Good will being of so great importance, you ask me of what use it is, if it does not manifest itself by its works.
And St. Gregory tells us that where there are no works there can be no love at all, or at least none that is sincere. Our Blessed Father will give the best possible answer to your question. These are his words:
"The angel who proclaimed the birth of our infant Saviour sang glory to God, announcing that he published joy, peace, and happiness to men of good will. This was done in order that no one might be ignorant that to receive this Child all that is needed is to be of good will, even though as yet one may have effected nothing of good, for Christ comes to bless all good wills, and, little by little, He will render them fruitful and of good effect, provided we allow Him to govern them.
"With regard to good desires, it is, indeed, marvellous that they should so often come to nothing, and that such magnificent blossoms should produce so little fruit.
"He gives, however, a reason for this, which pleases me very much.
"God knows, he says, why He permits so many good desires to require such length of time and such severe effort to bring them to action, nay, more than this, why sometimes they are never actuated at all.
"Yet if there were no other profit from them than that resulting from the mortification of a soul which loves God, that would be much.
"In fact, we must not desire evil things at all; good things we must desire only in moderation; but desire supremely, and in a limitless degree, that one only divine Good, God Himself."
A certain person of my acquaintance[1] having learnt on good authority that Blessed Francis had in his early youth made a vow to say his rosary every day, wished to imitate him in this work of piety, and yet did not like to make the vow without first consulting him.
He received the answer: "Beware of doing so." My friend replying: "Why do you refuse to others the advice which you took for yourself in your youth?" Blessed Francis continued: "The very wordyouthdecides the question, because I made the vow at that time with less reflection, but now that I am older I say to you, Do not do it. I do not tell you not to say your rosary; on the contrary, I advise you as earnestly as I can, and even conjure you not to allow a single day to pass without reciting that prayer, which is most pleasing to God, and to the Blessed Virgin. But do it from a firm and fixed purpose, rather than from a vow, so that if you should happen to omit it either from weariness or forgetfulness, or any other circumstance, you may not be perplexed by scruples, and run the risk of offending God. For it is not enough to vow, we must also pay our vow, and that under pain of sin, which is no small matter. I assure you that this vow has often been a hindrance to me, and many a time I have been on the point of asking to be dispensed, and set free from it, or at least of having it changed into some other work of equal worth, which might interfere less with the discharge of my duties."
"But," rejoined this person, "is not what is done by vow more meritorious than what is done only from a firm and settled purpose?" "I suspected that was it," replied Blessed Francis; "in that case who do you wish should profit by what you do?" "A fine question," cried the other, "my neighbour, do you think? No, certainly, I want to gain it for myself." "Then there is nothing more to be said," replied Blessed Francis. "I see I have been making a mistake, I imagined, of course, that you wished to make your vow to God, for God, and for His sake, and so by your vow to merit or gain something for God. What! Are we to talk of our merits and graces as if He needed them, and were not Himself absolute merit and infinite goodness and perfection?"
Our Blessed Father loved to see this bird beating its wings against the bars of its cage. At last to let him fly, he said: 'But what then is merit, but a work pleasing to God, and a work done in His grace, and by His help, and for His love—a work which He rewards with increase of grace and glory?' "Certainly," said the other, "that is how I, too, understood it." "Well, then," replied he, "if you understand it thus, why do you contend against your understanding and your conscience? Are we not meriting for God, when we do a good work in a state of grace and for the love of God? And ought not the love of God which seeks nothing but His interests, that is to say, His glory, to be the chief end and final aim of all our good works, rather than the reward we thereby merit, which is merely an accessory?"
"And of what use to God are the merits and good works of men?" continued the other. "For one thing," replied he, "God thereby saves you from taking a false step. You are standing on the brink of a precipice, and you have your eyes shut. Let me give you a helping hand."
"In very truth, no good works of ours, though done in a state of grace and for the love of God, can increase His interior and essential glory. The reason is that this glory, being God Himself and consequently infinite, can neither be increased by our good actions nor diminished by our sins; and it is in this sense that David says that God is God and has no need of our goods.[2] It is not thus, however, with the exterior glory which is rendered to Him by creatures, and for the obtaining of which He drew them forth out of nothingness into existence. This is finite, by reason of its subject, God's creature, and therefore can be increased by our good works done in and for the love of God, or, on the other hand, diminished by our evil actions, by which we dishonour God, and rob Him of His glory, though only of glory which is exterior and outside of the divine nature.
"Now that we do increase the exterior glory of God by our good works, done as I have said, is evident from the testimony of the Apostle, when he calls the man who is purified from sin by justifying grace:A vessel unto honour sanctified and profitable to the Lord prepared unto every good work.[3]
"Indeed, it is the very fact that a work done in grace increases the exterior glory of God, which makes it meritorious, His goodness being pledged by His promise to glorify those who glorify Him, and to give the crown of justice to those who fight the good fight, and who do, or endure, anything for the glory of His name. This is why I said that we must merit for God, that is to say, we should refer our actions to the glory of God, and act out of love for Him. So we shall merit eternal life, provided always we be free from mortal sin, since God is not pledged to give the glories of heaven to any but those who shall labour in His grace.
"If, on the other hand, we wish to merit for ourselves, that is to say, if we positively intend that the whole aim of our labour be the reward of grace, or glory, which we hope for: and if we do not, in performing our good works seek first and chiefly the glory of God; then we really merit nothing for ourselves, since we do nothing for God. The reason of this is that there is so close a relationship between merit and reward (the two Latin names for them,meritumandmerces, having the same root and meaning), that one cannot exist without the other any more than a mountain without a valley, or paternity without sonship.
"You see now that in the theory you have unwittingly adopted you entirely destroy the nature of true merit, and are in danger of being shipwrecked on the same rock as those heretics of our day who hold that good works are unprofitable for salvation. I am convinced, as you may well believe, that you are as far from wishing to run the risk with them as you are from sharing their belief.
"Remember this, that in order to do a good work in true charity you must not make your own interest your ultimate aim, but God's interest, which is nothing else but His exterior glory. The more, too, that you think of God's interest the more He will think of yours, and the less you trouble yourself about reward, the greater will your reward be in heaven, because pure love, never mercenary, looks only to the good of the beloved one, not to its own. This is the end and aim of the sacred teaching that we must seek first theKingdom of God, that is to say, His glory, knowing assuredly that in seeking this all good things will be added unto us.
"He who only wishes to merit for himself does nothing for God and merits nothing for himself: but, on the other hand, he who does everything for God and for His honour merits much for himself.
"In this game he who loses, wins; and he who thinks only of winning for himself, plays a losing game. His good works are, as it were, hollow, and weigh too lightly in the divine balance. He falls asleep on his pile; of imaginary spiritual wealth, and awakening finds he has nothing in his hands. He has laboured for himself, not for God, and therefore receives his reward from himself and not from God. Like a moth, he singes his wings in the flame of a merit which is truly imaginary, no work being really meritorious except that which is done in a state of grace, and with God for its last end."
