviva San

Francesco !”—the prolonged Evviva! literally wak-



THE FRANCISCAN BETHLEHEM 33

ing the echoes. Half-way up, when a particularly

precipitous-looking rock loomed ahead, one of the

pilgrims shouted sonorously, “Evviva il Santo

Padre!” (Long live the Holy Father)—to which
the entire pilgrimage responded with such hearty

good will that their Evviva shook the valley ! It

only needed to be heard to realize, in some manner,

what his Roman children think of Pius XI. One

wondered curiously if the rock before us had sug-

gested to the pilgrim's mind the Rock of Peter,

with its difficulties, or whether the mountain path-

way reminded him of our Alpinist pope, to whom

this pilgrimage would be a joy. In any case the

Holy Father was constantly with us in remem-

brance, as the first prayers in every shrine and sanc-

tuary were for him.

The lower world grew more and more pano-

ramic beneath us as we neared our goal, which

seemed to grow more elusive at every turn of the

path ! Finally we entered the exquisitely wooded

avenue leading directly to the sanctuary, while the

pilgrims intoned a triumphant Magnificat. Never

had we sung the grand hymn more appropriately

than on this spot, where truly “the soul doth mag-

nify the Lord, and the Spirit rejoice in God its

Savior
!”

Thus we came under the convent buildings,

nestling like white homing doves under the fortress

rock! (Strange, that in any place connected with

St. Francis the mind turns instinctively to meta-

phors of the living world of creatures, that he made



34 THE FRANCISCAN BETHLEHEM

so intimately his own!) Overhead, the terrace

parapet was full of contadini (peasants), who had

come up here to Sunday Mass, and who formed

gay spots of color in their bright shawls and the

handkerchiefs on their heads, as they waved the

Roman pilgrims a welcome from the heights. At

last we stood on the square outside the church, only

then realizing that we had gained the very heart of

the mountain.

The first glimpse of the church seems disappoint-

ing in its comparative newness; for it is a later

structure, built over the grotto and the original tiny

church and convent of St. Bonaventure, which grew

all too small for the pilgrims who flocked to Grec-

cio. However, when the newer church was built,

the little hallowed home of so many memories was

left intact. Even the present church has its preci-

ous souvenir of St. Francis; for they placed over

the high altar one of the oldest existing portraits of

the saint, painted in the thirteenth century by the

reverent hands of his good friend and benefactress,

Giacopa di Settesoli.

It is a sad little picture—the slight, almost tiny
figure, in a grey habit, with dark, sad eyes and

emaciated features worn by furrows. It would

seem as if it had been painted in St. Francis' later

years, when illness and privation had wasted his

frail body, and sorrow and trouble had saddened

the sweet, glad nature.

Upon this altar-piece our eyes rested during the

pilgrimage Mass, celebrated with the deepest devo-



THE FRANCISCAN BETHLEHEM 35

tion by Father Bernardino of Ara-Caeli, Rome.

Just before The Communion a fervorino was

preached by a young Franciscan who, in burning

words, told the story of Greccio, likening the kindled

fagot cast by a child across the ravine at St. Fran-

cis’ bidding, to fix the spot of his friary, to the torch

of faith and love which St. Francis launched on

the world, which Catholics of today must keep val-

iantly lighted, in the midst of an unbelieving world.

The entire pilgrimage received holy Communion at

the Mass, after which we thronged into the original

old convent refectory (now a guest-room) for

breakfast.

St . Francis' Crib

Then came the visit to the sanctuary, beginning

with our goal—St. Francis’ Crib! The hallowed
grotto is small, dark and narrow, as the Bethlehem

cave, with its overhanging walls and tiny altar. At

first one’s eyes can scarcely pierce the darkness

(lighted only by one small window giving on a cor-

ridor)
;
but gradually the quaint old frescoes over

the altar glimmer out like a frescoed prayer ! A

fine, stalwart young Franciscan was our guide;

making a picture in himself as he knelt before the

altar with his uplifted candle, telling the story of

his Father’s Crib, simply, without rhetoric or effect,

but just as if he had been there and seen it all

!

On one side, to show its Bethlehem counterpart,

the old master painter has put before us his simple

homely conception of the Mother nursing her Child,

with St. Joseph kneeling by. “Is it not wonderful,



36 THE FRANCISCAN BETHLEHEM

how that Mother and Child look into each other's

eyes?" said the young monk. Truly it was won-

derful; for what those painters of the ages of faith

lacked in technique, they made up in devotional

feeling. On the other side is depicted the scene

which makes Greccio live today as the Franciscan

Bethlehem. The Infant lies in a stone crib, beside

which St. Francis kneels with clasped hands, a

light of serene ecstacy on the pure, rapt face. Be-

hind him, seen through an open doorway, are the

groups of country folks who came to see the saint's

Crib, headed by his convert, the old friend who

loved Francis—Giovanni Velita, who first brought
him to this hermitage, and now lies buried in its

precincts. After the manner of the old masters of

art, who depicted several scenes in one fresco, there

is painted beside the Crib picture the first midnight

Mass at Greccio by the Crib, where St. Francis as

deacon is seen singing the gospel, carried away in

an esctasy of love and devotion.

We were anxious to linger in this little Christmas
sanctuary of holiest memories; but pilgrims' time is

ever short, and many other landmarks remained to

be visited. But before seeing further, the history

of St. Francis' first coming to Greccio is appro-

priate here, for one looks at it all in the light of this

story. Amid many lovely Franciscan chronicles

it stands apart for its strong human interest. Amid

the grandeur of the episcopal court of Rieti, where

he was tended during the malady of his eyesight

and regarded as an honored guest, the soul of Fran-



THE FRANCISCAN BETHLEHEM 37

cis yearned for his Lady Poverty, dwelling on the

mountain-tops, and for the souls who lived in its

shadow, whom he had heard the city folk stigma-

tize as wild and barbaric. So the saint crept quietly

away to his apostolate, taking up his abode in a

twig hut on the mountain and descending to Grec-

cio village to evangelize the mountaineers, who even

in thosq days were considered half civilized. Grad-

ually, the gentle hermit softened them and brought

them lovingly to God with only his one weapon-

love.

Giovanni Velita

One day the lord of the land, Giovanni Velita,

came out from his castle and drew nigh to listen to

St. Francis. Like the rest, his heart warmed to the

frail little other-worldly figure, with the glorified

face, preaching his joyous gospel of renunciation,

his very glance bringing restfulness and peace.

Again and again Velita listened, and when St. Fran-

cis returned to his mountain eyrie, the man of the

world felt he could not do without the one person

who interested him, who lifted him out of his own

grey materialism and disillusions to a higher plane

of life. Presently he made the saint a bold proposal.

“Come and live here among us always/' he coaxed,

“and I will give you land to build a hermitage more

accessible." For, as the old chronicle says, Velita

was stout and gouty, and found the mountain diffi-

cult when he climbed it painfully to seek his friend's

counsel and companionship. St. Francis smiled

enigmatically—the far-seeing smile of the saint and



38 THE FRANCISCAN BETHLEHEM

seer, and told a child to pick up a lighted faggot

from a woodman’s burning pile and fling it as far

as he could throw and where it lay, he would build

his convent. Giovanni looked on complacent, know-

ing the child’s strength would reach only a few

paces away; so their saint was safe in their midst.

