We are afraid that some of our youthful readers will wonder what cause
Martin had for such extreme self reproach, and why he should make such
a serious matter of a little dissipation—such as we described in our
former chapter.
But Martin had received a higher call, and although the old Adam within
him would have its way, at times, yet his whole heart was set on
serving God. To Hubert this dissipation would have seemed a small
thing; to Martin such drinking, dicing, and brawling was simply selling
his birthright for a mess of pottage.
So, with the early dawn, he went to mass at the Franciscan house, and
wept all through the service, devoutly offering at the same time the
renewed oblation of his heart to God, and praying that through the
great sacrifice there commemorated and mystically renewed, the oblation
of self might be sanctified.
Then he sought the good prior, Adam de Maresco, and obtaining an
audience after the _dejeuner_ or breakfast, poured out all his sorrows
and sin.
The good prior almost smiled at the earnestness of the self rebuke. He
was not at all shocked. It was just what he had expected; he was only
too delighted to find that the young prodigal loathed so speedily the
husks which the swine do eat.
“Ah, my son, did I not bid thee not to trust too much to thyself? and
now my words have been verified by thy own experience, as it was
perhaps well they should be.”
“Well! that I should become a drunkard, dicer, and brawler.”
“Well that thou shouldst so early hate drinking, dicing, and brawling.
To many such hatred only comes after years have brought satiety; to
thee, my dear child, one night seems to have brought it.”
“Yes, now I am clothed, and in my right mind, like the lunatic who had
been cutting himself with stones. But, my father, take me in, I cannot
trust myself out of the shelter of the priory.”
“Then thou art not fit to enter it, for we want men whom we may send
out into the world without fear. No! the first vacant cell shall be
thine, but I will not hasten the time by a day. Thou must prove thy
vocation, and then thou mayst join the brotherhood of sweet Saint
Francis.”
“Tell me, my father, how old was the saint when he renounced the world?
Did Francis ever love it?”
“He did, indeed. He was called ‘_Le debonair Francois_.’ He loved the
Provencal songs, and indeed learned to sing his sweet melodies to
Christ after the mode of those songs of earthly love. His eyes danced
with life, he went singing about all day long, and through the glorious
Italian night. But even then he loved his neighbour. No beggar asked of
him in vain. _Liberalis et hilaris_ was Francis.”
“And did he ever fight?”
“Yes. When a mere lad, he lay a year in prison at Perugia, having been
taken captive in fighting for his own city Assisi. But even then he was
the joy of his fellow captives, from his bright disposition.”
“When did he give up all this?”
“Not till he was ten years older than thou art. One night he was made
king of the feast, at a drinking bout, and went forth, at the head of
his companions, to pour forth their songs into the sweet Italian
moonlight. A sudden hush fell upon him.
“‘What ails thee, Francis?’ cried the rest. ‘Art thinking of a wife?’
“‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of one more noble, more pure, than you can conceive,
any of you.’”
“What did he mean?”
“The yearning for the life which is hid with Christ in God had seized
him. It was the last of his revels.
“‘Love set my heart on fire,’
“—He used afterwards to sing. It was at that moment the fire kindled.”
“I wish it would set mine on fire.”
“Perhaps the fire is already kindled.”
“Nay, think of last night.”
“And what makes thee loathe last night? Other young men do not loathe
such follies.”
“Shame, I suppose.”
“And what gives thee that divine shame? It is not thine own sinful
nature. There is something in thee which is not of self.”
“You think so? Oh, you think so?”
“Indeed I do.”
“Then you give me fresh hope.”
“Since you ask it of a fellow worm.”
“But what can I do? I want to be up and doing.”
“Keep out of temptation. Avoid the causeway after vespers. Meanwhile I
will enrol thy name as an associate of the Order, and thou shalt go
forth as Francis did, while not yet quite separated from the world. Do
you know the story of the leper?”
“Tell it me.”
“One day the saint, not yet a saint, only trying to be one, met one of
these wretched beings. At first he shuddered. Then, remembering that he
who would serve Christ must conquer self, he dismounted from his horse,
kissed the leper’s hand, and filled it with money. Then he went on his
road, but looked back to see what had become of the leper, and lo! he
had disappeared, although the country was quite plain, without any
means of concealment.”
“What had become of him?”
“That I cannot tell thee. Francis thought afterwards it was an angel,
if not the Blessed Lord Himself.”
“May I visit the lepers tomorrow?”
“The disease is infectious.”
“What of that?” said Martin, unconsciously imitating his friend Hubert.
