A Fox-skin.
During the last two years of his life he was often very weak and ailing. One cold winter, his companion, seeing that the clothes he was wearing were very thin and patched, was filled with compassion on his account. He secretly got a piece of fox-skin.
"My father," he said, showing him the skin, "you suffer very much from your liver and stomach; I beg of you let me sew this fur under your tunic. If, you will not have it all, let it at least cover your stomach."
"I will do what you wish," said Francis; "but you must sew as large a pieceoutsideas in."
His companion couldn't see any sense in this arrangement, and objected very strongly.
"The reason is quite plain," said Francis: "The outside piece will show everybody that I allow myself this comfort." They had to give in at last, and Francis had his way.
"Oh, admirable man," writes a friend after his death; "thou hast always been the same within and without, in words and in deeds, below and above!"
A Temptation.
On another occasion, he tore off his tunic, because, for a brief moment of weakness, he harbored the thought that he might have led an easier life, and still serve God. Like other men, he might have had a settled home, and lived a tranquil existence. It was a passing temptation, but Francis, tearing off his coarse garment, emblem of the Cross that he strove to follow, cried—
"It is a religious habit—a man given up to such thoughts would be a robber if he wore it." Nor did he put it on again till he felt he could do so with a pure heart and clean conscience.
With the crystal transparency of his inner and outer life went a simplicity that was akin to that of a little child. His sermons and addresses were of the very simplest and plainest. Though Francis was undoubtedly one of the orators of the age, his fiery words and burning language were such that even the most unlearned could easily follow. His theme was simply Christ, and Christ crucified for our sins, and an exhortation to repentance and holy living. Learned ones pondered his words and marvelled wherein lay his power, little dreaming that his very plainness of speech was his strength.
His delight in the beauties of nature never left him. Sunset and sunrise, mountain and plain, river and sea alike, filled him with joy, and all spoke to him of the glory of God. Flowers always gave him especial pleasure. He insisted that his disciples should always reserve some portion of their gardens for the growth of flowers as well as vegetables, "to give them a foretaste of the eternal sweetness of Heaven." When the brethren went to the fields to chop wood, Francis always warned them to take care of the roots, so that the trunk might sprout again and live. Totake life of any kind was intolerable to him. For this reason he always lifted the worms out of his path and laid them at the side of the road, lest an incautious traveller might crush them.
His love and power over animals are almost too well known to need mention. He always spoke of them as his brothers and sisters. He disdained nothing. All were to him alike beautiful, because the work of his God. For a long time, he had a tame sheep, that followed him about wherever it could get a chance. This sheep always seemed to know exactly how to behave under all circumstances. When the brethren knelt at prayers, it knelt too; when they sang, it joined in with a not-too-loud little bleat!
Near his room, at the Portiuncula, there lived a grasshopper in a fig-vine. This little insect would hop on his finger at his bidding, and when told to "sing and praise the Lord," used to chirp with all its might! Birds, insects, and even fishes and wild animals, we are told, all recognized in Francis a friend, and readily did his bidding.
Two Small Mites.
Francis' love for God was supreme, and his belief that God loved him never wavered. To make people love and know God was his one burning desire. It was not so much God's service he delighted in as God Himself. He never lost sight of the Master in the Work, and to a large extent this was the key to all his success. His work was the outcome of his love. After we have received, the first natural impulse is to give. Francis possessed "two small mites," an ancient historian writes—"they were his body and his soul. He gave them both, bravely and freely, according to his custom."
Whatever came—joy, sorrow, success, failure, pain, weariness, sickness, insult, or favor—Francis took as direct from the hand of God, and blessed Him for all. Why shouldn't he? His heart was right, he had the assurance that his ways pleased God, and his faith was not dependent upon knowledge. He was content, nay, glad to trust where he could not see, confident in the belief that "nothing could hurt a sanctified soul." His disciples could not always follow him so far. Some of them, when they sawtheir master suffering—as he did suffer severely in his last days—thought that God might have led His beloved Home by a less painful road. One of them once gave expression to his feelings thus:—
"Ah, my brother, pray to the Lord that He may treat you more gently. Truly, He ought to let His hand weigh less heavily upon you."