But the faggot flew out of the child’s hand, across

the great ravine which separated Greccio
#
village

from the opposite mountains, to lodge against a

sheer ledge of precipitous rock, where its blackened

mark is seen today. Faithful to his pact, the lord

of Greccio gave St. Francis the land, and the saint,

with two companions, took up his abode on the

rock—the small beginning of a friary where so
many saints were to. dwell in after years. Francis

founded many convents later in the Reatine valley*

but he returned ever lovingly here.

To continue our visit to the roof-tree of Greccio,

each part of which has its separate memory and as-

sociation, we first visit the dormitory of St. Francis

and his companions, now a chapel—only a tiny cave
or hollow in the rock—so low that one must bend
to enter. Besides the tiny niche for St. Francis

(like a child’s grave in the Roman catacombs), the

sleeping places for his companions are marked by

rough crosses on the wall. Here in this very spot

where we kneel, the lover of poverty stretched his

weary limbs on the hard ground, to snatch his few

hours of rest. Some kind soul (probably the faith-

ful Velita) had sent Francis a pillow to ease the

terrible headaches from which he suffered; but, af-



THE FRANCISCAN BETHLEHEM 39

ter trying it, he cast it from him, saying quaintly

and whimsically to his companion that its soft

feathers had a restless devil in them, who gave him

evil dreams; and he returned joyfully to his bed of

rock. This is St. Francis, with ever a merry quip

or excuse to conceal his heroic mortification ! The

holiness of this spot brings with it an increditable

peace and blessing, as if the saint's bodily presence

dwelt within it still.

Another more than interesting part of the old

friary is the church and choir built by St. Bona-

venture. Though rough and primitive in its Fran-

ciscan simplicity, it is altogether suited to the rock

hermitage St. Francis loved. In the choir are kept

several relics of his daily life—the rough boards of

his table, part of the stone from which he daily

preached in Greccio village, his primitive metal cru-

cifix and candles, and the beautifully wrought and

decorated irons with which Francis was wont to

cook the unleavened bread for the hosts
;
for his

favorite Eucharistic charity was to lend or procure

these irons for poor priests, so that everything per-

taining to the altar should be done with reverence

and decorum. Another souvenir of the great

preacher St. Bernardine of Siena is kept here among

the Franciscan relics—his pulpit, from which so
many burning words of sanctity went forth. As the

sunlight makes a glory of the tiny sanctuary, one

seems to see the rude choir stalls peopled again

with the saints who lived and prayed here—a Fran-
cis, a Bonaventure, a Bernardine—little thinking,



40 THE FRANCISCAN BETHLEHEM

in the cloister simplicity of their lives hidden with

God, that their names would go forth to the ends

of an earth more vast than they ever dreamed of.

Outside, on the mountain pathway, another saint

dwelt, an anchorite and hermit, Bl. John of Parma,

who lived for twenty-two years, in a rock cavern, a

life of penance and prayer.

In the midst of our voyage of retrospect in this

haunt of saints, a Franciscan father comes hasten-

ing down the woodland path, to warn us that the

procession of the Blessed Sacrament is being

formed in the church, and that the pilgrims are to

join it outside.

Procession of the Blessed Sacrament
%

One has witnessed many splendid processions

—

in Rome, in Lourdes, in many a famous shrine, but

never did a procession have more impressive setting

or more nearly touch the heart, than this simple pil-

grim cortege from the Franciscan Bethlehem, far

from the haunts of men, escorting the Lord of

Nature up the mountain side, that from the heights

he might bless his beautiful creation, together with

his people ! Up the tree-shaded winding pathways

came the Blessed Sacrament, under a canopy rev-

erently held over it by the leaders of the pilgrimage,

followed by the Franciscan fathers, two by two,

and the pilgrims, carrying lighted candles. It seemed

to sweep along as if encircled by an aureole of gold

—the golden canopy; the sunlight filtering through
the trees, making gold mosaics on the path, and the



THE FRANCISCAN BETHLEHEM 41

hillsides blazing with golden broom {genista). As

they walked, the women gathered the golden

branches from the bushes and scattered them on the

ground till it was carpeted with a gold carpet whose

trodden sweetness perfumed the air. As we

mounted higher through the woods, each turn

showed new vistas in the panoramic world beneath

;

and at intervals, peasants who had climbed the steep

hillsides knelt reverently, with clasped hands
;
then

rose, joining in the procession. And ever with us,

present to the minds of all, walked a small Fran-

ciscan figure, with a face transfigured by the glory

of his Lord.

Finally we reached a high open plateau near the

summit of the mountain, facing the billowing sea of

plains and hills and distant Rome. The Blessed

Sacrament was borne into the center, while the

pilgrims knelt in widening half-circles around, and

out of that lofty mountain top, in the overwhelming

hush of its stillness—the more impressive for its
remoteness—the Father Guardian of San Francesco
a Ripa at Rome, advanced to the edge of the plateau

and raised the monstrance high over valley and

plain towards Rome, to bring a blessing upon the

city so dear to all Catholic hearts—the home of
these pilgrims who were the first to plant the flag

of Rome on Greccio’s heights. An unforgettable

scene, which remains outstanding in the mind amid

the many beautiful memories of that pilgrimage

day.

As we descended, the woods rang with the Mag-



42 THE FRANCISCAN BETHLEHEM

nificat

,

ending in a grand final Te Deum in the little

eyrie church, clinging to its rock. Afterwards the

pilgrims dispersed, to take their places in the con-

vent refectory for the pilgrim banquet, where our

kind Franciscan hosts attended to our wants with

such royal hospitality and kindness as to make us

seem not only honored guests but friends and

brethren of the Franciscan roof-tree

!

All too short was the brief afternoon in these

fair surroundings where we wandered at will over

the hillsides, in the fragrant thyme-scented moun-

tain air, or explored the woods, where St. Francis’

“little Sisters” made us a wood symphony. From

the steep parapet terrace we looked over into the

monks’ flower garden—a brilliant color spot, blos-
soming literally out of the rock. But most lovingly

of all, the pilgrims’ gaze dwelt on the vista of plains,

where St. Francis’ eyes had so often rested
;
dream-

ing over again the memories which vivify it, till we

see stout Giovanni Velita climbing the height to

visit San Francesco, and the peasants bringing holly

for the Crib; and, best of all, the mind picture of

the saint, standing on the summit of Monte San

Francesco, clasping the wounded leveret which took

refuge in his arms.

Reluctantly, when the last goodbyes were said,

the pilgrims descended from the Franciscan Beth-

lehem, with many a backward glance at that home

of abiding benediction. At Greccio Nuovo, on the

plains, we came down to earth again with a start, at

the railway station, where the pilgrims parted

—



THE FRANCISCAN BETHLEHEM 43

some to continue to Assisi, others to turn their face

Romewards. As we sped back again through Sa-

bina in the sunset, the pilgrimage spirit continued.

The gentle-faced Friar Bernardino, so like his

saintly namesake, intoned the Rosary standing, and

hymns were softly sung.

Darkness had fallen when we neared the Eternal

City. From the great Roman cemetery of San Lo-

renzo outside the walls, in the basilica of which,

near the relics of St. Lawrence, the saintly Pope

Pius IX lies buried, as he wished, “among his poor,”

—the myriad electric lamps which keep watch and
ward over the city of the dead, twinkled out through

the darkness of the city limits. One of the Fran-

ciscan fathers, quietly stood by the window to bless

the Campo Santo (Holy Field), and surrounded by

the pilgrims, recited the De profundis for those

who lie in peace above the catacombs—the pontiff
and his people.

