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Transcription Notes:
All obvious punctuation errors have been corrected.
Both alms-giving and almsgiving appeared in the text. Almsgiving has
been retained.
Both grey-green and grey green appeared in the text. Grey-green has
been retained.
Both countryside and country-side appeared in the text. Country-side
has been retained.
Both lawsuits and law-suits appeared in the text. Lawsuits has been
retained.
Both unheard of and unheard-of both appeared in text. Unheard of has
been retained.
Both any one and anyone both appeared in text. Anyone has been
retained.
Both swineherd and swine-herd appeared in the text. Swine-herd has
been retained.
Both lay workers and lay-workers appeared in the text. Lay-workers
has been retained.
Both Bernard di Quintavelle and Bernard di Quintavalle appeared in
the text. The variation has been retained.
p 1. Appenines has been corrected to Apennines.
p 16. delapidated was corrected to dilapidated
p 66. Appenines has been corrected to Apennines.
p 116. amplication has been corrected to application.
p 116. nomed was corrected to named
* * * * *
THE RED-HOT LIBRARY.
EDITED BY BRAMWELL BOOTH.
No. I.
BROTHER FRANCIS
OR,
LESS THAN THE LEAST.
BY
BRIGADIER EILEEN DOUGLAS.
[Illustration]
THE SALVATION ARMY BOOK DEPARTMENT
LONDON: 79 & 81 Fortess Road, N.W.
MELBOURNE: 69 Bourke Street
NEW YORK: 120 West Fourteenth Street
TORONTO: Albert Street
CAPE TOWN: Loop Street
SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & CO., LTD.
4 STATIONERS' HALL COURT, LONDON, E.C.
1911
_Second Edition._
_Uniform with this Volume._
II. ON THE BANKS OF THE RIVER. A Brief History of the Last Days of
MRS. GENERAL BOOTH.
III. GEORGE FOX, THE RED-HOT QUAKER.
IV. HELPS TO HOLINESS.
V. DAVID STONER; OR, THE SHY PREACHER.
VI. RED FLOWERS OF MARTYRDOM.
VII. HEART TALKS ON HOLINESS.
VIII. COMMISSIONER DOWDLE, THE SAVED RAILWAY GUARD.
IX. PETER CARTWRIGHT: GOD'S ROUGH-RIDER.
X. THE LIFE OF LIEUT.-COLONEL JUNKER.
XI. THE SOUL-WINNER'S SECRET.
XII. GIDEON OUSELEY: AN OLD-TIME IRISH SALVATIONIST.
XIII. FLETCHER OF MADELEY.
XIV. THE CROSS OUR COMFORT.
XV. SIGHS FROM HELL.
XVI. WHAT HINDERS YOU?
XVII. THE FRUITS OF THE SPIRIT, AND THE WHOLE ARMOUR OF GOD.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER. PAGE.
I.--ASSISI AND FRANCIS 1
II.--A CHANGE 5
III.--A LONELY STRUGGLE 10
IV.--VICTORY WITHOUT AND WITHIN 15
V.--FRANCIS' CALL 21
VI.--FRANCIS' EARLY DISCIPLES 28
VII.--FRANCIS CALLED TO BE A SAINT 36
VIII.--FRANCIS AS A LEADER OF MEN 44
IX.--ESTABLISHMENT OF THE ORDER 50
X.--THE STORY OF CLARA 57
XI.--THE FIRST CHAPTER 62
XII.--SOME OF FRANCIS' CONVERTS 70
XIII.--THE STORY OF THE MARTYRS 80
XIV.--FIRST FOREIGN MISSIONS 87
XV.--FRANCIS' VISIT TO THE SULTAN: DISCOURAGEMENTS 95
XVI.--BRETHREN OF THE MILITIA OF JESUS CHRIST 103
XVII.--CLOUDS 111
XVIII.--LAST DAYS 119
PREFACE.
The following pages have been written by my request with a view to
making the Soldiers of The Salvation Army somewhat familiar with the
life-story of one of the most remarkable men this world has ever seen.
