the man begged once more.
'For Christ's sake help me, for indeed I need thy help most sorely.'
Then Catherine stood still. She felt she could not leave him so. There
was nothing at home she could part with, for that very morning she had
given away all the food that was in the house. Her father and mother
were good and kind, but she must not give away the things they needed.
Sorrowful and perplexed, her hand felt for the rosary which hung at her
side, for in every trouble she ever turned in prayer to her dear Lord.
Then as her fingers touched the beads, she suddenly remembered that here
was at least one thing which was her very own--a small silver crucifix
which she had had since she was a child, and which she had touched so
often as she prayed that it was worn smooth and thin.
Still it was silver and would buy the sick man a meal, and she quickly
unfastened it from the rosary and put it into his hand. The man's
blessings followed her as she went, and though she had parted with the
thing she loved best, she counted the blessings more precious than the
gift.
And as she knelt in the dim church, after the mass was over, God sent a
heavenly vision to reward His servant.
Catherine thought she stood in a great hall filled with things more
beautiful than words can tell, and in the midst stood our Blessed Lord,
holding in His hand the most beautiful thing of all--a cross of beaten
gold, set with jewels of every hue sparkling so brightly that it almost
dazzled Catherine's eyes as she looked.
'Dost thou see these shining gifts,' He asked, 'and wouldst thou know
whence they came? They are the noble deeds which men have done for My
sake.'
And Catherine kneeling there with her empty hands could only bow her
head and say: 'Lord, I am only a poor sister, as Thou knowest, and have
nought to give Thee. The service I can offer could not find a place
among these glorious gifts.'
Then it seemed as if Christ smiled upon her, and holding out the golden
cross He asked: 'Hast thou not seen this cross before, Catherine?'
'No, Lord,' she answered, wondering, 'never before have mine eyes beheld
anything so lovely.'
But as she gazed upon it, her heart was filled with a sudden gladness,
for in the midst of the gold and jewels, in the heart of the glorious
light, she saw the little worn silver crucifix which she had given to
the poor man that morning for the love of Christ.
And as the vision faded there rang in her ears the words she knew so
well: 'Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these My brethren,
ye did it unto Me.'
As time went on the fame of Catherine spread to other towns, outside
Siena, and when there were disputes between the great cities of Italy
they would send for Catherine, and beg her to act as peacemaker, and
she helped them all just as she did her own poor people of Siena. Even
the Pope came to her for advice.
In the midst of all this busy life Catherine fell ill. Her love for
Christ was so real, and her sorrow for His sufferings so great, that she
prayed that she might bear the pain that He had borne. We do not know
how our Lord granted her request, but in her hands and feet and side
appeared the marks of nails and spear.
All her sufferings she bore most patiently, but her heart was glad when
the end came.
The same vision that had smiled on her that summer evening when she was
a child, appeared in the sunset sky again, this time never to fade away,
as Catherine, the bride of Christ, was led by the white-robed angels up
to the throne of our Lord.
SAINT AUGUSTINE OF HIPPO
The story of the life of Saint Augustine is different from almost
every other saint story, because it is taken from his own words and
not from what has been said about him. He wrote a wonderful book called
_The Confessions of Saint Augustine_, and in it we find all that he
thought and did from the time he was a little child.
Augustine was born in 354 in the northern part of Africa, which then
belonged to Rome, and was one of the richest countries in the world. His
mother, Monica, was a Christian, but all her prayers and loving care
could not keep her son from evil ways. He is often called the prodigal
saint, because he wandered very far astray for many years into that far
country of the youngest son in the parable; living in the midst of the
sins and evil pleasures of the world, until he learned to say, 'I will
arise and go to my father.'
And so Augustine's story comforts and helps us when we feel how easy it
is to do wrong, and how we fail every day to do the good things we meant
to do. There are so few days we can mark with a white stone because we
have really tried to be good, and so many days we are glad to forget
because of the black cross that stands against them. And yet, who knows
but, if we fight on to the end, we too may be saints as Augustine was,
for he won his crown through many failures.