Hurt to the quick, as well as indignant, Francis cried:—
"What is that you are saying? If I did not know your simplicity I should henceforth hold you in horror! What! you have the audacity to blame God's dealings with me!" Then, throwing himself on his knees, he prayed:—
"Oh, my Lord God! I give Thee thanks for all these pains I endure. I pray Thee to send me a hundredfold more if such be Thy good pleasure! I willingly accept all afflictions. Thy holy name is my superabundant joy!"
Nothing could ever make Francis say that anything in his lot was "very hard." His love was too loyal, his trust too complete.
Rejoice Always.
Joy was one of his cardinal articles of faith. "Rejoice always!" was a divine command, and one not to be overlooked. As a young man, he had been of a bright, joyous nature, but easily plunged into depths of sadness and melancholy. God taught him upon what to base his joy, and, when he had torn down all earthly external devices, led him to derive his all from the true source. He held joy to be the normal state of those whom God loves—the fruit of Christian life, without which everything languishes and dies.
"The devil," Francis always said, "carries dust with him, and whenever he can, he throws it into the openings of the soul in order to cloud the clearness of its thoughts and the purity of its actions. If joy knows how to defend itself and subsist, then he has had his spite for nothing; but if the servant of Christ becomes sad, bitter or unhappy, he is sure to triumph. Sooner or later, that soul will be overwhelmed by its sadness, or will seek for false joys or consolations. The servant of God who is troubled for any reason" (Francis always allowed that causes for trouble inthis world are innumerable) "must immediately have recourse to prayer, and remain in the presence of his Heavenly Father till the joy of salvation has been restored to him, otherwise, his sadness will increase and engender a rust in the soul."
The Duty of Cheerfulness.
This duty of cheerfulness Francis impressed upon all with whom he had to do.
"My brother," he said to a friar, of doleful countenance, one day, "if thou hast some fault to mourn, do it in secret, groan and weep before God, but here, with thy brethren, be as they are in tone and countenance."
His conviction of this duty was so strong that, during one large gathering of the friars, he had this advice written in large letters and posted up.
"Let the brethren avoid ever appearing sombre, sad and clouded, like the hypocrites, but let them always be found joyful in the Lord, gay, amiable, gracious—as is fitting."
Amiability and graciousness he also considered amongst the virtues—courtesy, he called it. And courtesy he always said was akin to charity, her younger sister, who was to go with the elder one and help to open all hearts to her! An historian writes thus of Francis: "He was very courteous and gracious in all things, and possessed a peace and serenity that nothing could disturb. This sympathy and benevolence was expressed on his countenance; his face had in it something angelic."
His songs and hymns were the outcome of his perpetual joy in the Lord. In those days there were no popular religious hymns or songs. People praised God in Latin, with psalms and chants. Francis never found that these gave vent to his feelings, and so, with the help of one of the brothers—Pacificus, a trained musician—he began to write his own; and soon, wherever the friars passed, they left a train of simple melody in their wake. It was Francis, and his brethren, who first turned the Italian language into poetry, and gave it that impetus which has since rendered it the typical language for song.
"Thou whose bright faith makes feeble hearts grow stronger,And sends fresh warriors to the great campaign,Bids the lone convert feel estranged no longer,And wins the sundered to be one again."
"Thou whose bright faith makes feeble hearts grow stronger,And sends fresh warriors to the great campaign,Bids the lone convert feel estranged no longer,And wins the sundered to be one again."
Little did Francis think, as he piled up stone after stone upon the walls of St. Damian, that the day was not far distant when he should begin the building of a spiritual temple, built up of "lively stones," with Christ Himself as the "chief corner-stone." Yet it was even so. That day when, in obedience to the heavenly command, he stripped off his shoes and mantle, he laid the first stone. From that hour his spiritual building proceeded, and he who had fancied his work completed, found that it was but barely begun! Dead souls, in whom the Story of the Cross could no longer arouse even the most transient emotion, were awakened and convicted when they saw it lived out before them—a living epistle. We have seen how souls quickened by Divine power, and led only by God, came and joined themselves to Francis, choosing him as their leader, and accepting as their rule of life the revelation made to him, through the gospel, for that memorable February day. To those that followed Francis, God made no more definite manifestation of His will other than that they were to join themselves to him and lead his life. Manifestly, he was their God-appointed leader, and as simply and obediently as he had pulled off his mantle and shoes, he accepted the human trust bestowed upon him. And well he fulfilled that trust!