To those who love to seek St. Francis in his hid-

den byways of beauty, I would recommend a pil-

grimage to Greccio, to the peace of its Christmas

sanctuary, to the sunshine of its woods, where the

winds and the pines murmur and swell into one

glorious long-drawn symphony—“Serafico Fran-
cesco!”



'



1224—La Verna—1924
The Franciscan Calvary



:



PON the still heights of its mountain-soli-

tudes, raised between heaven and earth, like

the hill of Redemption it so wonderfully

symbolizes, La Verna—the Franciscan Calvary,

—

shines out upon humanity; still glowing, through

seven centuries, with the tender radiance with which

the holy night of the Stigmata illuminated the world.

“By thy likeness to thy Master, Christ was glori-

fied in Thee !” As in life, St. Francis draws hearts

and souls after him, to keep the “watches of the

Passion” with him in his hermitage

!

The very name of La Verna quickens heart and

mind. To the Franciscans it is the corner-stone of

the edifice, the power-house of their energy, the

outward sign of the divine Covenant, signed in their

Master’s blood. Even the indifferent remain so no

longer,, for “La Verna” leaves none as it found

them, and even a short sojourn there has wrought

many miracles of grace, of healing, light and con-

solation.

More especially in the seventh centenary-year of

the “Stigmata” those who love St. Francis turned

instinctively, at least in spirit, to “La Verna,” to pic-

ture the event of that September night, seven hun-

dred years ago, when heaven came down to earth,

imprinting the sign of the Cross on the pure body

of the most favored saint of divine love. “La

Verna” differs from utterly, and surpasses the other

beloved sanctuaries of St. Francis’ life-pilgrimage,

which twine themselves round the heart, bringing

the human St. Francis near to us, in their tender



Convent

at

La

Verna



THE FRANCISCAN CALVARY 49

memories of joy, sorrow and blessing. On the

mountain of vision our saint has crossed the bor-

derland, from the finite to the Infinite!

Our little band of pilgrims left hill-set Bibbiena,

in the Casentino, in the cool freshness of an early

summer morning; speeding across wide breezy up-

lands, climbing, relentlessly climbing, till it seemed

as if each fresh turn brought a steeper ascent.

Finally, across tracts of moors and barren earth, a

great mountain appeared in sight, towering high

above us in somber majesty. No need for the driver

to proclaim, in sonorous Tuscan, as he indicated

it with his whip, Ecco “La Verna!” for the mind

realized it and the heart felt it.

La Verna

At this first distant sight one saw only the rugged

bare exterior, the barren rock, up which the cross-

bearing Francis toiled to his Crucifixion; for its

interior beauties were still hidden from our eyes.

Momentarily one wondered, that the tender, beauty-

loving soul had been drawn to a spot so wildly

desolate. Upwards and ever upwards, till the last

turn brings us almost unexpectedly into the tiny

hamlet of La Beccia, the nearest inhabited village

to "La Verna/' the hostel in which ladies are lodged

and beyond which one cannot go further in a carri-

age, but must climb the remaining slopes on foot.

The first introduction to "La Verna"—is truly
Franciscan, filling the heart of a pilgrim-lover of

the
"
Fioretti

”

(Little Flowers of St. Francis) with



Mount

La

Verna



THE FRANCISCAN CALVARY 51

delight. A wayside chapel on the first turn of the

road shows a colored terra-cotta statue of St. Fran-

cis, absolutely life-like, his head encircled by a flight

of birds, for this simple shrine marks the spot where

birds of all kinds flew out from wood and thicket

to greet St. Francis and bid him welcome on the

day of his first coming to “La Verna.” It is touch-

ing to think of the tender love that conceded this

homely miracle to the childlike heart who welcomed

it as a harbinger of blessing, on the mountain where

transfiguration awaited him on its consecrated

heights. A quaint covered gateway of medieval
times forms the entrance proper to “La Verna” and

from now on every step of our pilgrimage is a mem-

orial of some actual happening, some especial cir-

cumstance, in a life whose music made these barren

rocks rejoice. With a thrill of expectantly joyous

interest we passed under the gateway, stopping to

read the inscription upon it—“In the whole world
there is no holier mountain The last steep stony

way to the friary is bounded by a wall parapet, end-

ing in a court yard square, upon which the church,

chapels and monastic buildings open. It is impossi-

ble to convey even a remote idea in words of how

the whole of “La Verna” is built. It follows the

conformation of the mountain clinging perilously

to the eyrie rock and culminating in the awful cliff

of the “Stigmata Chapel” which hangs over a sheer

precipice.

The hush of noonday broods on the cloister-pre-

cincts of this monastic fortress in the clouds, like



52 THE FRANCISCAN CALVARY

the silence of untrodden forests. Below the para-

pet, in abysmal depths, stretches a boundless pros-

pect so fair and goodly of nature's wildest loveli-

ness, of forest and plain and sky, that one instantly

realizes why St. Francis chose “La Verna," or

rather why God led him here, to the greatness of

his revelation. The fine courtyard is just as it might

have been in its founder's day, kept in true Fran-

ciscan fashion, ruggedly severe : the old stone well

in the center, the red-tiled roofs, and the cloistral

simplicity of the grey buildings. Only one touch

of modern art, altogether worthy of its surround-

ings, is suffered to be here, the noble work of a

Franciscan sculptor of the Third Order, who

worked with such loving comprehension on his

Father's semblance, that the exquisite statue of St.

Francis is a sovereign work of art. It represents

the episode in the saint's life when, finding a boy

with a cage of singing birds, his tender heart was

moved by the plight of the tiny prisoners and ob-

taining the cage, he liberated them all, watching

with great joy their free flight. It is good to think

that our 20th century art has forged one more

beautiful link in the chain of life-records of St.

Francis at “La Verna." This courtyard is a place

to linger, dreaming of its many memories, its panor-

amic vistas of unearthly loveliness, in the balsamic

purity of its clear air! But Franciscan hospitality

claims us for its own. The dear old lay-brother

comes rushing out to meet us, hastening us off to

the guest-house refectory, saying as he goes,



St.

Francis

receiving

the

mount

from

Count

Orlando



54 THE FRANCISCAN CALVARY

“L’avranno molto fame, perche l
f

aria di— ‘La
Verna’ e buona” (you must be hungry, for the air

of La Verna is good), waiving aside our protests

that the wildwood strawberries we consumed en

route (surely never so good as on “La Verna”) had

supplied our needs thus far.

Bustling about and excusing himself for the want

of meat (which the brethren seldom touch) he plies

us with abundant good fare ! Only when thor-

oughly satisfied that “Brother Body” had been suf-

ficiently restored did this kindly son of St. Francis

allow us to stray back to the fascinations of the

broad parapet with its matchless panorama.

The door of the “Chiesa Maggiore” (greater

church) stands hospitably open; so while waiting

for the father who was to be our cicerone, we wan-

dered through its colonnaded entrance into the dim

cool freshness of the solemn interior, full of the

atmosphere of wordless prayer, which envelops “La

Verna” like a mantle
;
as if the saint who prayed

and suffered here had obtained that his prayer

might linger, and continue to draw down benedic-

tions throughout the ages, on this poor earth, which

prays and suffers so little and so unwillingly. On

entering a burst of splendid beauty greets the eye,

emerging from the austerity of the Franciscan back-

ground like a vision of deathless purity—three won-
drous “Della Robbia” altar-pieces, representing the

Nativity, the Annunciation and the Resurrection

!