The story, in Augustine's own words, begins from the time when he was
a very little baby, not from what he remembers, but from what he had
learned as he watched other babies in whom he saw a picture of himself.
First of all Augustine tells of the tiny baby, who does nothing but
sleep and eat and cry. Then the baby begins to laugh a little when he is
awake, and very soon shows clearly his likes and dislikes, and kicks and
beats with his little hands when he does not get exactly what he wants.
Then comes the time of learning to speak and walk.
After that Augustine begins really to remember things about himself.
For who could ever forget the trial of first going to school? Oh, how
Augustine hated it, and how hard it seemed to him! The lessons were so
difficult and the masters were so strict, and he loved play so much
better than work, and when he went back to school with lessons unlearned
and work undone, the result was of course that he was whipped. It did
seem so unjust to him, for he could not see the use of lessons, and the
whippings were so sore. And in his book he tells us how it made him say
his first prayer to God--'I used to ask Thee, though a very little boy,
yet with no little earnestness, that I might not be whipped at school.'
Augustine could not see the reason why he should be forced to stay
indoors and learn dull, wearisome lessons, when he might be playing in
the sunshine and learning new games, which seemed so much more worth
knowing. How those games delighted him! He was always eager to be first,
to win the victory and to be ahead of every one else. But then followed
the whipping at school, and the little sore body crept away and sobbed
out the prayer from his little sore soul.
He did not understand how it could all be meant for his good. We never
quite understand that till we have left school far behind.
I wonder if we all wrote down just exactly what we felt and did when we
were little children, whether we would have as many things to confess as
Augustine had? There are some faults which no one is very much ashamed
to own because they don't seem small and mean and pitiful. But who would
like to confess to being greedy and stealing sweet things from the table
when no one was looking? Who would care to own that he cheated at games,
caring only to come out first whether he had played fairly or not? Yet
this great saint tells us he remembers doing all these mean things and
looks back upon them with great sorrow. He warns other little children
to kill these faults at the very beginning, for he knows how strong they
grow and how difficult to conquer, when the mean child grows into a man
whom no one can trust.
As time went on and he grew to be a big boy he went further and further
astray. When he was little he stole things to eat because he was greedy
or because he wanted to bribe other little boys to sell him their toys,
but now that he was older it was out of mere pride and boastfulness that
he took what did not belong to him. He thought it grand and manly to
show off to other boys how little he cared about doing wrong.
Augustine tells us that in a garden near his house there was a pear-tree
covered with pears neither sweet nor large. But just because it belonged
to some one else, and he thought it fun to steal, he and his companions
went out one dark night and robbed the tree of all its fruit. They did
not care to eat the pears, and after tasting one or two threw all the
rest to the pigs. There was no particular pleasure in this he allows,
and he would never have done it alone, but he wanted the other boys to
admire him and to think he was afraid of nothing.
And so years went on and Augustine grew up into manhood, and it seemed
as if his evil ways would break his mother's heart. Through all his sin
and foolishness she loved him and prayed for him but he paid no heed to
her, and wandered further away into that far country, wasting all he had
in living wildly and forgetting the God he had prayed to when a child.
One day when Monica was weeping over this wandering son of hers and
praying for him with all her heart, God sent a comforting dream to her
which she never forgot. She thought she saw herself standing on a narrow
wooden plank, and towards her there came a shining angel who smiled upon
her as she stood there worn out with sorrow and weeping.
'Why art thou so sad, and wherefore dost thou weep these daily tears?'
asked the angel.
'I weep over the ruin of my son,' answered the poor mother.
Then the angel bade her cease from grieving and be at rest, and told her
to look and see that on the same narrow plank of salvation where she was
standing Augustine stood beside her.
His mother told Augustine of this dream, and though he only laughed at
it, it seemed to sink into his heart and he remembered it many years
after. And to Monica it came as a breath of hope, and comforted her
through many dark days. For she was sure that God had sent this dream
to tell her that in the end she and her son would stand together in
His presence.