To the very last hour of his life, Francis was true to hisfirst principles. Never for one moment did he wander out of the narrow path in which God had set his feet at the beginning of his career as a leader and teacher of men. As literally as it was possible he modelled his life on that of our Lord Jesus Christ. One of the most noted Atheist writers of the present century says that in no age has there been so close a copy of the life of Christ as that portrayed by Francis and his followers.
Alms.
The most well-known of all the Franciscan characteristics is their poverty. Though at times they asked alms for Christ's sake from their neighbours, that was not the ideal Francis had before him as their regular mode of life. It was that all should work with their hands at whatever they could best do, and in return receive an equivalent for their labour in food or clothes. "All the brothers who have learnt a trade," Francis said, "will exercise it, those who have not must learn one, and keep to the exercise of it without changing. All will receive everything necessary for the support of life, except money, in remuneration of their work." "When the brothers are in want of the necessaries of life, they shall go and ask for alms like any other poor man," was another of his directions. This was a great trial to some who would have gladly learned the most menial of trades. But there were times when there was no demand for labor, and there was nothing for it but to beg or starve. This latter Francis would not allow, and, repugnant though the former might be, it had to be done. Not that he ever forced anyone. He began by doing this ignominious duty himself, saying as he did so—
"My beloved brethren, the Son of God was far more noble than the noblest of us, and yet He became poor upon earth. It is for love of Him that we have embraced poverty, therefore, we must not be ashamed to resort to the table of our Lord (thus he always spoke of alms). Rejoice then to give good examples to those brethren whose firstfruits ye are, that they in future may have nothing to do but follow you."
Holy Poverty.
But there were other reasons why Francis was sodevoted to poverty. In all his doings he is remarkable for clear common-sense. Money and possessions of any kind were in those days a fruitful source of dispute and quarrels of all kinds; therefore, as Francis reasoned, it were better that the Knights of Christ should possess nothing. Then again in the priesthood, though the individuals themselves possessed nothing, yet large sums of money and great possessions had been amassed by convent and monastery, until, at the period of which we are writing, the luxury and gluttony of priest and monk was a favourite joke, and the splendour of their buildings well-known. As to buildings, Francis would very much have preferred to have none. Since this was impossible, he had everything built at the least possible expense. Just rough beams put together, and the joinings filled with sand. Even then this uncouth mass had to be property of someone outside the community!
"Only on this condition," Francis said, "can we be considered as strangers here below in accordance with the apostolic recommendation." Certainly, no one could accuse them of luxury. The furniture of the houses was of the poorest. Beds, often of straw, cups and plates of wood or clay, a few rough tables, and a small number of books in common to the brothers, were all the rooms contained. Carefully and jealously did Francis guard against the first appearance of relaxation on the part of himself or his followers. He would have thought God's commands to him broken if any new-comer found in his community anything that he had given up upon leaving the world.
As to clothing, we have already seen what were Francis' views in this respect. The rough robe of "beast color," tied in with a knotted rope, is still to be seen to-day in many parts of the world. But Francis very well knew that a certain kind of vanity can easily lurk in even the coarsest of garments. He was, therefore, constantly on the watch, and was always severe if he saw the least deviation from the rule. "It is an infallible sign," he always said, "that fervour is cooling in the soul." He never allowed his disciples to have more than two tunics.
"It may be that one suffers a little," he said, "but what sort of virtue is that that cannot suffer anything! To try and avoid all mortifications under plea of necessity is a cowardly way of losing occasions of merit. It is what the Hebrews would have done had they gone back to Egypt."
Fatherly Care.
It was more by personal example than anything else that Francis led his followers in the Divine steps that he was so confident had been also marked out for him. And his people believed in him and loved him. They were convinced that through him spoke the Divine voice, and that his way was God's way. And he was worthy of their belief and their love and their esteem. He loved them with a devoted, generous love. By his entire forgetfulness of self and his constant devotion to their needs, he was theirs, always to "serve." Many stories are told of his gentle, delicate kindliness and fatherly care. Once, one of his flock had gone a little too far in depriving himself of natural food. That night, in the silence, came a voice from his room which groaned softly, "I am starving, I am starving of hunger!" Francis, who was awake, rose quietly, and, getting together some food, went to the starving brother and invited him to eat with him, so as not to hurt his feelings or let it appear that he had been overheard. After he had eaten, he explained to him the evil of not giving the body what was necessary for it.
