We were joined by a Benedictine monk as we went but, who proposed that
we should go up the campanile. It is pleasant to visit the bells of a
famous or favorite church. It is like seeing a poet whose songs we have
heard, and pleasanter in some respects; for while the poet may mantle
himself in commonplace at our approach, like Olympus in clouds, one can
always waken the spirit of song in these airy singers.

The way up this campanile is very rough, a mere gravelly path, and one
can only maintain his footing by holding a rope that runs all the way
up, following the four sides. Reaching the large chamber at the top, we
paid our respects to the seven bells, whose intricate changes I had so
many times tried to follow. Their ringing is a puzzle. In the middle
hung the melancholy _campanone_, with a silvery soprano by its side--a
very Dante and Beatrice among bells.

We stayed to hear the noon Angelus strike, and while the last stroke
was still booming around the great bell I took a step toward it and
stretched my hand out.

I was instantly snatched backward, with a profusion of excuses.

"It is said," the professor explained, "that if a bell be touched, even
with the finger-tip, while ringing, it will instantly break. I do not
know if it be true, but it is worth guarding against."

It was indeed! A fine appetite I should have had for my breakfast, at
that moment awaiting me, if I had had to reflect over it that the great
bell of the great basilica of St. Francis of Asisi had that very
morning been cracked into pieces by my fore finger! What visions of