“Well, we will see. Again Francis once gave way to pride. How do you
think he conquered it?”
“Tell me, for that is my great sin.”
“He exchanged his gay clothes with a wretched beggar, and begged all
day on the steps of Saint Peter’s at Rome.”
“May I do that on the steps of Oseney?”
“It would not be a bad way to subdue the pride of the flesh! But then
there are other things to subdue. Dost thou love to eat the fat and
drink the sweet?”
“All too well!”
“So did Francis. He had a very sweet tooth, so he lived for a week on
such scraps as he could beg in beggar’s plight from door to door; all
this in the first flush of his devotion.”
“And what else?”
“Ah! that without which all else is nought, the root from which it all
sprang: he lived as one who felt the words, ‘I live, yet not I, but
Christ which liveth in me.’ He would spend hours in rapt devotion
before the crucifix, with no mortal near, until his very face was
transformed, and the love of the Crucified set his heart on fire.”
“And when did he go forth to found his mighty Order?”
“Not until the eighth year of this century, and the twenty-sixth of his
age. One feast of bright Saint Barnaby, he was at mass, and heard the
words of the Gospel wherein is described how our Lord sent forth His
apostles to preach two by two; without purse, without change of
raiment, without staff or shoes {19}. Out he went, threw off his
ordinary clothing, donned a gray robe, like this we wear, tied a rope
round for a girdle, and went forth crying:
“‘Repent of your sins, and believe the Gospel!’
“I was travelling in Italy then, and once met him on his road. Methinks
I see him now—his oval face, his full forehead, his clear, bright,
limpid eyes, his flowing hair, his long hands and thin delicate
fingers, and his commanding presence.
“‘Brother!’ he said. ‘Hast thou met with Him of Nazareth? He is seeking
for thee.’
“You will hardly believe that I did not understand him at first, so
unfamiliar in my giddy youth were the simplest facts of the Gospel. But
the words sank as if by miraculous force into my heart, and from that
hour I knew no rest till I found Him, or He found me.”
“Was Francis long alone?”
“No. Brother after brother joined him. First Bernard, then Peter, then
Giles; they went singing sweet carols along the road, which Francis had
composed out of his ready mind. They were the first hymns in the
vernacular, and the people stopped to hear about God’s dear Son. Then,
collecting a crowd, they preached in the marketplace. Such preaching!
Francis’ first sermon in his native town set every one crying. They
said the Passion of Jesus had never been so wept over in the memory of
man.
“The brotherhood increased rapidly, and they went on pilgrimage to
Rome, to gain the approbation of the Pope. They went on foot, carrying
neither purses nor food, but He who careth for the ravens cared for
them, and soon they reached the Holy City. The Pope, Innocent the
Third, was walking in the Lateran, when up came a poor man in a gray
shepherd’s smock, and addressed him. The Pope, indignant at being
disturbed in his meditations by this intrusion, bade the intruder leave
the palace, and turned away. But the same night he had two dreams: he
thought a palm tree grew out of the ground by his side, and rose till
it filled the sky.
“‘Lo,’ said a voice, ‘the poor man whom thou hast driven away.’
“Then he thought he saw the church falling, and a figure in a gray robe
rushed forth and propped it up—
“‘Lo, the poor man whom thou hast driven away.’
“He sent for the stranger, and Francis opened his heart to the mighty
Pontiff.
“‘Go,’ said the Pope, ‘in the name of the Lord, and preach repentance
to all; and when God has multiplied you in numbers and grace, I will
give you yet greater privileges.’
“Then he commanded that they should receive the tonsure, and, although
not ordained, be considered clerks.
“Imagine their joy! They visited the tombs of the Holy Apostles; and,
bare footed, penniless as they came, went home, singing and preaching
all the way. And thus they sang:”
Love sets my heart on fire,
Love of my Bridegroom new,
The Slain: the Crucified!
To Him my heart He drew
When hanging on the Tree,
From whence He said to me
I am the Shepherd true;
Love sets my heart on fire.
I die of sweetest love,
Nor wonder at my fate,
The sword which deals the blow
Is love immaculate.
Love sets my heart on fire (_etc_).
“So singing, and now and then discoursing on heavenly joys, the little
band reached home. And from thence it has grown, until it has attained
vast numbers. We are all over Europe. The sweet songs of Francis have
set Italy on fire. And now wherever there are sinners to be saved, or
sick in body or soul to be tended, you find the Franciscan.
“Now I hear the bell for _terce_—go forth, my son, and prove your
vocation.”