"All this," replied the person, "does not at all satisfy me on the point which I brought forward, namely, as to whether work done by vow is not more meritorious than that which is done without it, seeing that to the action of the particular virtue which is vowed is added that of the virtue of religion which is the vow."
"Certainly," replied our Blessed Father, "as regards the question whether it is more meritorious to say the Rosary by vow rather than of one's free choice, it is undoubtedly, as you say, adding one act of virtue to another to do so in discharge of one's vow, for is not prayer the highest of all religious actions? Again, if I pray with devotion and fervour, am I not adding to prayer another religious action, which is devotion? If I offer to God this prayer, as incense, or a spiritual sacrifice, or as an oblation, are not sacrifice and oblation two religious actions? Moreover, if by this prayer I desire to praise God, is not divine praise a religious act? If in praying I adore God, is not adoration one also?
"And if I pray thus with devotion, adoration, sacrifice, oblation, and praise, have we not here five acts of the virtue of religion added by me to the sixth, which is prayer?"
"But," rejoined the other, "the vow is more than all that." "If," replied Blessed Francis, "you say that the act of making a vow is in itself more than all these six together, you must really bring me some proof of its being so."
"I mean," said the other, "than each of these acts taken separately," "That," returned our Blessed Father, "is not the opinion of the Angelical Doctor,[4] who, when enumerating the eleven acts of religion, places the making a vow only in the eighth rank, with seven preceding it, namely, prayer, devotion, adoration, sacrifice, oblation, the paying of tithes, and first-fruits; and three after it: the praise of God, the taking of lawful oaths, and the adjuring of creatures in God.
"It is not that the act of making a vow is not an excellent thing; but we have no right to set it above other virtues which surpass it in excellence, and other good works of greater worth. We must leave everything in its place, going neither against the order of reason nor against that of divine charity. A man who boasts too much of his noble birth provokes scrutiny into the genuineness of his claim and risks its being disallowed."
"All the same," persisted this person, "I maintain that a good work done by vow is more meritorious than one done without it, charity, of course, being taken for granted." "It is not enough," replied Francis, "to take charity for granted. We must also suppose it to be greater in the man who does the action with a vow than in the one who does it without; for if he who says some particular prayer, because bound by vow, has less charity than he who says the same without being so bound, he, doubtless, has, and you will not deny it, less merit than the other, because merit is not in proportion to the vow made, but to the charity which accompanies it, and without which it has neither life nor value."
"And supposing equal charity, vow, or no vow," resumed the person, "will not the action done by vow have greater merit than the other?" "It will only have the same eternal glory for its reward," replied our Blessed Father, "in so far as it has the same amount of charity, and thus each will receive the same reward of eternal life.
"But as regards accidental glory, supposing that there were a special halo for the vow which would add a fourth to the three of which schoolmen treat, or, if you wish, that there should be as many special and accidental halos of glory as there are kinds of virtue, they will be unequal in accidental glory.
"But then we should have to prove that this multiplicity of halos, or accidental glories, exists, in addition to the three of which the schoolmen speak. This I would ask you now to do, though I am doubtful as to the result."
"Of what then does it avail you," said the other, "to have made that vow about which I have been consulting you?"
"It renders me," replied our Blessed Father, "more careful, diligent, and attentive in keeping my word to God, in binding myself closer to Him, in strengthening me to keep my promise (for I do not deny that there is something more stable in the vow than in mere purpose and resolution), in keeping myself from the sin I might incur, if I should fail in what I have vowed, in stimulating me to do better, and to make use of this means to further my progress in the love of God," "You do not then pretend to merit more on account of it?" said the other. "I leave all that to God," replied Francis, "He knows the measure of grace which He gives, or wishes to give me. I desire no more, and only as much as it may please Him to bestow on me for His glory. Love is not eager to serve its own interests, it leaves the care of them to its Beloved, who will know how to reward those who love Him with a pure and disinterested love."
I close this subject with two extracts from the writings of our Blessed Father. In the first he says: "I do not like to hear people say, We must dothis, orthat, because there is more merit in it. There is more merit in saying, 'We must do all for the glory of God.' If we could serve God without merit—which cannot be done—we ought to wish to do so. It is to be feared that by always trying to discover what is most meritorious we may miss our way, like hounds, which when the scent is crossed, easily lose it altogether."
[Footnote 1: Undoubtedly M. Camus himself. Note.—It is considered by critics that M. Camus puts much of his own into the month of St. Francis in this section.—[Ed.]] [Footnote 2: Psal. xv. 2.] [Footnote 3: 2 Tim. ii. 21.] [Footnote 4: S. Thom. 2a, 2ae, Quaest, xxiii. art. vii.]
I have been asked whether our Lord Jesus Christ had passions. I cannot do better than answer in the exact words of our Blessed Father, taken from his Theotimus. He says:
"Jesus Christ feared, desired, grieved, and rejoiced. He even wept, grew pale, trembled, and sweated blood, although in Him these effects were not caused by passions like to ours. Therefore the great St. Jerome, and, following his example, the Schools of Theology, out of reverence for the divine Person in whom they existed, do not dare to give the name of passions to them, but call them reverently pro-passions, to show that in our Lord these sensible emotions, though not passions, took the place of passions. Moreover, He suffered nothing whatever on account of them, excepting what seemed good to Him, governing and controlling them at His will. This, we who are sinners do not do, for we suffer and groan under these disorderly emotions, which, against our will, and to the great prejudice of our spiritual peace and welfare, disturb our souls."[1]
[Footnote 1: Book I. chap. 3.]
Blessed Francis candidly owned that the two passions which it cost him the most to conquer were "love of creatures and anger." The former overcame by skill, the latter by violence, or as he himself was wont to say, "by taking hold of his heart with both hands."
The strategy by which he conquered love of creatures was this. He gave his affections an altogether new object to feed upon and to live for, an object absolutely pure and holy, the Creator. The soul, we know, cannot live without love, therefore all depends on providing it with an object worthy of its love. Our will is like our love. "We become earthly," says St. Augustine, "if we love the earth, but heavenly if we love heaven. Nay more, if we love God, we actually, by participation, become godlike. Osee, speaking of idolaters, says:They became abominable as those things were which they loved".[1] All our Saint's writings breathe love, but a love so holy, pure, and beautiful as to justify itself in every expression of it:—Pure words … justified in themselves … sweeter than honey and the honeycomb.
As regards the passion of anger, which was very strong in him, he fought against it, face to face, with such persevering force and success that meekness and gentleness are considered his chief characteristics.
[Footnote 1: Osee ix. 10.]
One day, at a time when I was writing a treatise on the subject of the human passions—which treatise was afterwards published among my Miscellaneous Works—I went to him to be enlightened upon several points.