Another brother, who was ill, had a great longing for grapes, but feared to indulge himself in case he should be breaking his vows. Francis found out, some way or other, how he felt, and, going to him, led him out into a vineyard, and, gathering some rich clusters, seated himself on the ground, and, beginning to eat, invited his companion to join him. If any were weak and ailing, it was always Francis who was first to take a vessel and go out and beg for more nourishing food for his ailing comrades. A mother could not have been more tender than he was.
In a very great measure Francis possessed the discernment of spirits. He seemed to know intuitively what people were thinking about. One day, during the last years of his life, when he had been obliged through bodily weakness to ride on an ass, he surprised the brother who was trudging alongside him, by getting off and saying—
Francis' Tact.
"Here, brother, get on, it is more fitting that you, who are of noble birth, should ride, rather than I, who am of humble origin."
The brother immediately fell on his knees and, asking forgiveness, confessed that he had been grumbling to himself that he, whose family would never have had anything to do with that of Pietro Bernardone's, had been obliged to follow the ass of Francis Bernardone!
Another brother was greatly troubled because he thought Francis did not love him. He told himself that Francis hardly ever noticed or spoke to him, and then he began to argue that probably God, too, paid no attention to him. He determined to see his leader about it. As soon as ever he appeared before Francis, and before he could get out a word, Francis said—
"It is a temptation, my brother, believe me, it is a temptation. I have the truest affection for you, and you deserve this affection. Come to me whenever you want, and we will talk things over."
One can easily imagine the joy of the once forlorn brother!
Not only could Francis move the crowds and hold them spell-bound with his fiery words, but he had also the power to reach and touch men's hearts in private. He was always accessible to that individual, be he saint or sinner, who was in need. In times of darkness and depression, he was the support of the brothers. He knew well the stages that a soul passes through after it has taken the final step of separateness from the world. In critical moments he was theirs to soothe and comfort with prayer and advice. It was not only the faltering saint that he lavished his tenderness upon; he was just as careful of the faulty and ungrateful, and nothing could exceed the love with which he strove to lure them back when he saw they were inclined to go ever so little astray. "A superior," he used to say, "is more of a tyrant than a father if he waits to interfere until a fault has been committed or a fall has occurred!"
No Alternative.
However, in spite of his tenderness, Francis could be iron strong when there was any question of right and wrong. Those who were not of his mind were obliged to get out from among the brothers. There was no alternative, no easier way made for anyone. "Little Brothers" or "Friars Minor" they called themselves, a name which then meant "servant of all" or "least of all," and woe betide anyone who departed from the spirit of this name!
"Would you know, oh world, these Warriors; Go where the poor, the old,Ask for pardon and for heaven, and you offer food and gold;With healing and with comfort, with words of peace and prayer,Bearing His greatest gift to men—Christ's chosen priests are there."
"Would you know, oh world, these Warriors; Go where the poor, the old,Ask for pardon and for heaven, and you offer food and gold;With healing and with comfort, with words of peace and prayer,Bearing His greatest gift to men—Christ's chosen priests are there."
It was not long before the little hut by the Riva Torto was full to overflowing. The number of brethren had increased so, that there was only just space for them to lie down at night, each under the beam upon which his name had been chalked. It was a poor abode enough, but poor though it was, they were not destined to have its shelter long. One day when they were all engaged in prayer, a peasant noisily threw open the door, and driving his ass right on top of the kneeling occupants cried—
"Go in, go in, Bruno, we shall be better off here."
There was nothing to do but get out. The hut was not theirs, and neither was there room for an extra man and a beast! They next betook themselves to the Portiuncula, where they built themselves huts or cells. The Portiuncula was the last church that Francis restored, and one always especially dear to him. A little later it was given to the friars for their own use.
