"Probably the departure of the vanquishers of the tourney. After the distribution of the crowns, they were invited to theburg, and are now separating, doubtless to change their costume for the ball of the evening. Perhaps, too, some of the barons may be returning to their castles, and, if so, their banners will soon appear at the end of the street."
"I am very curious to see them pass," said Mina, and, leaving Johann alone in the atelier, she pushed a stool upon the balcony, and there, leaning upon the railing, her little head with its golden hair supported by her white hand, she awaited the coming of the brilliantcortege.
Toward evening, indeed, knights, bannerets, squires, and men-at-arms scattered themselves through the roads and the streets of the town. One of the most brilliant, though least numerous parties were making their way toward where the town became confounded with the country. Two nobles rode in advance, helmet on head and lance in hand, attired in brilliant armor, over which were thrown pourpoints of fine velvet. Behind, their squires bore their banners, one showing gilt battlements in a field gules, the armorial bearings of the barons of Arneck, the other the green oak and argent field of the rich counts of Broeck.
"My dear Otho," said the last named, throwing upon his young companion a glance of almost paternal affection, "I am well satisfied with thee; thy deeds shone bright in to-day's joustings. Thy brothers-in-arms had begun to laugh at thee, and to say thou hadst become but an image-maker. But to-day showed that the noble remained in thee."
"You are very kind, my lord count," replied the young knight.
"Not so, in sooth; I but look to thy interest, as in duty bound. Although thy domains, my friend, be of limited extent, thou hast a name ancient enough, a brilliant fame, and a brave enough form to make it a pleasure for many a rich and proud demoiselle to give thee her hand and dowry, and to change name and title for those of the barons of Arneck."
"You flatter me, lord count," replied Otho, raising himself in his saddle and joyfully stroking his mustache. "Hath one of those fair ladies of whom you speak deigned to cast a glance upon me?"
"More than one has done so, as well thou knowest," returned he of Broeck; "and even to-day the richest and most beautiful of them all, Gertrude of Horsheim, spoke and smiled graciously as she placed the crown upon thy brows."
"Lady Gertrude," said Otho, "hath truly a sweet voice and teeth of exceeding whiteness."
"Moreover, she hath two castles in the valley of the Murg and a thriving village in the plain. Her father is a stout lord, who, I well know, will not object to thee for a son-in-law. I know, Otho, that Master Sebald Koerner has a pretty daughter, and that thou art sometimes charged with wishing to espouse her. But wouldst thou truly, in the lightness of thy heart, add to the battlements of thy shield the chisel of such a father-in-law? They say that you make between you a complete company of stone-cutters, and that thou art the mason and he the sculptor. I wish thee well, my friend, and therefore do I scold and mock thee. I know that in thy heart's depth thou art as proud as thou art brave. So far thou art Sir Otho, Baron Otho, and all noble ladies smile upon and salute thee. Wouldst be called Otho the citizen, Otho the image-maker, and have all ladies turn their backs upon thee or point thee out as some wonder?"
"Truly, not so: and never will I give them reason for so doing," replied the young knight, with a face scarlet with shame.
"Then," said De Broeck, "reply suitably to the invitation I am about to offer thee. In a fortnight I give a festival at my castle. There will be jousts in the great court, banquets in the great hall, balls and hunts, tilting for the ring, and shooting with the bow. The Countess Gertrude will be there, and thou canst enroll thyself among the number of her suitors. Siegfried of Thunn will be there, too; he bore the ring from thee lately, and thou hast thy revenge to take. All this, I hope, promises enough of pleasure, and is better than thy statues and images. So, Otho, thou wilt come? I may count upon thee!"
"Assuredly, my lord count, it is an honor and happiness to obey you," replied the young knight, taking leave of his protector with a courteous inclination.
The two escorts separated, and Otho, dismissing his, took the direction of the house of the old sculptor.
A few moments after, Mina and Johann saw him enter the atelier.
"Here I am at last, my dear master," said he, pressing the old artist's hands with real affection. "Did you think I had forgotten you in the midst of tiltings and passages-at-arms?"
"There was certainly reason that you might," replied Sebald, smiling. "In the midst of thrusts of lance and crushing of helms, you could scarce think of kneading clay or cutting statues."
"That may be, but a pupil can always find time to give his dearest, his oldest friend and most excellent master pleasure. And what think you, Master Koerner, I bring to-day?"
"Firstly, a crown, if rumor speaks truth," answered the sculptor; "secondly, some broken casques and battered harness. Those, I believe, are the gleanings of the tilt-yard."
"Then, master, you are wrong. I bring something different from all these. Would you know what? An order from the margrave, written with his own hand and sealed with his own seal, for Master Sebald Koerner to begin, with no greater delay than a month at most, the decoration of the chapel and the grand hall of his castle of Eberstein."
"How! The margrave choose me!" cried Sebald, his eyes lighting up with joy.
"And certes, my master, could he have made a better choice? After the tournament we met in his castle, and he there spoke of his castle of Eberstein and the embellishments he proposed, but he had not yet fixed his choice upon a sculptor. In short, I brought forward your name; I praised your St. Christopher; I recalled your Virgin Mary to his mind; some other nobles seconded me, and—here is the order written upon parchment."