A singularly limpid purity always marks the work



THE FRANCISCAN CALVARY 55

of the Della Robbia brothers, its heaven-blue and

pearly-white, so like clouds in a summer sky, ren-

dering it the happiest medium to convey a sense of

spiritual beauty. Here in St. Francis’ chosen sanc-

tuary, the artist-brothers surpassed themselves,

throwing their whole heart and soul and genius into

these masterpieces of religious art. While we are

admiring their loveliness, the guest-father arrives,

a fine ascetic figure, with a face of benevolent

sweetness, coupled with that exquisitely natural

Franciscan courtesy, which always distinguishes the

sons of St. Francis. Is it the least of the saint’s

miracles, that he has been able to impress so in-

delibly, not only upon the dwelling-places of his

life, but even more on his followers, the mark of

his personality, making men and places alike so

unmistakably his own? Instantly recognizing our

delight in our surroundings, Fra Antonio proceeded

to make his beloved mountain live before our eyes,

never sparing himself in pointing out every hidden

beauty and its story, every familiar charm. The

few hours spent under his guidance left us with a

more intimate knowledge and appreciation of the

spiritual value of “La Verna” than would seem

possible to a restricted stay.

First Visit of St Francis

Briefly we learned the history of the Blessed

Father’s first coming here. The proud and power-

ful Count Orlando of Chiusi heard Francis speak

of the “things of God,” yet so ardently, withal,



56 THE FRANCISCAN CALVARY

that, straightway, a desire came to him to “do

something for God.” Like the young man in the

Gospel he was not prepared to go to the lengths

St. Francis spoke of, “the saying was too hard,”

but with the princely generosity of medieval days

he offered the saint a noble slice of his great posses-

sions, the mountain of La Verna, to be a hermitage

of penance, expiation and prayer. St. Francis ac-

cepted the gift gratefully and, it being the eve of

his departure for Spain, he sent two brethren to

take possession.

On his return St. Francis hastened to La Verna.

This was in 1215. At first sight Francis loved it

with an almost prescient love, as if even then he

realized its eventual significance, and the influence

it was to exert on his life. At this time were laid

the foundations of the actual church we see today.

Like all St. Francis' devoted friends, who, when

absent from him, longed for the sight of his face

and the sound of his voice, Count Orlando followed

him into the solitudes with the excuse of coming to

see with his own eyes that the saint had all he

needed. St. Francis begged his friend and bene-

factor to build him a small stone chapel to replace

the rude earth oratory. This was willingly and

quickly done and added to by slow degrees. This

first church of “La Verna” was dedicated by St.

Francis to his beloved St. Mary of the Angels, and

in 1260 it was consecrated by the great St. Bona-

venture, together with seven other bishops. “Santa



THE FRANCISCAN CALVARY 57

Maria degli Angeli” with the chapel of Orlando

still stands today and we pass through it into the

greater church. We were shown many familiar

relics of St. Francis in the sacristy here, his drink-

ing cup, some linens soaked with the blood of the

“Stigmata” wounds, and the cord with which St.

Francis received Count Orlando into the Third

Order, which the latter's sons presented to “La

Verna,” together with the title-deed of the prop-

erty. Relics and memories are not confined to one

place, however, for it is all a treasure house, lead-

ing up by slow degrees to the “Holy of Holies” of

the Chapel of the “Stigmata.” Through ages a

number of Franciscan saints have come to live and

pray near St. Francis' shrine, as close as their

humility allowed them to the spot, holier and more

venerable to them than any other on earth. Past

the Chapel of St. Peter of Alcantara, and that of

St. Paschal Baylon (the great Apostle of the Bles-

sed Eucharist) and along the narrow rock gallery,

up and down by many holy spots, our kind Francis-

can guide leads us on. At any other time and place,

these cells would excite interest and attention, but

in “La Verna” one figure only claims the mind to

the exclusion of all others. The lovers of St.

Anthony, however, cannot be hurried past the tiny

cell which harbored the Wonder Worker of Padua

in the last year of his glorious life. The brethren

offered him the second cell of St. Francis but in

touching humility St. Anthony refused deeming

himself unworthy of so great a favor. Determined,



58 THE FRANCISCAN CALVARY

however, not to deprive him of being near the place

of the “Stigmata/' yet satisfying his humility, the

monks built St. Anthony another hut near by, like

that of St. Francis, where he lived happily in con-

templation, only leaving it to return to Padua to die.

Not far away St. Bonaventure had a tiny oratory,

immediately under the spot where St. Francis re-

ceived the “Stigmata.” He wrote his sublime

“Itinerary of the Soul to God,” as if from contact

with the holy consecrated rock,' he himself might

draw inspiration. We halt once more at the Chapel
of St. Peter of Alcantara for it is one of the most

interesting spots in all “La Verna,” the site of St.

Francis' primitive cell, built for him by Count

Orlando on his first coming to La Verna, but, at

his own expressive request, of rough clods of earth.

Here our Savior appeared to St. Francis many times

in vision, and the stone, covering the rock table, is

kept here under glass, with the following inscrip-

tion graven upon it: “The Table of St. Francis on

which he had admirable apparitions and which he

sanctified by pouring oil upon it, saying, ‘This is the

altar of God.'
”

Cell of St. Francis

It was in this holy spot our Lord made the five

great promises to St. Francis, the last of which he,

would never reveal to any human being. From this

chapel we are in the Presence Chamber of the

“Stigmata,” where St. Francis, pierced and

wounded, seems to stand across the threshold, an

integral part of the Passion Mystery of Pain ! Holi-



The

Precipice

and

Convent



60 THE FRANCISCAN CALVARY

est of all the sanctuaries, save the actual place of

the “Stigmata,” is the “Chapel of the Cross,” St.

Francis' second cell, where he lived and prayed and

from whence he perilously passed across a terrific

rock abyss, to the place of his predilection, his suf-

fering and his glory of infinite union. To this cell

he retired to stretch his weary wounded members

and enjoy the little repose his austerity permitted,

when the agony grew unendurable. Here St. Fran-

cis was daily called to Matins by the falcon, his

faithful dumb friend, whom he remembered so ten-

derly in his last beautiful blessing on “La Verna.”

Here, twice a day, Brother Leo brought him bread,

but, by the order of the saint, he first halted and

shouted, “Lord! Thou wilt open my lips.” If St.

Francis answered: “And my tongue shall proclaim

thy praise !”, he proceeded, but if no answer

came his orders were to leave his master undis-

turbed. For not even his beloved Leo, his priest

and confessor, might approach him in the course

of the dread communion between the Maker and

the creature. Brother Leo's cell, it is true, was not

far away, carved out in the rock above, where St.

