Transcription Notes:

• All obvious punctuation errors were corrected.
• Both alms-giving and almsgiving appeared in the text. Almsgiving has been retained.
• Both grey-green and grey green appeared in the text. Grey-green has been retained.
• Both countryside and country-side appeared in the text. Country-side has been retained.
• Both lawsuits and law-suits appeared in the text. Lawsuits has been retained.
• Both unheard of and unheard-of both appeared in text. Unheard of has been retained.
• Both any one and anyone both appeared in text. Anyone has been retained.
• Both swineherd and swine-herd appeared in the text. Swine-herd has been retained.
• Both lay workers and lay-workers appeared in the text. Lay-workers has been retained.
• Both Bernard di Quintavelle and Bernard di Quintavalle appeared in the text. The variation has been retained.
• p 1. Appenines has been corrected to Apennines.
• p 16. delapidated was corrected to dilapidated
• p 66. Appenines has been corrected to Apennines.
• p 116. amplication has been corrected to application.
• p 116. nomed was corrected to named

THE RED-HOT LIBRARY.

Edited by Bramwell Booth.

No. I.

Brother Francis
OR,
LESS THAN THE LEAST.

BY

BRIGADIER EILEEN DOUGLAS.

THE SALVATION ARMY BOOK DEPARTMENT

London: 79 & 81 Fortess Road, N.W. Melbourne: 69 Bourke Street
New York: 120 West Fourteenth Street
Toronto: Albert Street
Cape Town: Loop Street

SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & Co., Ltd.
4 Stationers' Hall Court, London, E.C.

1911

Second Edition.

Uniform with this Volume.

CONTENTS

PREFACE.

The following pages have been written by my request with a view to making the Soldiers of The Salvation Army somewhat familiar with the life-story of one of the most remarkable men this world has ever seen.

While many and varied will be the opinions respecting the methods employed by Francis of Assisi, and while some will doubtless strongly dissent from these methods, yet I think no serious follower of Jesus Christ can do otherwise than admire the sincerity, devotion and sacrifice of the man; and further, there can be, I think, no two opinions as to his having taught and manifested to the world what it means to be possessed entirely by the Saviour's spirit.

And what did that spirit produce? Surely it was the same entire devotion of our all to the service of God and humanity which we Salvationists daily teach. The difference between our spirit and that of the subject of this Memoir is, I trust, very slight, although the manifestations of it are widely diverse. We are quite as extreme in our demands as to poverty and solitude as he was, only that we do not value these things for their own sake as he did. We daily induce persons to leave earthly possessions and prospects in order to go and seek the salvation of the poor, amongst whom their future life is to be spent; and we require our Officers to consecrate all they have to the service of the Kingdom of God right through their career, and to live always in a state of readiness to be sent away from all they have known and loved—not, indeed, to live in any cloister or hermitage, but in the solitude amidst the crowd which must ever be more or less the lot of the highest leaders of men.

The system established by Francis was not adaptable to family life, whereas it is our joy to show how as complete a devotion to the good of others can be manifested by the father or mother, who spend most of their hours in toil for the support of those dependent upon them, as by the monks and nuns of old, even when they walked in entire harmony with the rules of their various orders.

We have demonstrated that most people by the very fact of their being engaged in business, and having to fulfil the duties of family life, acquire extra power to capture for God those who are still in the ranks of worldliness and selfishness.

Nevertheless, we must always expect God to require from time to time witnesses who might step out of the ordinary path altogether in order to revolutionise the world for Him. It were better far to aspire to so high and holy a calling than to excuse in ourselves any less self-denial, any easier life than this man's boundless love to Christ constrained him to adopt.

It is most melancholy to reflect that Francis died almost broken-hearted over what he felt to be the unfaithfulness of his brethren. We believe that God has guided us to plans which, being consistent with the possibilities of modern human life, are capable of being carried out fully and always. But the vital question is the maintenance of that intense spirit of personal devotion to the good Shepherd and His lost sheep, which can alone render any such scheme of life possible. To that great end may this book minister, and God grant us grace and wisdom to raise up generation after generation of soldiers, who will not only drink in, but fully carry out that spirit.

WILLIAM BOOTH.
International Headquarters,
London.

BROTHER FRANCIS.

OR,

LESS THAN THE LEAST.

CHAPTER I.

Assisi And Francis.

"Hands love clasped through charmèd hours,
Feet that press the bruisèd flowers,
Is there naught for you to dare,
That ye may his signet wear?"

You will not be likely to find Assisi marked on any ordinary map of Italy. It is far too unimportant a place for that. That is to say, geographically unimportant. Assisi lies half-way up the Appenines. The houses, which are built of a curious kind of rosy-tinted stone, press so closely together one above the other on the rocks, so that each house seems trying to look over its neighbours' head. The result of this is that from every window you have one of the grandest views in Europe. Above, the mountains tower into the sky, and yet they are not so close as to suggest crowding. Beneath lies stretched out the Umbrian plain, the centre and heart of Italy. With its rich harvests, plentiful streams and luxuriant vegetation, it might well be called the Eden of Italy.

The atmosphere is clear and transparent, and the nights, with their dark blue cloudless skies, studded with myriads of shining, sparkling stars, are better imagined than described!

Like a Prince.

It was midway up one of the narrow steep little streets, in one of those rosy-tinted houses, that Francis Bernardone was born, about six hundred years ago. Only he wasn't Francis just then. He was John. As a matter of fact there was no such name as Francis known in Assisi, and some think it was invented there and then for the first time by Pietro Bernardone.

When his baby was born, Pietro was far away, travelling in France. He was a merchant, and his business often took him away from home. As there were no letters or telegrams to tell him the news, it was not till he got back that he found he had a baby son, who had been duly christened John at the parish church. But Pietro had no idea of letting a little matter of this kind stand in his way, and he told his wife, Pica, that the baby was not to be John, but Francis or Francesca. And Francis he was.

The neighbours didn't like it at all. Why should Pietro set himself up to be so much better than other folks that he must needs invent a name for his baby? In what was his baby better than any of theirs? And so forth. Oh, Assisi was a very natural little town! From his babyhood these neighbours sat in judgment on little Francis. There was nothing much about him that pleased them. They disapproved of his dress, which was rich and fine, and always according to the latest fashion; of his idle, free, careless ways, of his handsome face, of his superabundance of pocket-money.

"Your son lives like a prince," a neighbour said once to Pica.

"What is that to you!" retorted Pica, "our son does indeed live like a prince. Have patience, the day may come when he will live like the Son of God."

But in truth that day seemed long in coming, and the neighbours might well be forgiven when they said among themselves that young Francis Bernardone was being utterly spoiled. It was quite true. Frank, gay, good-tempered, easily led, fond of all kinds of beauty and soft living, the life of indulgence and ease and pleasure that he was brought up in was not the one that would best fit him for the battle of life. Pietro was rich, and he was also exceeding proud of his handsome gay son. It delighted him more than anything else to hear people say that he looked like a prince of royal blood, and he denied him nothing that money could procure.

Young Manhood.

As he grew up into young manhood, Francis nominally assisted his father in his business as cloth merchant. His duties, however, were very light, and he was known more as a leader among the gay youth of Assisi than as a rising business man. He was always chosen as the leader of the sumptuous feasts that the young men of that era wiled away the evening hours with. After the feast was over, Francis used to lead his band out into the streets, and there under those glorious starry skies they finished the night singing the then popular love songs of France and Italy. As Francis was intensely musical, and possessed a very fine voice, he was indispensable at these revelries.

