The Three Sanctuaries of Casentino. THERE is a melancholy pleasure in reading the Voyages des deux Bénédictins, the record left us of men who saw and described the monasteries and convents of Catholic France in the earlier part of the eighteenth century. Citeaux and Clairvaux live again in their quaint pages, and the old quarto is now a precious relic of what has long since passed away. In Italy the revolution is fast doing what the Jacobins did in France, and what Thomas Cromwell did in England; and unless Providence interposes, the ruin of its monastic institutions is, alas! too certain. Every memory thus becomes precious,-a thing to be treasured up. It was but a few months back that a clever writer in a very popular serial forestalled in part the subject of this paper; but while the vivid word-painting and eloquence of diction left nothing to be desired, there was no true sympathy with Catholic memories. Eloquent on a Tuscan village," he had but few and scornful words for "a Tuscan sanctuary." We trust, then, the slight memories of a pilgrimage made some years back may prove of interest to our readers, especially as the Three Sanctuaries are less known, and have been less described, than others of that holy land; while in beauty of position and interest of history they yield to few. 66 VALLOMBROSA. I had an old longing to visit Alvernia. It dated perhaps from the day when first from the old castle of Radicofani I saw its long dark crest rising far away over the barren Apennines. Chancing to be in Florence one October, the feast of St. Francis seemed a fitting season to execute my long-planned design. Vallombrosa was on my way, and Camaldoli was near Alvernia. I resolved to visit all three. On the afternoon of the 2d of October, with satchel on my shoulders and stick in hand, I mounted up the old diligence to Pelago-so graphically described by our contemporary-and by three o'clock was lumbering over the unequal stones that form, as in Pompeii or Herculaneum, the street-ways of the City of Flowers. A few peasants were the inside passengers, while outside on the box or coupé were two young Florentines, reading for the benefit of the public a sort of degraded copy of Punch, filled with ribald verses on the Pope and Lamoricière, parodies of the Jerusalem Delivered, of which the general was the hero; while even the sublime words of the Stabat Mater were turned into derisive couplets to ridicule the sorrows of our Holy Father. They thought it a new revelation to find a forestiere take up the cudgels for the vanquished general, and give an answer to these vile slanders. Meanwhile, with many a strain and too many a jolt, on we went by the river Sieve, up and down, past farm-house and villa, until, after a long ascent, we saw Vallombrosa far in front of us,—a white spot among the dark woods that clothed the range of hills. It was night when the vehicle pulled up at the little inn of Pelago, and six miles of rough road and a long climb was between me and Vallombrosa. So, much as I wished to push on to Alvernia for the 4th of October, there was nothing for it but to stay there the night. The day had been rainy, but the sun had shown itself at setting, lighting with a dull red the under-side of the serried clouds, and promising fine weather for the morrow. But the next morning proved unfavourable; for hardly had I started but the rain began to drop, and all seemed to threaten a wet day. I must needs, however, reach Alvernia on the morrow. The road skirted the side of the hill, somewhat barren, with chestnut-trees and small vineyards, until, on opening the gate of an enclosure, a long and gracefully-dipping flagged path brought me to the substantial grange of the monastery. Through this building, or rather under it -by a spacious arched way-and the road became wilder, as did the weather. Winding cautiously round some steep and shingly cliffs, and gradually descending into a deep and precipitous glen, the path was marked at intervals by stone crosses, the arms of the abbey—a hand leaning upon a crutch-carved upon them. A small bridge led across a brook which ran down the valley, where a few cottages were scattered, and then the road turned sharply up, rising rapidly through the forest of chestnuts. A thick drift of Miltonic leaves was strewn across the good stone road by a very wintry blast. The views at each cross were most grand and extensive far over the country we had passed the previous day, the drifting mists and half-obscured sun adding to the idea of height and solitude. Soon I entered the deep gloom and solemn aisles of the fir-trees. It was a long pull and a long road; but at last, and all of a sudden, I came out on a broad bright lawn and a paved approach, and beyond, the monastery, not picturesque, but solid and stately, with the fir-forest rising behind and surrounding it as in an amphitheatre. The first enclosure containing an apology for a garden-passed, I was warmly welcomed by the good monks, and ushered into the guest-room, where a bright fire roared up the capacious chimney. Time has left little that is remarkable in architecture or art in the building itself; and from the cruel sacking of the modern Vandals-the republican troops of France-there has been saved nothing but the arm of their sainted founder, St. John Gualberto, in a rich reliquary of Benvenuto, and the crutch of the saint, which, as we saw, figures in the armorial bearings of the house. Dinner over, we visited the sanctuaries and memories of the great founder. There is the beech-tree under which the Saint lived for many years, when first he sought and found a solitude in this Alpine height. There are the caves, or rather holes in the rock, the scenes of the penance and prayer, the dwelling-places of his first companions. Perched upon a crag, high above the abbey, is the hermitage, called Paradisino, from the loveliness of the views it commands. Once it was the cell of the Saint, but now, after a fire, it has lost all its ancient character and been changed into a little convent for private retreats. Down a retired gorge a leaping waterfall sends a