Francis climbed to assist at his Mass, while the

birds sang “Matins.” What a picture for a painter,

Brother Leo's daily Mass, on the eyrie summit of

La Verna's rock, with all nature as an altar, and

Francis for worshiper and server. It was here that

Leo saw him raised in ecstasy, high as the lower

branches of the trees, and creeping near, all unper-

ceived, devoutly kissed the pierced feet, glowing,



THE FRANCISCAN CALVARY 61

like rubies, in the clear light of dawning. No won-

der that in the '‘Chapel of the Cross” voices are

hushed to a whisper, for the very walls seem to

re-echo with St. Francis' long and prayerful breaths

of love. Earthly joy and consolation even of the

most spiritual were no longer for him. He had left

his Bethlehem, his Nazareth, his Thabor of the

Angeli behind
;
and, high as the actual mountain,

scaled the spiritual heights of this mystic Calvary

which set him irrevocably apart, receiving him into

its eternal embrace. To gain access to the “Stig-

mata Chapel” one crosses a small vestibule bridge

now filled up with earth, but it is the site of the

original abyss, across which St. Francis and Brother

Leo threw a great tree trunk to form a bridge be-

tween the rest of the friary and this sanctuary

where Francis could retire for his colloquies with

the Most High, undisturbed by the footsteps of

men. At his first coming St. Francis loved and

yearned for this perilous hermitage, there to dwell

alone with the God of his heart.

Before entering the "Stigmata Chapel” we visited

another of the tiny sanctuaries most dear to St.

Francis' heart, a rock ledge leading out from the

cell of St. Anthony. On this spot, it is told, the

demon, tired of uselessly tempting the saint, tried

to hurl him over the abyss, when the rock miracu-

lously jutted out to receive him and make him a

foothold, the prints of St. Francis' fingers as he

clung to the rock, having been visible here for cen-

turies. The saint composed his wonderful Landes



62 THE FRANCISCAN CALVARY

or Hymn of Praise, resting on this platform rock,

and also the famous blessing given to Brother Leo

and still preserved, in the “Sagro Convento” at

Assisi. Underneath its rocky ledge stretches a vast

panorama of forests, mountains and meadows, with

the distant town and villages of the Casentino dot-

ting the plains. Looking upon its still perfection,

one faintly realizes why it was so dear to St. Fran-

cis, and what its inspiration must have been to that

passionate lover of nature.

A far different spot, in its chill asceticism, is the
next halt in our pilgrimage, the dark, narrow cavern

called the “Bed of St. Francis,” to which one de-

scends by steps cut in the rock, a short horizontal

recess, upon which the saint could barely extend his

limbs. One wonders if St. Ffancis the ascetic in

his renunciation, had wished to counterbalance his

spiritual delight in nature's loveliness, or the heights

of his revelation, by the rigors of this damp, narrow

cavern.

Sasso Spicco

Another, and perhaps the most singular and ex-

traordinary aspect of “La Verna” is the “Sasso

Spicco” (Riven Rock) a gaunt weird scission in the

earthquake-riven rocks high as awful frowning

battlements in their wild grandeur. St. Francis,,

tender lover of the Passion, in all its manifestations,

ever sought a fissured rock in his mountain hermi-

tages. To him it stood for the “Rock of Ages,”

cleft for us, and at “La Verna,” it is said, an angel

revealed to St. Francis that all these rocks were



Chapel of the Stigmata. In front center, Stone of

the Stigmata.



64 THE FRANCISCAN CALVARY

opened at the time of the Crucifixion. For this he

loved the “Sasso Spicco” and its forming part of

the dark cavern we just visited, probably led him

to choose it as his place of rest. We cannot stop
to visit the hermitage of Blessed John of La Verna,

for time is all too short. Father Antonio calls our

attention to a high set eyrie rock, far, far above us.

“The Cell of Brother Wolf,” he remarks, and pro-

ceeds to relate the true story of another of St.

Francis’ lightning conquests of a soul given up to

evil. When the saint first came to “La Verna,” the

mountain fastnesses were infested with brigands, so

rapacious and cruel that their savage chief was

known throughout the countryside as “the wolf.”

But Francis feared no man or beast, and the two

met, the burly brigand armed to the teeth, and the

frail, defenseless hermit. The result was a fore-

gone conclusion
;

like his animal namesake, the

famous “wolf of Gubbio,” the human wolf became

a lamb; and we have just seen the solitary eyrie

where Fra Agnello (Brother Lamb) expiated, in

long years of penance, his many crimes. It was for

souls like these that St. Francis’ life-sacrifice was

so joyfully given.

The Stigmata Chapel

Our pilgrimage has reached its fulfillment now;

and we stand, expectant, on the threshold of La

Verna’s “Inner House,” the place of the “Stig-

mata.” Seen through the open doorway the interior

is dominated by its great Della Robbia altar piece

of the “Crucifixion,” an embodied prayer. At the



THE FRANCISCAN CALVARY 65

first sight one is disappointed by the modern restor-

ations, though they are beautiful, solemn and har-

monious, and longs to see, in their place, the little

gem-like gothic church of 1263 consecrated in 1310.

Time and dampness had done their devastating

work; and restorations were imperative. Marbles

and mosaics have bejeweled its walls, and the light

pours through high narrow windows on the won-

drous “Crucifixion,” but the eye returns to the spot

before the altar, where a sunken white marble slab

surrounded by an iron grille, marks the exact place

(as ascribed by Brother Leo), where St. Francis

received the “Stigmata,” on September 14, 1224.

Upon the tablet is inscribed Hie signasti. Could

one do better here than recall the graphic account

of the miraculous scene, so often pictured and

imagined, as it was transcribed by Brother Leo

from St. Francis' consecrated lips? “St. Francis,

being merged and lost in Him who was immolated

for us, suddenly perceived descending from heaven

a seraphim with six wings of burning light, two

above its head, two extended in flying, and two

enveloping its body. Francis, trembling with terror,

perceived his Crucified Lord, and in the abjection

of the Crucifixion with the immortality of a Sera-

phic Spirit, and in the Revelation, there came to

him the explanation that this vision symbolized

what was to be his martyrdom of spirit. On his

body he would carry the living likeness of the agony

of the Cross and in his soul the tenderness of the

seraphim! From that moment his whole being was



66 THE FRANCISCAN CALVARY

enlarged and elevated with angelic peace and pleni-

tude, and on his members appeared the prints of the

crucifixion. His feet and hands were pierced

through with great nails moving in the wounds, and

;

his right side showed an open wound which fre-

quently bled profusely/'

And on that wondrous night the whole summit

of “La Verna's” holy mountain glowed with a burn-

ing light which shone for miles around, like the

reflection of a colossal fire
;

till the country people

from the whole district hastened up to see if the

friary and forest were on fire. And this happened

on the actual spot on which we stand, only broken

by the rushing of a mountain-torrent below, and

the passionate thrill of a nightingale.

No wonder that the brethren keep the “Stigmata

Chapel” with most loving care, even deputing two

fathers and a brother to be constantly attached to

it. They live apart from the rest of the commu-

nity, in a tiny hermitage known as the “Hermitage

of the Stigmata.”

Scrupulously and worthily do St. Francis' sons

observe the solemn injunction he laid upon them

in his last blessing to “La Verna”—that they should
cherish the spot and there recite the office day and

night. In every detail they have carried out his

explicit orders to Fra Masseo which run as follows

:

“Know that my intentions are that in this place

shall ever reside God-fearing religious—the chosen
of my Order. Therefore let the superiors always

strive to send the best monks here !” He then ex-



THE FRANCISCAN CALVARY 67

horted to all the Order, comprising all present and

future brethren, never to permit that the place

should be profaned, but be ever respected and ven-

erated- He left his benediction to all who should

ever live upon “La Verna,” and upon those who

should hold it in reverence; but (St. Francis con-

The Daily Procession The Main Chapel

tinued in solemn warning) “might those be con-

founded who fail in paying it due honor
;
for their

punishment will be in the hands of God.”

