Blessed Francis was sometimes taxed with over much good nature and
gentleness, and was told that this was the cause of many disorders which
would not have occurred had he been more wholesomely severe. He, however,
answered calmly and sweetly that he had always in his mind the words of
the great St. Anselm, the glory of our Alps, among which he was born.
That Saint, he observed, was in the habit of saying that if he had to be
punished either for being too indulgent or being over-rigorous, he would
far rather it should be for the former. He gave as his reason that judgment
with mercy would be meted out to the merciful, and that God would always
have more pity on the pitiful than on the rigorous. He went on to recall
that most sound maxim: Sovereign right is only sovereign injustice, and
remarked that in Holy Scripture those pastors who were over-severe were
invariably blamed.
Our Saint used always to say that sugar never yet spoilt any sauce, but
that too much salt or vinegar often did.
His speaking of St. Anselm's gentleness reminds me of the story told of the
same Saint by Blessed Francis in his Philothea. "One day," he says, "as he,
St. Anselm, was travelling, a hare, being closely run by the hounds which
pursued it, took refuge between his horse's feet, and the dogs remained
yelping around unable to molest their prey in this its strange sanctuary.
His followers were highly entertained at so novel a spectacle, but Saint
Anselm groaned and wept. 'Even thus,' said he, 'do the enemies of the soul
pursue it and drive it into all manner of sins, until at the last they can
kill and devour it, and whilst the terrified soul seeks for some refuge and
help, its enemies mock and laugh if it finds none.'"[1]
Our Blessed Father, following the example of the holy Archbishop, was
invariably kind and gentle, even with the brute creation. He not only
himself never did them harm, but he prevented, as far as he could, any
being done to them by others, for he believed that those who thus inflict
pain on innocent creatures often, even at the risk of their own lives,
display a cruel and malevolent kind of courage. He went so far as to regard
it as a venial sin to injure creatures for the sole pleasure of harming
them where no advantage of any sort would accrue to ourselves; his reason
being that we in this way deprive them of the joy to be found in mere
existence bestowed upon them by God.
"What, then," he was asked, "do you say to the chase, and to the killing
of animals for the food of man?" "As regards the food of man," he replied,
"the very words you use justify the act, and it is that end which justifies
the chase." From this we may conclude that the mere pleasure of the chase
was not sufficient, in his opinion, to render lawful the indulging in it.
Although he blamed the superstition of the Turks, who think that they
acquire merit in the sight of God by lavishing kindness on senseless
brutes, even the most savage and cruel, such as wolves and lions, still he
used to say that this pity had a good natural source, and that those who
were so compassionate to animals were likely to be no otherwise to men,
nature teaching us not to despise our own flesh. In spite of these
feelings, he was very far from falling into those mistakes which casuists
enumerate as the result of excess in gentleness and kindness.
The various writers of the life of Blessed Francis tell us how it was
commonly remarked that all animals by natural instinct seemed to recognise
his tender, compassionate feelings for them, and that when hunted and
pursued, they at once took refuge with him, witness the pigeons, which at
different times when he was saying the Divine Office, flew for safety and
shelter into his very hands.
[Footnote 1: _Devout Life_. Part II. c. 13.]