But though Monica believed this she never ceased to do all that was in
her power to help Augustine. And once she went to a learned bishop and
begged him to talk to Augustine and try what he could do. But the bishop
was a wise man and knew that by speaking he would do more harm than
good, for Augustine was proud of his unbelief and had no longing in
himself for better things. But Monica did not see this and could only
implore the bishop to try, until the good man grew vexed with her and
said at last, 'I cannot help thee in this matter, but go thy way in
peace. It cannot be that a son of such tears should perish.'
And these words comforted Monica, as the dream had done, and made her
sure that in the end all would be right.
The good bishop spoke truly, for after many years had passed Augustine
began to be weary of his own way and to look for a higher, better life.
He longed to turn his face homeward, but now he had lost the way, and
for long he sought it with bitter tears.
At last, one day, he felt he could bear the burden of his evil life
no longer. His sins felt like a heavy chain dragging him down in the
darkness, and there was no light to show him which way to turn. Taking
a roll of the scriptures he wandered out into the garden and there, as
he wept, he heard a voice close by chanting over and over again 'Take,
read.' He thought it must be some game that children were playing, but
he could remember none that had those words in it. And then he thought
perhaps this was a voice from heaven in answer to his prayer, telling
him what to do.
Eagerly he took the holy writings in his hand and opened them to read,
and there he found words telling him what sort of life he should lead.
In a moment it all seemed clear to him. His Father was waiting to
receive and pardon him; so he arose and left the far country and all his
evil habits and turned his face to God.
And then he tells how he went straight to his mother--the mother who had
loved and believed in him through all those evil days, and he told her
like a little child how sorry he was at last.
Then, indeed, was Monica's mourning turned into joy, and so at her
life's end she and her son sat hand in hand, both looking up towards the
dawning heaven; he with eyes ashamed but full of hope, and she with tears
all washed away, and eyes that shone with more than earthly joy.
When his mother at last died and left him alone, Augustine did not
grieve, for he knew the parting was not for long. All that was left for
him to do now was to strive to make good those years he had wasted, and
be more fit to meet her when God should call him home.
And so it came to pass that this great sinner became one of God's saints
and did a wonderful work for Him in the world. He was made Bishop of
Hippo, and was one of the most famous bishops the world has ever known.
There is one legend told of Augustine which has comforted many hearts
when puzzling questions have arisen and it has seemed so difficult to
understand all the Bible teaches us about our Father in heaven.
They say that once when this great father of the Church was walking
along by the seashore, troubled and perplexed because he could not
understand many things about God, he came upon a little child playing
there alone. The child had digged a hole in the sand and was carefully
filling it with water which he brought from the sea in a spoon. The
bishop stopped and watched him for a while and then he asked:
'What art thou doing, my child?'
'I mean to empty the sea into my hole,' answered the child, busily going
backwards and forwards with his spoon.
[Illustration: THE CHILD HAD DIGGED A HOLE IN THE SAND.]
'But that is impossible,' said the bishop.
'Not more impossible than that thy human mind should understand the mind
of God,' said the child, gazing upwards at him with grave, sweet eyes.
And before the bishop could answer the child had vanished, and the saint
knew that God had sent him as an answer to his troubled thoughts, and as
a rebuke for his trying to understand the things that only God could
know.
SAINT AUGUSTINE OF CANTERBURY
It was market-day in the great city of Rome, and the people were busy
buying and selling and shouting, just as they do to-day with us, when
market-day comes round. But there was a great difference between this
Roman market and ours, a difference which would have seemed to us
strange and cruel. For instead of sheep and oxen, or green vegetables
from the country, they were selling men and boys, and even little
maidens. There in the great market-place, with the sun beating down on
their bare heads, they stood, looking with dull, despairing eyes, or
with frightened glances at the crowds of buyers and sellers who were
bargaining around.