After a brief moment of recollection and prayer,

and full of overwhelming solemnity of the holy

place, we returned to the court, to ponder, in sight

of the marvelous prospect from its parapet, mem-



68 THE FRANCISCAN CALVARY

ories and impressions received. The vesper-bell was

ringing from the medieval belfrey," and, as if in a

dream evoked by the associations of the spot, we

imagined ourselves back in the days of St. Francis

£t the sight which greeted us. A long defile of
brown-robed religious emerged from the church,

in slow procession, with folded arms and downcast

heads, chanting the hymn, Crucis Christi Mons

Alvernae

,

a picture truly worthy of the place. We
followed at a distance, as they traversed the long

winding rock-gallery which skirts the mountain,

their footsteps re-echoing along the vast corridor,

their solemn chant growing more distant till they

passed at last into the “Stigmata Chapel.” Twice

in the twenty-four hours at La Verna, rain or shine,

feast or fast, the whole community assembles at

2 p. m. and 2 a. m., and proceeds in solemn proces-

sion to the “Stigmata Chapel,” to commemorate the

great mystery accomplished there. No outsider is

is allowed to enter the chapel at that time, but from

the open doorway visitors can follow the brief but

overwhelmingly impressive ceremony. The reli-

gious take their place in the beautiful carved stalls

and around the altar and another hymn, this time

the Coelorum candor splenduit rang out sonorously,

over the silent precincts. Towards its close two

novices, standing out from the ranks, reverentially

incline before the sacred stone of the “Stigmata”

and indicating it with their right hands, intone the

versicle, Stignasti Domine hie servum tuum Fran-

ciscum. Then each religious in turn, in solemn sil-



THE FRANCISCAN CALVARY 69

ence pays the same homage to the holy spot, with

such deep recollection that this unique commemora-

tion, never failing, never forgotten, enacted here at

dawn and eve, throughout the centuries, leaves a

lasting impression on everyone who has ever been

fortunate enough to witness it. Still more striking

must be its repetition in the still hour between night

and dawning, when, in the piercing cold of winter-

time, on the frozen mountain, or in the teeth of

snow and wind-storms, which tear and rage about

La Verna in the fury of the elements, the monks

rise and traverse the ambulatory on the cliff, to

renew the expiation- and the glory of the “Stigmata”

night ! A quaint old story, handed down at the fri-

ary, says that once in ages past, a Father Guardian,

merciful for his poor monks on a night of a terrific

snowstorm, dispensed them from the ceremony (the

rock-gallery at that time being still uncovered)-

The next morning the thick layer of snow from the

church to the Chapel of the “Stigmata” was covered

with innumerable and even paced footmarks of all

the beasts and birds of the forest, St. Francis' dumb

brethren, who had come from forest lair and cave

to supply for the monks. Since then no stress of

elements has ever been known to prevent the twice

recurring daily procession. The footsteps recede,

the solemn chanting grows ever fainter in the dis-

tance, as these favored sons of St. Francis return

to their daily tasks in the friary upon which he in-

voked perpetual peace.



70 THE FRANCISCAN CALVARY

We take leave reluctantly of our large-hearted

Franciscan hosts who have been so prodigal of hos-

pitality, sharing with us their spiritual and material

treasures with open hands, to go in spirit with St.

Francis, down the mountain, on the last sad jour-

ney of September 30th, 1224. He could no longer

walk, by reason of the pierced feet, and the faithful

Count Orlando had to send him a mount. One

needs not to imagine the sadness of that final fare-

well from the mountain where he had scaled the

summits of bliss and sorrow, for it breathes, in

every line of his testament to Fra Masseo
;
embody-

ing all that life and eternity meant. The heart of

saint and poet commended his loved ones and his

loved place. "A Dio ! To God ! M
jy

brethren, may

you dwell in peace. I go from you in body, but I

leave you my heart. To God, mountain. To God,

to God, Mount La Verna! To God, Mountain of

Angels, most dear to God ! Brother Falcon, I thank

thee, for the charity thou hast shown me. To God,

to God, O Riven Cliff ! I shall never visit thee

more. To God, Rock! To God, to God! Rock

that received me in thy side, to the confusion of the

demon, we shall never see each other again! To

God, St. Mary of the Angels, Mother of the Eter-

nal Word, to thee I recommend my children here
!”



1 226—Assisi—1926
The Franciscan Gethsemane





The

Lower

Church



/

/

t



O
N the lofty hillside of Monte Subasio, high

up above Assisi, rises the Sagro Convento

and the three churches which compose the

great sanctuary of San Francesco, built one above

the other, the rocky crypt where the tomb of St.

Francis lies, the lower church above it and the upper

church above this again. No more striking con-

trast can be imagined than these three churches, in

atmosphere and architecture
;
yet each one has its

especial part in the great festivities connected with

the life of St. Francis.

It is curious that in this, the one place where his

gracious living presence never rested, every stone

should speak of him, every gleaming fresco dream

of him, every line of the solemn Gothic architecture,

whose style he so loved, should intimately recall St.

Francis. Yet one no longer wonders when kneeling

by the rock-hewn tomb to which the brethren car-

ried him by night and where St. Francis’ relics rest

in a riven rock which was his best beloved resting

place in life. Down amid the dim shadows the lamps

burn softly before the open grille (with its altars

before and behind), showing the great rough blocks

of the rock-bound sepulcher.

The spot is preeminently a place of prayer, with

its constant streams of quiet worshipers
;
for the

world throngs from far and near to seek the help

and consolation which the saint of humanity never

denies. Here, truly, St. Francis dying yet lives.

His mark is upon it, his presence dwells within it

and around it, like an encircling mantle, is that



The

Sagro

Convento

of

Assisi



THE FRANCISCAN GETHSEMANE 77

sense of ineffable well-being which he always shed

around him in life.

Ascending the inner stairs which lead from the

crypt to the lower church, one enters into the sol-

emn, mellow beauty of the harmonious interior,

where arch and altar and frescoed wall mingle in a

dream of mystic beauty and spirituality, whose

arched doorway forms the entrance to a kingdom

as far removed from the world of today as is the

spirit of St. Francis. Above this again rises the

upper church, a gem of pure Gothic architecture, so

flooded with light and color as to make it a symbolic

church of the resurrection, an embodiment of pure

Franciscan joy. Its high windows pour floods of

light on the magnificently frescoed walls
;
the Ma-

donna in billowing clouds of angels, and the whole

life story of St. Francis, with which Giotto, the

first of Franciscan painters, lavished his great gen-

ius. Only on great festivals is this upper church

used, the lower, containing the sacred tomb, being

the center of the life of the Sagro Convento.

We love to linger there at Vesper time, when
the mystic surroundings of the lower church seem

literally transfigured; in the rosy afternoon light,

when the level sunshine through the rich stained-

glass windows made many-colored mosaics on the

tesselated pavement.

All around us stretch vistas of Gothic arches,

fading into dim, shadowy side chapels, like zones

of tremulous prayer
;
where saint and confessor and

martyr look down from the walls in a painted litany



78 THE FRANCISCAN GETHSEMANE

of saints. But in the center, under the arched roof

with its airy spandrils, glows an incandescent con-

centration of light, like a nimbus around the Mon-

strance. The myriad candles, the gold shimmer of

vestments,- the somber habits of the Conventuals in

their stalls, and the kneeling crowds on the pave-

The Espousals with Lady Poverty

ment, outside the circle of light, seem to throw out

the picture into higher relief, lighting up Giotto’s

gloriously inspired frescoes above : Poverty, Chas-

tity and Obedience, the motive power of St. Francis’

life, depicted as only the Franciscan artist who



THE FRANCISCAN GETHSEMANE 79

knew their inwardness could have portrayed them.