"Thanks! thanks! my true friend! my dear pupil!" cried the old master, pressing the young knight's hand. "Through your good offices some memories of me may remain in my country. The thick walls of the castle of Eberstein will protect and preserve my statues, and they may perhaps be gazed on when time shall have crumbled into dust the saints I have carved for the pediments of the houses of the city, and the Christs I have raised by the roadsides. And it is you, noble Otho, who have brought to me the brightest crown, the sweetest joy, a sculptor can wear or taste—the assurance of the duration—mayhap the glory of his works!"
"Dear master, why so much of compliment and gratitude? Would I not do much more for the love of art and of you?"
And while he spoke, the knight's eyes sought those of Mina, smiling and blushing in a corner, and repeated in their silent language, "And for the love of thee, too, fair girl."
"This day is a day of gladness for me," continued old Sebald. "Johann conducted hither after vespers the prior of the Augustines, who hath confided to me the decoration of his chapel."
"Pah! a monastery of poor monks!" exclaimed Otho, shrugging his shoulders slightly, and throwing a disdainful glance on the humble Johann and his gray doublet."Not a very brilliant or lucrative undertaking, I should say. You will neither win a load of glory nor mountains of gold there, my dear master. But each brings what he finds and gives what he has," said the young knight, withdrawing his gaze from Johann and turning on his heel.
"I could find nothing better," said Johann in a tone of discouragement, "although I, too, would work for the glory and fortune of my master."
"And thy master accepts thy good intentions with joy, my son," answered old Sebald, taking his hand, "for he knows that they come from a devoted soul and a sincere heart. I have not only a noble art and a good daughter; I have also two brave pupils, two true friends. God be thanked, he hath made me a happy man!"
Happy, O poor Sebald! Ay, if thou hadst no daughter. Alas! why does Mina gaze with such simple admiration upon the noble countenance and gilt spurs of the knight? Why does she hang enchanted upon the sweet accents of his voice?
As long as he came regularly to the studio, Mina was smiling and happy; but one day he came not, and on the next she received a letter.
From the day Mina received that letter she lost her freshness and gayety.
Then commenced a long and bitter series of nights without repose and days without hope. She sometimes said sadly to herself that, as the sun shines not always clearly, as the sky is not for ever blue, so the smiles and joys of maidens are of short life; and that, while timid women remain around the hearthstone, young and valiant knights must depart to the wars or on long journeys, like the great silver herons which pass a season on the borders of limpid waters, and then depart on outspread wing to return, when the gloomy winter has passed, to find once more their nests in the long grass, and their clean bath among the budding reeds. She thought all this, and then reasoned a little and prayed much more; but she often trembled; she ever was in pain, and, becoming weak, she became unhappy.
Her cheeks grew pale; her brow clouded; her eyes ceased to sparkle. She no longer took pleasure in seeing from her balcony the archers of the margrave pass, nor in confining with golden cords and tassels her shining hair or waving robe. Her sadness and languor at last attracted the attention of her father. He thought that his frequent absences, the solitude of the house, alone caused his daughter's weariness and illness. Ceasing for a while his labor, he passed a few days with her, or brought her with him from time to time, hoping to wean her thoughts from their melancholy by the sight of the great ornamented halls and the beautiful park of the castle of Eberstein.
But often, when he had led her to the great park and allowed her to wander there, going himself to finish a keystone, to carve a capital, or decorate a moulding, he found her not on his return crowned with wild flowers, or culling odorous berries and grapes, or following with eager eye the bounding deer. No; almost always Mina sat by the margin of some solitary pond, plucking the leaves from willow branch or pulling a wild rose to pieces. But her gaze bent not to the branch or to the flower. It wandered over the surface of the water, slowly and sadly, and ofttimes seemed to seek some invisible form in its depths, and then turned tearful from the waves, as if sorrowing at not therein perceiving the object of its longings.
The old sculptor wondered and grew sad, as a good father would, and then consoled himself with the reflection that often tender hearts were subject to passing griefs, and that it takes but little to trouble the gayety of the happiest maidens.But it was the weariness of idleness he feared most for Mina, and he made every effort to distract her thoughts.
"Listen, my child," said he one beautiful morning in July, when the earth smiled fresh and glittering in the dew—"listen. It is too fine a day for me to wish to work in. In my old age I must have from time to time a little recreation—fresh air and sun-light; if it please thee, we will go to the city."
"As thou wishest, father," replied Mina, rising with vacant eye and dreamy air.
"And methinks a little walk and a few cheerful visits would do thee wondrous good. It is long since I have seen Master Hans Barthing, the gold-smith, mine ancient neighbor and old friend, and his daughters Jeanne and Bertha will not be vexed to have thee their companion for a day. Let us start, then, my daughter. Ah! here is Johann! Well, let him come. Johann is an excellent youth, and is always welcome with Master Barthing as with me. Johann, my son," continued the old sculptor, turning to the young man, "it is useless to take up the chisel to-day. Thou shalt help me to buckle my mantle. We are going to take a walk, and I invite thee to accompany us."
"I will go willingly," replied Johann, who rarely went out in Mina's company, and who, poor boy, marked with a white mark those days when the pretty girl deigned him a friendly look or word.