Suddenly a hush fell on the crowd, and a stately figure was seen
crossing the square. People stood aside and bent their heads in
reverence as Gregory passed by, for he was Abbot of a great monastery in
Rome, and was much beloved even by the rough Roman soldiers. He walked
swiftly as if he did not care to linger in the market-place, for it
grieved his gentle heart to see the suffering of the slaves when he
could do nothing to help them.
But suddenly the crowd seemed to divide in front of him, and he stopped
in wonder at the sight which met his eyes. It was only a group of little
fair-haired English boys who had been captured in the wars, and carried
off to be sold as slaves in the Roman market. But Gregory had never seen
anything like them before. All around were dark-eyed, swarthy-faced
Italians, or darker-skinned slaves from Africa, and these boys with
their sunny, golden hair, fair faces, and eyes blue as the sky overhead,
seemed to him creatures from a different world.
'Whence come these children, and what name do they bear?' asked the
bishop of a man who stood beside him.
'From a savage island far over the sea,' he answered, 'and men call
them Angles.'
Then the kind bishop looked with pitying eyes upon the beautiful
children, and said to himself, as he turned to go: 'They should be
called not Angles, but angels.'
The sight of those boys, so strong and fearless and beautiful, made
Gregory think a great deal about the little island of Britain, far away
across the sea, from whence they had come. He knew the people who lived
there were a fierce, warlike race, having a strange religion of their
own, and that very few of them were Christians. But he knew, too, that
though they were hard to conquer, and difficult to teach, still they
were a people worth teaching, and he longed to win them to the side of
Christ and to show them how to serve the true God.
In those days people in Italy knew very little about that far-away
island, and it seemed to them as difficult and dangerous to go to
England as it would seem to us if we were asked to go to the wildest
part of Africa. True there were no lions nor tigers in England, but the
tall, fair-haired giants who lived there were as savage as they were
brave, and might be even worse to deal with than the wild beasts of
other lands.
So it may well be believed that when Saint Gregory, who was now Pope
of Rome, chose forty monks and sent them on a mission to this distant
island, they were not very anxious to go, and set out in fear and
trembling.
But at their head was one who knew no fear and who was willing to face
any dangers in the service of his Master. This man was Augustine, a monk
of Rome, whom Gregory had chosen to lead the mission, knowing that his
courage would strengthen the others, and his wisdom would guide them
aright.
It took many long days and nights of travel to reach the coast where
they were to find a ship to carry them across to Britain, and before
they had gone very far, the forty monks were inclined to turn back in
despair. From every side they heard such terrible tales of the savage
islanders they were going to meet, that their hearts, never very
courageous, were filled with terror, and they refused to go further.
Nothing that Augustine could say would persuade them to go on, and they
would only agree that he should go back to Rome and bear their prayers
to Saint Gregory, imploring him not to force them to face such horrible
danger. If Augustine would do this they promised to wait his return and
to do then whatever the Pope ordered.
They had not to wait many days, for Augustine speedily brought back
the Pope's answer to their request. His dark face glowed and his eyes
shone with the light of victory, as he read to them the letter which
Saint Gregory had sent. There was to be no thought of going back. Saint
Gregory's words were few, but decisive. 'It is better not to begin
a work than to turn back as soon as danger threatens; therefore, my
beloved sons, go forward by the help of our Lord.'
So they obeyed, and with Augustine at their head once more set out,
hardly hoping to escape the perils of the journey, and expecting, if
they did arrive, to be speedily put to death by the savage islanders.
Perhaps the worst trial of all was when they set sail from France and
saw the land fading away in the distance. In front there was nothing
to be seen but angry waves and a cold, grey sky, and they seemed to be
drifting away from the country of sunshine and safety into the dark
region of uncertainty and danger. Nay, the island, whose very name was
terrible to them, was nowhere to be seen, and seemed all the more
horrible because it was wrapped in that mysterious grey mist.
But though they did not know it, they had really nothing to fear from
the island people, for the queen of that part of England where they
landed was a Christian, and had taught the King Ethelbert to show mercy
and kindness. So when the company of cold, shivering monks came ashore
they were met with a kind and courteous welcome, and instead of enemies
they found friends.