One of these frescoes stands out from the rest; and

long after, when far distant from Assisi, the mind

sees it again. It is St. Francis' Espousals with his

Lady Poverty—a theme which the two great medi-
eval Tertiaries, the greatest of all poets and the first

of artists—Dante and Giotto, have handed down to
us in poetry and art, in deathless symphony. Never

did saint or founder or lawgiver have better inter-

preters than did the humble Francis in these two

master intellects, inspired by their strong living

faith.

October the Third

All evening the bells ring out from Assisi's many

belfries: the church on the site of Francis' paternal

house, the cathedral house, the cathedral church of

his baptism, the bells of his best beloved San Dami-

ano down among the olives, the church of Santa

Chiara, the distant chimes of Rivo Torto, and the

mountain hermitage of the Carceri, with the deep

reverberations of Santa Maria degli Angeli domi-

nating the rest, as if each bell proudly proclaimed

its part of the life symphony which St. Francis

closed so gloriously on ‘the morrow.

An extraordinary animation pervades the little

city, which usually lies so quietly on the hillside

dreaming of St. Francis in a noonday calm. All

kinds of conveyances pour in a stream up the

ascent from the Angeli, not to speak of the sturdy

pedestrians from the plains and mountains, who

come up to fare la festa di San Francesco



80 THE FRANCISCAN GETHSEMANE

(keep the feast of St. Francis), and fill up every

available dwelling and inn. One carries away

many beautiful and vivid mind pictures from this

Assisi festival, but most striking of all is the solemn

midnight Mass of vigil at Santa Maria degli Angeli,

a vigil truly worthy of the dawn of St. Francis'

birthday in heaven.

In the pure, frosty starlight of an Umbrian

October, clear as moonlight, with the stars scintillat-

ing in that wonderful dark blue radiance of the Ital-

ian night sky, as if the light behind shown through

it, a little pilgrim band starts from Assisi at eleven

o'clock to descend the ever memorable road to the

Angeli. Each time one passes down that winding

hill path it seems to reveal fresh beauties. Each

aspect seems more beautiful, the pearly freshness

of early morning in its blue distances, the glory of

noon upon the olives, and the rosy sunset, when

Assisi, far above, stands out like a vision of an

Apocalyptic city.

Ever with us on this road is St. Francis' pres-

ence. He trod it so often, in joy and sorrow, com-

ing and going from his beloved city to the Little

Portion, which had become* even dearer to his heart.

And ever and always the Saint of Nature rested his

gaze upon the vast ethereal distances, the spring-

time glory of this fair Umbrian land that his pure

soul loved; for verily, perpetual springtime seems

to dwell on St. Francis' Umbria.

Passing the wayside chapels and the wilderness

of vineyards, we come to the hall of Casa Gualdi,



THE FRANCISCAN GETHSEMANE 81

the first and last station, so to speak, of St. Francis'

Via Crucis of life. The spot is twice hallowed by

his memory. In his time it was the leper hospital,

and in the early days of his conversion the delicately

nurtured, over-fastidious young man, over-sensitive,

by his fine organization, to all that was repulsive

and revolting, gained that first triumph over his

natural inclinations, in kissing and tending the

leper's sores. It was but the beginning of a life of

such hard-won triumphs.

Last Blessing of Assisi

As one knows St. Francis better, one can better

appreciate his boundless heroism, his iron strength

of will for self-conquest; for he had none of the

somber (may one call it), righteous satisfaction in

austerity of a harder nature. By nature it was for-

eign to him; by grace he embraced it gladly, as the

nearest approach to the suffering crucified Love of

his life. We must pause here, too, with the second

memory of the spot. It was here, as they carried

him down to the Angeli to die, that St. Francis

made the brethren put down the litter and turn him

towards Assisi, that he might bless it for the last

time. His blind eyes could scarcely see the city

unless—who shall say?—the Master, ever thought-
ful of his faithful servant, granted to the dying

eyes a last sight of Assisi, bathed in the soft evening

light.

The brethren raised him tenderly in their arms

that, like the prophet of old, he might bless and





THE FRANCISCAN GETHSEMANE 83

prophesy. As if energized with new strength the

saint stretched out his arms wide in a sign of the

cross over the city. A serene smile of ineffable

sweetness lighted up his face; and to the astonish-

ment of those present the persuasive voice, which

had drawn thousands to the Master, until now

hardly audible, rose clear and musical as of old in

the blessing which was yet a prophecy. For surely,

in that moment Francis saw in vision the reward of

his work. Even yet, seven centuries after, it seems

to linger on the air: “Mayest thou be blessed by

the Lord, beloved city ! For by thee many souls

shall be saved, and because in thee will live many

servants of God, who will glorify Him, and that

many of thine inhabitants will be elected for the

kingdom of eternal life.” The exquisite beauty of

this scene is worthily portrayed by a great artist,

Ary Scheffer, in a picture in the Louvre in Paris,

which though well known, deserves to be more*

widely appreciated
;
for the artist entered heart and

soul into its spirit.

As we near the great mass of buildings of Santa

Maria degli Angeli, looming against the dark blue

curtain of the starlit sky, every window of the vast

church is suddenly illuminated and the bells send

out a resonant joyous peal. The landscape, beauti-

ful before in its midnight stillness (like another

scene on a hillside where shepherds watched their

flocks by night), presents a new aspect of radiant

beauty as the light streams in many-colored facets

through the stained-glass windows and lays in sheets



84 THE FRANCISCAN GETHSEMANE

of brightness on field and plain and over the tiny

village of Santa Maria degli Angeli clustering be-

neath the shadow of the mother church. It is like

the Bethlehem Gloria in excelsis this new Gloria of

the angels, rung out to welcome Francis to the

angelic company he had so constantly loved and

honored on earth.

St. Francis Blessing Assisi

Crowds are streaming through the doorways, and

with them we enter the vast majestic church, which

stretches like a small world of space around the

tiny chapel of the Portiuncula in its midst, embrac-r

ing it with mighty columns as did the forest trees

in St. Francis’ time; for this selfsame little chapel,

isolated in the midst of the massive basilica of Our

Lady of the Angels, then stood in a woods, with the

huts of the brethren clustering around it.



THE FRANCISCAN GETHSEMANE 85

For once the Portiuncula is not the center of at-

traction in Santa Maria degli Angeli. The crowds

hurry past it, or through its low doorways, to gain

their goal, which is the even smaller chapel on the

right; the chapel of the Transito, the tiny hut cell

where St. Francis died the third of October, 1226.

We approach, as far as is possible for the kneel-

ing crowds, to the actual door of St. Francis’ time,

the same door through which he entered for the last

time. Inside, the sanctuary is a mass of radiance;

but the Franciscan simplicity remains unchanged

and the rough brown walls, worn smooth through

the contact of centuries, are the same against which

the dying saint leaned when they laid him, by his

own desire, on ashes on the floor of the cell. These

walls saw his passing, re-echoed his last sigh; and

these memories hallow the spot for all time. Sil-

ently and continuously the people pass, to kneel

some moments in prayer, then reverently kiss the

dark, hard stones and hallowed pavement.