Soon the three visitors arrived at the house of Master Barthing, the jeweller, whose talent was well known and valued even beyond the frontiers of the margravate of Baden, and whose frank cordiality and joyous humor were justly prized by his friends and neighbors.
"You here at last, Master Koerner!" cried the old goldsmith, rising from his leathern arm-chair and doffing his furred cap as soon as he perceived his visitors. "Come you to examine my treasures or to ask a diamond from my shop? But, pshaw, my old Sebald, you need them not; you have other treasures and owe no man for them; and here," he continued, looking on Mina, "is your most brilliant, your most precious diamond. Come. Jeanne! Bertha! here is a happy visit a charming friend."
The two girls rushed forward and gave their ancient neighbor a thousand caresses and a thousand kisses.
"How changed thou art, Mina!" exclaimed Jeanne suddenly.
"Thou art wearied, I am sure," added Bertha, "in thy great lonely house. It cannot be very diverting to have ever around thee but marble and stone, and plaster and statues. Why dost come so seldom to visit us? Together we can amuse each other; we can recount legends as we spin; or Jeanne, who hath a good voice, can trill some love-lay of the minnesingers. And what will amuse thee perhaps more than aught else will be to see the beautiful and shining jewels in our father's workshop. I know well, my dear friend, that many fine things are to be seen in thy father's atelier, but there everything is white for ever white, and that must be somewhat saddening. But a young girl is always rejoiced and glad when she contemplates at her leisure rich diadems and rings, enamelled flasks, and glittering necklaces."
"Courage, child! courage, Bertha!" cried the goldsmith, laughing. "It is a dutiful daughter who to love of her father joins love of his trade. Well, if thou thinkest Mademoiselle Mina will take pleasure in seeing my enamels, my jewels, and my diamonds, as soon as our collation is finished thou shalt take her to my atelier. I have there something I think exceeding fine, in fact a veritable master-piece. But it becomes me not to praise myself. You will see; you will judge, and you will give me your opinion."
Half an hour after they entered the long and narrow gallery where the goldsmith showed forth his richest jewels, his most massive and skilfully chiseled pieces of silver, his best finished and most precious works.Brilliant lights seemed to sparkle and shine from all sides in this room of wonders. Everywhere glittered gold, rubies, sapphires, while pearls lent their soft white light, and diamonds and opals their thousand colors. Great show-cases full of enamellings shone like the sun; rings, reliquaires, clasps, laid out on tables, seemed to form a vast train of sparks whose fires mingled in shining light, and chains and necklaces formed slender garlands of stars and variegated flame.
And while the two old men followed, chatting, behind, the three young girls wandered with light step in advance hither and thither, trying on this necklace, toying with these rings, admiring that reliquaire, tearing their entranced eyes from those wildernesses of beautiful forms, of rays and colors. Between the two groups came Johann, the poor youth feeling no inclination to join one and not daring to approach the other; lonely Johann, who admired alone, and from time to time sighed.
Suddenly Master Hans advanced before the girls, and, taking a key from the huge purse which hung at his belt, he unlocked a casket of cedar wood, and unrolled a carpet of emeralds on a field of glittering gold, before the eyes of the spectators.
"How beautiful! how dazzling!" cried the maidens.
"Whence came such splendid jewels, such magnificent stones?" asked Master Sebald. "One would think the treasures of the Eastern magicians, of whom crusaders' legends tell, were spread before him."
"This," replied Master Hans, plunging his hand into the casket and drawing forth a chain set with emeralds, "is the treasure of the house of Horsheim, to which I have added, by the order of the present lord, some of my rarest stones. The count is about to celebrate the marriage of his daughter, and, besides her dowry of beauty and of castles, he wishes to give her a splendid one of jewels."
"Ah! then beauteous Lady Gertrude is to be married at last," said Mina, with a sigh of relief, for she had not yet forgotten how on the day of the tournament Johann had told her that Otho had received the crown from the hands of the young countess.
"Yes, Demoiselle Mina; and the wedding, they say, takes place in a fortnight, and will be one of the most brilliant ever celebrated in the margravate of Baden."
"But whom doth the countess marry?" asked Johann, who, without knowing why, felt his heart beat painfully.
"If rumor speaks sooth, a knight of but moderate fortune, but of goodly form, large heart, and name of renown. They say 'tis the Baron of Arneck; but of this I am not sure, for I have never seen the count and lady together when they come the city."
"What! Otho, my pupil?" interrupted Master Sebald.
"And why not, old friend? If, as I think, it be he, thou wilt henceforth see him but rarely, for hereafter he will have much else to do besides moulding clay or chiselling statues."
"Ah! I fear me much the brave knight is lost to sculpture," replied Sebald, smiling.
But Johann smiled not. He drew near Mina and followed her movements with looks of anguish. He saw her cheek blanch and a cloud come over her eyes, and, fearing lest she should faint, pushed a seat to her.
But Mina refused it with a resolute gesture, and without trembling approached the casket.
"Are you sure that it is Otho of Arneck she marries?" asked she in a strange tone, gazing fixedly upon Hans Barthing. "In any event, the bride will be brave in this glistening chain. Ah! if it were I—if I were rich and possessed castles, and were a countess—think you that I would not be beautiful with these green flashings and diamonds in my hair and about my neck?"