He was almost twenty-five before he had his first serious thought. Up to then life had been an enchanted dream. Francis, with his handsome face, beautiful courteous manners, and full pockets the centre of it. He had seen life outside Assisi, for he had fought for his country and suffered imprisonment. He had travelled a little, was fairly well educated, and what was rare in those days spoke and sang in the French language. Of God he seems to have had no knowledge whatever. His kindly, polite nature led him to much almsgiving, but that was merely the outcome of a disposition which hated to see suffering.

Francis' lack of religion is not much to be wondered at when we look at the state of the church in his time. Christianity had become old, its first freshness had worn off, and its primitive teaching had fallen into decay. A Christian's life was an easy one, and the service rendered was more of church-going and almsgiving, than purity of heart and life. In many instances those who filled the office of teacher and preacher were corrupt, and lived only for themselves, and the whole tendency of the times was to the most extreme laxity.

When almost twenty-five years old, Francis had a very severe illness. For weeks he lay at death's door, and for weeks after all danger was passed, he was confined to the house too weak to move. As his weary convalescence dragged itself along, one absorbing desire filled his mind. If only he could get out of doors, and stand once again in the sunshine, and feast his eyes on the landscape below him! Francis, like all Italians, was a passionate lover of his native country, and at last, one day, he wearily and painfully crawled out.

Things that Perish.

But what was the matter? The sunshine was there. It flooded the country. The breeze that was to bring him new life and vigor played among his chestnut curls. The mountains towered in their noble grandeur. The wide Umbrian plain lay stretched out at his feet. The skies were as blue, and the flowers as gay and sweet, as ever his fancy painted them. But the young man turned away with a sickening sense of disappointment and failure.

"Things that perish," he said mournfully to himself, and thought bitterly of his past life with its gaiety and frivolity. It, too, was among the "things that perish." Life was a dreary emptiness.

It was the old, old story. "Thou hast made us for Thyself, oh God, and the heart is restless till it finds its rest in Thee." That tide which flows at least once in the life of every human being was surging round Francis. Happy they who, leaving all else, cast themselves into the infinite ocean of the Divine will and design.

CHAPTER II.

A Change.

"In this easy, painless life,
Free from struggle, care, and strife,
Ever on my doubting breast,
Lies the shadow of unrest;
This no path that Jesus trod—
Can the smooth way lead to God?"

As health returned, Francis determined that he would no longer waste his life. He had spent a quarter of a century in ease, and pleasure, and amusement. Now, some way or other, there should be a change. Religion to Francis meant acting up to all the duties of his church. This he had already done, and not for a moment did he dream that there was in what he called "religion" any balm for a sore and wounded spirit. It never occurred to him to seek in prayer the mind of the Lord concerning his future. Oh, no, it was many a long day before Francis knew the real meaning of the word prayer. He was convinced of his wrong, and determined to right it. That was as far as he had got. What to do was now the great question.

Just about this time, a nobleman of Assisi, Walter of Brienne, was about to start for Apulia, to take part in a war which was going on there. All at once it occurred to Francis that he would go too. He was naturally courageous, and visions filled his mind of the deeds he would do, and the honours that would be bestowed upon him.

He hastened at once to the nobleman and begged to be allowed to accompany him. Permission was granted, and Francis set about getting his outfit ready. His rich costume was far more splendid than that of Walter himself, and the trappings of his horse and his general accoutrements were all in keeping, so that altogether Francis was a very magnificent personage indeed!

A Voice.

A few nights before he started, he dreamed a strange dream. He was sleeping, and he thought somebody called him out of his sleep.

"Francis, Francis," said a voice.

Then it seemed to Francis that he awoke and found himself in a vast armoury. All around him hung shields and spears and swords, and weapons of all kinds. But the most curious part of it was that each weapon was marked with a cross. In his heart he wondered what it could all mean, and as he was wondering, the voice answered his thoughts.

"These are for thee and for thy followers," it said, and then Francis awoke.

It was an age when dreams were counted of much importance, and Francis rejoiced over this of his. Heaven, he said to himself, had smiled upon his enterprise. God had undertaken to lead him by the hand, and to what heights could he not aspire! Dreams of earthly honor and distinction floated through his brain as he dressed, and when he went downstairs everybody asked what made him look so radiant.

"I have the certainty of becoming a great prince," he answered.

Yes, truly, he was to be a prince among men! Could he have seen then the rough road that God was preparing for him, would he have drawn back? Happily for us, we live a day at a time, and further than that our eyes are holden.

With a great deal of pomp and display, at the appointed time Francis mounted his horse and set off. But his journey was a short one. About thirty miles from Assisi he was taken ill with an attack of his life-long enemy—the fever—and forced to lie by. He chafed a good deal at this, and wondered and pondered over the mysterious actions of a Providence which had so manifestly sanctioned his expedition.

The Master or the Servant?

One evening he was lying half unconscious when he thought he heard the same voice that spoke to him before he started.

"Francis," it asked, "what could benefit thee most, the Master or the servant, the rich man or the poor?"

"The Master and the rich man," answered Francis in wonderment.

"Why, then," went on the voice, "dost thou leave God, Who is the Master and rich, for man, who is the servant and poor?"

"Then, Lord, what wilt Thou that I do?" queried Francis.

"Return to thy native town, and it shall be shown thee there what thou shalt do," said the voice.

It was characteristic of all Francis' after life that he never stopped to query what looked like contradiction of orders, but as soon as ever he was well enough he travelled back home again. His ambition for future greatness, and earthly distinction and honor, all seemed to be lost sight of when the Divine voice spoke. For Francis was convinced that God had spoken to him.

It was certainly not easy for a nature like his to return home whence a few short days before, he had departed with such pomp and glory. His father was not over rejoiced to welcome him back, but his friends, who worshipped him, "the flower of Assisi," as they called him, received him gladly. Things had been dull without Francis. His merry songs and jests were missed at the evening feast. For a time he took up the life he had quitted. There was nothing else to do as far as he could see. But he was changed. Even his companions were forced to own that. He sang, and laughed, and jested as usual, but the heart had gone out of his song and laughter, and he was prone to fall into deep fits of meditation.

It was a far from satisfactory life. He cared no longer for what was once his very existence, and he knew not as yet to what God would have him turn. He desired to serve God, and gave himself to almsgiving. He made a pilgrimage to Rome, only to be disgusted with the miserable offerings put into the treasury by the pilgrims.

Conflicts.

"Is this all they spare to God?" he cried, and pulling out his purse flung its contents among the rest.

He was tormented and haunted by recollections of his past mis-spent life, and for days he mourned over what was beyond recall.

There was a certain old woman in Assisi, horribly deformed and hideously ugly. Francis, with his innate love of the beautiful, recoiled in horror every time he met her. She was a nightmare to him, and he would go far to avoid seeing her. The devil, who is ever ready to work on the weakness of a human soul, used this old woman to torture him.

"See," he said, "a picture of what you will become if you persist in mortifying yourself, and leading a life devoted to God. You will become as ugly and repulsive as that old woman in time."

The bare idea was agonizing to Francis. The old woman turned up continually, and seemed to pursue him like a phantom. The temptation may seem to stronger souls an ignoble one, but it was an intense and severe one to Francis. He conquered by yielding himself up to the will of God. He accepted everything—deformity, ugliness, pain—if it were God's plan for him. Then and only then had he rest.