From the Portiuncula the brothers travelled all round the country-side, two by two, in true apostolic fashion. Some followed the peasants into the fields, and as they shared their labors, sang and talked of the love of Christ. For days, perhaps, they would live and eat and sleep with the field hands, and then pass, always singing, on their way, leaving hearts that had been touched, behind them.Others sought the lazar-house, and spent their time in helping the brothers tend the sick. They were always welcome here, and very often difficult cases were reserved for their care. In the towns they met with a very different reception. There they were considered "fair game" for anybody who wished to tease or persecute or mock them. Some people called them mad and lazy, others who believed in their good intent said that if they wanted to be religious, there were plenty of Orders they could join which would not be so austere. Even the Bishop of Assisi, who always called Francis his son, said to him once,
"Your way of living, without owning anything, seems to me very harsh and difficult."
On the Right Lines.
Francis, sure that he was on the right lines, replied,
"If we possessed property we should have need of arms for its defence, for it is the source of quarrels and lawsuits, and the love of God and one's neighbor usually finds many obstacles therein! This is why we do not desire temporal goods."
As the months went on, Francis and his doings attracted more and more attention. They were the talk of the country. The families of those brothers who had given away their possessions could not forgive them for so doing, and attacks from these quarters were bitter and severe. Disappointed heirs could find nothing too evil to say against the foolishness and madness of their friar relatives. From this point of view, many families found the brotherhood very alarming, and parents trembled when their sons took any interest in it, lest they too should join it. The clergy naturally felt somewhat distrustful of the doings of these strange lay-workers. So, taking it altogether, whether he liked it or not, Francis was the most talked of man in Assisi. The more people flocked to him and got converted, the more his enemies slandered him.
It was this state of things that led him to take his entire force—numbering twelve—to Rome, and there beg the Pope to sanction their mode of work. It was a bold undertaking, and when it was first presented to the twelvethey shrank back in horror at the presumption of such a thing! But Francis had made up his mind and nothing could move him.
How was he, Francis, young, without any interest, and a stranger to all churchly usages, to get to see the Pope? the brethren asked him.
Francis didn't know. Probably he cared less. Anyway, God had told him to go.
Then the brethren pleaded their simplicity. How they should look—travel-stained, bare-footed, and coarse-robed, at the court of Rome! This argument carried no weight whatever with their leader, and his faith prevailing, they set out. Just as they were about to start, Francis said "Let us choose one of us to be our Chief. We will go whither he wills to go, we will sojourn where he wills us to sojourn." The rest agreeing, Bernardo di Quintavelle was chosen as leader.
Bishop Guido.
As soon as they arrived in Rome they discovered that unexpected help was right at hand. Guido, the good Bishop of Assisi, was in the city, and he met them accidentally just as they arrived. He was a little discomposed at first—seeing the entire brotherhood he immediately jumped to the conclusion that they were about to settle in Rome. However, Francis soon told him the object of their journey, and he promised to do the very best he could for them. Guido had a friend in Rome, Cardinal John, of Sabina. This man was godly and devoted, one who had never been carried away by the grandeur of his position, and he was always a friend of anybody who tried to work for God. Guido had already told him the story of Francis, and said that it was his belief that God meant to do great things through that simple man and his followers. Now that they had turned up so unexpectedly, he hastened to introduce them to John and let him judge them for himself. The Cardinal saw them, and talked to them, and was convinced in his own mind that they were divinely led. Still, he thought he would like to try Francis a little further. Taking him to one side, he asked him a number of questions about his work and its difficulties.
"It is beyond your strength," he said, when he had heard him, and went on to advise him to join some already existing Order, or else, if he liked, lead the life of a hermit. Francis listened politely, but still kept to his purpose.
"You are mistaken," persisted the Cardinal. "It is much better to follow the beaten tracks."
Francis, equally persistent, kept to his point, and then the Cardinal, who would have been sorry had his advice been taken, entered heartily into his plans, and promised to support him with the Pope.
As these interviews occupied several days, Francis became impatient at the delay. Nobody knows how he did it, but he succeeded unaided in getting into the Palace, and presenting himself and his brethren before the astonished eyes of the Pope! The Pope was walking in a secluded gallery, meditating mournfully on the declension of the Church of God, and trying to think what would remedy the growing evils, when his meditations were abruptly cut short by what looked to him like a troop of beggars. He was annoyed, and sent them off about their business before they could explain what they wanted.
A Dream.