After having answered my questions, and satisfied my mind, he asked me: "And what will you say about the affections?" I must confess that this question surprised me, for though I am quite aware of the distinction between the reasonable and the sensitive appetite, I had no idea that there was such a difference between the passions and the affections, as he told me existed. I imagined that when the passions were governed by reason, they were called affections, but he explained to me that this was not so at all. He said that our sensitive appetite was divided into two parts: the concupiscent and the irascible….
The reasonable appetite is also divided, like the sensitive, into the concupiscent and the irascible, but it makes use of the mind as its instrument.
The sensitive concupiscent appetite is again subdivided into six passions: 1, love; 2, hate; 3, desire; 4, aversion; 5, joy; 6, sadness. The irascible comprises five passions: 1, anger; 2, hope; 3, despair; 4, fear; 5, courage.
The reasonable appetite, which is the will, has just as many affections, and they bear the same names. There is, however, this difference between the passions and the affections. We possess the passions in common with the irrational brute creation, which, as we see, is moved by love, hate, desire, aversion, joy, sadness, anger, hope, despair, fear, and fearlessness, but without the faculty of reason to guide and regulate the impulse of the senses.
The carnal man, that is to say, he who allows himself to be carried away by the impetuosity of his feelings, is, says the Psalmist:compared to senseless beasts and is become like to them.[1]
He, however who makes use of his reason, directs his affections uprightly and well, employing them in the service of the reasonable appetite, only in as far as they are guided by the light and teaching of natural reason. As this, however, is faulty and liable to deceptions and illusions, mistakes are often made which are called by philosophers disorders of mind.
But when the regenerate, that is to say, the Christian who possesses both grace and charity, makes use of the passions of his sensitive appetite, as well as of the affections of his reason, for the glory of God, and for the love of Him alone, this does not happen. Then he loves what he ought to love, he hates what he ought to hate, he desires what God wills that he should desire, he flies from what displeases God, he is saddened by offences done against God, he rejoices and takes delight in the things which are pleasing to God. Then his zeal fills him with anger and indignation against all that detracts from the honour due to God; he hopes in God and not in the creature, he fears nothing save to offend God, he is fearless in God's service. Thus, the Psalmist, a man after God's own heart, was able to say that his flesh, that is, the passions seated in his senses, and his heart, namely, the affections rooted in his mind,rejoiced in the living God.[2]
The winds, which, as some of the ancients held, come forth from the caverns and hollows of the earth, produce two very different effects upon the sea. Without winds we cannot sail, and yet through them tempests and shipwrecks happen. The passions and affections shut up in the two caverns of the concupiscent and the irascible appetite are so many inward impulses which urge us on to evil if they are rebellious, disorderly, and irregular, but if directed by reason and charity, lead us into the haven of rest, the port of life eternal.
This is what our Blessed Father taught me, and if you desire any more information on the subject you will find it in hisTreatise on the Love of God.[3] His words did indeed open my eyes! They were of the greatest assistance to me in writing the book I alluded to.
[Footnote 1: Psal. xlviii. 13.][Footnote 2: Psal. lxxxiii. 3.][Footnote 3: Book 1. chap. 5.]
There is something remarkable about the origin of this book,An Introduction to the Devout Life, addressed by him to Philothea, that is, to every soul which desires to love and serve God, and especially to persons living in the world. One peculiarity about it is that it was composed two years before its author had thought of writing any book at all. He says on this subject in his preface:
"It was by no choice or desire of mine that thisIntroductionsaw the light. Some time ago, a soul[1] richly endowed with honourable and virtuous qualities, having received from God the grace to aspire to the devout life, desired my special assistance in the matter. I, on my part, having had much to do with her in spiritual concerns, and having for a long time past observed in her a great aptitude for such a life, took great pains in instructing her. I not only led her through all the exercises suitable to her condition and aspirations, but I also gave her some written notes, to which she might refer when necessary. Later on she showed these to a learned and devout Religious man, who, considering that they might be of use to many, strongly urged me to publish them, which he easily persuaded me to do, because his friendship had great power over me, and because I valued his judgment very highly."
I am able to give some further details. This soul richly endowed with honourable and virtuous qualities, as our Blessed Father described her to be, was a lady from Normandy of good family, who had married a gentleman of note in Savoy. His estates were partly in the diocese of Geneva, where he mostly resided, and he was nearly related to our Blessed Father. The lady, who was of a most pious disposition, decided that she could not possibly choose a better guide in the devout life than our Saint, her Bishop, and her relative by marriage.
Blessed Francis instructed her carefully both by word of mouth and also by written lessons, which she not only kept and treasured up, but sorted and arranged according to their various subjects, so as to be able to find in a moment the counsel she wanted.
For two years she went on steadily collecting and amassing these precious documents as one by one he wrote them for her. At the end of that time, owing to the disturbed state of the country, a great change came over her life. Her husband served his Prince, the Duke of Savoy, in the war in Piedmont, and was obliged to leave the management of all his affairs and of his property to his wife, who was as skilful in such matters as she was devout.
The business of a great lawsuit in which her husband was concerned obliged her to take up her residence for more than six months at Chambery, where the senate or parliament was held.
During her stay in this place she took for her director Père Jean Ferrier, the Rector of the Jesuit College, and confessor to our Blessed Father. In her difficulties she applied to this Father for advice, and he willingly gave it.
Sometimes it agreed with what Blessed Francis had said to her on similar occasions, sometimes it differed. When it differed, in order to prove that she was not speaking at random, and that she had something stronger than her own memory to rely upon, she would show him some of the written memoranda of which I have spoken.
The good Priest, who was deeply versed in all spiritual matters, found so much in them that was profitable and delightful, that on one occasion he asked her if she had many more of the same sort.
"So many, Father," she replied, "that if they were arranged in proper order they would make a good-sized volume."
The Father at once expressed his wish to see them all, and after having slowly and thoughtfully perused them, begged as a further favour that he might have several copies made of them.
This being readily granted, he distributed the said copies among the Fathers of the College, who fully appreciated the gift, and treasured it most carefully.
When this lady returned to Geneva, the Father Rector wrote a letter by her to our Blessed Father, praising her many virtues and her business talents, and begging him to continue to guide and counsel a soul so rich in all Christian graces and heavenly dispositions. He then went on to extol in the highest terms the written teaching with which he (Francis) had assisted her. Our Blessed Father read Père Ferrier's first letter, he has told me, without giving a thought to the matter of his own writings. But when this was followed by letter upon letter urging and imploring him not to keep such a treasure buried, but to allow other souls to be enlightened and guided in the way of salvation by his teaching, our Blessed Father was puzzled. He wrote to Père Ferrier saying that his present charge was so onerous, and engrossing, that he had no leisure for writing, and moreover that he had no talent for it, and could not imagine why people wanted him to attempt to do so. Père Ferrier replied, saying that if his Lordship did not publish the excellent instructions which he had given in writing to this lady he would be keeping back truth unlawfully, depriving souls of great advantages, and God of great glory. Our Blessed Father, much surprised, showed the letter to the lady, begging her to explain it. She replied that Père Ferrier had made the same request to her, entreating her to have the memoranda, given her for her private direction, published.