As soon as he had given up his warlike ambitions and returned to Assisi, he had been in the habit of going off by himself into a cave or grotto, and there being alone with his thoughts. Many a conflict did that cave see, as Francis with tears and cries entreated the Lord to show him how best to employ his life. It was during one of these seasons that his spiritual eyes were opened. Hitherto he had followed blindly an almost unknown God, but he had followed and sought, and the end of his faith was sight.

It came upon him all at once. Christ—His love for the sinner, His love for him—Christ, bleeding, dying, suffering, for very love—Christ the pure, long-suffering, merciful, patient—Christ the Son of God made Man for us. A wave of great joy swept over Francis, and he wept for very gladness of heart. Here was his Master, his Lord. He had found Him, and henceforth following was easy.

The Lepers.

Not one of the many translations of the life of Francis, omits to mention his self-imposed mission to the lepers. Assisi, like most foreign towns of the age, was infested with lepers. They were not allowed to live in the towns, but had houses (lazaretti) built for them quite outside. Francis had a deep-rooted repugnance to a leper, and, in passing a lazaretto, always carefully covered up his nose lest any bad odour might reach him, and he always rode far away in the opposite direction, if he chanced to see one in the plains. Nothing shows the change in Francis more than his alteration towards the lepers. One day, when out riding, he saw a leper approaching. His first instinct was his natural one to get away at once. His second, that God required something more of him. Who was he, to loathe and avoid a fellow-creature. Riding up to the leper, he dismounted, gave him some money, and then without a shudder, kissed the dreadful hand held out to him. He had done the impossible, and from this time he constantly visited the lazaretti, putting himself in personal contact with the lepers, giving them money, and doing all he could to lessen their sufferings.

Of this period of his experience he writes long years after:—

"When I was in sin it was very bitter to me to behold lepers, but the Lord Himself having led me amongst them, I exercised mercy towards them, and when I left them I felt that what had seemed so bitter to me was changed into sweetness for my soul and body."

CHAPTER III.

A Lonely Struggle.

"Thou must walk on, however man upbraid thee,
With Him who trod the winepress all alone:
Thou may'st not find one human hand to aid thee,
One human soul to comprehend thy own."

A rough, stony uphill path, or rather track, under grey-green olive trees, leading to a perfect tangle of cypresses and pines. Somewhere in the tangle of cypresses almost hidden from sight, lay a dilapidated ancient church, which, long ago had been dedicated to the martyr Damian. Up this stony track one day, stumbled Francis.

His was now a solitary life. He was a complete puzzle to parents and friends, and, indeed to a great extent he was a puzzle to himself. His life in his father's house was far from pleasant. Pietro's vanity had received a serious blow from what he regarded as his son's "ignominious" return to Assisi. He had been more than willing to give him ample means for every pleasure, so that he might mingle on an equal footing with the young nobles of the land, but to see his money given lavishly to the beggars in the street, and the lepers in the lazar-houses was more than he could stand. A serious, ever widening breach had formed between father and son. Pica, poor woman, knew that, sooner or later, a rupture would come, and much as she loved her strange son, she could do nothing to prevent it. There was literally no one who could comprehend Francis, much less render him any spiritual aid. One faithful companion there had been, who used to follow him round into the woods when he went to pray, and stand at the doors of caves and grottos until his season of meditation was over, but after a time, this friend had been obliged to leave him. Francis tried timidly to tell people a little of what God was dimly revealing to him, but his—to them—vague ideas only resulted in mocking smiles, and assurances that he was rapidly becoming stark, staring mad! So had things come about, that in spite of himself, Francis was thrown entirely and solely upon his new found Lord.

A Prayer and its Answer.

The cross lay heavy upon him that day, as he stumbled up the tiny olive-shaded path, and lit upon the almost ruined church. This was a direction Francis seldom walked in, but to-day he had been so occupied with his thoughts, that he scarcely knew where he was going. Seeing the church, he passed in and knelt to pray.

"Great and glorious God," was his prayer; "and Thou, Lord Jesus, I pray Thee, shed abroad Thy light in the darkness of my mind. Be found of me, Lord, so that in all things I may act only in accordance with Thy holy will."

As he prayed, little by little a sense of peace, and a new feeling of acceptance took possession of him. He had known before that God had pardoned him for the past, and was keeping him in the midst of trials and hourly temptations, but this was something quite different. Jesus accepted him, individually, his body as well as his soul, his time, talents, all his being, and desired his labour and assistance. The poor, lonely, crushed heart, was filled to overflowing. He was conscious of a distinct union with Christ. From this time forth, he was to know what it meant to be crucified with Christ—to die daily.

As he knelt there among the ruins and decay, it seemed to him that a voice spoke to his soul thus—

"Francis, dost thou see how my house is falling into ruins? Go and set thyself to repair it."

"Most willingly, Lord," he answered, hardly knowing what he said.

For the Benefit of St. Damian's.

Now, respecting the incidents we are about to relate, there are many and various theories. Some say the revelation made to Francis, referred to the spiritual work to which he had not as yet received his call, others there are, who blame him and call him rash and hot-headed, and accuse him of running before he was sent. We are not prepared to give judgment one way or the other. God has not promised us that we shall never make mistakes, and if Francis made a mistake, God certainly over-ruled it, and made it work to His glory, as He has promised "all things" to work for those who love Him. Again, God has His own ways of working, mysterious and curious though they often seem to us, and what looks like "the foolishness of men," often redounds to His greatest praise. But to return to what really happened.

Francis rose from his knees, and sought the priest who had charge of St. Damian's. He pressed all the money he had about him into his hands, begged him to buy oil and keep the lamp always burning, then rushed off home. Saddling his horse, he loaded it with the most costly stuffs he could find, and rode off into a neighbouring town, where they found a ready market, and realized a goodly sum. When his stuff was all sold, he disposed of his horse too, and returning on foot to St. Damian's, he placed a well-filled purse in the priest's hands, told him with much satisfaction what he had done, and begged him to have the church restored at once. To his utter consternation, the priest refused, saying he dare not take so large a sum unless Pietro Bernardone approved.

Poor Francis was in despair. He flung the money on a window seat in disgust, and begged the priest at least to give him a shelter for a few days. That much bewildered man, hardly knowing what to say or do, consented, and Francis took up his abode with him.

But not for long. Pietro, when he found his son did not return home as usual, made enquiries and found where he was located. He was very anxious and uneasy, as he was sure now that his son was afflicted by a religious mania, he would have to renounce all the high hopes he had formed for him. However, he resolved to make a determined effort to recover him, and set out with a large party of friends to storm St. Damian's. They hoped that Francis would listen to reason, and consent to follow them back quietly to Assisi.

A Lonely Struggle.

But Francis never waited to receive them. An uncontrollable fear took possession of him, and he fled and hid himself in a cavern he alone knew of. His father's party ransacked the priest's abode, and all the country round, but they had to return home baffled.

For a month, Francis remained shut up in the cavern. An old servant who loved him dearly, was let into the secret, and used to bring him food. During this month he suffered intensely. It was the first time in his life he had ever suffered contradiction—the first time in his life he had ever had anyone really, openly opposed to him. To be sure, people did not understand him, but they had never shown him any animosity. A sense of utter failure oppressed him. It was a hard trial to one of his temperament, and if his consecration had not been very real, he would never have stood the test.