That night the Pope dreamed a strange dream. He thought he saw a tiny palm tree spring up at his feet, which immediately grew and grew till it became a splendid tree. When he awoke, the conviction was strong in his mind that the poor man he had turned away the day before was none other than this little tree. And as he was thinking over his dream, Cardinal John came in, and said—
"I have found a man whom I look upon as very perfect. He is resolved to follow literally the teachings of Christ, and I have no doubt that God intends to make use of him to reanimate faith on the earth."
The Pope was struck with what he said, for he was convinced in his own mind that this was none other than the man he had driven away. He concealed his feelings from the Cardinal, and merely said he should like to see him. The Cardinal sent for Francis and his twelve, who speedily appeared, and the Pope saw at once they were the beggarsof yesterday. He welcomed Francis warmly, and went into the rule he had drawn up for his life, and that of his brotherhood. This rule has not come down to us, but from various sources we learn that it was merely a string of Bible verses, Christ's directions to His apostles, including those that had been Francis' own commission. The Pope listened to all that Francis had to say, then he said—
Hesitation.
"My children, the life to which you aspire seems hard and difficult. Doubtless your fervor is great, and we have no anxiety on your account, but it is our duty to consider those who will come after you. We must not impose upon them a burden they cannot bear. All this requires serious reflection." Then he dismissed them, saying he would lay the matter before the Cardinals.
Well, the question was put to the Cardinals, and they talked and talked and talked. One said one thing, another said another, and most of them had some objection to raise. They said he went beyond due limits, that human nature could not long endure such a life, and altogether they showed by their conversation, how very, very far they, the leaders of a Church who claimed to follow the steps of the lowly Nazarene, had departed from the initial simplicity of the Gospel. Probably some idea of this sort was in Cardinal John's mind when he rose to address the Assembly. He did not say very much, but what he said went straight to the point.
"If we refuse the petition of this poor man on the plea that his rule is difficult, let us beware lest we reject the Gospel itself, for the rule which he desires us to approve of is in conformity with the teachings of the Gospel. For us to say that Gospel perfection contains anything unreasonable or impossible is to rise up against the author of the Gospel and blaspheme Jesus Christ."
The force of his words went home, more especially as the rule was entirely composed of Scripture verses!
Still the Pope hesitated. He could not come to any immediate decision.
"Go my son," he said to Francis, "and pray to Godthat He may let you know that what you ask is from Him, and if it is we will grant your desire."
For several days Francis gave himself up to prayer, and his next interview with the Pope convinced him that these poor beggars had a mission from God. He withheld his approval no longer. Embracing Francis, he said to the little band—
"Go with God's blessing and preach repentance to all, in the way that He is pleased to inspire you with."
A few days later the little party were on their way home again, overflowing with joy. For a fortnight they lingered in a little town called Orte. Some historians say they rested awhile from their labours, others that they were attacked with fever in crossing the Campagna. Be that as it may, it was here that Francis endured one of the severest temptations of his life. The beauty of the scenery, the delicious quiet, after the anxious time he had just gone through in Rome, all conspired to make him think that after all perhaps a life hidden from the world and devoted to prayer and meditation would be just as acceptable to God as the more laborious one of preaching and teaching. But he did not remain long under this spell, and in a little time they were all back in Assisi.
The Order Established.
It was at this point that Francis began first to shine as an orator. Of course the news of his visit to Rome spread all around, and more than ever he was an object of interest. The priests of St. George, who had educated him, asked him to preach in their church. This service must have been a success, because when the Bishop Guido returned to Assisi, he asked Francis to preach in the cathedral. Here Francis surpassed anything he had ever done before, and the large cathedral was too small to hold the crowds that flocked to hear the young man. Men and women came in from all the country-side, monks came down from their mountain monasteries, and learned and simple all agreed that "never man spake like this man!"
Yet, as we have said before, his words were of the simplest. He preached repentance, not merely a lip repentance, but kind that worked itself out in daily life."If you have defrauded any man," he said, "restore unto him that which is his." This sort of plain, practical teaching was rapidly dying out. It came fresh to the people, and they were stirred mightily."
Less than the Least.
After their return from Rome, they began to be known as the Friars Minor. This was the way in which they got their name. One day a brother was reading aloud the Rule of the Order, and when he came to this passage, "and let the brothers be less than all others," it struck Francis very forcibly. He stopped the reader, and said—
"My brothers, I wish from henceforth that this fraternity should be called the Order of Minors." Minor being the word in the original that expresses the idea of "less than the least." And this was the name they bore for many a year. It was an expressive and suitable one. Less than the least of all the brethren—that was what they desired to be. They were essentially of the people, they wore the garb of the poorest, and shared their life with its toils and privations.