Mina, speaking thus with a bitter laugh and vacant stare, twined the chain around her neck and through her wavy tresses, and, in doing so, her little fingers moved so fast that none could see how they trembled.
But suddenly her words ceased, her eyes closed, her hands fell by her side, and with a feeble cry she fell upon the chair.
"My daughter! O my daughter! What aileth thee?" cried old Sebald, running to her.
"'Tis naught; a weakness; nothing more." said the goldsmith. "The heat of to-day was, indeed, enough to make a young girl faint. Quick, Bertha! Jeanne! bring hither the Queen of Hungary's water and open the windows."
"It is doubtless the influence of the stones that hath made poor Mina ill." murmured one of the jeweller's daughters, who seemed to stand terror-stricken. "Thou knowest, father, that the sapphire brings happy dreams, the opal misfortune on its possessor, and the beryl can cause faintings. It is then perhaps, the emeralds which cause Mina's illness. She is not accustomed to gaze upon them, and they glitter so—the shining stones!"
"Yes, it is certainly the jewels and their light and the heat," stammered Johann, who, on his knees, was holding the fainting girl's hands within his own, and trying to restore their warmth. "But Demoiselle Mina recovers not. Think you not, Master Sebald, that it would be well to take a litter and return to your dwelling?"
"Assuredly," replied Master Koerner, surprised and anxious at his daughter's swoon.
On the way home Mina opened her eyes, but she remained mute and mournful. But when, after she had been placed on a lounge in the lower hall of her dwelling, she saw that her father was about to direct Johann to hasten the arrival of a leech, she bent over to the old sculptor and retained him with a hand cold as ice.
"I would speak a word with Johann alone," she murmured. "Wilt thou permit me, my father?"
"Surely," replied the old man, fixing upon her a look of wonder, but hastening to leave the chamber.
Then Mina feebly called Johann, and made him a sign to sit at her feet.
"Thou saidst one day, my good brother Johann," said she, "that thou wouldst spare no effort, recoil from no risk to procure me joy or happiness."
"So said I; so will I do," answered the poor youth, bending on her a look full of emotion.
"Then, Johann, thou canst preserve my greatest happiness, cause my greatest joy. I know that I cannot deceive thee; I noted thy gaze when Hans Barthing spoke of the marriage of Otho and Gertrude. Know then, Johann, that the knight of Arneck is my true—my only love; and now I would know if he hath betrayed me. It is peace of heart I need for my cure, Johann, and not the skill of the leech. Depart then, good Johann, and go to Horsheim. There thou wilt easily learn who is the countess's betrothed. And thou mayest even, without being perceived, see them pass by together, speaking low, walking hand in hand, believing themselves alone. Thou wilt return and tell me all, Johann, and I will gain strength to live until thy return; for it would be too bitter to die if Otho remaineth faithful. Thou wilt go—wilt thou not, my brother—my only friend?"
Johann's only reply was a kiss imprinted on Mina's hand and a silent pressure of her taper fingers, while two great tears rolled from his eyes. Then he departed from the House of the Angel, and, after having called the physician, saddled his horse and left the town that very evening, following the line of the high hills which stretched away toward the Rauhe Alps, at the foot of which was the castle of Horsheim.
To be Continued.
Pretty Nan to Flora said,"Prithee, why so gay?"Dark-eyed Flora bent her head:"Heis gone away.""Strange!" quoth Nan. "If 'twere my heart,None could be more sad.Absence gives the keenest smart.Tell me, why art glad?"Dark-eyed Flora, with a sigh,'Gan to braid her hair,Whilst to Nan she made reply:"Hark! my sister dear."Chanced it on a summer morn,Laughingly I choseThese long tresses to adornWith a beauteous rose."Of the flower he made request,I in wilfulnessDid refuse, and as a jestGaveita caress."But I did not long deny.Said I: Plucked for you,Take; but care it tenderly,'Tis my rose-love true."Nameless was the pain and dreadFilled my aching heart.Soon I saw my rose-love dead,Idly torn apart."Thus he would my heart's love flingColdly, idly by.Than to wear his wedding-ring,Rather would I die."Ah! the cruel, ugly smart!Fear my love did slay.Pined I sadly in my heartTill he went away."'Gainst the power of his voiceAll in vain I strove.Freed by absence, I rejoice,Now I dare to love!"
[The ensuing portion of an article from which we have stricken out the remainder on account of its objectionable statements, although not strictly in conformity with the Catholic view of the lives of the saints, furnishes a graphic sketch of the life of St. Francis, and an evidence of the approximation many Protestants are making toward a more candid and reasonable view of Catholic subjects.—ED. C. W.]
The towns of Italy were in advance of those of other countries; many of them were beautifully built, and celebrated for their wealthy and powerful citizens. Such a town was Assisi in Umbria, and such a citizen was Pietro Bernadone when his son Francisco was born—Francisco Bernadone, afterward Pater Minorum, Pater Seraphicus, then St. Francis, with a place among the saints in the hagiology of the church, now high up on stained-glass windows of thousands of churches, in illuminated missals, imperishable in history, and honored by men of all subsequent times and creeds as a great reformer and benefactor to humanity, an ardent, enthusiastic Christian. We shall contemplate the character and work of St. Francis as the "SALT" infused into the world at one of those periods of its corruption, and in order to do this we shall endeavor to delineate the man as clearly as we can from the acts of his life and the emanations of his mind; then examine his great work, and its effect upon the church in general, and upon that of our own country in particular.