He wept and prayed, and confessed his utter nothingness, his weakness, his inability to accomplish anything of himself. Never in his life had he felt weak and incapable before. Then humbly he entreated that God would enable him to accomplish His will, and not permit his incapacity to frustrate God's designs for him. A consciousness of Divine strength was manifested to him as never before. It was as if a voice said, "I will be with thee, fear not." Strengthened with a strength he never knew heretofore, he came out of the cavern and made straight for his father's house.

That day as Pietro Bernardone sat at work indoors, the voice of a mighty tumult was borne in to him. Such a clamour, and yelling, and shouting he never had heard in Assisi in all his time! Rushing upstairs he looked out of the window. It seemed as though the entire populace had turned loose, and were buffeting someone in their midst.

"A madman, a madman," yelled the crowd, and sticks and stones and mud flew from all sides.

"A madman, a madman," echoed the children.

Determined not to lose the fun, Pietro hastened out into the street, joined the crowd, and discovered that his son Francis was the madman in question! With a howl of rage, he rushed upon him, dragged him into the house with oaths and blows, and locked him up in a sort of dungeon.

During the succeeding days, he and his wife did all they could to persuade Francis to return to his old mode of life. Pietro entreated and threatened, Pica wept and caressed, but all in vain.

A Command from God.

"I have received a command from God," was their answer, and "I mean to carry it out."

At last, after some time, Pietro being absent for several days on business, Pica unlocked the dungeon and let her son go free.

When Pietro returned, he cursed his wife and set off to St. Damian's to fetch Francis back. But Francis declined to go. He said that he feared neither blows nor chains, but God had given him a work to do, and nothing, nor nobody would prevent him carrying out that mission. Pietro was struck by his son's coolness, and seeing that force would be no use, he went to the magistrates and lodged a complaint against his son, desiring the magistrates to recover the money that his son had given to the church, and to oblige him to renounce in legal form all rights of inheritance. The magistrates seem to have been much shocked at Pietro's harshness, but they summoned Francis, who would not appear. When asked to use violence, they said—

"No, since your son has entered God's service, we have nothing to do with his actions," and utterly refused to have anything further to do with the case.

CHAPTER IV.

Victory Without and Within.

"For poverty and self-renunciation
The Father yieldeth back a thousand-fold;
In the calm stillness of regeneration,
Cometh a joy we never knew of old."

Pietro was not avaricious. He cared nothing for the money as money. His plan now was to cut off all supplies, and when his son, who had always been accustomed to the daintiest and softest of living, and was in no way inured to hardship, found that he was now literally a beggar, he would, after a little privation, come to his senses, and sue his father for pardon. This was his idea when he sought the bishop and made his complaint to him. The bishop called Francis to appear before him.

On the appointed day he appeared with his father. The venerable bishop, who was a man of great good sense and wisdom, heard all there was to hear, and then turning to the young man, he said—

"My son, thy father is greatly incensed against thee. If thou desirest to consecrate thyself to God, restore to him all that is his."

He went on to say that the money was not really Francis', and therefore he had no right to give away what was not his, besides God would never accept money that was an occasion of sin between father and son. Then Francis rose and said—

"My lord, I will give back everything to my father, even the clothes I have had from him!"

Returning into a neighbouring room, he stripped off all his rich garments, and clad only in a hair under-garment, laid them and the purse of money at his father's feet.

One Father.

"Now," he cried, "I have but one father, henceforth I can say in all truth "Our Father who art in Heaven!"

There was a moment of dead silence. Everybody present was too astonished to speak, then Pietro gathered up the garments and money, and withdrew. A murmur of pity swept through the crowd as they looked at the young man standing half-naked before the tribunal. But no sentiments of pity stirred Pietro. Easy and good-natured when things went according to his liking, he was equally hard and unbending if his will was crossed. It was to him a rude awakening out of a glorious, golden dream, and from his standpoint life looked hard.

When Pietro departed the old bishop threw his own mantle round the young man's shoulders, and sent out for some suitable garment. Nothing, however, was forthcoming except a peasant's cloak belonging to one of the gardeners. This Francis gladly put on and passed out of the bishop's hall—a homeless wanderer on the face of the earth.

He was not inclined to return to St. Damian's at once. He desired solitude, so he plunged into the woods. As he travelled he sang with all his might praises to God in the French tongue. His singing attracted the notice of some robbers who were hidden in the fastness of the woods. They sprang out and seized him, demanding—

"Who are you?"

Francis always courteous replied,

"I am the herald of the Great King. But what does that concern you?"

The robbers laughed at him for a madman, and after they had made game of him for a time, they tore his garment from his back, and tossing him into a deep ditch where a quantity of snow still lay, they made off crying,

"Lie there, you poor herald of the Good God!"

When they had disappeared Francis scrambled out stiff with cold and clad only in his one garment, and went on his way singing as before.

Kitchen Assistant.

Happily his wanderings speedily brought him to a monastery among the mountains. He knocked at the door and begged for help. The monks regarded this strange half-naked applicant with much suspicion, and one can hardly blame them. Nevertheless they received him, and gave him employment in their kitchen as assistant to the cook, to do the rough and heavy work. His food was of the commonest and coarsest, and it never seemed to occur to any of them that he would be the better for a few more clothes. When his solitary garment appeared in imminent danger of dropping to pieces he left the monastery and went on a little further to a neighbouring town where a friend of his lived. He made his way to this friend and asked him out of charity to provide him with a worn garment to cover his nakedness. The case was manifestly an urgent one, and the friend bestowed upon him a suit of clothes consisting of a tunic, leather belt, shoes, and a stick. It was very much the kind of costume then worn by the hermits.

From here he started back again to St. Damian's. He stopped on his way to visit a lazar-house, and help in the care of the lepers. He had quite gotten over all his early antipathies, and it was a joy to him now to minister to those poor diseased ones. Probably he would have spent a much longer season here if it were not that again he seemed to hear the same voice calling him to repair the ruined church. So he left the lazar-house and proceeded on his way. He told his friend the priest that he was in no way disappointed or cast down, and that he had good reason to believe that he would be able to accomplish his purpose.

There was only one way in which he could attain this end. Money he had none, neither did he know of anyone who loved God and His cause well enough to expend a little of their riches in rebuilding His house. Next day saw him at work. Up and down the streets of his native town he went begging for stones to rebuild St. Damian.

"He who gives me one stone shall receive one blessing, he who gives me two will have two blessings, and he who gives me three, three blessings."

"He is quite Mad."

The people were unable to do anything at first from pure astonishment. Francis Bernardone, the gay cavalier, the leader of feasts and song, sueing in the streets like a common beggar! They could hardly believe their eyes! "Truly the fellow was mad," they said to each other! But he did not look mad. His smile was as sweet as ever, and the native, polished, courtly manners that had won for him so many friends, now that they were sanctified, were doubly winning. It was impossible to resist him, and stones were brought him in quantities. Load after load, interminable loads he bore on his back like a labourer to St. Damian. Up the steep little path he toiled between the grey green olives, on and into the tangle of cypress and pine, and there stone by stone with his own hands he repaired the crumbling walls. It was a long wearisome toilsome work, and told considerably on his health.

"He is quite mad," reiterated some as the days passed from spring to summer, and from summer to autumn and from autumn into winter again. But there were others who watched him with tears in their eyes. They knew he was not mad. They realized that a great power had changed the once refined man into a servant of all—even the constraining power of the love of Christ, and they shed tears when they thought how far they came short.