While many and varied will be the opinions respecting the methods
employed by Francis of Assisi, and while some will doubtless strongly
dissent from these methods, yet I think no serious follower of Jesus
Christ can do otherwise than admire the sincerity, devotion and
sacrifice of the man; and further, there can be, I think, no two
opinions as to his having taught and manifested to the world what it
means to be possessed entirely by the Saviour's spirit.
And what did that spirit produce? Surely it was the same entire
devotion of our all to the service of God and humanity which we
Salvationists daily teach. The difference between our spirit and that
of the subject of this Memoir is, I trust, very slight, although the
manifestations of it are widely diverse. We are quite as extreme in
our demands as to poverty and solitude as he was, only that we do not
value these things for their own sake as he did. We daily induce
persons to leave earthly possessions and prospects in order to go and
seek the salvation of the poor, amongst whom their future life is to
be spent; and we require our Officers to consecrate all they have to
the service of the Kingdom of God right through their career, and to
live always in a state of readiness to be sent away from all they have
known and loved--not, indeed, to live in any cloister or hermitage,
but in the solitude amidst the crowd which must ever be more or less
the lot of the highest leaders of men.
The system established by Francis was not adaptable to family life,
whereas it is our joy to show how as complete a devotion to the good
of others can be manifested by the father or mother, who spend most of
their hours in toil for the support of those dependent upon them, as
by the monks and nuns of old, even when they walked in entire harmony
with the rules of their various orders.
We have demonstrated that most people by the very fact of their being
engaged in business, and having to fulfil the duties of family life,
acquire extra power to capture for God those who are still in the
ranks of worldliness and selfishness.
Nevertheless, we must always expect God to require from time to time
witnesses who might step out of the ordinary path altogether in order
to revolutionise the world for Him. It were better far to aspire to so
high and holy a calling than to excuse in ourselves any less
self-denial, any easier life than this man's boundless love to Christ
constrained him to adopt.
It is most melancholy to reflect that Francis died almost
broken-hearted over what he felt to be the unfaithfulness of his
brethren. We believe that God has guided us to plans which, being
consistent with the possibilities of modern human life, are capable of
being carried out fully and always. But the vital question is the
maintenance of that intense spirit of personal devotion to the good
Shepherd and His lost sheep, which can alone render any such scheme of
life possible. To that great end may this book minister, and God grant
us grace and wisdom to raise up generation after generation of
soldiers, who will not only drink in, but fully carry out that spirit.
WILLIAM BOOTH.
_International Headquarters,
London._
BROTHER FRANCIS.
OR,
LESS THAN THE LEAST.
CHAPTER I.
ASSISI AND FRANCIS.
"Hands love clasped through charmed hours,
Feet that press the bruised flowers,
Is there naught for you to dare,
That ye may his signet wear?"
You will not be likely to find Assisi marked on any ordinary map of
Italy. It is far too unimportant a place for that. That is to say,
geographically unimportant. Assisi lies half-way up the Apennines. The
houses, which are built of a curious kind of rosy-tinted stone, press
so closely together one above the other on the rocks, so that each
house seems trying to look over its neighbours' head. The result of
this is that from every window you have one of the grandest views in
Europe. Above, the mountains tower into the sky, and yet they are not
so close as to suggest crowding. Beneath lies stretched out the
Umbrian plain, the centre and heart of Italy. With its rich harvests,
plentiful streams and luxuriant vegetation, it might well be called
the Eden of Italy.
The atmosphere is clear and transparent, and the nights, with their
dark blue cloudless skies, studded with myriads of shining, sparkling
stars, are better imagined than described!
[Sidenote: _Like a Prince._]
It was midway up one of the narrow steep little streets, in one of
those rosy-tinted houses, that Francis Bernardone was born, about six
hundred years ago. Only he wasn't Francis just then. He was John. As
a matter of fact there was no such name as Francis known in Assisi,
and some think it was invented there and then for the first time by
Pietro Bernardone.
When his baby was born, Pietro was far away, travelling in France. He
was a merchant, and his business often took him away from home. As
there were no letters or telegrams to tell him the news, it was not
till he got back that he found he had a baby son, who had been duly
christened John at the parish church. But Pietro had no idea of
letting a little matter of this kind stand in his way, and he told his
wife, Pica, that the baby was not to be John, but Francis or
Francesca. And Francis he was.