Before the eyes grow accustomed to the light, it

seems that the crowds are kneeling before the living

presence of St. Francis, so absolutely realistic is

the statue standing over the altar, in habit and cowl,

a frail, emaciated figure, ineffably sad, with the high

unearthly splendor of renunciation shining like an

interior light through the worn, transparent fea-

tures. It is Luca della Robbia’s faithful representa-

tion of St. Francis, taken from his death mask, be-

fore the seal of suffering had passed into infinite

beatitude.



86 THE FRANCISCAN GETHSEMANE

The outside wall of the Transito chapel is deco-

rated with a vast and grandiose fresco representing

St. Francis' death, recalling its every detail to mind.

The dying saint is in the center, supported by his

brethren. His old and faithful friend, benefactor

and spiritual daughter, Giacopa di Settisoli, with

her two sons and her retinue of followers, had

arrived from Rome, warned by an inspiration, only

in time for his death. He had beckoned all present

to come near him, that, as he could not see them,

he might lay his hand on their heads in blessing,

his only regret being that he could not do the same

by his future brethren.

But Francis, the never forgetful, had them all in

his mind at this supreme moment. He blessed them

and absolved them, and bade those present to hand

it down to the order in his name. He had spoken,

too, of Clare, his spiritual daughter, recommending

her and her sisters to the care of his brethren.

“Farewell, my children ! I leave you in the fear of

God. Keep firmly attached to your rule, for the

hour of tribulation is near and defections and scan-

dals will come. Blessed is he who perseveres. As

for me, I go to God with confidence
;
for I have

served him with all the strength of my soul. I

recommend you all to his grace." Then, all worldly

affairs being ended, he laid upon the brethren his

last command on earth
;
that they should lay him

naked upon ashes on the pavement, that he might

die in the embraces of poverty.



THE FRANCISCAN GETHSEMANE 87

Serenely, St. Francis awaited welcome Sister

Death, begging the brethren to sing to him once

more the Canticle of Creatures

,

and, while they laid

him on the ashes, to read the Gospel of St. John.

The dying saint himself, in a last effort, intoned a

psalm at the last verse of which the great, generous

heart stopped beating, and the seraphic soul of

Francis was safe in the embrace of his one absorb-

ing Love, while the beauty and joy ineffable after

which he constantly aspired, were his in the fulness

of perfection.

All nature mourned its apostle with sad autumnal

winds
;
and, as St. Bonaventure writes, the birds,

who hated the darkness, yet ventured forth to sing

their requiem over the friend they would never

more call to Matins.

On the other side of the Transito chapel is fres-

coed the funeral of St. Francis and the halting of

the cortege at San Damiano, that St. Clare might

look upon the face of the saint for the last time.

But there is “no sadness of farewell” at Sancta

Maria degli Angeli. “The night is over and the day

is come,” and in the early dawn of St. Francis’

heavenly birthday only infinite rejoicing prevails,

as he himself would have desired it.

The magnificent organ peals out, as the long pro-

cession of friars emerges from the sacristy, the

celebrant and his assistants in gorgeous golden vest-

ments. They halt at the chapel of the Transito and

standing around the humble cell, amid the pealing

of bells and the swell of organ intone the Te Deum



88 THE FRANCISCAN GETHSEMANE

so sonorously triumphant that it seems to rock the

walls
;
reverberating like waves on a rocky coast, a

very ecstacy of thanksgiving for the life of the

saint of purest joy. Then followed the solemn high

Mass with its ringing Gloria. At its close we came

The Upper Church



THE FRANCISCAN GETHSEMANE 89

out once more into the frosty starlight, our hearts

too full for words, from the memories of this holy

night, and turned our faces to the distant lights of

Assisi twinkling out on the hill-set fortress and half

expecting to hear the birds twittering over the

roofs of the Angeli.

October the Fourth

Early in the morning, long before daybreak,

the bells are ringing all over Assisi, and the steep,

stony streets are filled with surging crowds eager

to find a place in the. crypt of St. Francis, to have

the privilege of assisting at one of the endless

Masses celebrated on the tomb today. No longer a

dim sanctuary of silent prayer, the rock tomb with

its two sides, where Mass can be celebrated sim-

ultaneously, is as richly beautiful as loving care

can make it. Not only at the double altars of the

tomb, but at the other altars surrounding the crypt,

Masses are said without intermission. On every

day of the year, at the tomb of St. Francis and at

the papal altar above it, in the lower church, the

votive Mass of St. Francis must always be said.

Cardinals, bishops, prelates and members of every

religious order succeed each other at the altars al-

ternating with St. Francis' own brethren. Young

Franciscan missionaries are there with their laurels

yet to win, their faces glowing with St. Francis'

eager thirst for souls, as they come to beg their

father's blessing on their distant work, the blessing

he so confidently promised with his dying lips more

than seven hundred years ago. No one who



90 THE FRANCISCAN GETHSEMANE

has witnessed it will ever forget that early morning

scene at St. Francis' tomb at his Assisi festival, so

intimate in its fervor, so full of deep devotion, as

if it were his urbi et orbi blessing to his universal

family.

The Tomb of St. Francis

Later on comes the solemn pontifical Mass, cele-

brated by a cardinal at the papal altar in the lower

church. One imagined that this wonderful sanc-

tuary could offer no fresh beauties superior to those



THE FRANCISCAN GETHSEMANE 91

already seen
;
but on this day of days it surpasses

itself in pure ideality of surrounding. Each perfect

arch, stretching away in marvelous perspective to

the papal altar, is outlined in light, with hundreds of

crystal chandeliers. Magnificent sixteenth century

brocades of rich crimson damask cover the lower

walls, and the high raised altar, facing the people,

is decked with all the Sagro Convento possesses of

the most precious, canopied overhead by Giotti's

frescoed vision of St. Francis in glory amid the an-

gelic hierarchies he loved, while Cimabue's tender

Madonnas on the walls make a sunlit glory around.

One might imagine St. Francis smiling his in-

dulgent smile, to see himself and his Lady Poverty

amid such magnificence, save that he so passionately

loved the beauty of God's house.

All day long Assisi keeps high festival with music

and illuminations, and on the succeeding days the

Fiera di San Francesco (St. Francis' Fair) takes

place on the old grey stones near Santa Chiara

and the city gateway. Side by side with Umbria's

store of splendid fruit, lie household ware, utensils

and pictures of San Francesco, together with the

terra cotta painted bells, to ring in the feast,

these latter a survival of Etrurian Umbria, the

whole scene after the pleasant custom of Italian

feste, combining a popular gathering with the relig-

ious celebration.

As the great day draws to a close, we pause a

moment at Santa Maria degli Angeli where at the

hour of his passing, the Friars Minor go in solemn





THE FRANCISCAN GETHSEMANE 93

procession to the Transito chapel to sing on their

knees the hymn 0 sanctissima anima. Once more

St. Francis’ brown-robed brethren of the Portiun-

cula gather around him as they did on their first

fourth of October. His image, calm and serene,

looks down on them from the altar, while the most

holy soul of friend and father blesses them even

more tenderly than at his last blessing on earth. It

is our last watchword or recollection of Assisi’s

wondrous feast. “Most holy soul,” indeed, in whose

clear mirror of sanctity countless thousands first

saw and loved their God. Sanctissima anima

,

pray

for us all

!