The priest of St. Damian's was deeply touched at Francis' self-sacrificing work, and often grieved when he saw him doing what he was physically so unfitted for. He conceived a violent admiration for his young lodger, and in spite of his poverty he always contrived to have some dainty dish, or tit-bit for him when he returned to meals. Now Francis always had been particular as to his food, he liked it well served, and he was also very fond of all kinds of sweets and confectionery. For a time he thanked his friend and ate gratefully the pleasant dishes he had provided. One day as he sat at dinner the thought came to him "what should I do if I had nobody to provide my meals." Then he saw for the first time that he was still under bondage to his appetite. He enjoyed nice food, it seemed necessary to him—but was it like that Life he so earnestly strove to copy. Francis sat condemned. The next moment he jumped up and seizing a wooden bowl he went round the streets from door to door begging for scraps of broken meat and bread. The people stared harder than ever, but in a little time his bowl was quite full, and he returned home and sat down to eat his rations.

A Beggar.

He tried hard, but he turned against them with loathing. In all his life he thought he had never seen such a horrid collection! Then, lifting his heart to God, he made another trial and tasted the food. Lo and behold it was not bad, and as he continued his coarse meal he thought that no dish had ever tasted better! Praising God for victory he went to the priest and told him that he would be no further expense to him, from henceforth he would beg his meals.

When Pietro heard that his son had added to his eccentricities by begging for his food his anger knew no bounds! When he met him in the streets he blushed with shame, and often cursed him. But if his family were ashamed of him, there were many among the townsfolk with whom he found sympathy. Help came in on all sides, and at last the walls were repaired, and the church was no longer in danger of tumbling into a mass of ruins. What was needed for the inside was got in the same way as the stones, and pretty soon a congregation was forthcoming.

One of the hardest sacrifices God required from Francis connected with this work was one evening when he was out begging from house to house for oil to light the church. He came to a house where an entertainment was going on, a feast very similar to those he had so often presided over in his worldly days. He looked down on his poor common dress, and thought with shame what a figure he would cut among the gay, well-dressed crowd within. For a moment he felt tempted to skip this house. But it was only for a moment; reproaching himself bitterly, he pushed in and standing before the festive gathering, told them simply how much he had objected to coming in, and for what reason, adding that he feared his timidity was counted to him as sin, because he was working in God's name, and in His service. His request was taken in good part, and his words so touched all present that they were eager to give him the aid he sought.

St. Damian's Finished.

After St. Damian's was quite restored, Francis set to work and did the same for two other equally needy churches in the vicinity. One was St. Peter's, and the other St. Mary's or the Portiuncula. The second one became eventually the cradle of the Franciscan movement. Here he built for himself a cell, where he used to come to pour out his soul in prayer. When his work of repairing came to an end, he gave himself up to meditation, his whole idea being that he would henceforth lead the life of a recluse. But God disposed!

CHAPTER V.

Francis' Call.

"Oh, my Lord, the Crucified,
Who for love of me hast died,
Mould me by Thy living breath,
To the likeness of Thy death,
While the thorns Thy brows entwine,
Let no flower wreath rest on mine."

But Francis kept a listening ear. God's word was his law, and though he to a certain extent planned what he would do next, yet he left himself entirely free in his Lord's hands, and at His disposal. Had he not remained in this attitude of soul, or had he become wise in his own conceits, or failed to keep his heart and soul fresh with the first vital freshness of regeneration, what would have become of the great Franciscan movement that was destined ultimately to stir the world? God alone knows. He keeps count of lost opportunities, calls neglected, soul stirrings lulled to barren fruitless slumber!

The natural tendency of a soul which has been awakened to great action, and accomplished daring feats, is—the first strain passed—to relax, or settle down. It is only the minority that struggle and fight and get the victory over this subtle temptation. The same principle applies in a larger scale, and that is why it is so many glorious religious movements have run a course and then dwindled into mediocrity, the later disciples carving for themselves a medium way.

Francis' life-work might easily have dwindled into nothing just here. He had not the least intimation that the Lord demanded anything more of him but that he should love and serve Him all the days of his life, in an ordinary unobtrusive manner. Two years had been spent in repairing the churches, and Francis was now between twenty-seven and twenty-eight years of age.

His Commission.

It was on the twenty-fourth of February in the year 1209 that he received his call to direct spiritual work. That morning he went to church as usual, and the words of the Gospel for the day came to him direct from Jesus Christ Himself.

"Wherever ye go preach, saying, 'The Kingdom of Heaven is at hand. Heal the sick, cleanse the lepers, cast out devils. Freely ye have received, freely give. Provide neither silver nor gold nor brass in your purses, neither scrip, nor two coats, nor shoes, nor staff, for the laborer is worthy of his hire.'"

These words were a revelation.

"This is what I want," cried Francis, as he left the church, conscious for the first time that he had wanted something. "This is what I have long been seeking, from this day forth I shall set myself with all my strength to put it in practice."

Immediately he took up his new commission. He threw away his shoes, his stick, his purse, and put on the coarse dress of the peasant of the Apennines, and girded it with a rough piece of rope, the first thing he could find. Thus equipped, he set out a true Knight of our Lord Jesus Christ, and for the first time in his life began to talk to the people he met about their souls. That eloquent fiery tongue, that was destined to make him one of the orators of the age, had not yet become unloosed, and Francis was simplicity itself. Indeed, he did not at first attempt to make anything like a speech or sermon. His efforts were directed towards people whom he was acquainted with, and these he urged to repent in the name of the Lord. He told his own experience, and spoke of the shortness of life, of punishment after death, of the need of heart and life holiness. His halting words struck home, they pierced like a sword, and many thus convicted, repented and turned from their evil ways.

A Sanctified Leader of Men.

For over two years now, Francis had lived a solitary, and—humanly speaking—a lonely life. He had, however, during that time proved the sufficiency of God. We do not read that he ever longed for a human friend, one that could understand and sympathise with him, so richly had God supplied his every need. But the time had come when his solitude was to end. God was about to raise him up friends. Again he was to take up his old position as a leader of men, only a sanctified one.

Bernardo di Quintavelle was a man of birth and position. He was a few years older than Francis, and as he lived in Assisi, he had full opportunity of watching all Francis' vagaries, for so his actions looked to him at first. However, as time passed, and Francis' supposed mania failed to develop into anything very dangerous, Bernardo puzzled and wondered. What was it, he asked himself, that had so completely changed the gay, frivolous, ease-loving Francis Bernardone, into a poor hard-working beggar? Was he really as good and holy as the common people began to whisper to themselves? We must bear in mind that vital religion in Assisi was at its lowest ebb, and the kind that worked itself out in daily life and action almost unknown.

Pretty soon Bernardo determined to study Francis close to. Again and again he invited him to his house, and the more he saw of the gracious, humble, God-fearing, Francis, the more he liked him. One night he asked him to stay till the next day, and Francis consenting, he had a bed made up for him in his own room. They retired. In a short time Bernardo was, to all appearances, extremely sound asleep. Then Francis rose from his bed, and kneeling down began to pray. A deep sense of the Divine presence overflowed him, and he could do nothing but weep and cry, "Oh, my God, oh, my God!" He continued all night praying, and weeping before the Lord.

Bernardo.

Now Bernardo, who was only pretending to be asleep in order to see what Francis would do, was greatly touched. God visited him too that night, and spoke to his soul so loudly and clearly that he dare not do ought but follow the light that that night began to glimmer on his future path. Little he thought into what a large place it would ultimately lead him.