We shall endeavor to portray St. Francis, the founder of the Friars Minors, not according to the phantoms of imagination, or the caricatures of prejudice, but from the records of his life, and still more efficiently from his works and sayings. Fortunately the materials are ample. There is a life of St. Francis, written by Thomas of Celano, the probable author of the sublime mediaeval hymn, the "Dies Irae," and, as he was a follower and an intimate friend of the saint, he writes with authority. At the command of Gregory IX., he committed to writing his knowledge of the life of St. Francis, which work was called the "Legenda."
A second life was written by John of Ceperano; a third by an Englishman, being a metrical version of that of Celano; a fourth by three companions of the saint, (a Tribus Sociis,) Leo, Angelus, and Ruffinus, compiled at the command of the minister-general of the order, Father Crescentius; a fifth by the same Thomas of Celano, being a fuller sketch, at the request also of Crescentius; and a sixth, written at the request of nearly the whole order by St. Bonaventura, who, when a child, had seen the saint.
All of these biographies are extant in the Acta Sanctorum, written in what Carlyle would term "monk or dog Latin, still readable to mankind." [Footnote 146] His works are scanty, but such as they are, they bear the impress of the man's mind. It must be remembered that St. Francis made no pretensions to being a scholar, a theologian, or an author; in fact, he was a little inclined to deprecate these things; therefore, his literary remains are only a few letters, hymns, addresses, colloquies, predictions, and apothegms.
[Footnote 146: Past and Present.]
His father, though an avaricious man, yet lived in the profuse style characteristic of the leading Italian merchants, and young Francisco was brought up accordingly, so that his youth, up to the age of twenty-five, was spent in vanity.During that time, he excelled all his companions in gay frivolity, and the vices common to a young man with a rich father, proud of his son. He was the admiration of all, and led many astray by his example. He dressed in soft and flowing robes, spent his time in jesting, wanton conversation, and singing songs. Being rich, he was not avaricious, but prodigal; not having to work for his fortune, he cheerfully set about spending that of his father.
An incident is recorded in the life by the three companions which is not mentioned by Thomas of Celano nor Bonaventura.[Footnote 147] It is, that during a disturbance between the citizens of Assisi and the people of Perugia, young Francisco was captured, and, with others, placed in prison. Whilst there his manner was so different from the rest, they being sad and he more gay than ever, that they asked him the reason. "What do you take me for?" said he. "I shall yet be adored all over the world." He spent nearly a year in this durance, and, when peace was declared, returned to Assisi, and devoted his attention to the sale of his father's wares, until his conversion, which happened some years later. During the interval he fell ill, and began to lament for the sin of his past life, and to make resolutions of amendment. He recovered, and, with the recovery, the penitence and the resolutions all vanished.
[Footnote 147: It is alluded to, however, in the life of St. Columba Reatina.]
He pursued his former life until a circumstance happened which very nearly changed his whole career. A certain nobleman of Assisi was about to undertake a military expedition against Apulia, and young Francisco was immediately fired with the longing to become a soldier. He had a mysterious dream, which he misinterpreted into an encouragement. After making all preparations, he set out and reached as far as Spoleto, where he had another dream which convinced him of his mistake, and sent him back to Assisi. From that time he began to reflect, and in the embarrassment of his thoughts would retire into solitary places, and pray to God to guide him and direct him what to do.
He spoke in enigmas, and told his friends that he should not go to Apulia, but would make his name famous at home. In reply, they demanded what were his plans? was he going to take a wife? "I am"—said Francisco—"I am going to take a more beautiful and noble wife than you have ever seen, who will excel in beauty and wisdom all women."
He now took to fasting, prayer, and almsgiving. The mysterious work had commenced; his whole nature changed; he isolated himself from all his companions, began to hear voices from heaven, to see visions, and to listen to calls from the Invisible.
Whilst in this state, he was one day returning from a neighboring market, where he had sold some of his father's goods, and passed by the church of St. Damian, which had fallen into ruins. A light flashed upon his mind. He had previously, when praying in the fields, heard a voice say to him, "Francis, go and repair my house," and therefore, without a moment's hesitation, he entered the church, found the old priest, bowed before him, kissed his hands, implored him to accept the money which he was taking home, and permit him to remain there. The cautious priest allowed him to remain, but refused to take his father's money, when Francisco, in a fit of indignation, threw it aside contemptuously.
By this time the father began to be uneasy about the fate of his eccentric son and set out to make inquiries for him. Francisco then retired to a neighboring cavern. Here he staid some time, but at last, resolving to brave it out, he returned, wasted and wan, to Assisi. The people thought him mad, and pelted him through the streets, when his father, hearing a noise, went out, and, recognizing his son, seized him, dragged him home chastised him severely, shut him up in a dark place, and firmly bound him, that he might be safe till he returned from a journey he was about to take.
