A CHANGE.
"In this easy, painless life,
Free from struggle, care, and strife,
Ever on my doubting breast,
Lies the shadow of unrest;
This no path that Jesus trod--
Can the smooth way lead to God?"
As health returned, Francis determined that he would no longer waste
his life. He had spent a quarter of a century in ease, and pleasure,
and amusement. Now, some way or other, there should be a change.
Religion to Francis meant acting up to all the duties of his church.
This he had already done, and not for a moment did he dream that there
was in what he called "religion" any balm for a sore and wounded
spirit. It never occurred to him to seek in prayer the mind of the
Lord concerning his future. Oh, no, it was many a long day before
Francis knew the real meaning of the word prayer. He was convinced of
his wrong, and determined to right it. That was as far as he had got.
What to do was now the great question.
Just about this time, a nobleman of Assisi, Walter of Brienne, was
about to start for Apulia, to take part in a war which was going on
there. All at once it occurred to Francis that he would go too. He was
naturally courageous, and visions filled his mind of the deeds he
would do, and the honours that would be bestowed upon him.
He hastened at once to the nobleman and begged to be allowed to
accompany him. Permission was granted, and Francis set about getting
his outfit ready. His rich costume was far more splendid than that of
Walter himself, and the trappings of his horse and his general
accoutrements were all in keeping, so that altogether Francis was a
very magnificent personage indeed!
[Sidenote: _A Voice._]
A few nights before he started, he dreamed a strange dream. He was
sleeping, and he thought somebody called him out of his sleep.
"Francis, Francis," said a voice.
Then it seemed to Francis that he awoke and found himself in a vast
armoury. All around him hung shields and spears and swords, and
weapons of all kinds. But the most curious part of it was that each
weapon was marked with a cross. In his heart he wondered what it could
all mean, and as he was wondering, the voice answered his thoughts.
"These are for thee and for thy followers," it said, and then Francis
awoke.
It was an age when dreams were counted of much importance, and Francis
rejoiced over this of his. Heaven, he said to himself, had smiled upon
his enterprise. God had undertaken to lead him by the hand, and to
what heights could he not aspire! Dreams of earthly honor and
distinction floated through his brain as he dressed, and when he went
downstairs everybody asked what made him look so radiant.
"I have the certainty of becoming a great prince," he answered.
Yes, truly, he was to be a prince among men! Could he have seen then
the rough road that God was preparing for him, would he have drawn
back? Happily for us, we live a day at a time, and further than that
our eyes are holden.
With a great deal of pomp and display, at the appointed time Francis
mounted his horse and set off. But his journey was a short one. About
thirty miles from Assisi he was taken ill with an attack of his
life-long enemy--the fever--and forced to lie by. He chafed a good
deal at this, and wondered and pondered over the mysterious actions
of a Providence which had so manifestly sanctioned his expedition.
[Sidenote: _The Master or the Servant?_]
One evening he was lying half unconscious when he thought he heard the
same voice that spoke to him before he started.
"Francis," it asked, "what could benefit thee most, the Master or the
servant, the rich man or the poor?"
"The Master and the rich man," answered Francis in wonderment.
"Why, then," went on the voice, "dost thou leave God, Who is the
Master and rich, for man, who is the servant and poor?"
"Then, Lord, what wilt Thou that I do?" queried Francis.
"Return to thy native town, and it shall be shown thee there what thou
shalt do," said the voice.
It was characteristic of all Francis' after life that he never stopped
to query what looked like contradiction of orders, but as soon as ever
he was well enough he travelled back home again. His ambition for
future greatness, and earthly distinction and honor, all seemed to be
lost sight of when the Divine voice spoke. For Francis was convinced
that God had spoken to him.
It was certainly not easy for a nature like his to return home whence
a few short days before, he had departed with such pomp and glory. His
father was not over rejoiced to welcome him back, but his friends, who
worshipped him, "the flower of Assisi," as they called him, received
him gladly. Things had been dull without Francis. His merry songs and
jests were missed at the evening feast. For a time he took up the life
he had quitted. There was nothing else to do as far as he could see.
But he was changed. Even his companions were forced to own that. He
sang, and laughed, and jested as usual, but the heart had gone out of
his song and laughter, and he was prone to fall into deep fits of
meditation.
It was a far from satisfactory life. He cared no longer for what was
once his very existence, and he knew not as yet to what God would have
him turn. He desired to serve God, and gave himself to almsgiving. He
made a pilgrimage to Rome, only to be disgusted with the miserable
offerings put into the treasury by the pilgrims.
[Sidenote: _Conflicts._]
"Is this all they spare to God?" he cried, and pulling out his purse
flung its contents among the rest.
He was tormented and haunted by recollections of his past mis-spent
life, and for days he mourned over what was beyond recall.
There was a certain old woman in Assisi, horribly deformed and
hideously ugly. Francis, with his innate love of the beautiful,
recoiled in horror every time he met her. She was a nightmare to him,
and he would go far to avoid seeing her. The devil, who is ever ready
to work on the weakness of a human soul, used this old woman to
torture him.
"See," he said, "a picture of what you will become if you persist in
mortifying yourself, and leading a life devoted to God. You will
become as ugly and repulsive as that old woman in time."
The bare idea was agonizing to Francis. The old woman turned up
continually, and seemed to pursue him like a phantom. The temptation
may seem to stronger souls an ignoble one, but it was an intense and
severe one to Francis. He conquered by yielding himself up to the will
of God. He accepted everything--deformity, ugliness, pain--if it were
God's plan for him. Then and only then had he rest.
As soon as he had given up his warlike ambitions and returned to
Assisi, he had been in the habit of going off by himself into a cave
or grotto, and there being alone with his thoughts. Many a conflict
did that cave see, as Francis with tears and cries entreated the Lord
to show him how best to employ his life. It was during one of these
seasons that his spiritual eyes were opened. Hitherto he had followed
blindly an almost unknown God, but he _had_ followed and sought, and
the end of his faith was sight.
It came upon him all at once. Christ--His love for the sinner, His love
for him--Christ, bleeding, dying, suffering, for very love--Christ the
pure, long-suffering, merciful, patient--Christ the Son of God made Man
for us. A wave of great joy swept over Francis, and he wept for very
gladness of heart. Here was his Master, his Lord. He had found Him, and
henceforth following was easy.
[Sidenote: _The Lepers._]
Not one of the many translations of the life of Francis, omits to
mention his self-imposed mission to the lepers. Assisi, like most
foreign towns of the age, was infested with lepers. They were not
allowed to live in the towns, but had houses (lazaretti) built for
them quite outside. Francis had a deep-rooted repugnance to a leper,
and, in passing a lazaretto, always carefully covered up his nose lest
any bad odour might reach him, and he always rode far away in the
opposite direction, if he chanced to see one in the plains. Nothing
shows the change in Francis more than his alteration towards the
lepers. One day, when out riding, he saw a leper approaching. His
first instinct was his natural one to get away at once. His second,
that God required something more of him. Who was he, to loathe and
avoid a fellow-creature. Riding up to the leper, he dismounted, gave
him some money, and then without a shudder, kissed the dreadful hand
held out to him. He had done the impossible, and from this time he
constantly visited the lazaretti, putting himself in personal contact
with the lepers, giving them money, and doing all he could to lessen
their sufferings.
Of this period of his experience he writes long years after:--
"When I was in sin it was very bitter to me to behold lepers, but the
Lord Himself having led me amongst them, I exercised mercy towards
them, and when I left them I felt that what had seemed so bitter to me
was changed into sweetness for my soul and body."