Next morning, true to his new-born inspiration, he said to Francis—

"I am disposed in my heart to leave the world and obey thee in all that thou shalt command me."

To say that Francis was surprised is to say too little! He was astonished—so astonished that it was difficult to find words in which to answer. That the people he influenced would rise up and desire to share his life, with its privations, and eccentricities had never as yet occurred to him. His sole and only aim had been that his every individual act and thought should be in conformity to that of our Lord Jesus Christ. But "I, if I be lifted up, will draw all men unto Me," and Francis, by his humble life and work, had brought that Blessed Life wherever he went. This is the Divine design for every faithful soul that seeks to truly follow its Master. The man who could live and spread holiness as an ordinary day-laborer and stone-mason was now to receive a greater charge. As soon as he recovered from the first surprise of Bernardo's statement, he said—

"Bernardo, a resolution such as the one thou speakest of is so difficult, and so great an action, that we must take counsel of the Lord Jesus, and pray Him that He may point out His will, and teach us to follow it."

So they set off together for the church. While on their way there that morning they were joined by another brother called Pietro, who said that he too had been told of God to join Francis. So the three went together to read the Gospels and pray for light.

Francis was soon convinced that Bernardo and Pietro were led of God, and joyfully welcomed them as his fellow-laborers. They took up their abode in a deserted mud hut, close by a river known as the Riva Torto. And that mean little hut was the cradle which contained the beginning of a work that spread itself into every quarter of the globe.

Egidio.

"Francis," said Bernardo, a little later, "What wouldst thou do supposing a great king had given thee possessions for which thou afterwards hadst no use?"

"Why, give them back to be sure," answered Francis.

"Then," said Bernardo, "I will that I sell all my possessions, and give the money to the poor."

So he did. Land, houses, all that he possessed he sold, and distributed the proceeds to the poor in the market-place. One can easily imagine the sensation this caused in Assisi, and how almost the entire population thronged to the spot!

The news of this day's doings spread into all the country-side. In a town not far from Assisi, a certain young man, called Egidio, listened intently while his father and mother discussed Bernardo and Francis and went into their history past and present, and speculated on their future. Little they thought as they talked that their cultured, refined son was drinking in every word, and that his soul was being strangely stirred. Before the week was out, Egidio had received the Divine touch that fitted him to respond to the call—"Follow Me." In the marvellously colored dawn of an Italian morning, Egidio rose and "followed."

Arriving in Assisi at a crossway he was at a standstill. Where should he look for Francis? Which of those roads should he take? While he thus alternately debated with himself, and prayed for guidance, who should he see coming along out of the forest where he had been to pray, but Francis himself! There was no mistaking that curious bare-footed figure, with its coarse robe of the color known to the peasants as "beast" color, girded with a knotted rope! Egidio threw himself at Francis' feet, and besought him to receive him for the love of God.

"Dear brother," said Francis, who during the past week had learned not to be surprised when he received candidates for his work. "Dear brother, God hath conferred a great grace upon thee! If the Emperor were to come to Assisi and propose to make one of its citizens his knight or secret chamberlain, would not such an offer be joyfully accepted as a great mark of honor and distinction? How much more shouldst thou rejoice that God hath called thee to be His Knight and chosen servant, to observe the perfection of His Holy Gospel! Therefore do thou stand firm in the vocation to which God hath called thee."

First Apostolic Tour.

So bringing him into the hut Francis called the others and said—

"God has sent us a good brother, let us therefore rejoice in the Lord and eat together in charity."

After they had eaten breakfast Francis took Egidio into Assisi to get cloth to make him a "beast-colored" uniform robe like the others. On the way Francis thought he would like to try the young man and see what kind of a spirit he had. So upon meeting a poor woman, who asked them for money, Francis said to Egidio—

"I pray you, as we have no money, give this poor woman your cloak."

Immediately and joyfully Egidio pulled off his rich mantle and handed it to the beggar, whereat Francis rejoiced much in secret.

It was a united household that assembled under the rude roof of the mud hut by the Riva Torto. Four young men bound together in love, and resolved to serve God absolutely in whatever way He should show them, we shall see, ere long, how God used these human instruments which were so unreservedly placed at His disposal. They were very happy for a few days, and gave themselves up almost entirely to prayer; then Francis led them into the seclusion of the woods and explained to them how the Divine will had manifested itself to his soul.

"We must," he said, "clearly understand our vocation. It is not for our personal salvation only, but for the salvation of a great many others that God has mercifully called us. He wishes us to go through the world, and by example even more than by words, exhort men to repentance, and the keeping of the commandments." Bernardo, Pietro and Egidio declared that they were willing for anything, and so the four separated, two by two, for a preaching tour. Of Bernardo and Pietro history is silent, but nothing could have been more simple than the Apostolic wanderings of Francis and Egidio in the Marches of Ancona. Along the roads they went wherever the Spirit of God led them singing songs of God and Heaven. Their songs together with their happy countenances and strange costume, naturally attracted the people, and when a number would collect to stare at them, Francis would address them, and Egidio, with charming simplicity accentuated all he said with—

A Sermonette.

"You must believe what my brother Francis tells you, the advice he gives you is very good." But don't for a moment imagine that Francis was capable of giving an address. Far from it; he was, truth to say, very little in advance of Egidio, the burden of his cry being—

"Love God, fear Him, repent and you shall be forgiven;" then when Egidio had chorused,

"Do as my brother Francis tells you, the advice he gives you is very good," the two missionaries passed singing on their way!

But the impression produced was far beyond their simple words. The religious history of the times tells us that the love of God was almost dead in men's hearts, that the world had forgotten the meaning of the word repentance, and was entirely given up to lust and vice and pleasure. People asked each other what could be the object these men had in view. Why did they go about roughly-clad, bare-foot, and eating so little. "They are madmen" some said. Others "Madmen could not talk so wisely." Others again, more thoughtful, said, "They seem to care so little for life, they are desperate, and must be either mad, or else they are aspiring to very great perfection!"

When the four had been through almost all the Province they returned to Riva Torto, where they found three new candidates clamoring for admission. Others followed, and when the numbers had increased to about eight, Francis led them to a spot where four roads met, and sent them out two and two to the four points of the compass to preach the Gospel. Everywhere they went they were to urge men to repentance, and point them to a Saviour who could forgive sins. They were to accept no food they had not either worked for, or received as alms for the love of Christ.

CHAPTER VI.

Francis' Early Disciples.

'Then forth they went....
Content for evermore to follow him. In weariness,
In painfulness, in perils by the way,
Through awful vigils in the wilderness,
Through storms of trouble, hatred and reproach.'

Bernardo di Quintavelle is perhaps the most important of these first followers, inasmuch as he ultimately took his place as Leader of the Order of Friars minor, which was the name the Franciscans first gave themselves. We have already told how Bernardo came to join Francis, and take upon himself the same vows. From that day his faith and trust in God and His call to him never wavered. That was the secret of his tremendous strength of soul. The strength of a man who is sure of his call and its divinity is as the strength of ten.

It was Bernardo whom Francis deputed in the early days of the work to go to Bologna, and labor there. Bologna was the centre of the universe, as far as learning and culture went, to the Italians of that day. As soon as Bernardo and his followers showed themselves in the town, the children, seeing them dressed so plainly and poorly, laughed and scoffed, and threw dirt and stones at them. They accepted these trials manfully, and made their way to the market-place. The children, who followed them here continued to pelt them with stones and dust, and pulled them round by the hoods of their garments. Day after day, and day after day, Bernardo and his little handful returned, though they could never get anybody to give them a civil hearing. Poor fellows, during those first few days, they all but starved.