The king himself came to meet them, and he ordered the little band of
foreigners to be brought before him, that he might learn their errand.
He did not receive them in any hall or palace, but out in the open air,
for it seemed safer there, in case these strangers should be workers of
magic or witchcraft.
It must have been a strange scene when the forty monks, with Augustine
at their head, walked in procession up from the beach to the broad
green meadow where the king and his soldiers waited for them. The tall,
fair-haired warriors who stood around, sword in hand, ready to defend
their king, must have looked with surprise at these black-robed men with
shaven heads and empty hands. They carried no weapons of any sort, and
they seemed to bear no banner to tell men whence they came. Only the
foremost monks carried on high a silver cross and the picture of a
crucified Man, and instead of shouts and war-cries there was the sound
of a melodious chant sung by many voices, yet seeming as if sung by one.
Then Augustine stood out from among the company of monks and waited for
the king to speak.
'Who art thou, and from whence have come these men who are with thee?'
asked the king. Methinks thou comest in peace, else wouldst thou have
carried more deadly weapons than a silver charm and a painted sign.
I fain would know the reason of thy visit to this our island.'
Slowly Augustine began to tell the story of their pilgrimage and the
message they had brought. So long he spoke that the sun began to sink
and the twilight fell over the silent sea that lay stretched out beyond
the meadow where they sat before his story was done.
The king bent forward, thoughtfully weighing the words he had heard, and
looking into the faces of these strange messengers of peace. At length
he spoke, and the weary monks and stalwart warriors listened eagerly to
his words.
'Thou hast spoken well,' he said to Augustine, 'and it may be there is
truth in what thou sayest. But a man does not change his religion in an
hour. I will hear more of this. But meanwhile ye shall be well cared
for, and all who choose may listen to your message.'
Those were indeed welcome words to the company of poor tired monks, and
when the kindly islanders, following their king's example, made them
welcome and gave them food and shelter, they could well echo the words
of Saint Gregory in the Roman market: 'These are not Angles but angels.'
And soon King Ethelbert gave the little company a house of their own,
and allowed them to build up the ancient church at Canterbury, which had
fallen into ruins. There they lived as simply and quietly as they had
done in their convent in Italy, praying day and night for the souls of
these heathen people, and teaching them, as much by their lives as their
words, that it was good to serve the Lord Christ.
And before very long the people began to listen eagerly to their
teaching, and the king himself was baptized with many others. The chant
which the monks had sung that first day of their landing no longer
sounded strange and mysterious in the ears of the islanders, for they
too learnt to sing the 'Alleluia' and to praise God beneath the sign of
the silver cross.
Now Augustine was very anxious that the Ancient British Church should
join his party and that they should work together under the direction
of Pope Gregory. But the British Christians were not sure if they might
trust these strangers, and it was arranged that they should meet first,
before making any plans.
The Ancient British Church had almost been driven out of the land, and
there were but few of her priests left. They did not know whether they
ought to join Augustine and his foreign monks, or strive to work on
alone. In their perplexity they went to a holy hermit, and asked him
what they should do.
'If this man comes from God, then follow him,' said the hermit.
'But how can we know if he is of God?' asked the people.
The hermit thought a while and then said:
'The true servant of God is ever humble and lowly of heart. Go to meet
this man. If he rises and bids you welcome, then will you know that he
bears Christ's yoke, and will lead you aright. But if he be proud and
haughty, and treat you with scorn, never rising to welcome you, then see
to it that ye have nought to do with him.'
So the priests and bishops of the British Church arranged to meet
Augustine under a great oak-tree, which was called ever afterwards
'Augustine's oak.' They carefully planned that the foreign monks should
arrive there first, in time to be seated, so that the hermit's test
might be tried when they themselves should arrive.
Unhappily, Augustine did not think of rising to greet the British
bishops, and they were very angry and would agree to nothing that he
proposed, though he warned them solemnly that if they would not join
their forces with his, they would sooner or later fall by the hand of
their enemies.