In the father's absence, however, the mother, after trying in vain to reason with him, let him go, and he immediately returned to the church where he had been hiding. His father, upon his return, upbraided his wife for releasing his disobedient son, and resolved upon bringing the matter to a settlement.
To this end he went to the church, saw Francisco, and, finding him more obstinate than ever, decided upon letting him have his own way, but, with characteristic prudence, demanded the money from his son which he had received for his goods. This being restored, he was appeased, and then suggested that, as Francisco had devoted himself to poverty, he would not require any patrimony, and might release his father from all claim upon him. To this Francisco willingly consented. A formal document was prepared, and the parties appeared before the bishop, when Francisco not only renounced his inheritance, but, taking off his clothes, threw them to his father, with these words: "Up to now I have called thee my father on earth, but now I can securely say, My Father, who art in heaven." The bishop was so delighted that he embraced him, and gave him his cloak.
Thus was Francisco divorced from the world, from father, mother, and kindred, and married to poverty, to whom from this time forth he devoted his life. An incident is recorded of him here which was indicative of one portion of his great work. He was out alone on a certain day, when a wretched leper crossed his path. Francisco instinctively shrunk from the sight, but, suddenly recollecting that his object was to subdue himself, he ran after the leper, seized his hand, and kissed it.
From that time he resolved to adopt the care of the lepers as a peculiar portion of his work, and we find him shortly afterward entering the leper hospital and devoting himself to their service, washing their sores with his own hands, dressing them, and once even kissing them.[Footnote 148] Then he returned once more to Assisi, the scene of his youthful revelry, and in the garb of a mendicant begged in the streets from those who once knew him in luxury, for money to rebuild the church of St. Damian, as he felt the injunction to do so was still upon him.
[Footnote 148: Bonaventura says: "Educebat plagarum putredinem et saniem abstergebat."]
His enthusiasm told upon men's minds, and money flowed in rapidly, so that he not only rebuilt that church, but another also, St. Mary of Porzioncula, which he then frequented, and to which he was ever afterward deeply attached. One day when attending mass in this church, and the gospel was read, the words, "Take nothing for your journey, neither staves nor scrip, neither bread nor money, neither have two coats apiece," sank deep into his soul. He went out of the church, took off his shoes, laid aside his staff, threw away his wallet, contented himself with a small tunic and a rope for a girdle, struck out for the strict apostolic rule, and endeavored to persuade others to follow his example.
The first instance of the mighty contagion of that example occurred in the conversion of one Bernard de Quintavalle, a man of wealth and repute, who came to Francisco, and offered himself and his all to him. The saint proposed that they should go to the church of St. Nicholas and seek for guidance. They did so, and, when the mass was over, the priest opened the missal, after making the sign of the cross. The first response was, "If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast, and give to the poor;" the second, "Take nothing for your journey;" and the third, "If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me." "Let us obey the divine command," said Francis. Bernard immediately did so to the letter, and adopted the same dress as his master.
Thus was the foundation laid of that great order of Minor Brethren. It is possible that St. Francis, for we must call him now by his canonized name, had not dreamt of such a thing as founding an order; but converts increased; Peter of Catania and four others. Egidius Sabbatini, John de Capella, and Sylvester were then added, and they all retired to a hut in the plain of Rivo Torto.
When they numbered eight, St. Francis gave them a solemn charge, and dismissed them by twos in different directions to preach the gospel of peace and forgiveness. They met after a short time, and, as their numbers increased so rapidly, St. Francis drew up his first rule, which differed very little from that of the Benedictines, save that it enjoined at the outset a solemn injunction, ingeniously evaded afterward, that they should have no property, but live in obedience and chastity. "Regula et vita istorum patrum haec est scilicet vivere in obedientia et in castitate et sine proprio." Their clothing was to be of the poorest kind; for novices for one year, "duas tunicas sine caputio et cingulum et braccas et caparonem usque ad cingulum;" for those who were finally admitted, "unicam tunicam cum caputio et aliam sine caputio, in necesse, fuerit et cingulum et braccas." No brother should be called "prior," but all should be termed Minor Brethren, "fratres minores," and the one should wash the other's feet.
Humility was strictly enjoined. They were to live on charity; to beg their bread if necessary, and not to be ashamed, but rather to remember that our Lord Jesus Christ was not ashamed, was poor and a stranger, and lived on charity, both he and his disciples. They were stringently cautioned against women, or, as St. Francis ungallantly puts it, "A malo visu et frequentia mulierum." Wherever they went, they were to remember that, and no one of them was to counsel women in secret. They were to travel on foot; not to have any beast, save from extreme infirmity, or the most urgent necessity. [Footnote 149]
[Footnote 149: Quod nullo modo apud se nec apud alium, nec aliquo modo bestiam aliquam habeant.]
Having drawn up this rule, St. Francis, with two or three of his followers, went to Rome to procure the pope's sanction to the order. They met the pope on a terrace of the Lateran Palace, and threw themselves at his feet. He, annoyed at the interruption, turned away indignantly from these men with bare, unwashed feet and coarse attire, and bid them begone. They retired to pray, whilst Innocent III. in the night had a vision which induced him to send the next morning for those strange men whom he had repulsed. He received them graciously, approved of their rule, and they departed in joy to Assisi. His march back was a triumph. The people came out to meet him from the villages, and many deserted their homes to join him on the spot. The next step taken by St. Francis was to make a modification in his rule: he found many people were converted to his views, but from the ties of children and business occupations could not possibly follow him.