A Great Saint!

There was a doctor of the law, who used to pass round by the market-place every day, and seeing Bernardo patiently put up with such insult and contempt, wondered much to himself. At last he arrived at a conclusion.

"This man must be a great saint."

Going up to him, he said—

"Who art thou, and whence dost thou come?"

Bernardo put his hand into his bosom, and gave him what was then the rules of the Order. This was in other words the Divine commission that Francis had received through the Gospel for that February day, "Go ye forth and preach the gospel, &c."

The doctor read it all through and then, turning to some of his friends who were standing by, said—

"Truly, here is the most perfect state of religion I have ever heard of; this man and his companions are the holiest men I have ever met with in this world! Guilty indeed are those who insult him! We ought, on the contrary, to honor him as a true friend of God!"

Then addressing Bernardo, he said—

"If it is thy wish to found a convent in this town, in which thou mayst serve God, I will most willingly help thee."

Bernardo thanked him, and said—

"I believe it is our Saviour Jesus Christ who hast I inspired thee with this good intention, I most willingly accept the offer, to the honor of Christ."

Then the doctor took them home with him and entertained them, and presented them with a convenient building, which he furnished at his own expense.

In a short time, Bernardo was much sought after, on account of the holiness, together with the brilliancy of his sermons. The whole town was at his feet, people came from far and near to hear him, and thousands were converted.

When things were at a height, Bernardo turned up unexpectedly one day in Assisi, and presented himself before the astonished gaze of Francis.

"The convent is founded at Bologna," he said, "send other brothers there to keep it up, I can no longer be of any use; indeed, I fear me that the too great honors I receive might make me lose more than I could gain."

Francis, who had heard a great deal of the honor and praise that had been lavished upon Bernardo, thanked God that He had revealed to him the danger his soul was in, and sent someone else to Bologna.

Elias.

In striking contrast to Bernardo was Elias. Elias was quite as clever and brilliant a man as Bernardo, but he never seems to have become really sanctified. His pride was a constant stumbling-block, and was for ever appearing in some new shape or other. Sometimes it would be in an over-weening desire to rule, and then his rule would go far and beyond that of Francis', in fastings, and similar austerities. Again, we have a picture of him arraying himself in a garment of soft cloth, which could only be said to be "modelled" after that worn by his brethren. Finally, he lapsed altogether, declared that his health was too delicate to stand coarse food and plain living, and left the Order. For some time he was an open backslider, but it is currently supposed he was converted before he died. The story of his life is a sad one. Looking back over these lapse of years, one can easily see what he might have been, and how painfully he fell short. The grace of humility never adorned his character for long. He could not see that in God's sight he was less than least, for him it was impossible—

"To lay his intellectual treasure,
At the low footstool of the Crucified."

Egidio always remained faithful to his first trust. He also never wavered, never looked back. In the different glimpses we get of his life, we see very clearly the mode of living prescribed by Francis. His intention was never that his disciples were to live on charity, but that they should work for their bread, money being totally forbidden. Work brought them down to the level of the common people, and on the same plane they could more easily reach their hearts and consciences.

A Question.

Egidio, refined and educated though he undoubtedly was, seems to have been able to put his hand to anything. When on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, he was detained at Brindisi, he borrowed a water jug, and, filling it, went round the town selling water, and crying "Fresh water! Fresh water!" like any of the ordinary water-carriers. On his way back he procured willows, and made baskets, which he sold to supply himself with food. He was always very particular not to take more than he considered was fair for his work.

Obedience was another of Egidio's strong points. He believed in his call, he believed in Francis, he never questioned an order, even when it was manifestly not altogether a wise instruction he received, he still considered that "obedience was better than sacrifice."

Masseo appears to have had very little idea what kind of a life he was entering upon, when he first joined the band. He was not a spiritual man by nature, but by degrees he learned to look at the inside of things instead of the outside, and to know a little of the mind of God. Masseo was big and handsome, with a decided gift of speech. We are told that because of his physical attractions the people always gave to him the nicest and daintiest portions of food. It was a matter of no little wonderment to him when he discovered that for all a certain kind of people were attracted by his appearance, yet he had little or no power to convict them of sin, and make them long to be good. Francis by this time had lost all his good looks and become pale and worn and thin with work. Masseo compared himself with Francis greatly to his superior's disadvantage. At last one day he said to him—

"Why is it? Why is it?"

"What do you mean?" asked Francis.

"I mean to ask thee," said Masseo, "why all the world goes after thee? Why all men wish to see thee, to hear thee, and to obey thy word? Thou art not handsome, nor learned, nor of noble birth. How is it then that men go after thee?"

The answer which Masseo received, made him see what kind of a character he had come in contact with, and from that day there was no more faithful and adoring disciple than handsome Masseo.

"Would you know the reason why all men come after me?" asked Francis. "It is because the Lord has not found among men, a more wicked, a more imperfect, or a greater sinner that I am, and to accomplish the wonderful work He intends doing, He has not found a creature more vile than I upon earth; for this reason He has chosen me to confound beauty, greatness, birth, and all the science of the world, that man may learn that every good gift comes from Him, and not from the creature, that all may glory in the Lord!"

Sylvester's Avarice.

Sylvester was the first priest who joined Francis. Though a priest, he was possessed of very little true religion, and was inclined to be somewhat avaricious. When Francis was rebuilding St. Damian, Sylvester had sold him some stones, for which he had been well paid. Now, he happened to be among the crowd in the market-place when Bernardo was distributing his fortune, and it occurred to him that he would get some of it for himself. So going up to Francis, he said,

"Brother, you did not pay me very well for the stones which you bought of me."

Francis, who had not a spark of avarice in his nature, handed him a handful of coins without stopping to count them, saying,

"Here, are you sufficiently paid now?"

"It is enough, my brother," said Sylvester, taking the money and moving off.

But from that hour he never knew a moment's peace. His action haunted him, he could neither sleep by night nor rest by day. The difference between Francis and Bernardo and himself came vividly before him, he repented of his sin, and as soon as ever his affairs would permit—about a year later—he joined Francis.

There are some historians who declare that Ginepro was mad. The majority, however, dispute this, and say that what looked like madness was simply zeal—zeal, perhaps untempered with discretion. Ginepro was devoted, self-sacrificing and faithful. He mourned over his mistakes, and was always ready to acknowledge himself in the wrong. It was with the greatest difficulty that he was taught that he mustn't give away anything, and everything he could lay hands on. When he saw anyone poor or ill-clothed, he would immediately take off his clothes and hand them over. He was at last strictly forbidden to do this. A few days later, he met a poor man who begged from him.

"I have nothing," said Ginepro, in great compassion, "which I could give thee but my tunic, and I am under orders not to give that away. But if thou wilt take it off my back I will not resist thee."

No sooner said than done, and Ginepro returned home tunicless. When questioned he said—

"A good man took it off my back and went away with it."

It was necessary to clear everything portable out of Ginepro's way, because whatever he could lay his hands on he gave to the poor.

Almost a Murder.

His great humility on one occasion nearly led him to the gallows. There was a cruel tyrant named Nicolas, a nobleman living near Viterbo, whom all the town hated. This man had been warned that someone would come in the guise of a poor beggar and take his life. Nicolas gave orders that the castle was to be strictly guarded. A few days later luckless Ginepro appeared in the vicinity of the castle. On the way thither some young men had seized him, torn his cloak, and covered him with dust, so that he was a sight to behold for rags and dirt! As soon as he came near the castle he was taken as a suspicious character and cruelly beaten. He was asked who he was.

