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298 ROMAN DA YS.
Spagna ; that is the Franciscans’ monument of victory.
But victory has not made them proud : now and always
they consider themselves the least of all the brethren,
willing servants of the Jesuits and Dominicans.
This conversation accorded so well with the twilight
around me—but I must admit that I began to long again
after the sunlight and the nineteenth century, which
clearly had stopped outside the doors of St. Bonaventura.
I stood up, and took another turn through the chief cor-
ridor of the cloister. I stumbled upon a door with the
inscription Bibliotheca, and with the additional notice
that Pius IX had richly augmented the collection of
books. I wished to go in, in the hope of seeing one of
those old ornamental manuscripts with richly-colored
miniatures and rubrics, that enchant the eyes even of
non-connoisseurs. But no : the library was a sacred
room ; there, only the superior of the convent might set
his foot. But my companion believed that all Bonaven-
tura’s writings were to be found there : even his " The
Soul’s Guide to God " and his " Conversation with My-
self." But—added the monk—they are hard to read,
even for those who know Latin ; some of the thoughts
can scarcely be understood without special illumination.
Now, as I was about to say farewell, the monk opened
a door opposite to that through which I had entered,
and I stood as spell-bound by the sight that met me
here. In the sunlight, two of the fairest palm-trees I
had up to that time seen, arose towards the deep blue
sky ; beneath me lay, adorned with clinging vines, mighty
remains of ancient palaces of emperors ; and outspread
before me, Rome and the Campagna, with glorious melt-
ing colors in a frame of azure or violet-shimmering
mountains. I stood in the little, well-kept convent gar-
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