To meet such wants, he instituted what was called an Order of Penitents, by which those who joined were compelled to pray, to fast, and to live according to certain rules, and wore beneath their ordinary garb the penitential girdle. This Order included both sexes, and people of all classes. One member of it was, however, destined to greater things, the young and beautiful Clara, a daughter of the house of Ortolana. She had, from childhood, been brought up most religiously by her mother, and the weird eloquence of St. Francis finished the task.
An interview was arranged, and the saint suggested an elopement, which was successfully effected, and Clara was abducted by St. Francis to the church of Porzioncula. Many other young ladies soon followed, and it was then necessary to institute new rules for these fair converts.The church of St. Damian, which St. Francis had rebuilt, was turned into a convent, with Clara (who was afterward canonized as St. Clara) as its abbess. A letter is extant in the works of the saint, which runs as follows: "Francis, to his very dear Sister Clara, and the Convent of the Sisters of St. Damian, health in Christ. Because by the inspiration of our Lord ye have made yourselves daughters and handmaidens of the Highest, of the most high King and heavenly Father, and have betrothed yourselves to the Holy Spirit to live according to the teaching of the gospel; it is my will, and I promise that I and my brethren will have always for you the same diligent care and special solicitude as for ourselves. Farewell in the Lord."
In the year 1216, the first general council of the new order was held in the Porzioncula, when Tuscany, Lombardy, Provence, Spain, and Germany were assigned to the principal followers of St. Francis as mission grounds. The saint himself took France as his own field of operations. At this point a meeting took place between St. Francis and one who stands in the church almost on an equality with him, Dominic, the founder of the order of Friars Preachers.
Three years after the first, the second council was held, and a grand sight it was—five thousand brethren encamped around the church. To this great body, infused with the spirit of one man, Ugolino was introduced, and made such a flattering speech, and gave such glowing predictions of their future power and glory, that St. Francis became alarmed, and quickly perceived that, if the protector were allowed to have free play, he would soon ruin his charge. He therefore interfered, reiterated the severity of their rule which forbade all dreams of glory or power, told them they must always be the Minor Brethren, the poor of the world, and after redistributing them amongst several countries, broke up the assembly never more to venture on another gathering into one spot of such inflammable materials. When they were all dispersed, their great founder went upon a holy mission to the army then under the walls of Damietta. He advised the Christians not to engage with the Saracens, and predicted their defeat if they did, but the army were too eager for plunder and bloodshed. They engaged, and six thousand slaughtered Christians fulfilled the prophecy.
Then St. Francis resolved upon taking a step which made his name still more famous in history. Confiding his project to only one, who was to accompany him, Illuminatus [Footnote 150] by name, St. Francis, although a reward was set upon the head of every Christian, wandered up to the lines of the enemy, was seized, and taken before the sultan. Strange to say, instead of ordering him to be executed, the sultan received him courteously, listened to his preaching patiently, and asked him to remain with him in his tent. St. Francis replied, "I will remain willingly with you, if you and your people will only become converted to Christ; but if you doubt, order a fire to be kindled, and I will enter into it with your priests, and see who is right." The sultan, who had perceived that one of the chief priests had vanished at these words, replied: "I do not think any of my priests would submit to the torture for the sake of their religion." Then said St. Francis: "If you will promise for yourself and your people to adopt the Christian religion if I come out uninjured, I will enter it alone." The sultan, however, declined, and after vainly offering rich presents to St. Francis, sent him back in safety to the Christian camp.
[Footnote 150: It is sometimes stated that St. Francis went alone, but the lives by St. Bonaventura, by the Tres Socii, and by St. Thomas of Celano, all mention this Illuminatus as his companion.]
After this memorable interview. St. Francis returned, preaching in all the countries as he passed through. One day after his return, as he was praying in the church of St. Mary, Porzioncula, a vision of our Saviour appeared, and promised that, to all who should thereafter confess their sins in that church, plenary remission should be granted. St. Francis immediately went to the pope at Perugia, and procured the granting of the indulgence, in consequence of which a ceremony is held to this day annually, in the church of St. Mary of the Angels, when the peasantry assemble to confess their sins and receive the promised indulgence.
Then comes the last great tradition of his life—the receiving the stigmata. It is recorded, and firmly attested by the great men who wrote his biography, that, on a certain morning, at the hour of the holy sacrifice, when St. Francis was praying on the side of Mount Avernia, Jesus Christ appeared to him under the form of a seraph crucified on the cross, and when the vision had disappeared, St. Francis was marked with the wounds of Christ in his hands, his feet, and his side.
Various grave discussions arose amongst the faithful about the truth of this legend. Only nineteen years after its presumed occurrence a Dominican preacher had declared openly his disbelief of it, but then he was a Dominican. The Bishop of Olmutz, however, followed in the wake, when Pope Gregory IX. (Ugolino of old) wrote, reproaching them with their want of faith; and Alexander IV., who succeeded, declared he had seen with his own eyes the stigmata of St. Francis.