"I am a great sinner," was the answer. He certainly looked like a ruffian!

When further asked his designs he explained,

"I am a great traitor, and unworthy of any mercy."

Then they asked if he meant to burn the castle and kill Nicolas.

"Worse things than these would I do, only for God," he replied. Such a hardened, boldfaced criminal never stood before a bar!

He was taken, tied to a horse's tail, and dragged through the town to the gallows. If it had not been for the intervention of a good man in the crowd, who knew the friars, he would have been hung.

Ginepro's Dinner.

"Brother Ginepro," said one of the friars one day, "we are all going out, and by the time we come back will you have got us a little refreshment?"

"Most willingly," said Ginepro, "leave it to me."

Out he went with a sack, and asked food from door to door for his brethren. Soon he was well laden and returned home.

"What a pity it is," said Ginepro to himself, as he put on two great pots, "that a brother should be lost in the kitchen! I shall cook enough dinner to serve us for two weeks to come, and then we'll give ourselves to prayer."

So saying, he piled in everything, salt meat, fresh meat, eggs in their shells, chickens with the feathers on, and vegetables. One of the friars who returned before the others, was amazed to see the two enormous pots on a roaring fire with Ginepro poking at them alternately, protected from the heat by a board he had fastened round his neck. At last dinner was ready, and, pouring it out before the hungry friars, he said complacently,

"Eat a good dinner now, and then we'll go to prayer, there'll be no more cooking for a long time to come, for I have cooked enough for a fortnight."

Alas! one historian informs us, "there was never a hog in the campagna of Rome so hungry that he could have eaten it."

But, in spite of all the curious tales we read about the blunderings of this simple soul, his name has been handed down through the ages as that of a saint; for the highway of holiness is such that a wayfaring man, though a fool, shall not err therein.

A True Franciscan.

Leo, whom they called "the little sheep of God," who became Francis' secretary, was one of the best loved of the disciples. In Leo, Francis' soul found rest and help and comfort. His nature was simple, affectionate and refined, and in every respect he was a true Franciscan.

There are others whose names we find among the early Franciscans, but the foregoing are those who stand out most prominently.

CHAPTER VII.

Francis—Called to be a Saint.

"God's interpreter art thou,
To the waiting ones below
'Twixt them and its light midway
Heralding the better day."

We have seen Francis as a young man, gay, careless, pleasure loving, kind-hearted, a leader at every feast and revel, known to his companions as a thorough good fellow. We have watched the first strivings of the Holy Spirit in his soul, and marked his earnest attempts to follow the light that then began to penetrate his hitherto dark soul. We have followed that glimmering light with him, step by step, seen him persecuted, mocked, stoned, beaten, watched his lonely wilderness wrestlings when there was no human eye to pity, no human arm to succour. We have seen, too, how, little by little, this thorny pathway led to a closer and more intimate acquaintance with God, for which acquaintance Francis counted his sufferings as nothing, and the world well lost.

"Saint" Francis.

Francis was not an extraordinary character in any sense of the word. He was what he was simply and solely by the grace of God, which is ever free for all men. He was not a man created for the hour. He was a vessel, cleansed and emptied, and thus fit for the Master's use, and God used him, as He always uses such vessels. The whole secret of his sainthood lay in his simple, loving, implicit obedience. Not the lifeless obedience that one renders to inexorable law, but the heart-felt, passionate desire to serve, and to anticipate the lightest want of the One Object of the affections! That baptism of personal love for God and union with Christ was poured out upon Francis in the black hour of what looked to him complete failure; when hunted and pursued, he sought refuge from his angry friends in the caves of the earth. The gift that he then received he never ceased to guard and cherish, and other blessings were added to it, for God has promised, "To him that hath it shall be given." And God gave liberally, good measure, pressed down, and running over. But the gifts which were Francis are ours too, by right of grace Divine—to be had for the faithful seeking, and kept by pure, faithful, and obedient living—"Called to be saints." The few? One here and there in every century? Oh, no. "Called to be saints," are the myriad souls who have received the Divine touch of regeneration. This is the calling and election of the redeemed; but oh, how few there are that make them sure!

Five years had now elapsed since that spring morning, when, weak and ill from fever, Francis dragged himself out of doors, to look again on the glorious landscape that he thought would bring him health and healing. The story of his disappointment we have already told. During those five years Francis made gigantic strides in heavenly wisdom and knowledge, and we feel that we cannot do better than to pause in our narrative and try to give you some idea of the spiritual personality of the man, whose name even now the people were beginning to couple with that of "saint."

In appearance Francis was a thorough Italian. He was rather below than over the ordinary height, his eyes and hair were dark, and his bearing free and gracious. He was chiefly remarkable for his happy, joyous expression. This he never lost: even when illness had robbed him of his good looks, the light in his eyes, and the smile on his lips were always the same.

Holy Boldness.

The most striking points of Francis' character are, perhaps, his humility, his sincerity, and his childlike simplicity. Humble Francis was not by nature. There was nothing in his training to make him so, and everything that would tend to the growth of pride and arrogance. But, with his conversion, humility became one of his strongest convictions. He truly considered himself less than the least, and he held it to be an offence against God if he ever let himself, or his little feelings and prejudices, stand in the way of accomplishing what he believed to be for the extension of the Kingdom. It seemed as though he had no feelings to be hurt. What most people would call justifiable sensitiveness, Francis would call sin. He went straight to the mark, and if he did not accomplish all he wanted to at first, he simply tried again, and generally succeeded sooner or later.

In places where the Friars were not known, Francis often found it a little difficult to get permission to preach in the churches. At a place called Imola, for instance, where he went to ask the bishop for the use of the church, the bishop replied, coldly and distantly:—

"My brother, I preach in my own parish; I am not in need of anyone to aid me in my task."

Francis bowed, and went out. An hour later, he presented himself again.

"What have you come for again?" asked the bishop, angrily. "What do you want?"

"My lord," answered Francis, in his simple way, "when a father turns his son out of one door, the son has but one thing to do—to return by another."

This holy boldness won the bishop's heart.

"You are right," he said. "You and your brothers may preach in my diocese. I give you a general permission to do so. Your humility deserves nothing less!"

Francis never considered himself at liberty to "shake the dust" of a city off his feet unless he had tried and tried again and again, to get a hearing there; indeed, nothing convinced him of the uselessness of his quest unless he were thrown out neck and crop, then it was more than likely he would gather himself up, and try another entrance! He entirely forgot himself in his love for his Master.

His love of truth was with him almost a passion. Between his thoughts, and his words, and his actions there was a perfect agreement, neither one contradicted the other; he saw to it that it was so, knowing that nothing hurt the Gospel of Christ like insincerity or double dealing. Distractions in prayer he looked upon as secret lies, and saying with the lips what the heart did not go with.

"How shameful," he used to say, "to allow oneself to fall into vain distractions when one is addressing the great King! We should not speak in that manner even to a respectable man!"

On one occasion he had carved a little olive-wood vase, probably meaning to sell it for food. But, while at prayer one day, some thought connected with this work came into his mind, distracting his soul for the moment. Instantly he was full of contrition, and, as soon as he left his prayer, hastened to put his vase into the fire, where never again it could come between his soul and God!