"What memoranda?" said Blessed Francis. "Oh! Father," replied the lady, "do you not remember all those little written notes on various subjects which you gave me to help my memory?" "And pray what could be done with those notes?" he enquired. "Possibly you might make a sort of Almanack out of them, a sentence for every day in the year." "An Almanack!" cried the lady. "Why, Father, do you know that there are enough of them to fill a big book! Little by little the pile has grown larger than you would think! Many feathers make a pound, and many strokes of the pen make a book. You had better see the papers, and judge for yourself. The Father Rector has had them copied, and they make a thick volume." "What!" cried Blessed Francis, "has the good Father really had the patience to read through all these poor little compositions, put together for the use of an unenlightened woman! You have done us both a great honour, indeed, by giving the learned doctor such a trifle to amuse himself with, and by showing him these precious productions of mine!" "Yet he values them so much," replied the lady, "that he persists in assuring me that he has never come across any writings more useful, or more edifying; and he goes on to say that this is the general feeling of all the Fathers of his house, who are all eager to possess copies. If you refuse to take the matter in hand, they will themselves see that this light is not left much longer under a bushel." "Really," said our Blessed Father, "it is amazing that people should want me to believe that I have written a book without meaning it. However, let us examine these precious pearls of which so much is thought."
The lady then brought to him all the bundles of notes which she had shown to Père Ferrier. Our Blessed Father was astonished to see how many there were, and wondered at the care which the lady had taken to collect and preserve them. He asked to be allowed to look them through again, and begged Père Ferrier not to attempt to send to the press disconnected and detached fragments which he had never for a moment thought of publishing. He added, however, that if on examination he thought that what had been written for the consolation of one soul might prove useful to others, he would not fail to put them into good order, and to add what was necessary to make them acceptable to those who might take the trouble to read them.
This he did, and the result was theIntroduction,[2] which we are therefore justified in saying was composed two years before its author thought of writing it!
The simplicity, beauty, and usefulness of this book is well known. It showed the possibility of living a holy life in any station, amid the tumult of worldly cares, the seductions of prosperity, or the temptations of poverty. It brought new light to devout souls, and encouragement to all, whether high or low, who were desirous of finding and following Jesus.
But, alas! there is a reverse side to the picture. I mean the misrepresentations and calumnies which our Blessed Father had to endure from those who pretended that the principles on which the book was based were absurd, and that it inculcated a degree of devotion quite impracticable in ordinary life.
I can hardly speak calmly about this matter, and so content myself with remarking that in spite of bitter opposition the book has already, in my own time, passed through thirty editions in French, and has been translated not only into Latin, but into Italian, Spanish, German, English, in short, into most European languages.
In order that you may not think, however, that I have exaggerated in what I have said of the opposition which it excited, I will close the subject with our Blessed Father's own calm and gentle words of lament. In his preface to theTreatise on the Love of God, he says:
"Three or four years afterwards I published theIntroduction to a Devout Lifeupon the occasion, and in the manner which I have put down in the preface thereof: regarding which I have nothing to say to you, dear reader, save only that, though this little book has in general had a gracious and kind acceptance, yes, even amongst the gravest Prelates and Doctors of the Church, yet it has not escaped the rude censure of some who have not merely blamed me but bitterly and publicly attacked me, because I tell Philothea that dancing is an action indifferent in itself, and that for recreation's sake one may make puns and jokes. Knowing the quality of these censors, I praise their intention, which I think was good. I should have desired them, however, to please to consider that the first proposition is drawn from the common and true doctrine of the most holy and learned divines; that I was writing for such as live in the world, and at court; that withal I carefully point out the extreme dangers which are found in dancing; and that as to the second proposition, it is not mine but St. Louis', that admirable King, a Doctor worthy to be followed in the art of rightly conducting courtiers to a devout life. For, I believe, if they had weighed this, their charity and discretion would never have permitted their zeal, how vigorous, and austere soever, to arm their indignation against me."
[Footnote 1: Madame de Charmoisy, née Louise Dutchatel. [Ed.]] [Footnote 2: The Saint added advice given by him to his mother and others. [Ed.]]
God said to Moses:Look, and make it(the tabernacle)according to the pattern that was shewn thee in the mount,[1] and he did so. The ancient philosopher was right when he described the art of imitating as the mistress of all others, because it is by making copies that we learn how to draw originals, "The way of precept is long," said the Stoics, "but example makes it short and efficacious." Seneca, treating of the best method of studying philosophy, says that it is to nourish and clothe ourselves with the maxims of eminently philosophical minds.
Blessed Francis always inculcated this practice of imitating others in virtue. Hence his choice of spiritual books to be read and followed. With respect to the Lives of the Saints, he advised the reading by preference of those of holy men and women whose vocation has either been identical with or very much like our own, in order that we may put before ourselves models we can copy more closely.
On one occasion, however, when I was telling him how I had taken him for my pattern, and how closely I watched his conduct and ways, trying thereon to model my own, and that he must be careful not to do anything less perfect, for if he did, I should certainly imitate it as a most exalted virtue, he said: "It is unfortunate that friendship, like love, should have its eyes bandaged and hinder us from distinguishing between the defects and the good qualities of the person to whom we are attached. What a pity it is that you should force me to live among you as if I were in an enemy's country, and that I have to be as suspicious of your eyes and ears as if you were spies!
"Still I am glad that you have spoken to me as you have done, for a man warned is a man armed, and I seem to hear a voice saying: 'Child of earth, be on thy guard, and always walk circumspectly, since God and men are watching thee!' Our enemies are constantly on the alert to find fault and injure us by talking against us; our friends ought to observe us just as narrowly but for a very different reason, in order, namely, that they may be able to warn us of our failings, and kindly to help us to get rid of them.
"The just man, says the Psalmist,shall correct me in mercy, and shall reprove me, but let not the oil of the sinner fatten my head. By the oil of the sinner is meant flattery. Do not be offended with me if I assure you that you are still more cruel to me, for you not only refuse to give me a helping hand to aid me in getting rid of my faults, which you might do by wholesome and charitable warnings, but you seem by your unfair copying of my faults to wish, to make me an accomplice in your own wrong doings!
"As for me, the affection God has given me for you is very different. My jealousy for God's honour makes me long so ardently to see you walk in His ways that your slightest failing is intolerable to me, and so far am I from wishing to imitate your faults, that, if I seem to overlook them for a time, I am, believe me, doing violence to myself, by waiting with patience for a fitting opportunity to warn you of them."