Shortly after this incident, St. Francis sickened, and, exhausted by long fastings and vigils, wasted gradually, until, as Bonaventura says, he was only skin and bone—"quasi sola cutis ossibus cohaereret." One day, during his illness, a companion said to him: "Brother, pray to God that he may have mercy upon thee, and not lay his hand so severely upon thee." St. Francis reproved him for such a speech, and, though he was very weak, threw himself on the ground, and, kissing the earth, said: "I thank thee, O Lord God, for all my pains; and I pray thee, if it be thy will, multiply them a hundred-fold, because it will be most acceptable to me; for the fulfilment of thy will in me will be my supreme consolation." And his brethren noticed that, as his bodily pains increased, his joy was greater. He predicted the day of his death, and begged to be carried to his beloved Porzioncula, that he might yield up his spirit at that spot where he had first received divine grace. It was done, and he insisted upon being laid naked upon the bare ground, when he turned to his companions and said: "I have done my part; what yours is, may Christ teach you." When his last hour was come, he had all the brethren on the spot called to him, addressed them kindly on preserving their vows of poverty, and upholding the faith of the Catholic Church; he then laid his hands upon them, and pronounced his blessing upon all present and absent. "Farewell," said he, "all my sons; be strong in the fear of God, and remain in that always; and since future temptation and tribulation are near, blessed are they who continue in the things they have begun. But I hasten to God, to whose grace I commend you all." Then he called for a copy of the gospels, and asked them to read him that of St. John, beginning at the words, "Before the day of the passover," etc., when he suddenly broke out into the psalm: "Voce mea ad Dominum clamavi, voce mea ad Dominum deprecatus sum," continued to the words, "Me expect justi donec retribuas mihi," when, as they died away on his lips, the spirit of the great founder passed gently out of his poor emaciated body, and returned to its Maker.
Thus died St. Francis, in the odor of sanctity; and perhaps we cannot more appropriately conclude this brief outline of his life than by giving a translation of a sketch of his character and personal appearance, as written by one who knew him, Thomas of Celano, the author of the Dies Irae.It forms a graphic portrait of the man, and may serve as a fair specimen of hagiography. In his life of the saint, he thus writes:
"Oh! how beautiful, how splendid, how glorious did he appear in the innocence of his life, in the simplicity of his words, in the purity of his heart, in his love of God, in brotherly charity, in fragrant obedience, in angelic aspect! Gentle in manners, placid in nature, affable in conversation, faithful in undertakings, of admirable foresight in counsel, able in business, gracious to all, serene in mind, gentle in temper, sober in spirit, stable in contemplation, persevering in grace, and in all things the same; swift to indulge, to anger slow, free in intellect, in memory bright, subtle in dissertation, circumspect in choice, simple in all things; rigid toward himself, pious toward others, discreet to everybody; a most eloquent man, of cheerful aspect, and benevolent countenance, free from idleness, void of insolence. He was of the middle stature, rather inclined to shortness; his head was of the medium size, and round, with an oblong and extended face, a small smooth forehead, black and simple eyes, dark brown hair and straight eyebrows; his nose was thin, well proportioned, and straight; his ears erect and small, and his temples were smooth; his tongue was placable, though fiery and sharp; his voice was vehement, though sweet, clear, and sonorous; his teeth well set, regular, and white; his lips of moderate size; his beard was black, and not very thick; his neck thin; his shoulders straight, with small arms, thin hands, long fingers and nails; he had thin legs, small feet, a delicate skin, and very little flesh. He wore a rough vest, took very little sleep, and though he was most humble, he showed every courtesy to all men, conforming himself to the manners of every one. As he was holy amongst the holy, so amongst sinners he was as one of them." [Footnote 151]
[Footnote 151: Thomas de Celano in Vita Sti. Francisci. Acta Sanct.]
Before we advance further, we must say a few words upon a subject well known to all who have investigated the originals of ecclesiastical history—the miracles attributed to the saints. Their biographies are spangled with miracles—that of St. Francis especially. The Acta Sanctorum is a compilation of some fifty or sixty folio volumes, containing sometimes five or six different lives of each saint, written by men in different ages and countries, ranging from the eighth to the fourteenth century. All these writers unite in one thing, the ascription of miraculous powers to the saints. The question then arises, can this be wholly and entirely false? can it be utterly without one grain of truth in it?—a tissue of falsehoods wilful, wanton falsehoods consistently written by men at vastly different times, and in remotely distant countries? We must premise at once that we are not for a moment going to defend the absolute truth of the wonders attributed to the saints. We do not believe for an instant that their bodies were sometimes lifted from the earth, and carried up into the sky, like St. Francis; or that they walked dry-footed over the sea, as did St. Birim, when he left the corporalia behind him at Boulogne; nor that commands and directions were given them direct from heaven, through the medium of crosses, images, or pictures; but we cannot help reflecting as to whether it is possible for such a systematic body of history to be handed down to posterity in one continuity of falsehood for some eight or nine centuries; or whether we may come to the conclusion that it is a superstructure of exaggeration built up upon some basis of truth. It may help us, perhaps, at the outset, to notice what were the characters of the writers of these lives; were they men likely to be deluded by fanaticism, or likely to lend themselves to the perpetration and perpetuation of wanton falsehood?