The neighbours didn't like it at all. Why should Pietro set himself up
to be so much better than other folks that he must needs invent a name
for his baby? In what was his baby better than any of theirs? And so
forth. Oh, Assisi was a very natural little town! From his babyhood
these neighbours sat in judgment on little Francis. There was nothing
much about him that pleased them. They disapproved of his dress, which
was rich and fine, and always according to the latest fashion; of his
idle, free, careless ways, of his handsome face, of his superabundance
of pocket-money.
"Your son lives like a prince," a neighbour said once to Pica.
"What is that to you!" retorted Pica, "our son does indeed live like a
prince. Have patience, the day may come when he will live like the Son
of God."
But in truth that day seemed long in coming, and the neighbours might
well be forgiven when they said among themselves that young Francis
Bernardone was being utterly spoiled. It was quite true. Frank, gay,
good-tempered, easily led, fond of all kinds of beauty and soft
living, the life of indulgence and ease and pleasure that he was
brought up in was not the one that would best fit him for the battle
of life. Pietro was rich, and he was also exceeding proud of his
handsome gay son. It delighted him more than anything else to hear
people say that he looked like a prince of royal blood, and he denied
him nothing that money could procure.
[Sidenote: _Young Manhood._]
As he grew up into young manhood, Francis nominally assisted his
father in his business as cloth merchant. His duties, however, were
very light, and he was known more as a leader among the gay youth of
Assisi than as a rising business man. He was always chosen as the
leader of the sumptuous feasts that the young men of that era wiled
away the evening hours with. After the feast was over, Francis used to
lead his band out into the streets, and there under those glorious
starry skies they finished the night singing the then popular love
songs of France and Italy. As Francis was intensely musical, and
possessed a very fine voice, he was indispensable at these revelries.
He was almost twenty-five before he had his first serious thought. Up
to then life had been an enchanted dream. Francis, with his handsome
face, beautiful courteous manners, and full pockets the centre of it.
He had seen life outside Assisi, for he had fought for his country and
suffered imprisonment. He had travelled a little, was fairly well
educated, and what was rare in those days spoke and sang in the French
language. Of God he seems to have had no knowledge whatever. His
kindly, polite nature led him to much almsgiving, but that was merely
the outcome of a disposition which hated to see suffering.
Francis' lack of religion is not much to be wondered at when we look
at the state of the church in his time. Christianity had become old,
its first freshness had worn off, and its primitive teaching had
fallen into decay. A Christian's life was an easy one, and the service
rendered was more of church-going and almsgiving, than purity of heart
and life. In many instances those who filled the office of teacher and
preacher were corrupt, and lived only for themselves, and the whole
tendency of the times was to the most extreme laxity.
When almost twenty-five years old, Francis had a very severe illness.
For weeks he lay at death's door, and for weeks after all danger was
passed, he was confined to the house too weak to move. As his weary
convalescence dragged itself along, one absorbing desire filled his
mind. If only he could get out of doors, and stand once again in the
sunshine, and feast his eyes on the landscape below him! Francis, like
all Italians, was a passionate lover of his native country, and at
last, one day, he wearily and painfully crawled out.
[Sidenote: _Things that Perish._]
But what was the matter? The sunshine was there. It flooded the
country. The breeze that was to bring him new life and vigor played
among his chestnut curls. The mountains towered in their noble
grandeur. The wide Umbrian plain lay stretched out at his feet. The
skies were as blue, and the flowers as gay and sweet, as ever his
fancy painted them. But the young man turned away with a sickening
sense of disappointment and failure.
"Things that perish," he said mournfully to himself, and thought
bitterly of his past life with its gaiety and frivolity. It, too, was
among the "things that perish." Life was a dreary emptiness.
It was the old, old story. "Thou hast made us for Thyself, oh God, and
the heart is restless till it finds its rest in Thee." That tide which
flows at least once in the life of every human being was surging round
Francis. Happy they who, leaving all else, cast themselves into the
infinite ocean of the Divine will and design.