There was also another reason for this name, some historians say. Just before Francis formed his Order, there was an Order of Friars established in Italy, who spent their time in working among the poor. "Little Brothers of the Poor," they called themselves, and it was in contradistinction to them that Francis called himself "Minor," or less than the "Little Brothers."
"So faith grew.... The acknowledgment of God in Christ,Accepted by thy reason solves for thee,All questions in the world and out of it."
"So faith grew.... The acknowledgment of God in Christ,Accepted by thy reason solves for thee,All questions in the world and out of it."
One of the most interested listeners in the Cathedral, the day that Francis preached his first sermon there, was a little girl of sixteen. Her name was Clara Scifi, and she was of noble family. From her childhood she had been accustomed to hear discussed among the elders the follies and madness of Francis Bernardone. Clara had always been a good child, and from babyhood delighted to distribute food and alms of all kinds to the poor. When she was old enough to understand all Francis' principles, she was greatly drawn to them, though she kept her feelings to herself. A cousin of hers became a friar, and this naturally intensified her interest in the Friars Minor. But when she went to the Cathedral, and, for the first time saw and heard Francis for herself, it was like a revelation straight from God.
It seemed to Clara that he spoke directly to her, and that he knew all her secret sorrows, and personal anxieties! Oh how she longed to have some part in his great work! In those days such a thing as a girl leaving her home for any reason except to be married or immured in a convent, and never seen, was unheard of, and when Clara made up her mind that she would break away from her idle luxurious life and become a servant of the poor, she knew that she was going to do an unheard-of thing, and that never while the world stood, would she get permission from her father, Favorina, for any such undertaking! Clare's mother, Ortolana, wasa pious woman, but even if she were to give her consent, it was quite certain her husband would not. Therefore Clara determined not to tell her mother what she was thinking about doing.
Clara's Decision.
During the year that ensued after that preaching in the Cathedral, Clara saw a great deal of Francis, and the more she saw of him, and heard him talk, the surer she became that God was calling her to leave home and friends. So one March night, accompanied by two servants, Clara left her beautiful home, and set off for the Portiuncula, where Francis and the brothers were waiting to receive her, and welcome her as a sister in the Lord. Singing hymns, they led her into the little church, and after a short service, during which they read her the Rules, her beautiful long hair was cut off, and she robed herself in a garment of coarse, ash-colored stuff, tied in at the waist with a rope. After this she was conducted to a convent, some two miles away, where the Benedictine nuns gave her a temporary shelter.
Francis was too simple and unworldly to think of the possible consequences of this step of Clara's. He was sure that God had called her, and he was equally sure that her friends would never give their consent to her leaving home and becoming an apostle of poverty; therefore, as God had revealed His will, it must be done at once. It also never occurred to him that this was likely to develop into a second Order of his Brotherhood, and an extension of his work. He only saw a soul anxious to leave the world and all that pertained to it, for Christ's sake, and his only thought was to provide it a way of escape, just as he would have cared for a sparrow escaping from the hawk, or a rabbit from the snare.
Next day Clara's irate parents arrived at the convent. They saw Clara, and begged and entreated, and threatened, but all to no purpose. She would not come away. She was absolutely unmovable. At last, seeing that she was so determined, they gave up any idea of carrying her away by main force, and listened to her while she talked to them, and explained her position that she was consecratedto the living God, and that nothing should come between Him and her. Her parents struck by her words consented to leave her, and went away promising not to trouble her again.
Agnes.
But the troubles of the house of Scifi were not yet over. A fortnight later, Agnes, a child of fourteen, ran away to join her sister. Agnes had always been intensely devoted to Clara, and besides, she too had been longing for some more satisfactory mode of life. It cannot be said that Clara was surprised when Agnes knocked at the door, for ever since her consecration she had prayed that Agnes' heart might be touched too, and that she might be led to follow her out of the world. Therefore she received Agnes with open arms.