[Footnote 1: Exod. xxv. 40.]
Blessed Francis considered—as indeed I have already told you in another place—that to love to listen to God, speaking to us, either by the living voice of His Priests, or in pious books, which are often the voice of His Saints, was one of the strongest marks of predestination.
But he also insisted on the folly and uselessness of listening to, or reading, without putting in practice the lessons so conveyed to us. This, he said, was like beholding our faces in a glass, then going our way, and forgetting what we are like. It is to learn the will of our Master and not to take pains to fulfil His commands.
In his Philothea he says:
"Be devoted to the word of God, whether it comes to you in familiar conversation with your spiritual friends, or in listening to sermons. Always hear it with attention and reverence, profit by it as much as possible, and never permit it to fall to the ground. Receive it into your heart as a precious balm, following the example of the Blessed Virgin, who kept carefully in her heart every word that was spoken in praise of her divine Child. Do not forget that our Lord gathers up the words which we speak to Him in our prayers, in proportion to the diligence with which we gather up those He addresses to us by the mouth of His preachers."
As regards spiritual reading, he recommended it most strongly as being food for the soul, which we could always keep at hand, at all times and in all places. He said that we might be where we could not always hear sermons, or easily have recourse to a spiritual director and guide, and that our memory might not always serve us to recall what we had been taught, either by preachers, or by those who had instructed us specially and individually in the way of salvation. He therefore desired those who aspired to lead a devout life to provide themselves with pious books which would kindle in their hearts the flame of divine love, and not to let a single day pass without using them. He wished them to be read with great respect and devotion, saying that we should regard them as missives "sent to us by the Saints from heaven, to show us the way thither, and to give us courage to persevere in it."
It is well known that if our Blessed Father had lived to return from Lyons, his intention was to retire from the world and its activities in which he had so long taken a part, and to lead henceforth a purely contemplative life.
With this intention he had, some years before his death, caused a little hermitage to be built in a most suitable and sequestered spot on the shores of the beautiful lake of Annecy. This, however, he had had done quite quietly without giving any idea of the real purpose for which it was destined.
On this same shore there is a Benedictine Monastery called Taloire, easily accessible, as it is built on the slope of the Hill. Into it he had introduced some salutary reforms, and he was on terms of the most affectionate intimacy with the holy men who lived a hidden life in its quiet seclusion.
At the top of a neighbouring spur of this same mountain, on a gentle and smooth rising ground, surrounded by rich vineyards and delightful shrubs of various kinds, watered by clear streams, stood an old chapel, dedicated to God, under the name of St. Germain, a Saint who had been one of the first monks in the Monastery and who is greatly honoured in that part of the country. Blessed Francis secretly gave the necessary funds for repairing and decorating this chapel, and for building round it five or six cells pleasantly enclosed. This hermitage, the Superior said, would be most useful to his monks, enabling them to make their spiritual retreats in quiet solitude. Indeed, from time to time he sent them there for this purpose, in accordance with the rule of St. Benedict, which so greatly recommends solitude, a rule practised to the letter in the hermitages of Montserrat in Spain.
Here, then, in this quiet and lonely retreat, it was the intention of Blessed Francis to spend the last years of his life, and when he spoke upon the subject in private to the good Prior, he expressed himself in these words: "When I get to our hermitage I will serve God with my breviary, my rosary, and my pen. Then I shall have plenty of happy and holy leisure, which I can spend in putting on paper, for the glory of God and the instruction of souls, thoughts which have been surging through my mind for the last thirty years and which have been useful to me in my sermons, in my instructions, and in my own private meditations. My memory is crowded with these, but I hope, besides, that God will inspire me with others, and that ideas will fall upon me from heaven thick and fast as the snowflakes which in winter whiten all our mountains. Oh! who will give me the wings of a dove, that I may fly to this holy resting place, and draw breath for a little while beneath the shadow of the Cross?I expect until my change come!"[1]
[Footnote 1: Job xiv. 14.]
Blessed Francis, gentle and indulgent to others as regards recreation, was severe towards himself in this matter. He never had a garden in either of the two houses which he occupied during the time of his episcopate, and only took walks when the presence of guests made them necessary, or when his physician prescribed them for his health, for he obeyed him faithfully.
But he acted otherwise with his friends and neighbours. He approved of agreeable conversation after meals, never showing weariness, or making them feel ill at ease. When I went to visit him, he took pains to amuse me after the fatigue of preaching, either by a row on the beautiful lake of Annecy, or by delightful walks in the fine gardens on its banks. He did not refuse similar recreations which I offered him when he came to see me, but he never asked for or sought them for himself. Although he found no fault with those who talked enthusiastically of architecture, pictures, music, gardening, botany, and the like, and who devoted themselves to these studies or amusements, he desired that they should use them as mystical ladders by means of which the soul may rise to God, and by his own example he showed how this might be done.
If any one pointed out to him rich orchards filled with well-grown fruit trees: "We," he would say, "are the agriculture and husbandry of God." If buildings of just proportion and symmetry: "We," he would say, "are the edifice of God." If some magnificent and beautifully decorated church: "We are the living temples of the living God. Why are not our souls as richly adorned with virtues?" If flowers: "Ah! when will our flowers give fruits, and, indeed, be themselves fruits of honour and integrity?"
When there was any talk of budding and grafting, he would say: "When shall we be rightly grafted? When shall we yield fruits both plentiful and well flavoured to the heavenly Husbandman, who cultivates us with so much care and toil?" When rare and exquisite pictures were shown to him: "There is nothing," he would say, "so beautiful as the soul which is made to the image and likeness of God."
When he was taken into a garden, he would exclaim: "Ah! when will the garden of our soul be planted with flowers and plants, well cultivated, all in perfect order, sealed and shut away from all that can displease the heavenly Gardener, who appeared under that form to Magdalen!" At the sight of fountains: "When will fountains of living water spring up in our hearts to life eternal? How long shall we continue to dig for ourselves miserable cisterns, turning our backs upon the pure source of the water of life? Ah! when shall we draw freely from the Saviour's fountains! When shall we bless God for the rivers of Israel!"
And so on with mountains, lakes, and rivers. He saw God in all things and all things in God.
One day we went together into the cell of a certain Carthusian monk, a man whose rare beauty of mind, and extraordinary piety, drew many to visit him, and in later days have taken his candlestick from under its bushel and set it up on high as one of the lights of the French Church.
He had written in capital letters round the walls of his cell these two beautiful lines of an old Latin poet:
Tu mihi curarum requies, tu nocte vel atraLumen, et in solis tu mihi turba locis.[1]
Thou art my rest in grief and care,My light in blackest gloom;In solitude which thou dost share,For crowds there is no room.