rapid stream to turn the large saw-mill, which, besides its ordinary use, serves to divide the blocks of ice that freeze in tanks made for the purpose, and which are carried down on sledges during the summer months to the cafés and palaces of Florence, the produce of the sale forming no small part of the Fathers' revenue. LA VERNIA. It was with regret that early next morning-St. Francis' dayI left my kind and hospitable hosts. The path skirted the mountain-side through the autumnal woods; far away the morning sun gleamed on the roofs and domes of Florence, and the long range of mountains beyond. A last look at Vallombrosa, which seen from above, with its courts and quaint towers, appeared most conventual; and missing all trace of a road, I clambered up the highest part of the mountain, over a rich carpet of soft mossy grass. Once on the other side, another path led me on, till I found myself nearing again the monastery I had that morning left. Before me was a strange country. Below, the foreground was broken with deep valleys and scanty woods; here and there the gray smoke of a charcoal heap rose from a hollow. In the far distance the long chain of the dark Apennines, and crowning them a black crest, which I knew must be Alvernia. The day was glorious, and confident that San Francesco would guide me safely to his shrine, I made to the nearest "You have come from a long "D'Arezzo?" which being the village as directly as the rugged country would allow. I startled a carbonaro at his work rearing his charcoal heap, who wondered much at the sight of a solitary foreigner in so outlandish a country, and then sent me re-assured on my way. A scramble up and down through some two or three rocky glens and a chestnut-wood, and I reached a strange wild path cut in the shingly rock on which stands the village I had seen from afar. It is situated at the bottom of a richly-wooded dell. The road ran through this beautiful valley, now up and now down, as little tributary brooks came flowing across the path into the main stream. The old folks at the doors of their cottages gladly offered hospitality. way off?" "Yes, my good man." nearest city was the furthest stretch of an old contadino's fancy. The valley ended at a busy little town, all astir with hand-looms, where-spite of a great fair at Bibbiena, for which most of the conveyances had been hired betimes—a country calèche was found, and we rattled cheerily for twelve miles along a high road, through the fertile and populous district of Casentino. Passing Poppi, with its solemn town-hall rising over the old walls like the Palazzo at Florence, we wound up the eminence on which Bibbiena stands. Little is there now of the days of Bibbiena the Cardinal. The Franciscans welcomed us at their convent, and pressed us to share their festa dinner before commencing the final ascent of the holy ́mount; so that the afternoon was far advanced when, bidding goodbye to my Tuscan Jehu and the hospitable friars, I went on to Alvernia. It rose clear and near before me while passing on through many vineyards, where all were busy with the vintage. Many were the pressing invitations to the pellegrino to take of their tempting harvest. Over a wooded hill, whose soil was a rich red loam, and when the broad bed of a waterless and stony torrent had been crossed, the ascent began in earnest. The road was rugged, often on the bare rock, or through a barren country sprinkled with vast boulders-wild and solemn exceedingly. Toiling on, I overtook an honest countryman, and his company shortened the tedious journey. Strongly he spoke of the grievous wrongs that this new-fangled liberty had done to his once-happy country, and deeply he lamented the dark days that were approaching, when Alvernia would be deserted and its friars scattered. Talking thus, we reached the plateau on which stands the sacred rock. There was a chapel nestling above, with three small lancets in its rude walls, from which the cliff went sheer down a hundred feet or more, its base being hidden by a clump of trees. Mountain firs and beeches were above, crowning the rock. I did not know then that it was the Chapel of the Stigmata. The mountain is, as Dante describes it, "infra Tevere ed Arno," and separated on all sides from the surrounding range; while upon its summit, as we have just described, is, as it were, a second mountain, of some three miles in circuit and nearly square in shape. It is perfectly inaccessible on three sides, the rocks rising to the height of 300 feet. This is, properly speaking, the "crudo sasso" of Alvernia, or, as the Tuscans call it, La Vernia. At last we reached the foot of the rock; there St. Francis rested on his first visit, in company with the generous donor Count Orlando, beneath the shade of an oak, and the birds gathered round him, rejoicing in his coming. A little chapel commemorates the event, and over it are two quaint inscriptions too beautiful to be omitted: Salve! mons felix, Sinai felicior illo Hail! blessed mount, more blessed than Sion's rock, Where God for Moses wrote His sacred law; On thee Christ crucified in glory shone, And stamp'd His image on St. Francis' form. Cum comite Orlando Franciscus scandere montem Hunc primum venit, venit et omnis avis When first St. Francis with Orlando came To scale this mount, came flocking many a bird; With sharp ascent a road from the chapel winds up the only accessible side of the holy rock; and turning to the left, I found myself in a paved court, the arcades of the convent, with a picturesque well on one side, the mountains seen far distant on the other. The glow of an autumnal evening was fading over the dark range, and the long lines of gold and red were changing into a sombre brown. A number of people were standing about in groups, for the second vespers were just completed, and the ceremonies of the festal day were over. I prayed a friar to lead me before nightfall to the end and goal of my pilgrimage. Crossing the court, down a long passage decorated with frescoes from the life of St. Francis, we passed through one or two little oratories, and entered by a low |