"Ah, sweet sister," she cried, "how I bless God that He has so quickly heard my earnest prayer for thee!" Agnes kissed her and declared that she had come never to leave her, and together they braced themselves for the storm that they felt was coming. And a terrible storm it was! Favorina enraged at losing another daughter, took twelve men relatives and proceeded without delay to fetch her home by main force if necessary. However, they smothered their rage at first, as best they could, and said quietly to Agnes—
"Why have you come here? Get ready and come home."
Then, when she refused to leave Clara, one of them fell on her with kicks and blows, and taking her by the hair tried to drag her away.
"Ah, my sister," she cried to Clara, "come and help me; let me not be torn away from my Lord."
Poor Clara could do nothing but follow her weeping. At last, worn out with her struggles—or, as the legend says, she became so abnormally heavy—they were obliged to drop her. Clara, reproaching them for their cruel treatment, begged of them to give the child back to her. Not knowing what else to do they returned, much disappointed at their failure.
The "Poor Ladies."
This action of Clara and Agnes opened the way for manywho were hovering on the brink. As soon as they were established at St. Damian's, which the Bishop of Assisi placed at their disposal—they were joined by one woman after another, many their own personal friends, and thus the second Order of what was then called "Poor Ladies," was founded. The rule that they followed was very much like that of the brothers, except in regard to the missionary life. Women in those days never preached! The "Poor Ladies" supplied the passive side of the organisation, and by their prayers and supplications, supported the active workers. Their daily needs were met by what we should call lay-sisters, women for whom a life apart from the world was impossible. At first the people of Assisi brought the ladies the food they needed, but when a little later this first ardour cooled down, the lay-sisters took it upon themselves to provide regularly for their necessities.
However, the Sisters themselves were by no means idle. They spun thread, and made linen altar-cloths, and all that was needed for churches round about. Then Francis was always sending the sick and ailing to St. Damian's to be nursed, and for some time it was quite a hospital. Clara, who was eventually put in charge of St. Damian's was as rigid as Francis in her conviction as to the advisability of possessing nothing. When her father died, she was his heir. It was a very rich inheritance she came in for, but she commanded that everything should be sold, and the proceeds given to the poor, and not a penny of it went to enrich the convent. After her father's death Clara had the joy of welcoming her mother and younger sister Beatrice into her family!
Clara was always a true Franciscan. All through her life which was a long one, she kept faithful to the principles of the Order, and never would she yield to any dispensation that deviated from the narrow path that Francis trod. When offered certain properties by a Church dignitary, on the plea that the state of the times made it impossible for women to possess nothing, she gazed upon him with speechless astonishment.
"I want no Release."
"If it is your vows that prevent you," the worthy man went on, "you will be released from them."
"No," she cried, "I want no release from following Christ."
She was a staunch defender of Francis. She also defended him from himself! Many a time in hours of dark discouragement, when he was sorely tempted to fly away, and shut himself up to a life of prayer and contemplation, she pointed out to him the sheep who, without a shepherd, were wandering to their own destruction, and drew him back again into his God-marked path. Her teaching, and her mode of caring for her sisters was very similar to that of Francis with his disciples.
"No rushing sound we heard,We saw no fiery token,Only our hearts were stirred,For God had spoken."
"No rushing sound we heard,We saw no fiery token,Only our hearts were stirred,For God had spoken."
The temptation to seek a life of quiet and retirement followed Francis all his days. Invariably, after any new departure or special victory he was attacked in that quarter. Why he should have been so troubled when his call to follow Christ was so clear, we are not qualified to say definitely. In all probability this temptation of his was akin to Paul's "messenger of Satan" and thorn in the flesh that buffeted him, lest he should be unduly exalted. The most interesting point to us nineteenth-century Christians is, that by the grace of God Francis never yielded to this temptation—that having once put his hand the plough, he never turned back, but remained faithful to the end.
We must take into consideration that the Order of which Francis was the founder was in itself unique. It stood alone in the annals of Church history. It was a novelty in the Church. All other existing orders followed a totally different line of action, or rather inaction. Their disciples were shut up in solitude, and devoted themselves to their own sanctification. When they worked for sinners it was by praying for them, by example, and by a little preaching. They never came face to face with the outside world. Their lives were remote, apart. These facts may have had something to do with Francis' periods of darkness and indecision. A pioneer's life has its own peculiar temptations.