Our Blessed Father read and re-read these lines several times, thinking them so beautiful that he wished to engrave them on his memory, believing that they had been written by some Christian poet, perhaps Prudentius. Finding, however, that they were composedly a pagan, and on a profane subject, he said it was indeed a pity that so brilliant a burst of light should only have flashed out from the gross darkness of heathenism. "However," he continued, "this good Father has made the vessels of the Egyptians into a tabernacle, lining it with the steel mirrors which had lent themselves to feminine vanity. Thus it is that to the pure all things are pure. This, indeed, is quite a different thing from the way of acting of those who make light of the holy words of Scripture, using them carelessly and even jestingly in idle conversation, a practice intolerable among Christians who profess to reverence these oracles of salvation."
We then began to analyse these beautiful lines, taking them in the sense in which the holy monk had taken them when he wrote them on his walls, namely, as addressed to God. Our Blessed Father said that God alone was the repose of those who had quitted the world and its cares to listen to His voice speaking to their hearts in solitude, and that without this attentive hearkening, solitude would be a long martyrdom, and a source of anxiety in place of a centre of tranquillity.
At the same time he said that those who were burdened with Martha's busy anxieties would not fail to enjoy in the very midst of their hearts the deep peace of Mary's better part, provided they carried all their cares to God.
We saw afterwards another inscription containing these words of thePsalmist:
This is my rest for ever and ever:Here will I dwell for I have chosen it.[2]
"It is in God," said our Blessed Father, "rather than in a cell, that we should choose our abode, never to change it. Oh! happy and blessed are they who dwell in that house, which is not only the house of the Lord, but the Lord Himself. Happy, indeed, for they shall praise Him for ever and ever."
Then we came upon another inscription, bearing these words:One thing I have asked of the Lord, this will I seek after; that I may see the delight of the Lord and visit His Temple.[3]
"This true dwelling of the Lord," said he, "is His holy will; which is signified by the word delight; i.e., pleasure. Since in God there is no pleasure that is not good, what difference can there be between thegood pleasureand thewillof God? The will of God never tends but towards goodness."
We then went back to the second part of the Latin distich:Tu nocte vel atra, lumen: my light in blackest gloom.
"Yes, truly," he said, "Jesus born in Bethlehem brought a glorious day-dawn into the midst of night; and by His Incarnation did He not come to enlighten those who were sitting in darkness and in the shadow of death? He is, indeed, our Light and our Salvation; when we walk through the valley of the shadow of death we need fear nothing if He is at our side. He is the Light of the world; He dwells in light inaccessible, light that no darkness can overtake. He alone can lighten our darkness."
Upon the last clause of the beautiful verse:
Et in solis tu mihi turba locis. In solitude which thou dost share, For crowds there is no room.
he said: "Yes, communion with God in solitude is worth a thousandfold the pleasantest converse with the gay crowds who throng the doors of the wealthy; for the rich man can only maintain his splendour by dint of much toil, and is worn out by his cares and by the importunity of others. Miserable, indeed, are riches acquired at so great cost, retained with so much trouble, and yet lost with such painful regret."
This was one of his favourite sayings: "We must find our pleasure in ourselves when we are alone, and in our neighbour as in ourselves when we are in his company. Yet, wherever we may be, we must primarily find our pleasure in God alone, who is the maker of both solitude and society. He who does otherwise will find all places wearisome and unsatisfying; for solitude without God is death, and the society of men without God is more harmful than desirable. Wherever we may be, if God is there, all is well: where He is not, nothing is well: without Him we can do nothing that has any worth."
[Footnote 1: Tibul iv., Eleg xiii. ii. 12.][Footnote 2: Psal. cxxxi. 14.][Footnote 3: Psal. xxvi. 4.]
Perhaps there is nothing of which men are more apt to complain than of their own condition in life. This temptation to discontent and unhappiness is a favourite device of the enemy of souls. The holy Bishop used to say: "Away with such thoughts! Do not sow wishes in other people's gardens; do not desire to be what you are not, but rather try most earnestly to be the best of what you are. Try with all your might to perfect yourself in the state in which God has placed you, and bear manfully whatever crosses, heavy or light, may be laid upon your shoulders. Believe me, this is the fundamental principle of the spiritual life; and yet, of all principles it is the least well understood. Every one follows the bent of his own taste and desires; very few find their sole happiness in doing their duty according to the pleasure of our Lord. What is the use of building castles in Spain, when we have to live in France!
"This, as you remember, is old teaching of mine, and by this time you ought to have mastered it thoroughly."
There is one kind of self-sufficiency which is blameworthy and another which is laudable. The former is a form of pride and vanity, and those whom it dominates are termed conceited. Holy Scripture says of them that they trust in themselves. This vanity is so absurd that it seems more deserving of contempt and ridicule than of grave blame.
But to turn to good and rational contentedness. Of it the ancient stoic said that what is sufficient is always at our command, and that what we labour for is superfluous; and again, that if we live according to the laws of nature we shall never be poor, but if we want to live according to our fancies we shall never be rich.
To be contented with what really suffices, and to persuade ourselves that what is more than this Is either evil or leading to evil, is the true means of leading a tranquil, and therefore a happy, life.
This is not only my own opinion, but it is also that of our Blessed Father, who congratulates a pious soul on being contented with the sufficiency she had. "God be praised for your contentment with the sufficiency which He has given you. Persevere in thanking Him for it. It is, indeed, the beatitude of this poor earthly life to be contented with what is sufficient, because those who are not contented when they have enough will never be contented, how much soever they may acquire. In the words of your book—since you call it your book—Nothing will ever content those who are not contented when they have enough."
If the poor, by reason of their poverty, are members of Jesus Christ, the sick are also such by reason of their sickness. Our Saviour Himself has told us so:I was sick, and you visited Me.[1] For if the great Apostle St. Paul said that with the weak he was weak,[2] how much more the divine Exemplar, whom he but copied?
Our Blessed Father expressed as follows his feelings of respect and honour towards a sick person to whom he was writing. "While I think of you sick and suffering in your bed, I regard you with special reverence, and as worthy of being singularly honoured as a creature visited by God, clothed in His apparel, His favoured spouse. When our Lord was on the Cross He was proclaimed King even by His enemies, and souls who are bearing the cross (of suffering) are declared to be queens. Do you know why the angels envy us? Assuredly, because we can suffer for our Lord, whilst they have never suffered anything for His sake. St. Paul, who had been raised to heaven and had tasted the joys of Paradise, considered himself happy only because of his infirmities, and of his bearing the Cross of our Lord."
Farther on he entreats her, as a person signed with the Cross, and a sharer in the sufferings of Jesus Christ, to commend to God, though in an agony of pain, an affair of much importance which concerned the glory of God. He held that in a condition such as hers was, prayer would be more readily heard, just as our Saviour, praying fervently on the Cross, was heard for His reverence. The Psalmist was of the same opinion, saying that God heard him willingly when he cried to Him in the midst of his tribulation, and that it was in his afflictions that God was nearest to him.
Our Blessed Father believed that prayers offered by those who are in suffering, though they be short, are more efficacious than any others. He says: "I entreat you to be so kind as to recommend to God a good work which I greatly desire to see accomplished, and especially to pray about it when you are suffering most acutely: for then it is that your prayers, however short, if they are heartfelt, will be infinitely well received. Ask God at that time also for the virtues which you need the most."
[Footnote 1: Matt. xxv. 36.][Footnote 2: Cor. xi. 29.]
One day we went together to visit a very aged lady in her last illness. Her piety, which was of no ordinary kind, made her look forward calmly to the approach of death, for which she had prepared by the reception of the Sacraments of Penance and of the Blessed Eucharist. She only awaited the visit of her doctor before asking for that of Extreme Unction.
All her worldly affairs were in perfect order, and but one thing troubled her, namely, that her children who had all assembled round her, on hearing of her danger, were too indefatigable in their attendance upon her, and this, as she thought, to the detriment of their own health. Our Blessed Father wishing to comfort her, said tenderly: "Do you know that I, on the contrary, when I am ill, am never so happy as when I see my relatives and servants all busy about me, tiring themselves out on my behalf. You are astonished, and ask me why I feel like this. Well, it is because I know that God will repay them generously for all these services. For if a cup of cold water given to a poor man in the love and for the love of God receives such a reward as eternal life; if our least labours undertaken for the love of God work in us the weight of a supreme glory, why should we pity those whom we see thus occupied, since we are not ill-disposed towards them, nor envious of their advantages?For unto you it is given, said St. Paul to the christians of his day,not only to believe in Christ, but also to suffer for Him.
"The reapers and vintagers are never happier than when they are heavily laden, because that proves the harvest, or the vintage, to have been plentiful. In truth, if those who wait on us, whether in health or in sickness, are only considering us, and not God, and are only seeking to please us, they make so bad a use of their toil that it is right they should suffer for it. He who serves the prophet for the love of the prophet shall receive the reward of the prophet. But, if they serve us for the love of God they are more to be envied than pitied; for he who serves the prophet in consideration of Him who sends him shall receive the reward of God, a reward which passes all imagination, which is beyond price, and which no words can express."
In his visiting of the sick when on their death-bed our Blessed Father was truly an angel of peace and consolation. He treated the sick person with the utmost sweetness and gentleness, speaking from time to time a few words suited to his condition and frame of mind, sometimes uttering very short ejaculatory prayers, or aspirations for him, sometimes leading the sufferer to utter them himself, either audibly, or, if speech was painful to him, secretly in his heart; and then allowing him to struggle undisturbed with the mortal pains which were assailing him.
He could not bear to see the dying tormented with long exhortations. That was not the time, he would say, for preaching, or even for long prayers; all that was needed was to keep the soul sustained in the atmosphere of the divine will, which was to be its eternal element in heaven, to keep it up, I say, by short beatings of the wings, like birds, who in this way save themselves from falling to the earth.
When any of his friends or relatives died he never tired of speaking well of them nor of recommending their souls to the prayers of others. He used to say: "We do not remember our dead, our dear ones who have left us, nearly enough; and the proof that we do not remember them enough is that we speak of them too seldom. We turn away conversation from that subject as though it were a painful one; we let the dead bury their dead, their memory die out in us with the sound of the funeral knell, seeming to forget that a friendship which can end even with death can never have been a true one. Holy Scripture itself tells us that true charity, that is, divine and supernatural love, is stronger than death! It seems to me that as a burning coal not only remains alive but burns more intensely when buried under ashes, so sincere and pure love ought to be made stronger by death, and to impel us to more fervent prayers for our deceased friends and relatives than to supplications for those who are yet living.
"For thus we look upon the dead more absolutely as in God, since, having died in Him, as we piously believe, they rest upon the bosom of His mercy. Then, praise can no longer be suspected of flattery, and, as it is a kind of impiety to tear to pieces the reputation of the dead, like wild beasts digging up a corpse to devour it; so it is a mark of piety to rehearse and extol the good qualities of the departed, since our doing so incites us to imitate them: nothing affecting us so deeply and so strongly as the example of those with whom we come in close and frequent contact."
In order to encourage people to pray for the dead he used to represent to them that in this one single work of mercy all the other thirteen are included, explaining his statement in the following manner. "Are we not," he would say, "in some sort visiting the sick when we obtain by our prayers relief or refreshment for the poor Souls in purgatory?
"Are we not giving drink to the thirsty and feeding the hungry when we bestow the cool, refreshing dew of our prayers upon those who, plunged in the midst of its burning flames, are all athirst and hungering for the vision of God? When we help on their deliverance by the means which Faith suggests, are we not most truly ransoming prisoners? Are we not clothing the naked when we procure for souls a garment of light, the light of glory?
"Is it not an act of the most princely hospitality to obtain for them an entrance into the heavenly Jerusalem, and to make them fellow-citizens with the saints and servants of God in the eternal Zion?
"Then, as regards the spiritual works of mercy. Is it not the most splendid thing imaginable to counsel the doubtful, to convert the sinner, to forgive injuries, to bear wrongs patiently? And yet, what is the greatest consolation we can give to the afflicted in this life compared to the solace our prayers bring to the poor souls who are in such grievous suffering?"
Strictly speaking, the sojourn which we make on earth, in the days of our flesh and which we call life, is rather death than life, since "every moment leads us from the cradle to the grave."
This made an ancient philosopher say that we are dying every day of our lives, that every day some portion of our being falls away, and that what we call life is truly death.[1]
Hence the beautiful saying of the wise woman of Thecua:We all die, and like waters that return no more, we fall down into the earth.[2]
Nature has imprinted in the hearts of all men a horror of death. Our Saviour, even, taking upon Himself our flesh and making Himself like to His brethren, sin only excepted, would not be exempted from this infirmity, although He knew that the passage into another world would set Him free from all miseries and transport Him into a glory which He already possessed as regarded His soul. Seneca says that death ought not to be considered an evil when it has been preceded by a good life.
What makes death so formidable is that which follows upon it. We have, however, the shield of a most blessed hope to protect us against the terrors that arise from fear of the divine judgments. This hope makes us put our trust, not in our own virtue, but solely in the mercy of God, and assures us that those who trust in His goodness are never confounded.
But, you say, I have committed many faults. True, but who is so foolish as to think that he can commit more sins than God can pardon? Who would dare to compare the greatness of his guilt with the immensity of that infinite mercy which drowns his sins in the depths of the sea of oblivion each time we repent of them for love of Him? It belongs only to those who despair like Cain to say that their sin is so great that there is no pardon for them,[3] forwith God there is mercy and plentiful redemption, and He shall redeem Israel from all his iniquities.[4]
Listen to the words of holy consolation which were addressed by our Blessed Father to a soul encompassed and assaulted by the terrors of death and of the judgment to follow. They are to be found in one of his letters. "Yes," he says, "death is hideous indeed, that is most true, but the life which is beyond, and which the mercy of God will give to us, is much to be desired. There must be no mistrust in your mind, for, miserable though we may be, we are not half so miserable as God is merciful to those who desire to love Him, and have fixed their hope in Him. When St. Charles Borromeo was at the point of death he had the crucifix brought to him, that by the contemplation of his Saviour's death he might soften the bitterness of his last agony. The best remedy of all against an unreasonable dread is meditation upon the death of Him who is our life; we should never think of our own death without going on to reflect upon that of Christ."
[Footnote 1: Senec. Epist. 24.][Footnote 2: Kings xiv. 14.][Footnote 3: Gen. iv. 13.][Footnote 4: Psal. cxxix. 7-8.]
You ask me if we are permitted to wish for death rather than offend God any more? I will tell you a thought which I believe was suggested to me by our Blessed Father, but I cannot distinctly remember on what occasion.
"It is always dangerous to wish for death, because this desire, generally speaking, is only to be met with in those who have arrived at a very high pitch of perfection, which we dare not think we have reached, or else in persons of a morose and melancholy temperament, and but seldom in those of ordinary disposition like ourselves."
It is alleged that David, St. Paul, and other saints expressed their longing to be delivered from the burden of this body so that they might appear before God and be satisfied with the vision of His glory. But we must remember that it would be presumptuous to speak the language of Saints, not having their sanctity, and to imagine that we had it would be inexcusable vanity. To entertain such a wish because of sadness, disappointment, or dejection is akin to despair.
But, you say, it is that you may no longer offend God. This, no doubt, shows great hatred of sin, but the Saints longed for death, more that they might glorify God. Whatever we may pretend, I believe it to be very difficult to have only this one end in view, in our desire to die. Usually it will be found that we are simply discontented with life. To get to heaven we must not only not sin, but we must do good. If we refrain from sin we shall escape punishment, but more is required to deserve heaven.
There are some who imagine that St. Paul desired to die in order only that he might sin no more when he said that he felt in himself a contradiction between the law of his senses and of his reason; and, feeling this, cried out:Oh! unhappy man that I am, who shall deliver me from the body of this death?[1] These people, therefore, as though they were so many little Apostles, when they are, by some trifle, goaded to impatience, instantly say that they desire to die, and pretend that their only wish is to be in a condition in which they cannot possibly offend God. This is, indeed, to cover up mere impatience and irritation with a fine cloak! But what is still worse, it is to wrench and distort the words of the Apostle and apply them in a sense of which he never thought. Our Blessed Father, in one of his letters, gives an explanation of this passage which is so clear and so excellent that I am sure if will be useful to you. He speaks thus: "Oh, unhappy man that I am, said the great Apostle,who shall deliver me from the body of this death?He felt within himself, as it were, an armed host of ill humours, antipathies, bad habits, and natural inclinations which conspired to bring about his spiritual death; and because he fears them he declares that he hates them, and because he hates them he cannot support them without pain, and his grief makes him burst out into the exclamation which he himself answers in these words:The grace of God by Jesus Christ. This will deliver him not from the death of the body with its terrors, not from the last combat, but from defeat in the struggle, and will preserve him from being overcome.
"You see how far the Apostle is from invoking death, although elsewhere he desires to be set free from the prison of the body that he may be with Jesus Christ. He calls the mass of temptations which urge and incite him to sin a body of death, sin being the true death of the soul. Grace is the death of this death and the devourer of this abortion of hell, for where sin abounded grace superabounds.
"Grace, which has been merited for us by Jesus Christ our Saviour, to whom be honour and glory for ever and ever."
[Footnote 1: Rom. vii. 24.]
Here is a little village story to show how often true and solid piety is to be found among the lowly and ignorant, of whom the world thinks not at all. I had it from the lips of our Blessed Father, who loved to tell it.
While visiting his diocese, passing through a little country town, he was told that a well-to-do inhabitant was very ill and desired to see him, and to receive his blessing before he died. Our Blessed Father hastened to his bedside and found him at the point of death, yet in full possession of all his faculties. When he saw the Bishop the good farmer exclaimed: "Oh! my Lord, I thank God for permitting me to receive your blessing before I die."
Then the room being cleared of all his relations and friends, and he being left quite alone with the holy Prelate, he made his confession and received absolution. His next question was, "My Lord, shall I die?" The Bishop, unwilling to alarm him unnecessarily, answered quietly and reassuringly that he had seen people far more ill than he recover, but that he must place all his trust in God, the Master of life and death, who knows the number of our days, which cannot be even one more than he has decreed.
"But, my Lord," returned the man, "do you really yourself think that I shall die?" "My son," replied the good Prelate, "a physician could answer that question better than I can. All I can tell you is that I know your soul to be just now in a very excellent state of preparation for death, and that perhaps were you summoned at any other time, you might not be so fit to go. The best thing you can do is to put aside all desire of living and all care about the matter, and to abandon yourself wholly to the providence and mercy of God, that He may do with you according to His good pleasure, which will be undoubtedly that very thing which is best for you."
"Oh, my Lord," cried the sick man, "it is not because I fear to die that I ask you this, but rather because I fear I shall not die, for I can't reconcile myself to the idea of recovering from this sickness."
Francis was greatly surprised at hearing him speak in this manner, for he knew that a longing to die is generally either a grace given to very perfect souls such as David, Elias, St. Paul, and the like; or, on the contrary, in sinners a prelude to despair, or an outcome of melancholy.
He therefore asked the man if he would really be sorry to live, and, if so, why such disgust for life, the love of which is natural in all men.
"My Lord," answered the good man, "this world appears to me to be of so small account that I cannot think why so many people care for nothing beyond what it has to give. If God had not commanded us to remain here below until He calls us by death I should have quitted it long ago."
The Bishop, imagining that the man had something on his mind, or that the bodily pain he was enduring was too much for him, asked him what his trouble was—perhaps something about money?
"Not at all," replied he, "I have up to the present time, and I am seventy, enjoyed excellent health, and have abundant means. Indeed, I do not, thank God, know what poverty is."
Francis questioned him as to his wife and children, asking him if any one of them was an anxiety to him. "They are each one a comfort and a delight to me," he answered, "Indeed, if I had any regret in quitting this world it would be that I shall have to part from them."
More and more surprised, and unable to understand the man's distaste for life, the Bishop said: "Then, my brother, why do you so long for death?"
"My Lord," replied he, "it is because I have heard in sermons so much about the joys of Paradise that this world seems to me a mere prison." Then, speaking out of the fullness of his heart, and giving vent to his thoughts, he uttered marvellous words concerning the Vision of God in Heaven, and the love kindled by it in the souls of the blessed.